A cluster of men in layers of sweaters stood warming their hands over the fire roaring in the garbage can. Newspaper pages rolled across the empty parking lot near the elevated train tracks as if they were wondering where their readers had gone. Two or three groups of forlorn humanity huddled nearby. The gangs might or might not come to pester them this evening. They had nothing to steal, not even dignity.

None of the people there showed much sign of animation, except for three sitting on the bottom stair of the now-shuttered commuter train station. The muscular man with a yellow wool cap pulled down over his long black hair was flicking a knife open, closed, open, closed. The slightly more feminine-looking red-haired man clutched a saxophone that looked too shiny for the dismal scene. Between them sat a scruffy man in his late fifties with café au lait skin and ruddy-bronze fuzz on his head. He was smaller in stature than both of his companions, but where they looked casual, his eyes took in everything.

"So let me get this straight," the scruffy man said, in a low voice that didn't carry beyond the stairs. He looked dazed. "I'm dead."

"Yes," said the man with the knife.

"How could I have died? Nothing hurt. I didn't feel a thing."

"Do you feel anything now?" asked the redhead, curiously.

Jasper palpated his chest with his thin fingers. His spare flesh covered his thin ribs just enough so the doctor at the clinic didn't call him emaciated. Not all the time, anyhow. It came from existing on a rotten junk food diet plus the occasional bowl of peanuts and pretzels the bartenders put in front of him to help soak up the booze. He'd been too busy all his life to do anything but work. Liquor he used to dull the pain from not being able to do everything he wanted for people.

"Yeah, of course. I feel me." Jasper was firm on that.

"You were stabbed in the chest," Mick said, twirling the knife in his fingers around until the point aimed directly at Jasper's sternum.

Jasper's fingers tapped the area, but they encountered no hole, no gore. He relaxed. "You dudes are putting me on. Who put you up to it? My boss? Ella's always trying to get me to knock off the booze, but I'm not hurting anyone but me."

"Very true," Gabe said solemnly. "You died helping others, in this case, a frightened young woman. Do you remember that?"

Jasper sighed. "No. It's all fuzzy. There must have been something in my drink." He shook his head. There'd been too many drinks lately; that he remembered. Working for Children and Family Services was a hole with no bottom. No one ought to have to tell parents the simple things to do, like feed your kids, clothe your kids, and see that they went to school.

"Human beings should be more careful of drink," Mick said. "It can bring pleasure-or allow inspiration to surpass inhibition. More often it causes trouble."

Jasper looked at them with fresh suspicion. "Are you two Jehovah's Witnesses?"

"Of a sort," Mick admitted.

"You're evangelists!"

"Archangels," Gabe corrected him.

"Uh-huh, whatever. I've had plenty of your kind come to the door." Jasper crossed his arms again. He could tell they were used to better than the shabby clothes they were wearing now. He could always tell by attitude. Both guys must normally sport two thousand dollar suits and five hundred dollar shoes. Why else would they be slumming in a neighborhood like this? Rich people sometimes liked to pretend they were poor because they didn't have to do it all the time.

He remembered the faces of the two men surrounded by blurry light as they helped him up off the barroom floor and hustled him out of the bar. 'Much less traumatic,' was how they'd put it. They helped him to a place with a lot of light, but his eyes wouldn't focus. He could tell from a quick check of his pockets that his wallet was missing. In fact, his pockets were empty to the seams. Whoever had rolled him had taken everything, including his apartment key. The guys had assured him that everything would be fine. They told him to call them Mick and Gabe, short versions of the names he botched when he tried to pronounce them.

"Your glass contained cheap beer: not the brand you paid for, but nothing more harmful than that. Your forgetfulness is normal. It takes time to remember so soon after death."

"You keep saying that!" Jasper cried. "Stop saying that I'm dead. I'm right here."

"Wait," Gabe said, shushing them both with eager hands. "Here they come again."

Into the silence of the night broke a scream like a whirlwind advancing. Jasper cringed. He knew the sound of motorcycles. Had to be the Colombian Pharaohs. This was their turf. He'd counseled a lot of hurtin' kids who'd wandered into the wrong place by accident wearing the wrong colors and been rolled on by the Pharaohs.

The Department of Prayers and Petitions
by Stuart Barrow

At the final interview, the Angel looked at me over its glasses. I'd never thought of Angels as having glasses. Or paunches. And the tie was a complete surprise.

"We'd like to offer you the job," it said. "We feel that our department would make good use of your abilities."

"Oh," I said. "Oh." I looked up at its face. I'd been expecting to be told I wasn't what they were looking for. "You, uh, know that I'm not exactly religious?"

"Yes," it said. "Nevertheless."

"And, uh, I was given to understand that one had to be, well, good. In a strict Catholic sense."

"We..." It paused. "At the present moment, we feel that our department does not require goodness so much as efficiency."

"Well, I-I don't know that...I mean, my last position…"

"Mr. Smith."

"Jones."

"Mr. Jones. We are offering you a unique opportunity. I have looked at your resume, and believe that, under our present circumstances, you represent everything we are looking for in an employee."

"Oh. Um, great. So, I'd be, what, an Angel?"

"You'd be an Associate Intercession Request Processing Officer, Class II."

"An..."

"Yes, Mr. Jones, you'd be an Angel. You'd be the Angel Jones."

I signed. I mean, their retirement plan alone was unbelievable.

* * * *

Nobody knows of the Angel Jones, of course. I was working under someone who I figured was the patron saint of minor bureaucratic flunkies, St. Worthington.

"Please," he said on my first day in the office, "Call me George." Everyone calls him St. Worthington, but I suspect he'd rather be St. George. Nobody ever prays to St. Worthington, even if he is a full IRPO.

The training officer was a cherub. At least, he was a short fat naked guy with wings-I hoped he was a cherub. Most of the training class just tried not to look at him. He showed us around the Office-Department of Prayer Receipts, the Filing Department, the Intercessions Department-and introduced us to some of the first-name saints. No-one big, you know, just a couple of the minor historical saints who weren't too busy, but they were the first people we'd met who had actually been ordained rather than just hired. We went past St. Jude's office. The Angel Saunders, who'd been hired as an associate intercession request processor (Class I) in Jude's office paled visibly at the sight of the ceiling-high piles of case-files. "Are all those Jude's?" she asked the cherub.

"No," he said, "Those are just yours."

