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Chapter 32

Glibspet considered the collar carefully and thought. Most of those with names on the tags he hung on the top row, but he already had several Fifis in his collection, and the plaid fabric would look better in the middle. He already had a collar on the peg he wanted, but that one would balance nicely against the plaid from over in the corner once the new collar was in place—he moved it and hung Fifi on its peg: Perfect.

He stepped back to admire the effect. The pegboard covered most of the study wall, and there were only a few empty pegs left. The empty ones were scattered a bit too evenly, Glibspet decided after a moment's study—a bit of asymmetry would add a hint of tension. He took Snookums down from the top row and hung him on the bottom left. He looked again and nodded in satisfaction. He had it.

The collar's smell lingered on his fingertips, and his stomach rumbled. Snookums. Now there was a poodle!

Glibspet closed the study door behind him and headed for the kitchen.

He'd been halfway hoping Mindenhall would call, and he sulked as he rummaged through the freezer. The man was coming to be invaluable for agency legwork, and Glibspet had been able to get him to lunch a few times, had even held his hands earnestly once or twice, but sweet Craig continued to turn down Glibspet's invitations for dinner and night life. It was infuriating.

Glibspet's hand closed on a popsicle mold. That would do. He carried it over to the sink and ran tepid water on it, then turned the handle carefully. The frozen clam-juice cylinder eased free, and he popped it into his mouth. Not bad. Could be a little saltier. He walked into the living room and sat down in front of the TV. He watched QVC for a while, and almost got another cubic zirconia, but decided finally that you could have too much of even a bad thing. Instead, he surfed over to CNN.

That cheered him up for a while, until they ran the Balkan headlines. So much human suffering and agony—and here he was stuck in North Carolina, away from it all. He bit down on the last piece of popsicle and tossed the plastic stick aside. Well, he'd just have to make the best of the hand he was dealt. He turned off the TV and closed his eyes in thought.

Okay, Averial was in North Carolina. She had to be. That was a given. The Fallen couldn't find her. Even he hadn't found her—not yet anyway . . .

She was good, no doubt about it, but was she so good that three of the Fallen and one very clever devil couldn't trace a single spent Hellawatt? Couldn't find the smallest flaw in an assumed identity? Was anybody really that good? Glibspet opened his eyes and narrowed them. There were angels in North Carolina now, too—he was sure of it. God had finally decided to make their presence active. They weren't doing much that he could tell—he hadn't heard complaints from other Hellraised, and he hadn't gotten any memos from Home Office warning that they were getting directly involved. But that business in the hotel had been a sure sign.

Coincidence? Maybe not. And angels were that good—by definition. In politics, follow the money. With angels, follow the good news. Glibspet reached for the paper.

 

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Framed