The denizens of Hell were gunning for Amity.
At least, it felt that way to her. It was easy for her to believe that for the last few days, all the creatures from the pit were working as hard as they could to invade the semblance of peace she’d forged for herself on Earth. One thing was clear to her—someone was determined to mess up her “life,” such as it had been. At first, it was just little things: the spaghetti strap on her blouse snapping; finding a streak of black grease marring her long blonde hair; and the bouncer at her favorite nightclub refusing to allow her through the velvet rope—not that his words had stopped her from getting inside, but it was an unusual and unexpected frustration for her.
What topped it all off though—what made her week truly terrible—was the three-inch scratch along the side of her Corvette. The car had been immaculate when she’d left it to go spend a few precious hours hunting for her latest look from her favorite designers. It should have been pristine when she returned. She’d only conjured the damned thing a week earlier, so there were no excuses for any damage on the beautiful body. With her angelic protection around it, it should have still been perfect when she’d returned to it. Instead, there was a blemish in the baby blue paint.
She swore under her breath and then cursed at the sky. Tipping her head up, she let fly a stream of invective that looked out of place from her plump, pouted lips. As the words flowed from her, calling out each of her many brothers in turn—warning them what she might do if she ever found out they were responsible—she paced along the sidewalk beside her car. Three steps, turn. Three steps, turn. Three steps . . .
“You have got to be fucking kidding me!”
The heel had just snapped clean off her favorite pair of designer shoes. It was something that had never happened in all her years of loving designer items—something which made her certain the cause of her heartache could only be coming from the demons of Hell, or her meddling brothers. It was hard to tell the two apart sometimes.
“Michael, if this is your doing, so help me . . .” she muttered under her breath as she ripped off the once exceedingly expensive heels and threw them onto the passenger seat of her now-ruined convertible. He honestly seemed like the most likely candidate for the trouble in her life. She tossed her waist-length platinum hair over her shoulder. The small action resulted in a round of hollers and catcalls from behind her. In her current state, she was unable to ignore the noise like she usually would.
She closed her eyes as her frustration bubbled over and lightning crackled between her fingertips. The three men calling to her from the café were blissfully unaware just how close they were to dying in that instant as they shouted names such as “baby” and grossly complimented the way her legs looked in her skirt. The base, disgusting things they said were enough to send even the most pious angel to the edge of vengeance.
Sucking in a breath and shaking the tingles out her hands, she reminded herself that the men were only human. Mortal males were attracted to her curves and hair, to her boobs, and her thin waist. It was just the way of the world, had been for as long as she’d visited Earth. It wasn't as if she hadn’t used that attraction to her advantage when it had served her purposes. Long ago, before it was frowned upon, she’d even had a couple of dalliances with human lovers. Back when angels were openly permitted to show their true form as they walked among mortals, and regularly interacted with them.
As she calmed herself with a few more deep breaths, she decided there wasn’t really any point in smiting the poor humans who thought it was their right as men to shout obscenities at her. They deserved her forgiveness. Her pity. Not her wrath.
With a sharp exhale, she decided to save all of her anger for her asshole brothers, especially if she found out any of them were in fact responsible for the little trick with her shoes or the scratch in her paint job, as she suspected. There were a few angels who would have done it to her just for a laugh, and others still who would have done it as a perceived justice for her not-so-angelic ways.
When her eyes fell on the scratch again, her certainty grew that someone from Heaven or Hell was punishing her for some reason. After all, she’d picked the color purely because it perfectly matched her eyes. Adding the fact that someone broke through her defenses, it was only logical that the wound in the paint was a personal attack.
With a sigh, she bent over and rubbed a finger over the scrape, all but erasing it completely. The car was almost pristine again, but it didn’t erase the knowledge of the scratch. She would never be able to look at that spot again and not see the injury inflicted upon her car—and therefore against her. That alone was more than enough reason to conjure a new one before too long.Maybe I’ll get a pink one next time.