The Angel Cruz showed me around our section, taught me the ropes.

"We handle assessments on prayers to the saints. Basically, people aren't always up on their mythology, and they'll pray to St. George when they want Theodore, or St. Christopher when they want Stephen, or anyone, when they just want someone to talk to. Those usually go to Dymphna, but there are exceptions. Jude's a special case-they've got specialist officers who decide when something really is a hopeless case. We don't handle 'OK, God, prove you exist and I'll believe in you' prayers anymore-send them down to storage. Anything else addressed to the Big Guys has probably been misfiled-put it in the refiling pile with a red sticker on it. The Big Boss is a bit of a micromanager, likes to look at everything himself. One regular case in ten goes to him for checking." He pointed to another pile.

"That'd have to be a lot of cases," I said.

"Well, he is God," said Cruz.

I had a look at the case on top the refiling pile once: "deargodohgodI'mgoingtodiehelpmeplease..." There's a ten month backlog on prayers.

The Eternal Reward
by Tom Dullemond

Blessed be, I sighed, and it was my last. My deathbed was a prison from which I rose with relief and an almost feverish anticipation. I lifted slowly, carefully, from my mortal remains, and turned to hang facedown in the air of the hospital room. The ever-present pain trickled from me into the body below me. Around me my friends and family prayed with all their hearts. I could feel their breath against my ephemeral skin, buoying me upwards, their prayers charging the air. They did not see me die, so devout were they in their worship; faces clenched, fists clenched, jaws clenched.

I was glad to go, under the circumstances. I did not care to glance down at my body as I hovered above it-I knew what I would see, since I'd been seeing it in the shaving mirror for months now: old, papery skin; a feeble framework of a man, like a sagging papier-maché mannequin hanging off its chicken-wire skeleton. I was not that old, in years, but my body was ancient. I died peacefully, and I did not even hear my death rattle as I floated above.

I heard nothing.

I slowly rolled in the air, until I faced the off-white plastered ceiling. A tiny crack ran from one corner of the small room to the other, and I tracked it with my uncannily clear vision as I rose on prayer, like a ship's sail catching the wind. I could feel myself billowing in the metaphysical breeze.

Daring a glance behind, still charged with the rapture of my death, I saw only white mist. It did not deter me, for after all there was no point in returning, and in amazement I ran a hand through my hair-only to find I had hair. Gone were my grey wisps. In a rapturous frenzy I ran my hands over my face, and found it just as I remembered before my illness. I was in my mid-thirties again; I had shed ten years as easily as I had shed my mortal form. I praised the Lord in my heart, closing my eyes in thanks, and found I was wearing my finest Sunday suit-charcoal with matching tie-and a crisply starched white shirt.

The mists suddenly parted and I was left standing in a vast opulent hall. The ceiling was a flamboyant fresco of cherubic angels and richly clad Renaissance hedonists some thirty feet above. Uncountable gold-trimmed pillars of purest alabaster reached from an immaculate marble floor to support this vast heaven of art.

It was a little too Catholic, as far as I was concerned, but who was I to complain about the Lord's choice of décor? I stood in the centre of the hall, lost, but I was not afraid.

Presently the sound of heels on marble came floating on the air. I turned until I spotted a young man in a double breasted jacket in the distance, barely visible for the pillars that stretched out into the distant brightness. He was walking directly towards me, head down as he made some notations on a small notepad. I stared at this perfectly mundane image-a young businessman on his way home after work-and tried to reconcile it with the rococo architecture through which he walked. I muttered a prayer to calm my heart.

He must have been fifty yards away when he looked up from his notes, still walking, and said, "John E. Murray? Pastor?" His voice was as clear as if he'd been standing right next to me. Astounded, I nodded, and he saw that slight movement across all that distance.

He continued to move towards me at his unhurried pace, and asked, "What's the 'E' stand for, then?" He had one of those smarmy English accents, and I stood straighter as he approached, refusing to answer until he was a decent distance away from me.

"Ezekiel," I said tightly. Some of the rapture was fading from my extremities, and I began to wonder if the Good Lord was testing me before my final ascension.

"Right-o. Small filing error. No probs. Follow me." He'd only just reached me, and without stopping continued right past. Surprised, and a little offended, I turned and eventually followed. The Englishman finished writing something and tucked the notebook away inside his jacket.

"Always good to see a man o' God," he said over his shoulder, by way of making light conversation. "Where you from, then?"

I blinked, confused by the steady progression of pillars on either side of me, the unending ceilings of art, as if every man who had ever lived was painted there, staring at me. "Where are we going?" I didn't think my place of origin was of any great importance here.

"Well, you've earned your eternal reward, right?"

I nodded dubiously.

"So what's your pleasure?"

I stopped nodding. "What do you mean, precisely?"

"What's your pleasure? What do you like to do? What do you want to do? You've got an awful lot o' time to fill." He laughed, and reached inside his jacket with one hand, pulling out a battered packet of cigarettes. He mumbled something, but I was so shocked at the sight of the vile tobacco that I missed it. When I realised he was offering me one I nearly choked.

He eventually shrugged and put the packet away. "Don't blame you-never did get the hang of them m'self. The name's Daniel, by the way." He may have held out his hand but I ignored him, eyes closed, begging the Lord for strength. This Daniel was clearly some devil in disguise, trying to tempt me, and I would have none of it. What a thoroughly unpleasant individual.

After that uncomfortable encounter Daniel kept his mouth shut. We walked through the interminable architecture for what must have been ages, until suddenly I spotted a change in the distance- the pillars and artwork ceased there, and instead a vast blue open sky stretched out over the endless marble tiles.

And now I saw other people in the distance, through the forest of pillars, all heading for this open space. Most of them had a 'guide' like Daniel here. I prepared myself in case he tried something.

No preparations were sufficient to shield me from the sight that met my eyes when I stepped onto the plain, however. My jaw dropped and I gasped. Daniel kept walking, but I was lost and had to stop.

Ahead of me on this open plain of marble stood the largest city I had ever seen, cast beneath a black shadow like a stain over the bright plain around it. It dwarfed the interminable skyline of New York, that monstrous den of filth I'd had the displeasure of visiting once in my youth, and pulsed with a fierce corrupt life. It was a vast concrete, steel and glass expanse, lit garishly by myriad electric and neon lights. Skyscrapers clawed at the night sky, reflecting the red, yellow and green lights of a bustling metropolis. I noticed that a lot of the people I'd seen had abandoned their guides and were running with joy towards the city.

