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"Ascended angels are celestial soldiers. Career soldiers. We live in the angel realm, like a soldier lives in barracks. Every now and then we get leave, but otherwise, it's a calling, not a nine-to-five job."
"But Kristof . . . ? You don't live with . . . ?" I paused. "No, wait. That's why Jaime says you're on walkabout--when you're deployed. She can't contact you and he can't contact you."
She nodded. "Three months on, three months off. They started with six and six, but I've renegotiated."
"And that's the part you're not okay with. Being separated from him."
"We've learned to deal with it. I've learned to stop bitching about it. I like the job. Love it, though I hope the Fates aren't eavesdropping on me admitting that. As for your father . . . Let's just say I go AWOL more than any other ascended. Fortunately, my partner and I have the best soul-skewering record around, so as long as I don't flaunt it, the Fates look the other way."
I leaned forward. "Tell me a story."
She stopped sipping her coffee. "Hmm?"
"You used to tell me bedtime stories. Wild adventures of yours--suitably cleaned up, I'm sure. Tell me one now. From the afterlife. You don't have to clean it up anymore."
She laughed. "Actually, I might, since the one I have in mind involves your father. All right, then. An afterlife story. Once upon a time, your dad was in court, defending a half-demon who . . ."
As she told me the story, I leaned back in my chair, coffee in one hand, cupcake in the other, and the rest of the world seemed to swirl away. The details of what she was telling me didn't matter. I was ten again, curled up in bed, listening to my mother's voice. Whatever happened after this didn't matter either. For these few minutes, I had her back. Not Eve Levine, notorious dark witch. Not Eve Levine, daughter of Balaam. Not even Eve Levine, ascended angel. Just my mother. Me and my mom.
After that, we got down to business. I wasn't familiar with Roberts's older-model smartphone, but figured it out easily enough. Contacts, recent calls, e-mails, and calendar. Those were the things we wanted. Sadly, none of his contacts were marked "evil confederates in a plot to destroy life as we know it."
"There are a few possibilities in the calendar," I said. "Seems he put in a lot of gym time. He didn't look like a body builder to you, did he?"
"Nope. Just your garden-variety office drone, makes a pit stop at the gym once or twice a week to keep his spare tire at bay."
"He seems to have been meeting people at the gym. Which would be more helpful if he didn't refer to them by a single initial. And if he wasn't a salesman."
"Huge contact list?"
"Bigger than mine."
She smiled. "If yours is anything like mine, that's big. Okay"--another slug of coffee. Another blissful shiver--"let's start going through that list. We'll--"
My cell phone--well, Jaime's phone--rang. Some god-awful eighties tune.
Mom winced. "I can change that, right? After three years of listening to it, please tell me I can finally change it."
"You can. Right after this call. It's Lucas."
I answered with, "So how angry is Jaime?"
"Has she called you?"
There was a tightness to his tone that told me this wasn't a casual question.
"She's okay, right?" I said quickly. "We checked the guy's ID, got the passcode, watched him knock on the door. I mean, we didn't stick around to make sure he went in, but--"
Mom was leaning forward, frowning. I pulled the phone away a bit and turned up the volume so she could hear.
Lucas said, "Jeremy had to speak to Jaime to get her to open up, but she did. The operative was supposed to take her to a hotel and call for further instructions. After an hour, Jeremy grew concerned. I'd told the operative to make sure Jaime got everything she needed, though, so I presumed they were . . ."
"Shopping."
"Yes. After another thirty minutes, Jeremy insisted I call our man. Jaime may like to shop, but under the circumstances, she'd pick up only what she needed for a brief hotel stay. So I called. The operative didn't answer. I left a message. It's been twenty minutes since."
Not exactly time to call in the National Guard. I suspected Jeremy was applying pressure, in his quiet but
inescapable way.
