It's a Wonderful Death - Sarah J. Schmitt Page 0,32
flame.
“Is that the fires of Hell people are always talking about?” I ask, peering over his shoulder to get a better look. “It’s not that impressive.”
He spins around, giving me an annoyed look. “Do you ever stop talking?”
I want to tell him I would if someone would clue me in on the plan, assuming there is one, but a knock at the door stops me.
“Come in,” Death Himself says.
A moment later, Gideon is standing in front of the desk.
“Is it all arranged?” Gideon asks, ignoring my slight wave.
Death Himself nods. “It went off just as we planned.”
“How many interventions do we have to set up?”
“Three.”
Gideon looks impressed. “That’s all?”
Death Himself glances up with a cocky smirk. “They started out with five, but Zachriel worked his magic and got them down to three.”
“He must have gotten my message,” Gideon says. “I had to go through back channels to avoid Azbaugh’s spies. I was afraid it wouldn’t reach him before the Tribunal convened. Did he get the terms we wanted?”
My jaw drops. They set me up.
“Of course.”
“And Marmaroth?”
“He’s the same old son of a …” Death Himself stops talking and looks at me before adding, “… gun he’s always been. I swear, for angels who have nothing to do all day, they sure get all high and mighty when you give them the slightest bit of power.”
“What about Shep?”
“Perfect as always. In fact, the only one who almost blew the whole plan out of the water was Sal. I thought you said he would be able to handle his role.”
Gideon straightens his shoulder against his boss’s rebuff. “I said he would be able to represent her and keep his mouth shut when you showed up. The guy can’t act to save his wings.”
“Wait a minute,” I say, interrupting the verbal ping-pong match. “Are you saying you wanted me to go in front of the Tribunal? That you planned this?”
“Look who just showed up to the party, Gideon,” Death Himself says, sarcasm hanging on each word. “Of course. The only way to beat the system is from the inside.”
“But why?”
“Because you couldn’t keep your big mouth shut. Since your arrival, you’ve been running all over the Afterlife boo-hooing about your poor death—about how Gideon collected your soul by accident—and that all you want to do is go home. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve been causing us, Dorothy?”
“RJ,” I say instinctively.
Death Himself snaps his fingers. A book appears in front of him and he shoves it toward me. “Read this. Maybe it will keep you quiet for a minute.”
“The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,” I read aloud before looking up. What’s he trying to say? It wasn’t a natural disaster that sent me here. It was a gypsy.
“My life isn’t a novel,” I pout.
“Or maybe it won’t keep you quiet,” Death Himself says in a low growl.
His latest jab at my situation makes me miss Sandy. At least she saw me as something more than a problem. I twist her ring on my finger and wonder if she still remembers why she’s waiting in the Lobby.
When I glance up, Death Himself looks like his head is going to explode. Apparently he doesn’t like to be ignored. Guess he knows how I feel now. Gideon pipes up to defuse the situation. “Relax, boss. We got this.”
“But how did you get those angels to support me if they didn’t believe in my case?” I ask, pushing around Gideon so I can look at Death Himself.
He laughs. “Do you really think they care? I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, but they don’t.” A grin spreads across his face. “Huh. Turns out I didn’t hate bursting it. You want to know why? Because up here, favors are currency and you’re costing me a fortune. Now, if you’re done bugging me, I have to wrangle up your guides who are going to cost me even more. Trust me. I cannot wait to see you waltzing around Earth. Better there than here.”
“Why don’t I take RJ and fill her in on how this is going to work?” Gideon says, grabbing my arm and practically yanking me out of Death Himself’s sight.
“Good idea,” Death Himself says, turning his back on us.
“Come on,” Gideon hisses as he pushes me through the door. When we’re out of earshot he says, “I’m starting to wonder if there is something seriously wrong with you.”
“I thought he cared about what was happening with me,” I answer, and even to