Daniel was talking to me.

"Excuse me?" I asked carefully. I didn't want to upset him, really. If he was a sinner-or worse, a devil-I did not need to hate him. Either way the Lord had already condemned him, and so I should feel only pity in my heart.

"That's the City o' God," Daniel said proudly, and pulled out the packet of cigarettes again. I didn't know why-he hadn't lit one before. He started patting his chest and pants pockets until he'd convinced himself he could not find what he was looking for. "Goddamn cigarettes. You got a light? No, o'course not. Fuckin' hell."

I was still reeling from the jab of his casual blasphemy when he delivered his uppercut of a profanity and sent me reeling. I stared, horrified, at this madman.

"What's wrong?" he asked, and he looked genuinely concerned. "You all right?"

"I..." I wanted to tell him that I could forgive him, that there was hope for him even now, when it seemed too late. Perhaps he usually wandered through the pillars, always in sight of this black City of God, never quite reaching it. I glanced at the sprawling city and was not wholly convinced of its Godliness.

"What's up with you? Nervous?"

"I can forgive you, Daniel, for your profanities. The Lord loves you very very much; he loves all his children. If you come with me, I can-"

"Hey hey hey! Stoppit right there, pal."

I stopped, more in surprise than anything else.

"Don't deny Him, Daniel. If you embrace Jesus in-"

"Listen Pastor, I'm a bloody Catholic Priest, all right? Or I was. I spent my whole life telling people what you're trying to tell me. I'm bloody sixty-five. I'm only doing this chaperoning gig on the side, for a bit of a change."

A Catholic. That explained it. I was surprised he wasn't burning in Hell.

Vampire's Friend
by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

David Silberman locked the door of his dry cleaning shop, and pulled it to behind him. The sun was going down-not his favorite time of day anymore. But today, the eve of Yom Kippur, was the worst.

He moved out to the edge of the strip mall's parking lot and paused, staring down the side street toward the Orthodox shul.

There were still many cars in the lot of the strip mall and the street was full of traffic. The goyim didn't know there was anything special going on in the world of Magic.

David had never been very religious, not even by Reform standards, until he'd seen a Vampire invoke a pagan god's assistance-and get it.

He'd had another object lesson when that same Vampire had saved his life from a demon's attack by tearing down the doorpost of his room and thrusting it into his arms, kosher Mezuzah against his heart.

He'd often wondered if the Mezuzah would have saved him if it hadn't been so perfectly kosher. But most of all, he wondered if he'd really been saved. He'd participated in a revenge-murder, and had a pagan serial killer for a friend. He'd gotten involved in idolatry, not just regular magic. He'd never respected those who called themselves pious Jews but isolated themselves from other Jews and from everyone else. He'd just never had anything much to do with G-d. So why is my conscience bothering me?

He just didn't want the supernatural in his life anymore. He wanted to forget the Vampire and just walk away from it all. But he couldn't. The Link was permanent, maybe Eternal. So he'd spent the last few months surfing the 'net for information, and every time had ended up at the website of this local shul reading something the Rabbi there had written.

As dusk gathered over the city, he felt the Vampire wakening in his mind, a growing buzz of not-quite awareness. The mental Link between them could only be closed, not vanquished. Lately, it made him feel…unfit.

He started down the side-street toward his house, walking on the side opposite the shul, still not sure what he would do. Before he'd left he shop, he'd emptied his pockets and put on shoes that had no leather in them. He wore a hat. He could go into the shul, even though he hadn't bought a ticket to the High Holy Day services. I could just stand in the back.

It had been a year since he'd separated from Malory Avnel, or Arnaud Lemieux as he called himself in New Jersey. All year, the Vampire had scrupulously avoided stirring the mental link between them. He owned and operated a Motel 6 on I-80, leaving David to his Fairlawn dry cleaning shop and studying for his stock trading certification and his spiritual nail chewing.

A morally upright, completely ethical, totally honorable Vampire who kills at least two humans a month calls me his friend. Worse yet, I call him friend-most of the time.

He paused across from the shul. It had been a brick church, circa 1900 that had burned down. Only the foundation had been left when the Orthodox shul had bought the land.

Some people were arriving, parking their cars in the lot behind the shul where they would stay until after dark tomorrow. The women were dressed in various colors, many of them wearing white, the married ones with their heads covered. The men wore business suits, white yarmulkes, and kittels,-the belted white smock they would be buried in. No black hats and curls hanging beside their ears, but some men wore their prayer shawls while some carried theirs. The prayer shawls were white wool with black stripes - not a silk one; not a single blue striped one anywhere. Everyone wore sneakers and carried Machzorim-the prayer books that contained the day's special prayers. I couldn't possibly fit in among them. I wouldn't know how to pray.

"G'mar Chatima Tova. Come on, you'll miss Kol Nidre if you stand out here!"

David started, stifling a gasp. It was an older man with a fringe of white beard and a jolly paunch. A hand touched his elbow, urging him on across the street. "The Rabbi's drasha you can afford to miss, but not Kol Nidre when Yussel's davening."

"Yussel's davening?" He couldn't remember what davening meant.

The man held open the door for David urging him inside. "He doesn't just sing, he really prays, and the Gates of Heaven open."

Davening means praying.

They came to the inner door to the sanctuary on the men's side, a stream of men shuffling in before them. David hung back. "I don't have a seat."

"No problem. My son is home with his week old son and his wife. They're both sick, so you can have his seat. It's a mitzvah to miss shul, even on Yom Kippur to care for the sick. We'll take turns staying home tomorrow, so you'll still have a seat all day. Manny Rubenstein," he announced, holding out his hand.

"David Silberman." He shook the firm, dry hand.

In a twinkling, the old man had procured a prayer shawl and machzor from a cabinet and installed David in the chair next to his own on the aisle near the door. While he exchanged greetings in Hebrew with everyone around him, David arranged the shawl as everyone else had theirs and looked at the black book in his hands. The printing had worn off the binding. Inside, it had English on one side and Hebrew on the other. He turned to Kol Nidre.

