The Trouble with Twelfth Grave by Darynda Jones

Author:Darynda Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin’s Press

13

Apparently, “Just fuck me up” is not

an appropriate coffee order at Starbucks.

—MEME

I drove out to our old stomping grounds, a gorgeous abandoned convent that Reyes bought when I was pregnant with Beep. It sat nestled in the Jemez Mountains, about an hour northwest of Albuquerque.

I maneuvered Misery around trees and through a dry riverbed until the convent came into view. We’d lived there for eight months, and seeing the structure again caused a gentle ache in my heart. It seemed like years since I’d seen it. In reality, it had only been a few months. Wait, no, two. Only two months? It boggled my mind.

I searched for the hidden key and found it in a fake turtle beside the door. Better than a real turtle, I supposed. I opened the door and toured the place, using the flashlight on my phone. Stepping out the back door, I could see the clearing where Cookie and Uncle Bob married, the copse of trees where a group of hellhounds snarled and snapped at me, the well I’d fallen into and had a child. Not a typical birthing story, but definitely one for the record books.

I sat on a bench surrounded by mesquite and summoned Michael. We were on holy ground, after all. He should feel right at home.

It took only a thought to pull him from his dimension into mine, but it would take a lot of talking to calm him down. Apparently, angels didn’t like to be summoned. I could hardly blame them. I didn’t even like to be texted most of the time.

He appeared before me, his massive wings slightly open as though readying for flight. Or a fight. Either way. His silvery eyes bored into mine, his hand resting on the sword at his side as he took a step closer.

“You should take care, Elle-Ryn-Ahleethia.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll do that. But first, I want a word with your Boss.”

His head tilted to the side as though curious about me. “Good luck with that.”

“Now, please.”

The look on his normally stoic face was one of incredulity. “Have you ever heard the phrase be careful what you wish for?”

I bowed my head and stared at him from underneath my lashes, concentrating as hard as I could. Not on Michael, but on his Father. On Reyes’s Brother. I didn’t know His real name. I only knew the names we humans had given Him. Then again, maybe I didn’t need it.

With deliberate intention, I focused all my energy and whispered one word. “Now.”

Michael transformed into a sea of smoke and vanished, and for a moment I thought I’d lost the game.

Then I felt it. A power like nothing I’d ever experienced. Like nothing I’d ever dreamed possible. It flowed through me as though I were a veil of silk filtering its essence.

I whirled around to find … Him.

The power emanating out of Him was impossible to mistake as anything other than Jehovah. I stood motionless as I took in the form He’d chosen: a young boy of Indonesian descent.

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