God didn’t smile. There were no children—the curse was swift and vicious. We were damned for eternity. Because of love.

No wonder the woman wandering around my rooms annoyed me. It wasn’t just her prattle—she was right, it was a pleasant voice. But after all these years I had no use for humankind, for women in particular. And this woman, of all women. A moment of unexpected sentimentality, and I’d complicated my existence and that of the Fallen. No woman was worth it.

Still, it was my choice, my mistake, and my only option was to fix it, even if I wanted to pass her off. There had to be someplace we could send her where she wouldn’t cause trouble. And then we could deal with Uriel’s wrath.

I was the keeper of secrets, the lord of magic. Within me resided all the wisdom of the ages, and I had been sent to earth to give that knowledge to its hapless inhabitants. So how could I be so fucking stupid?

I glanced down, adjusted myself, and followed her into the living room. She was sprawled on one sofa, barefoot. My clothes fit her too damned well—I was going to have to see about something loose that covered up all the curves but was colorful enough to keep her happy.

God, why did I have to start worrying about keeping a woman happy? Especially a woman like Allie Watson.

Her long, thick brown hair was much better than the short bleached cut she’d had when I found her. Her face was prettier without makeup. She shifted, turning to look at me without getting up.

I walked over to one end of the sofa. “Where do you want to live?”

She’d been looking both annoyed and slightly downcast, but at this she brightened. “I’ve got a choice where I go?”

I didn’t think so, but I was grasping at straws. The one thing I knew, it couldn’t be hell. It was nothing personal. I hadn’t come this far to let Uriel win.

“Maybe,” I said, not exactly a lie. “I imagine it depends on your talents, where you can make yourself useful. What can you do?”

She appeared to consider this for a moment. “I can write. My style is slightly sarcastic, but I’m sharp and literate.”

“We have no use for writing.”

“So I’m in hell after all,” she said glumly. “No books?”

“What would we read? We’ve lived millennia.” “What about your wives?” “I have no wives.”

“I don’t mean you specifically, I mean all the women here. Sarah and the others. Don’t they want to read? Or do you guys give them such a fulfilling life, trapped here in the mist, that they don’t need any kind of escape?”

“If they wanted to escape, they wouldn’t be here,” I said in the voice I used to shut down arguments.

I should have known it wouldn’t do any good. She didn’t seem to realize that was what my voice signified. “I’m not talking about physical escape,” she argued. “Just those times when you want to curl up in bed and read about crazy make-believe worlds. About pirates and aliens and vampires . . .” Her voice trailed off beneath my steady gaze.

“What else can you do?”

She sighed. “Not much. I’m useless at Excel. I type fast, but I gather you don’t have computers here.” For a moment she looked horrified as she understood everything that meant. “No Internet,” she said in a voice of doom. “How am I going to live?”

“You’re not alive.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” she said grimly. “So clearly you don’t need Excel. Let’s see—I’m a demon at trivia, particularly when it comes to old movies.

I’m actually quite a wonderful cook. I kill plants, so I’d be no good in a garden. Maybe you could find me some commune-type thing? Without the Kool-Aid.”

I remembered Jonestown far too well. “You don’t need the Kool-Aid, you’re already dead,” I said.

“Lovely,” she said sarcastically. “So do I get married? Have kids? For God’s sake, at least have sex again?”

“Again?” It always managed to startle me, the way women of the current times simply gave their bodies when and where they wished. Two thousand years ago they would have been stoned to death. A hundred years ago they would have been outcasts. The human women who came to Sheol had been the same over the ages. They had never known anyone but their bonded mates. Azazel had seen Sarah when she was a child and known she was going to be his, and he’d watched over her, keeping her safe, until she was old enough to be his bride. The same was true for all the others.

She was looking at me, clearly annoyed. “Yes, again,” she said. “Women have sex, you know. They find a man, or a woman if they prefer, and if they’re attractive and there’s no reason not to, they have sex. Are you totally unconnected with modern reality?”

“I know people have indiscriminate sex,” I said irritably, feeling foolish. I didn’t like the idea of her with another man. I wasn’t about to consider why; I just didn’t. “And I should have known you’d be one of them.”

“Yes, I’m the Whore of Babylon.”

“Not even close,” I drawled.

“Oh, Jesus,” she said. “Are you always so literal?”

“What other choice is there?”

She was fuming. This was good—I was annoying her as much as she annoyed me. I could keep this up for a while without any difficulty. We struck sparks off each other.

I decided to sum things up. “All right, we’ve decided you can cook, which might be a valuable skill elsewhere. Anything else?”

She looked at me as if considering something, and I had no intention of trying to divine what. That brief glimpse of her sex fantasies had been disturbing enough. And then she smiled, a slow, wicked smile. “You don’t want to know,” she said in a lazy, totally sensuous drawl.

This was a waste of time. In a short while the Council would convene, and they would decide what would happen to her. I could argue, but in the end there wasn’t much I could do to save her. I knew what their decision would be.

It shouldn’t bother me. But it did. And the sooner I got away from her, the easier it would be.

“You’re right,” I said. And I ran.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I WAS ALONE AGAIN IN THE STARK white apartment. The relief mingled with anxiety—it was easier being alone. I knew I’d basically driven him away; all I had to do was mention sex and he ran like a terrified virgin. Though if anyone was a virgin around here, it was me.

No, not literally. I’d had tons of lovers. Well, four, but you couldn’t really count Charlie, who had performance issues, and the one-night stand with what’s-his-name was more the result of too many cosmopolitans and a fit of self-pity. It hadn’t been a pretty sight.