So far his hands weren't burning-G-d wasn't rejecting him. He sat in a room full of ordinary people, facing three steps up to a stage with a beautiful cabinet, hung with a white drape, the Aron Kodesh, no doubt full of Torah Scrolls. An electric Eternal Flame hung over a lectern on the floor level facing the cabinet. On the stage, in front of the cabinet, another lectern faced the audience. Behind him a raised dais held the reader's lectern where men were gathering to begin the service. On the side wall a Memorial Plaque had a lamp lit beside every name carved there. All pretty standard for a synagogue. But behind him, beyond a filigreed symbolic barrier sat the women and children, divided from the men. Everyone chatted as if this were just another ordinary day.

Then, a man opened the Aron Kodesh exposing the ornately dressed Torah Scrolls to view and everyone stood up, silence falling. David stood. The silence became palpable. The silence tensed. The door in his mind beyond which the Vampire lurked slammed shut, leaking not a whisper of Malory's presence. He's uncomfortable with the Torah. The silence thickened. The silence thrummed.

A Plum Assignment
by Sharon Nelson

"What you ask is impossible. It simply cannot be done." Q. Ashton Randall, the former Viscount Wolverton frowned sharply at the placid surface of the marble-edged pool at his feet. To his immense irritation, the pool did not reflect back his chiseled, classically handsome features. Instead, all he could see was the image of a plump young woman seated in an armchair, bent closely over a book. From the little he could see of her, the woman's hair was a mass of uncontrollable curls. Her skin appeared pale and splotchy, and her gold-rimmed spectacles were perched on a nose that reminded him more of a turnip than an organ of olfaction.

"I'm afraid you don't have much choice in the matter, my dear chap," his companion said cheerily. Ashton turned to glare at him. With his sparkling white wings and silver robe Graham looked as if he had just stepped off the top of the Queen's Christmas tree, a golden-haired, blue-eyed, porcelain-faced parody of an angel if he ever saw one.

The difficulty was that Graham was not a parody of an angel. He was a real one. To make matters worse, he had just been assigned to Ashton as his superior here "Upstairs," as it was quaintly termed.

"I'll be quite pleased to provide any assistance you require, of course," Graham added with an encouraging smile. Ashton noted that Graham had perfect teeth. But after all, everyone here did.

For the thousandth time Ashton mentally kicked himself for diving in front of the carriage at Pall Mall. His long record of previous debaucheries had clearly marked him for an alternative destination in the afterlife, and he suspected that the occupants of "Downstairs" were far more to his taste than this bland, simpering bunch. But rules were rules, especially here; his last, and only, good deed had canceled out a lifetime of bad behavior, and that was that. He was assigned to the celestial realm for all eternity.

Stuck with Graham until the end of time.

Ashton rolled his eyes. "I've already told you. I know Benny's taste in women. And that-woman-does not remotely begin to meet his standards."

Graham opened the scroll in his hand, pursing his rosy Cupid's lips as he re-read its contents. "The assignment is quite clear. Lucy Spencer, only niece and ward of Leticia Spencer, is to meet Benjamin St. Leger, twelfth Duke of Woodmarle, on the night of the Duke's annual ball. They are to become lovers."

"Lovers?" Ashton felt his eyebrows crawling into his hairline. "Benny wouldn't let a woman who looked like that into his scullery, let alone his bed."

"Nevertheless, that is what is to happen." Graham tidily rolled up the scroll and peered into the pool again. "I'm sure she has a great deal of hidden potential."

"It's very thoroughly hidden, if you ask me. And I've never been greatly fond of hide-and-seek."

"But you were always fond of women," Graham said brightly, quickly unrolling the scroll again. "It says right here-"

Ashton ignored him. He'd been fond of women, all right-strong, handsome women with a gleam in their eye and a taste for whisky and mischief, not some mousy bookworm with peepers too weak to see across the room. And his best friend Benny had been even more exacting about his bedmates than Ashton had ever been. Even if Benny did, by some miracle, manage to lose his head over the girl, she looked to be so prissy that she'd not let him glimpse so much as an ankle until she had him firmly and eternally bound in holy wedlock.

That brought to mind another complication. He turned to Graham. "Doesn't encouraging them to become lovers rather smack of immorality?"

Graham gave him a beatific smile. "We have a little saying here that the Lord works in mysterious ways. But it is not as scandalous as it sounds. If all goes well-and we are fairly certain that it shall-the Duke should marry Lucy very soon after they, ah, prove their affections to each other." He bent closer to Ashton. "I'm not privy to the highest levels of the administration, of course, but rumor has it this is quite the plum assignment, not something we normally hand out to first-timers. Lucy's granddaughter will be an important philanthropist and humanitarian, helping millions of mortals yet unborn through her political and financial support of important medical research. That is why this assignment is so very important."

"A grandchild, is it? I'm to do all of this for a sprout that won't exist for likely another forty years?" Ashton frowned." What do they need us for if they have everything planned out to the tenth generation?"

"Oh, we're very much needed," Graham replied. "The Master only works in possibilities. There are certain outcomes He would prefer over others, of course. That is where our role lies, to gently shape circumstances so events will head in the preferred direction. But each mortal is always free to say 'yes' or 'no' to their destiny. Take your case, for example."

"I'd rather you not."

"But yours is a textbook case, Quigley."

Ashton winced. "Must you use that name?"

Graham blinked at him, his pale blue eyes round as two moons. "It is your given name. Why shouldn't I use it?"

"Because I detest it. Why can't you call me Ashton instead? Everyone else does-er, did."

Graham peered at the scroll again. "It says here that Ashton was your father's favorite spaniel's name. You took it over after the dog Passed On."

"And I preferred it infinitely to mine," Ashton said, scowling at him.

"But it's not your real name, Quigley. So calling you that would not be being entirely truthful, would it?" Graham chirped. "Getting back to your situation-as I was saying, you could have stood by and let that little girl be crushed to death instead of leaping in front of the carriage. No one pushed you. In the end, it was completely your choice. Was it not?"

Ashton recalled the wide-eyed look of terror on the little girl's face as the massive coach-and-four had barreled down the street directly at her. He had never been one for sentiment, let alone bravery, yet he found himself unable to stand by and let the disaster unfold in front of him. "I suppose you are right," Ashton finally grumbled.

Ragnarok Can Wait
by Susan Sizemore

"There's been a mistake?" Peter Jordan's voice was quite calm, his expression as blandly polite as ever. His hands were folded serenely on top of his desk. No outward demeanor reflected any of the inner alarms the word mistake set off in his soul. Miss Hagaarsdottir's fierce frown and looming presence did not intimidate Jordan. That word, mistake, did. "What sort of mistake?" Jordan continued in the mildest possible tone.

