The Waiting Room attendant—who, as a fellow supernatural being, could have appeared in any form in the known universe but chose to look like a slightly more severe version of Margaret Thatcher—didn’t even look up from her pile of paperwork. “Has your number been called?” she asked without interest.
“You know damn well it hasn’t,” said Andy.
“Can’t process your release until your number’s been called.”
“You haven’t called any numbers in the last thousand years!” shouted Andy.
She ignored him and stamped a form with thick, rust-colored ink.
Andy kicked the front of the booth out of sheer pique, then strode over to the kitten poster. “I’m on to you,” he said, pointing a finger at the kitten.
The kitten’s whiskers might have twitched—but then again, maybe not.
Andy flung himself down in one of the many chairs. He’d sat in all of them since he’d been blasted out of earthly existence by that library witch. There was no way to tell how long it had been.
He’d been stuck in the Waiting Room various times over the millennia, for various reasons (some better than others). Each time, he could do nothing to set himself free. He could only wait for the Powers That Be to release him on their own mysterious schedule.
Andy sighed, pulled out his pocket notebook, and flipped through the pages for what seemed like the thousandth time. He’d had such a good thing going. He’d managed to get summoned by a mortal with a need for revenge and a hidden desire for vegetarian food. He’d felt useful for once, instead of knocking around the universe like an aging trust-fund kid with no place to call home.
Now he was stuck in the Waiting Room.
Andy leaned back and closed his eyes. Not for him, the blessed relief of sleep. No, he would experience every stultifying moment in all its tedious glory, with only an ersatz Maggie Thatcher to keep him company.
A rhythmic banging sound interrupted his self-pity.
Was it the “Ride of the Valkyries”?
Andy bolted up, stuffing his notebook in his pocket as he ran to the featureless white door of the Waiting Room. He pressed his hands against the door. “Someone’s knocking,” he called to the Waiting Room attendant.
She didn’t look up.
He crossed the room to the booth and leaned down to the opening that allowed his voice to pass through the thick plexiglass-like material of the booth. He cleared his throat. “I said, someone is knocking on the door. To the rhythm of the ‘Ride of the Valkyries,’ to be precise.”
“It’s a funny old world,” she muttered, still without looking up, but her hand darted below the desk.
A loud buzzing noise rang through the room.
Andy bolted to the door and pushed.
The door gave way and he stumbled through, quickly unfurling his wings to recover his balance. The Waiting Room disappeared in a blinding flash of white light.
Andy looked up.
Erin stood before him in a black cocktail dress, with an expression of shock that metamorphosed into a delighted smile. But when he started forward, her form faded away like fog.
Andy recognized a dream when he saw one, and—unlike the Waiting Room—dreams provided an easy path back to reality. Full of determination, he concentrated on shifting from the dream back to reality. He closed his eyes and moved without moving, following the breadcrumbs of Erin’s subconscious all the way back to the real world.
Andy materialized in Erin’s bedroom with a soft sigh of relief. His gaze traced Erin’s form. She was still sleeping, her brown hair splayed over the pillow in nocturnal disarray, one foot poking out from the covers. Perhaps she dreamt on, or perhaps she had eased into a deeper sleep without dreams.
He carefully covered her foot with the comforter, then folded away his wings and tiptoed out of the room. “Don’t wake her,” he said to Nancy Drew outside the bedroom.
The dog cocked her head as if she understood.
After sunrise, Andy could wait no longer. He put the coffee on to brew and retrieved two mugs from the cabinet, remembering to move carefully so that he didn’t startle her out of her wits by breaking a dish like he had the first time.
He sat down at the kitchen table and tried to pretend he had all the patience an immortal being should have.
He lasted thirty seconds before springing up and pacing the floor with silent footsteps.
