I was freezing, colder than when I’d been lying on the wet sand. “What can I say, I fight everyone,” I said glumly.

“I believe it. As annoying as you are, I was still fairly certain that you’re an innocent, and I—”

“Depends on how you define innocent.”

He glared at me, and I subsided. “I assumed I was taking you to . . . what you might call heaven. Unfortunately I was wrong, and at the last minute I became foolishly sentimental and pulled you back.”

“From the jaws of hell,” I supplied. “My sainted mother would be so pleased.”

He didn’t react to that. He probably knew all about my crazy-ass mother. Was probably best friends with her, being an angel. No, he was a bloodsucker as well—she wouldn’t countenance that. “In a word, yes,” he said.

“Then maybe I shouldn’t be quite so cranky with you.” I made an effort to be fair. If he’d saved me from eternal damnation, then I supposed he deserved his props. “Then what happened? You got sick?”

He looked disgusted at the thought. “We can’t tolerate fire. In particular hellfire, but we don’t like any kind of flame. The women here have to tend the candles and fires when we need them. I got singed pulling you back, and it poisoned my blood. It would have killed me if you hadn’t asked for help.”

That was news to me. “Really? Who did I ask for help?”

“I don’t know—I was unconscious at the time. I imagine you asked God.”

Considering that I’d always had mixed feelings about the existence of God, I kind of doubted that. If God had created my born-again mother, he had a very nasty sense of humor. “And God sent them? The men who brought you—brought us back here?”

“God doesn’t involve himself in the day-to-day business of life. Not since free will was invented. But if you asked God for help, Azazel would have heard you, and he’s the one who came to get us.”

“Azazel, Sarah’s husband? I doubt it. He hates me.”

“Azazel doesn’t hate anyone. Though if he heard you being rude about Sarah—”

“I wasn’t rude, I was envious,” I said. “So they came and found us and brought us here. How?”

He took a sip of wine, stalling.

“How?”

“You know, this is going to take an eternity if you don’t manage to infer anything on your own,” he said.

“All right, I’ll infer up the wazoo and you can tell me if I’m wrong or right. I’m inferring that you’re . . . God, some kind of angel. If your job is to collect people and ferry them to the next existence, then that’s usually the work of angels, isn’t it? At least according to Judeo-Christian mythology.”

“Judeo-Christian mythology is often quite accurate. Angels escort the souls of the dead in Islam and the Viking religion as well.”

“So is that what you are? A fucking angel? Is that what all of you are?”

“Yes.”

Somehow I was expecting more of an argument. “I don’t believe you,” I said flatly.

He let out a sigh of sheer exasperation. “You’re the one who came up with it.”

The problem was, I did believe him. It all made sense, in a crazy-ass way. Which meant all my slightly atheistic suppositions were now out the window, and my mother had been right. That was even more depressing than being dead. “And how did they bring us here from the woods? They flew, didn’t they?”

“I told you, I was unconscious at the time. But yes, I imagine they flew.”

“They have wings.”

“Yes.”

“You have wings.”

“Yes.”

That was too much. “I don’t see them.”

“You’ll have to take it on faith,” he grumbled. “I’m not about to offer a demonstration.”

“So—”

“Just be quiet for a few minutes, would you?” he snapped.

“You’re not very nice for an angel,” I muttered.

“Who says angels are supposed to be nice? Look, it’s simple. You died in a bus accident. I was supposed to take you to heaven. For some reason you were heading for hell, I experienced a moment of insanity and pulled you back, and now you’re stuck. You can’t go back. You’re dead, and your body has already been cremated, so I can’t return you even if I thought it might be possible. Right now you’re here in Sheol with a family of angels and their wives, and you’re going to have to put up with it until I figure out what I can do with you.”

“This doesn’t make sense. If I’m dead and cremated, why am I here?” I looked down at my all-too-corporeal self. “I’m real, my body is real.” I reached up and hugged myself, and his eyes went to my breasts. Real breasts that responded to his look, wanted his touch.

I was losing my mind. First off, I didn’t want him touching me. Secondly, last time I checked, my breasts were incapable of thinking. I was the one who wanted him to touch me.

I was insane.

“On this plane you exist and your body is real. Not on the mortal plane.” He pulled his gaze away from my body, a relief.

“So I’m stuck here with a bunch of Stepford wives. Aren’t there any girl angels?”

“No.”

“Well, fuck that! Hasn’t God heard of women’s lib?”

“God hasn’t heard of anything—he’s not involved. Free will, remember?”

“Male chauvinist asshole.”

“God isn’t male.”

“Well, he sure as hell isn’t female,” I snapped. Not that I should have wasted the energy. Judeo-Christian theology was patriarchal and male-centric?

Surprise, surprise.

“True enough.”

“So you live here together in this happy little commune and ferry people to heaven and hell. Isn’t that too big a job for the bunch of you? How many people die every minute of every day?”

“One point seventy-eight per second, one hundred and seven per minute, six thousand four hundred and eight per hour, nearly one hundred and fifty-four thousand per day, fifty-six—”

Oh, God. I had to be rescued by a pedant. “No need to get literal—I get the picture. Aren’t you a little bit overworked?”

“Most people don’t need an escort.” He poured himself another glass of wine, then gestured with the bottle toward mine. I shook my head. I was already too rattled—I didn’t need alcohol making things worse.

“Why did I need one? I’m no one important, no great villainous mastermind. Don’t tell me—it’s because of my mother.”