Mild or not, he was aware that all eyes in the office were on him and the tall woman before his desk. Alert silence and stillness hung in the air like the last held breath before the Apocalypse.

"Really!" Jordan announced. Leaning so that he could peer past Miss Hagaarsdottir, he waved a hand at his assistants and sent them scurrying back to work. All but Miss Ise, who continued to watch from the desk opposite his with her usual bodhisattva-like calm.

Hagaarsdottir reclaimed Jordan's attention by banging her fist on the desk. Then she propped her spear against the edge of his desk and placed a PDA before him. She tapped the tiny data screen with one blood-encrusted fingernail.

"I see last night's Wild Hunt went well," Jordan said, noticing her hand.

"It did. You should have come."

"You know how I feel about that sort of thing."

"We will make a man of you yet, Peter. I have told you that I would go to the Gregorian chanting concert with you if you would indulge in outdoor activities with me."

"Are you asking me for a date?" A flicker of hope lit in Jordan's soul that her mission here was not quite so dire as her words indicated.

Hagaarsdottir smiled at him, then shook her heavy blonde braids and returned to business. "This needs your personal attention."

Jordan gestured toward the arched main door of the Front Office. "There's so many people to see here, and-"

"There are always so many people to see." She banged the butt of her spear on the floor. "My part of the infinite land may not have as many incoming residents as the more modern sections, but those who come home to us can be-impressive."

"And trouble makers?" he guessed. The thought of anyone causing trouble here was chilling.

"You need to see him for yourself, Peter." She reached over the desk and yanked Jordan to his feet, without any regard for his dignity, or supervisory position. "Come with me."

None of his staff dared to crack so much as a faint smile when Hagaarsdottir dragged him out through the pearl and gold filigree arch, though Jordan did catch a glimpse of amusement cross Miss Ise's serene expression as he and the valkyrie passed her by. When they were beyond the arch, Jordan hesitated for another instant to glance reassuringly at the double row of clients waiting patiently in line for he and his staff to make them welcome, comfortable and happy in their new homes. Most of the newcomers were trying not to stare nervously, or in downright terror, at the impressive sight of the frowning, well-armed, six foot seven inch Asgardian Incoming Liaison marching before him.

Her snort of amusement at their reactions was not lost on Jordan. "Seeing you might lead some of them to think they've ended up in the wrong place," Jordan whispered to her armor-clad back.

"Somebody's ended up in the wrong place," Hagaarsdottir said darkly. The look she gave him over her shoulder was equally dark. Thunder rumbled overhead to match her mood, and the howling of direwolves could be heard within the thunder.

Several of the new people discovered that it was impossible for the dead to faint, though they certainly tried to at Hagaarsdottir's expression. Concerned seraphim began to move among the crowd, offering consolation, and to take lunch orders to distract the newcomers from the current situation.

For the sake of not traumatizing any more incoming souls, Jordan decided to use up a minor one of his monthly budget for miracles, and transported himself and the Valkyrie away from the watching crowd. They reappeared within an instant, on a stormy hillside high above a fjord filled with crashing waves of molten lava. Ravens and gulls circled overhead, black birds and white crying out raucously over the distant sounds of storm and battle. The bloody gates of the fortress of Valhalla in the Norse afterlife realm of Asgard loomed on the other side of the fjord. Huge black wolves prowled before the mighty gates, dwarfed to the size of small dogs by distance and the size of the fortress of the old gods. Beyond the mighty fortress a dark forest and jagged, snow-capped mountains loomed beneath the swirling storm clouds. Lightning cracked across the sky, and thunder boomed.

It was all very ominous and eerie, very Wagnerian, but not particularly homey. Jordan ignored the scenery and turned his attention to the small screen of the personal digital assistant Hagaarsdottir had passed to him earlier.

"Is this about an incoming?" he asked as he peered at the tiny print on the screen. He made very little sense of the information at first glance. "I didn't think you'd had any incoming since the incident involving that Miami motorcycle gang back during Hurricane Andrew."

"Them." Hagaarsdottir sniffed in disapproval. From her it sounded more like a snarl, but Jordan knew it was a ladylike sniff.

"They died saving the lives of others or they wouldn't have arrived here," he reminded the Valkyrie.

"The gods have to take what they get these days," she answered. "The bikers fit in well enough, but frankly-" She cut herself off, and pointed at the data on the PDA. "It's Mr. Jansen. He has to be reassigned immediately, Peter. His presence is far too disruptive."

Jordan scanned the statistics on one Randall Jensen and his place in the afterlife. "Ethnically correct."

"Ya."

"Raised Lutheran, I see." Jordan glanced at Hagaarsdottir. "He must have converted to the Old Religion if you ended up with him."

She frowned ominously, and clutched her spear tensely. "Really?"

He read on. "There's no conversion date here from Christian to the Norse pantheon."

"He believes in Vikings."

Jordan didn't believe it was the icy northern wind that caused the chill to run up his back.

VACATION
by Jennifer Dunne

Saffron exited the limousine in stages, first just the tip of a black stiletto heel peeking beneath the open door, then a shapely ankle, followed by an impossibly long leg, stretching slowly from within the dark interior of the limousine until her shoe settled firmly on the cobblestone drive. Her pale white hand, the long red nails glistening in the sunlight as if they'd been freshly dipped in blood, extended languorously through the doorway.

Three bellhops rushed to help her from the car.

Her fingers closed around the nearest of the outstretched hands, tingling as she made the connection. His name was Albert. He lived alone, and dreamed at night of a beautiful, dark-haired woman who would kiss and caress him, and devour him slowly with her ripe berry lips.

Saffron allowed Albert to draw her out of the car. He gasped and blinked, confronted with his secret image of desire made flesh. His fingers tightened on her hand. With a few soft words, Saffron could make him abandon his position, forgetting everyone and everything of importance to him in an endless spiral of craving until there was nothing left of him, and his soul belonged to her master.

She licked her berry bright lips, tossed back her long, flowing black hair, and pulled her fingers from his grasp. She was on vacation.

* * * *

As she approached the front desk, the manager elbowed one of the clerks aside and leaned forward onto the gleaming marble counter. "Checking in, Miss?"

She reached into her tightly laced leather bustier and withdrew a credit card from its resting place between her breasts. The manager's eyes widened, and he held the thin rectangle of plastic with near reverence.

