Read Diabolical for Free Online Page A

over Zachary. I suspect Michael ordered him there to think.”
    I take an uncertain step forward. “The stables?”
    “Straight ahead until you reach the entertainment district, all the way past the clock at the corner of Marshall Field’s, and turn right at the theater in the round.”
    “Marshall Field’s?” I echo.
    “Great stores go to heaven,” she replies. “Don’t say that I sent you.”
    I’ve heard tales of heaven’s chariots, and I know that ascended souls can sign up for group tours of the stables on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. However, this is my first time here. These magnificent black horses are definitely born of heaven, not earth. They snort and whinny and shake their manes, yet project a greater majesty.
    Something is missing, though. The smell of hay, sweat, even manure.
    While the Penultimate has its blessings, newly ascended souls, unassigned guardians, and the staff who serve them forgo sensory and, for that matter, sensual delights. No food, no drink, no lovemaking. Apparently, celestial horses don’t eat either.
    I find Joshua brushing a stallion. Instead of his guardian uniform, he’s sporting a long-sleeved, western-style shirt with black jeans and boots. He’s tied back his dreads with a gold cord, and his belt buckle reads: HEAVENLY .
    In my undead days, I met Joshua once in passing. He was pretending to be a waiter at an Irish-themed chain restaurant in Chicago. My heart may be spoken for, but he’s not someone I’d ever forget. One of the most popular odes in the Penultimate is a tribute to his lush eyelashes. Another celebrates his toned thighs.
    “Miranda!” Joshua exclaims. “Hey, girl, I was going to find you later.”
    I seize the opening. “Listen, I need you to tell Zachary —”
    “Whoa.” At the stallion’s snort, Joshua says, “Not you, boy.” Returning his attention to me, he explains, “My cranky-face archangel supervisor just totally busted me for playing messenger boy.”
    “I’m sorry about that, but —”
    “Now, you know that nobody is a bigger Miranda-Zachary ’shipper than me. In his time of need and misdeed, I have been Zachary’s most loyal wingman. But I can’t keep on —”
    “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important,” I begin, launching into the story.
    When I finish, Joshua says, “Don’t. Panic. Lucy has her own GA.”
    “Then can you tell her guardian that —”
    “GAs aren’t supposed to compare notes. As Michael says, ‘Collusion could lead to interference’ with our assignments’ free will.”
    I cross my arms. “Well, whoever it is obviously isn’t doing a good job of —”
    “An angel may encourage,” Joshua recites, patting the horse, “may inspire, may nudge, but each soul ultimately chooses its own fate.”
    “I can’t believe this!” I compose myself as a tour group approaches. “You’re trying to tell me to take comfort in the fact that Lucy has a guardian, and you’re trying to tell me that guardians are so limited as to be effectively useless.” I fight to compose myself. “What about you?”
    “You know I’m assigned to Zachary. Besides —”
    “Zachary would want to know that Lucy is in trouble. He’d want to help her.”
    While Joshua digests my argument, I notice a young man from the tour group eyeing us. He looks familiar, but I can’t quite place him. Then I notice his T-shirt. It reads: ARTEMIS GYROS, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS . “Oh, my God! I have to go.”
    “What? Why?”
    “That man over there? I killed him.” He smelled of lamb and cloves and rosemary. I broke his neck to get a better angle. “He’s the first person I ever drained.”

I’VE GROWN TO LOVE this fuel-sucking car. It’s a 1987 Impaler, a black SUV with red racing stripes, a classic. It used to belong to Miranda. She’s so petite. I remember her sitting on a phone book so she could see over the hood. My girl had her sexy moments and her sinister ones, but sometimes she exuded cute.
    I’ve been stuck on I-35