Page 13 of A Chip on Her Shoulder

The man brought me a box and handed it over. “Good luck. She’s a screamer.”

“Don’t I need to sign for her?”

“No.” He left me with the box, and I peeked inside, torn between furious anyone would just dump a baby in a box and hand her over to some strange cat lady and pleased I wouldn’t have to deal with more paperwork.

I took her to the car, buckled the box in, and pulled away the pale yellow blanket. A baby with tufts of curly black hair slept, and while she’d been dumped in a box, someone had made an effort to make a nest for her. Several diapers were crammed into the box at her feet along with a baby bottle and a jar filled with cream-colored powder.

I’d have to sort that mess out if I needed to feed her before handing her over, but I figured the CDC would be able to help me take care of the little girl as needed.

People sucked. At least Michael had foreseen the loss of my first scrap of paper, giving me the address for the CDC headquarters on a full page along with a statement relaying everything he’d told me.

The archangel’s signature shimmered on the page and glowed with a soft, gentle light.

It took me almost an hour to reach the CDC’s headquarters, where I parked in the public lot. The baby continued to sleep quietly. Unable to tolerate the thought of carrying her into the building in a fucking box, I put her diapers, bottle, and jar into my oversized purse along with my idiot brother, who squeaked his protests over being treated like cargo.

“Deal with it, Jonas. If you hadn’t been an idiot, you wouldn’t be in a tiny cage right now. We’ll talk after I handle this.”

I eased the baby out of the box, and aware she needed to have her head supported, I cradled her in my arms, cooing at her in case she woke.

She did, and she stared at me with dark eyes. She inhaled, and I braced for her screaming, but she cooed back at me instead.

I stroked her hair, startled at how soft and thick it was. “There’s a good little girl. Don’t you worry. I’ll make sure you have everything you need.”

I hated I’d have to let her go, hated the lies I knew I told, and wondered how much trouble I’d get into if I just ran with her. I understood the basics.

The reality of my situation squished any hope of keeping her. With an entire mafia out for my brother’s blood, my need to deal with the Devil, and everything else life insisted on throwing at me, I wouldn’t be able to guarantee her next meal or clean diapers.

That wasn’t fair to her.

Damn it.

I didn’t even like babies. Babies weren’t cute—except she was, with her big dark eyes, her chubby little cheeks, and her whisper-soft coo and pudgy, reaching hands. She kicked at the blanket, wiggling in my arms.

With my free hand, I offered her my fingers as a toy. With surprising strength, she grabbed hold onto my fur, brought my palm to her face, and rubbed.

Why couldn’t I take her home with me? Disgusted with everything about the situation, I forced a smile, pretended I didn’t want to cry, and kissed her forehead. “It’ll be okay, little baby.”

One day.

Maybe I’d make a second deal with the Devil, going behind the archangel’s back and making certain someone took care of her later in life. Maybe I could make the Devil go deal with the assholes who’d abandoned her.

I could work with that. What was one extra demand added to my list? If I could get the Devil to do the impossible with my brother, how much more could he possibly charge me for a good deed destined to ruin his reputation if anyone found out about it?

Storming the gates of hell and taking over seemed like my best and only option, because the Devil wouldn’t do a bunch of nice things without a damned good reason. Ruling over the Devil’s hells would be annoying, but I didn’t have to keep the place for all that long. He could have it back once I was done with it.

Of course, I might need it long enough to make a very warm reception for any assholes who hurt the little girl I held. Ruling hell for a minimum of eighteen years would annoy me, but some sacrifices were worth making.

The Devil would just have to live with being my minion until I finished my work and claimed her all for myself. With the baby drinking up attention, I spared the few extra minutes for her to satisfy her desire to try to mark my hand as her territory. Rather than cry, for either food or a diaper change like I expected from an infant, she yawned, gave a final kick or two, and resumed her nap.

The anger and resentment over my lot in life roiled to the surface, but I refused to frighten the baby. As always, I bottled everything inside, settled my purse over my shoulder, and carried her into the headquarters armed with the letter an archangel had written to make sure she got to where she needed to go without incident.

The security guard took one look at the note, paled, and asked me to sit and wait until someone came for me.

Within five minutes, an older gentleman in a pristine black suit with a red tie strolled over. I appreciated his lack of a smile; it somehow seemed more honest to me.

“I’m Francis Lemon. I have read the letter written on your behalf, and I’ve called to verify its authenticity. I’ve prepared the basic documentation, and as you’re her current guardian, you will need to sign them. With an archangel vouching for the situation and determining she is at risk without United States citizenship, the government has opted to naturalize her despite her lack of American ancestry. You will need to verify under oath that you retrieved her from the vessel, she had no one with her, and all of her possessions.”

“Are we counting some diapers and formula as possessions?”