"The name is Cubis." She gave it a foreign pronunciation: Coo-bee. "Saffron Cubis."

He keyed the data into the computer, which promptly displayed her reservation. Saffron breathed a sigh of relief. She'd been promised a vacation, a reward for her excellent service, but she hadn't really believed it was possible. Her master's penchant for practical jokes was well known.

"Welcome to The Slice of Heaven Resort and Spa. We've reserved a deluxe pool side suite for you. You will be staying with us for seven days?"

"One can accomplish much in seven days," she said, admiring her master's sense of humor.

The manager nodded, oblivious to the joke. "We have a number of package deals to make your stay more enjoyable. How many daily spa treatments would you prefer?"

"None."

"None?" The manager's eyebrows lifted. "Don't you wish to indulge in the spa's restful atmosphere, to relax and let your cares drift away?"

"You mean, recline in pampered luxury, not lifting a finger, as your trained staff cater to my every need?"

"Exactly!" He smiled broadly, fingers poised over the keyboard to accept her order.

Indignation swelled her fragile bustier. "Sloth is a sin! I plan to be busy on my vacation. Very, very busy."

The Morality Clause
H. David Blalock

Ashteroth glowered at Gaillard and huffed, generating a small smoke ring that wafted to the ceiling of the corner executive suite. Gaillard frowned. The demon had appeared in the form of a horned devil. Spikes sprouted from nearly everywhere, and it had planted itself in his executive chair. That piece of furniture had been made especially for him at considerable expense. The demon shifted in his seat, making the expensive leather squeak and tear. Within a few moments, the suite began to reek of sulphur. Gaillard suspected it would take weeks to get the stench out of the carpet.

"Mr. Gaillard, when you signed the contract five years ago, you should have read it thoroughly," Ashteroth said. "I know you were under a lot of stress at the time -"

"I was standing on the rail of a bridge, getting ready to jump," Gaillard reminded him.

"Quite. But you must admit things have been much better since."

Gaillard had to nod in agreement. "True."

"So, we have met our part of the bargain?"

"Yes."

"Then we have to require you live up to your part."

Gaillard paced back and forth. He pulled a Cuban cigar from the inner pocket of his Armani jacket and paused to light it. As an afterthought, he looked at Ashteroth. "You don't mind if I smoke?"

"I do continually."

Gaillard resumed his pacing and pondered his situation. "Let me see if I understand. You are here to foreclose on my contract because I haven't been keeping up with the paperwork?"

"Well," Ashteroth hummed, "not paperwork exactly. Reports. As it clearly says in Section 22, subparagraph B(3)(g): `Regular reports on the degradation of the subject soul shall be made'. Now, I think a case could be made that the definition of the word `regular' could be stretched to as far as annually, but you haven't made a single report in five years."

"You make this sound like some kind of government program."

"Who do you think writes their program proposals and designs their forms?"

Gaillard stopped and stared at the demon. "You?"

Ashteroth waved one three-fingered, hairy paw. "Not me personally. Although there was that form I did for the IRS back in '53." A far away look came to his eyes and the vertical slit pupils dilated as he considered times gone by. "Some of my best work, really. A masterpiece of obfuscation. Generated hundreds of audits." He snapped back to the present. "I work mostly in personal contracts such as your own nowadays. We have an entire bank of lesser demons who inspire bureaucracy. It is, after all, a hell of a business. But let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?"

Gaillard began pacing again and puffed hard on the Cuban.

"Now, I am willing to allow a waiver on the past five years' non-conformance and cease foreclosure on one condition," Ashteroth said.

"And that is?"

"You immediately begin adhering to the requirements of the morality clause."

Gaillard stumbled a little. "Morality clause?"

"Yes. As of today we will require that-"

"Morality clause? A contract with the devil has a morality clause?"

Ashteroth huffed again. As the smoke ring rose he shifted, the horns on his back tearing again into the chair. "Of course. That's what it's all about, isn't it? Your continuing degradation, lack of moral fiber, downward spiral of conscience, et cetera."

The glimmer of an idea began to shine in Gaillard's mind. "If I do not adhere to this morality clause, then what?"

"Then the contract is broken and foreclosure is immediate," Ashteroth said, as if it should be patently obvious.

"I see."

"Good. Now, the contract requires you to break at least one commandment a week for the remainder of your natural life," Ashteroth began.

"Wait just a moment," Gaillard interjected. "How can I stretch ten commandments into a lifetime?"

Another smoke ring rose to the ceiling and a new tear appeared in the chair. "Mister Gaillard, get out your Bible. There are hundreds of commandments in the first six books, more than enough to keep you busy for a very long time."

Demon Puss
Terri Beckett

Although he was a demon, his mother was an angel. He knew that she must have been, for the mere thought of her soft fur, her gentle reassuring murmur, the feel of her rough tongue cleaning him, and the taste of her warm sweet milk made him close his eyes and flex his paws and purr. Which is not truly demonic behaviour, but then, he did have some angelic blood. Most of him, however, had to be demon. Presumably from his father, of whom he had no memory at all. Of his own demonic self, he had no doubt, for did not his human, Miranda, say within a very few days of bringing him to her lair, "Kitten, you must be a demon!"

That was after he failed to jump cleanly on to the top shelf of the cabinet, his hind paws dislodging a highly-prized ormulu clock (which disgorged its innards irreparably over the floor) on his precipitous way down. Following that, he had stalked, caught, and eaten a bird (for demons relish the taste of salty hot fresh blood and the crunch of bones) but then he had thrown up on the best rug, probably because of an instinct to eat grass for dessert.

So, his people-given name became D.C., for Demon Cat, and he lived up to that as fully as he knew how. As he grew from a scrawny kit to a full-grown cat, his fur thickened and sleeked to a true ebony, his eyes gleaming green, his teeth white and sharp. Oh, he was a handsome beast, and he knew it well, for often Miranda would take him in her arms and sigh over his beauty. "If I could only find a man as beautiful, as faithful, as good as you, my darling D.C…." And he would purr, and flex his paws, and remember the wonderful scent of his mother, the angel.

It is not only angels who can grant wishes.

There was a man in her life, one George, and he and D.C. cordially disliked each other. George had to hide it, however, lest he incur her wrath, for she made it plain that the cat was her beloved. But secretly, he hated the cat, and would try to kick it when it came too close - and once, when she asked him to take the animal for its shots at the doctor, he opened the door of his car and thrust it out onto the highway. He pretended that the cat had escaped, of course, and was most apologetic-until D.C. arrived back on her doorstep, crying (most piteously!) to be let in. He was unharmed, being protected by his demon-luck, but had made sure to dishevel his fur and roll in mud. How she cried with delight when the cat sprang into her arms! George kept up the pretence and made much of it and exclaimed at its fortunate survival, but D.C.-D.C. wore his ears just so, and slitted his eyes so, and stared at him, so that George knew that the cat knew, and he was discomfited.

To begin with, George was not allergic to cats-but D.C. worked a magic, and shed on him all he could, leaving sleek black hair and scent on his clothing. Soon George could not be in the same room with D.C. without wheezing and sneezing. D.C. used his demon-powers with subtlety and cunning, and when it seemed to him that things were moving too slowly for his liking, he hastened things along by using George's shoe instead of the litterbox.

George was gone soon after. History. Miranda wept a little into D.C.'s satiny fur, and was soothed by his purring. Two more males were equally swiftly dispatched. Miranda began to wonder if she was destined to be single forever-but Miranda, of course, did not know of her Demon-Cat's powers, and how, in a thoroughly undemonic way (but we must remember that his mother was an angel) he longed for her happiness. How could he not? He loved her, as much as his demon-heart would allow, for the kitten-self deep within him was reminded of his mother, and how she had loved so him tenderly and completely.

In the nights, as Miranda slept, D.C. would stalk the apartment, weaving a magical web with each soft paw-pad, singing a silent chant as ancient as Eden. He would sit at the patio window and watch the moon, drawing that eldritch light with his eyes, savouring the dark. And each morning, he would be at Miranda's side when she woke, stretching as if he had slept as deeply as she. They would breakfast together before she left for work at the local library, and when she had gone D.C. would curl up on her bed and smell her scents and dream of the perfect mate for his Miranda.

He would, naturally, have to be devilishly handsome. He would have a sense of humour. He would share her interests. He would respect D.C.'s part in her life. He would make her happy.

Those criteria established, D.C. set himself to work his magic.

Prize of a Lifetime
by Michael J. McShay

Peedle and Poyfair met at the designated place and time, Jennifer's front door at 4:30 PM. The sleepy suburb of Oakwood seemed the perfect place for heaven and hell to meet. It was close to the mall, in case they needed a snack after tending to business.

Poyfair was coiffured, lip-glossed, and dressed to the hilt like she'd just walked off an exotic fashion shoot. She was twenty-four and well aware that she was a stunner. Her pale violet eyes flashed as she greeted Peedle with a dazzling smile. "So nice of you to come. I see you're still buying your outfits at the geek shop."

Peedle shrugged. His green cardigan sweater rode up his starched white shirt and greeted his polka dot bow tie. "Unlike some people, I'm bound by truth in advertising."

"Oh touchy, I like that," she purred. "Well, are you ready little man?"

Peedle nodded and positioned himself behind her and off to the side. Rules of engagement declared that human beings had to be approached first by their own gender. The rule was iron clad if the subject was a minor.

Poyfair rang the doorbell and glanced back over her shoulder. "You should just give me this one. She's only fourteen, you don't stand a chance."

Peedle stuck a finger in his tight collar and gave it a nervous tug. She might be right, the competition got harder every year. The other side had better PR; more pizzazz, more excitement. If he were human, even he might be swayed.

"The fat lady hasn't sung..." He tried not to sound desperate.

Poyfair smirked. "Fat lady? You goodie, goodies are beyond obtuse." She jabbed at the doorbell again, almost breaking her custom painted fingernail in the process.

They heard a series of rapid thuds then the crash of someone jumping from the third stair from the bottom. Metal jiggled against metal and the door opened two inches. A brown eye peered over the security chain. "Yes?" came the high squeaky voice.

Poyfair licked her lips in amusement. She put on a smile so bright that it could toast a bagel. "Does Jennifer O'Brien live here?"

Seconds ticked in silence as the brown eye darted back and forth between the strangers on the porch. "Yeah, maybe."

Poyfair pulled several pages of official looking documents from her impossibly small purse and scanned them just long enough to build interest. Not a second more.

Peedle had to give her points for showmanship. Lies spiced with drama always sweetened the bait. He wished his side understood the need for style.

Poyfair raise her perfectly plucked eyebrow for effect. "Ah yes, Jennifer O'Brien, also known as Jenny-O on the Internet?"

"Yeah." The voice behind the door piqued with curiosity.

"Excellent! May I speak to her?"

"How do you know my surfing handle? It's secret."

"I'm from the Internet," Poyfair touched the base of her long delicate throat, "that is, I'm here from the website Demons-R-Us. Congratulations, you are the ten millionth surfer to log on!"

"Wow, did I win something?"

Peedle marveled at how Poyfair's shtick hooked them every time. Humans were so gullible they believed TV commercials more than their own mirrors to decide their self-worth.

He coughed softly to urge Poyfair to quit milking the suspense. The sooner one of them won, the sooner they'd finish the paperwork and he could go sit on a cloud and take off his tight shoes.

Poyfair dialed up her most sincere smile. "I'm Ms. Poyfair and this is Mr. Peedle. We're here to give you the prize of a lifetime."

The door shut, the rasp of metal sounded the removal of the security chain, and the door swung open. Jennifer O'Brien aka Jenny-O burst out in all her four-foot eight-inch glory.

Her mousy blond hair fell straight to her narrow shoulders and she wore a Britney Spears t-shirt with faded jeans cut-off at the calf like makeshift pedal-pushers. Her clothes hung on her bone thin frame like a parachute waiting for her feminine form to descend upon her.

One look at the awkward teen and Peedle knew he stood about as much chance with her as winning the lottery. The girl had to be a walking case of teenage insecurity. Poyfair's side fed on that.

Jennifer waved her plastic hairbrush in the doorway like a baton on fire. "What did I win? This is so exciting, Michelle, she's my best friend, she is going to be so jealous."

Poyfair opened her hand. "First we must verify that you are the real Jennifer O'Brien. Are your parents home?"

Half a quart of enthusiasm drained from the girl as the prospect of losing her prize loomed.

Peedle knew the ploy. Making the subject work for the prize made it more desirable. Make them want it past the point of good judgment. Poyfair was working the soft spots.

"Then," Poyfair continued, "we have to check that it was your computer that logged into Demons-R-Us last Wednesday."

Jennifer lost another half a quart of excitement. She whined, "My parents aren't home and I don't have a driver's license or anything with a picture on it."

Poyfair stroked her chin. "Well, you have a school yearbook with your picture in it? I think I can talk my boss into accepting that."

The teenager perked up. "I've got one of those in my bedroom upstairs."

"We could check your computer at the same time."

Jennifer's brain thrashed on that a moment and she looked suspiciously at Peedle. "I'm not supposed to let strangers in the house when I'm alone."

Poyfair cranked herself into full-blown sincerity mode. "Well we aren't exactly strangers, we come from your favorite new website, and it is the prize of a lifetime. I'm sure your parents wouldn't want you to miss out on that."

Peedle's shoulders tensed. Prize indeed, more like a life sentence. Poyfair had the perfect blend of truth and lies to make her irresistible. And here he was, stuck with the truth. How fair was that?

Perhaps
by Michele Hauf

Prologue

"Bring me an angel! Rip one from the heavens for me!"

The master's voice shuddered inside Venedictos' head. The sound was of stone pushed slowly across stone to block the dark orifice of an icy crypt. A deep, evil sound that always made the hairs on his back crinkle beneath the woolen robe he wore.

"Yes, your darkness." Venedictos bowed obediently.

"You can do it?" The dark lord spun around and cast his burning gaze toward the cowering wizard. "Yes?"

"Um...well..."

Damen the Dark strode the castle floor, his polished leather boots crackling across the rotting rushes and brittle leaves underfoot. His gaze captured Venedictos' and the wizard dared not look away. "Are you not the self-proclaimed greatest wizard in all the land?" The darkness of his voice took on a sarcastic edge, an edge as sharp as a sword and one Venedictos took pains to appease.

"In the land?" The wizard's voice faltered. "I...I haven't traveled past the Forest of Thorns that surrounds your most humble abode."

"That is what I command of you!" A black and thin shadow, Damen turned on his heels and paced back to the window. Bracing his palms upon the stone ledge, he scanned the gray night sky, illuminated only by a thin dagger of moon. A chill midnight breeze rippled the white silk sleeves against his muscled arms.

"I wish to have an angel," he announced to the skies. "A creature of innocence and pureness, whose wings have been touched by the softness of the heavens. By far that will be my greatest challenge yet." He closed his eyes and whispered his passion. "To seduce an ethereal being and to bring an end to this dreaded curse of light. Aaah...to once again know the comfort of darkness."

A flickering glimmer hovered near the window, a tiny creature whose wings were of transparent black cellophane. Its entire length was no more than a wolf's toe. Damen snapped out and grasped the fluttering insect. The crisp crackle of splintering bones was muffled inside his fist. "Insufferable black fairies." He turned to Venedictos with an inquisitive glare to his onyx eyes. "Why has nothing been done to exterminate these horrendous creatures?"

"Well, your Darkness, you see-"

Damen tossed the broken remains of the fairy out the window and approached his servant in three great strides. "They mill about in great masses. I do not like them! They...they are always buzzing about me. And they get in this intolerable length of hair." He held a twist of his own dark tresses out as if they were alien and bothersome to him.

"It is the m-moon flowers, your darkness." Venedictos shrank from his master's malicious shadow, pressing his back as tight as he could to the stone wall behind him. "They are attracted to the iridescent petals. They do harbor a pleasant scent."

"Flowers? Bah! Why do they not die? Have you not laid poison over the ground? What of the gargoyle? Does he not fly down and stomp upon them?"

A pearl of sweat tickled down Venedictos' back. He strained to control a shiver; he knew his master was acutely aware of his fear. "Th-they seem to be a hardy breed, your darkness. They simply spring up after the gargoyle flies away. I'll try the poison again. Perhaps some boiling oil this time?"

"See that you do. Or I'll lay boiling oil over you and see if you wither and cease to attract the fairies. If that doesn't work..." The moonlight cast an eerie spotlight across Damen's prominent nose and sunken cheeks, highlighting his death's-head smirk. "I'll feed you to the gargoyle."

One

Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata was being pureed through the blender top speed. To make matters worse, two cats had been thrown into the foul brew. Notes were strangled and crushed to an erratic cacophony. Surely, poor Beethoven was doing flip-flops in his grave.

Alex Gordon looked up from the monotonous words in his textbook as yet another foul note jarred his thoughts. His best friend sat before the piano, her ankles crossed beneath the bench. Her head rhythmically bobbed up to scan the sheet music then down to locate the proper key. "How many weeks has it been now?"

Her nose to the sheet music and her tongue pressed between her lips, Devon mumbled. "Two this Friday. Sounds pretty good, huh?"

"Um...sure." Alex ground his teeth together and hid his gentle irritation behind his book. Puree another cat for me.

He would never tell her it needed a little work. Make that a lot of work. Well, honestly, it flat-out sucked. Devon was too good a friend. Hopefully, this hobby won't last long. Pray the next would be something that did not require sound.

Another tortured note clawed its way across Alex's temples. Devon was intent in her practice. Beside her sat Mister Pusster, her lilac Himalayan. He, too, wore a worried frown, with ears pricked and whiskers alert.

"So, you think this is your true calling?" Alex asked. "Or are you gonna try something else?"

Devon spun on the piano bench, a frustrated twist curling her lips. She pushed long fingers through her wavy hair and blew a stray curl from her nose. "Just because I like to try new things doesn't mean I never stick with it."

"I never said you didn't," Alex suddenly found himself in the defense.

"Unlike you, who doesn't know what to do with his life."

Alex displayed the textbook. "I know exactly what I'm going to do with my life." He drew his finger along the title. "Basic Computers! It's nice and-"

"Safe?" Devon offered.

Alex slunk back into the couch cushions. Yeah, safe. Devon knew him well. Ever since his older brother, Todd, had been shot down while on an overseas mission, Alex had been fearful of life in the real world. No, not exactly fear. Just...cautious.

He'd had plans of joining the service himself. But after hearing his brother had been killed while trying to save the life of another, Alex had torn up his application for the Marines and instead enrolled in college. He was going to be a computer consultant. No guns, no ammo, no secret missions. Yeah, nice and safe. Of course, he'd never had an interest in computers, and was finding the homework damn hard. But like Devon said, it was safe.