As for the Vessel, it’s within me—the angels like to do this “hidden in plain sight” thing when it comes to big whopping things like the Vessel of Souls. Other than the fact that fallen angels and some general baddies have been seeking the Vessel forever and that the job comes with a wise-cracking, annoyingly lovable English guy as my guardian, the Vessel thing doesn’t really have that much play in my daily life—except of course for throwing a serious curve in my dating life—you know, if I had one. Oh, my other X-Man skill? I’m immune to magic.
I rolled my eyes. “I know no one cares about me being human. I’ve been working here forever. It’s the missed appointments. No cancellations, no phone calls, nothing. I called the last two for follow-ups and couldn’t reach anyone. No messages returned, nothing.”
Nina shrugged. “Who cares?”
“Where do you think they’re going? It’s not like there is another company out there protecting demons.”
“Like a demon Wal-Mart undercutting our fees?”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest and cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, Nina, I’m really worried that we’re losing business to Wal-Mart.”
“Bring it up with Dixon.”
I gnawed my bottom lip. “I guess I could. We do have an all-staff meeting at four.”
Nina’s coal black eyes went wide. “I had totally forgotten about that.”
“Cuts into your shopping time?”
“No,” she clapped a hand to her forehead and started a vigorous massage. “Do you know how awkward that’s going to be? Me and him in the same room together after what happened!”
I leaned forward. “What happened?”
“Ohmigod. You’re my best friend—and my roommate, Soph! Have you not paid any attention? Me and Dixon?” she annunciated, “The whole dating thing? It totally didn’t end well.”
“Oh, right. That’s probably because it was all in your head. Nina, he’s our boss. It’s expected that he’d call you. And asking you to collate his copies means just that. The man needs staples.”
Nina narrowed her eyes. “Oh, and I suppose you’re going to tell me that him asking me to boot up his hard drive was completely innocent, too!”
I groaned.
Nina leaned over to gather her coat and enormously gaudy Betsey Johnson bag. “So, you never told me. Shopping on Market or Haight?”
“I don’t know. Both. I can’t make a decision.”
Nina raised an eyebrow and grinned salaciously. “Ain’t that the truth?”
I pursed my lips and straightened the already-straight selection of Post-it notes and general office supplies on my desk. “Bite me.”
Nina dumped herself into my office chair again and lolled back; she kicked her Via Spiga booties up on my desk, crossing her ankles. “Hey, I’m not judging. If I had two hot otherworldly creatures ready to duke it out to save my afterlife,” and here she splayed a single pale hand against her chest, “I’d have done my best to keep them both around, too.”
She swung out the nail file again. “So, about that shopping trip ...”
I gathered a few files from my cabinet. “Give me a half hour and I promise to be your couture sherpa all the way through San Francisco. Deal?”
Nina cocked her head, her long, ink-black hair swishing to her elbow. “Deal.”
I shooed her out the door and shook the mouse, making my computer screen whiz back to life.
I typed in Mrs. Henderson’s name, and up popped her list of appointments—the one she missed flashed an alarming red—and her address. I scrawled it down on a Post-it note and tucked it in my folder, heading out to find Dixon.
Though it’s been over a year, walking into Dixon Andrade’s office still pricked a little pang of sadness in my heart and gave me a small shudder of fear. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to walk into this part of the UDA again and not think of Pete Sampson, not think of the day I walked in to find my desk smashed to smithereens and his office—including the steel wrist and ankle cuffs used to hold him through full-moon nights—destroyed. The worst thing about that night was that Sampson was missing, blood was spilling in the streets, and Sampson—my Sampson, who had given me my first job, took me under his wing, and brought me more morning donuts than my pants could stand—was the chief suspect.
“Hey, Eldridge, I need to see Dixon.”
Eldridge was chic with a white-blond ponytail that hung halfway down his back, high over-arched eyebrows and a slight sweep of make-up on his pale face. I could tell he was wearing a hint of shimmer on his pursed lips and when he clasped his hands together I realized that his manicure—French, of course, with squared-off fakes—was better than mine. I mashed my free hand into my pocket.
“Do you have an appointment?”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course not. It’s important.”
Eldridge sighed. “Mr. Andrade is a very busy man.”
“I understand that.”
“And so am I.”
“Right,” I put a single finger on Eldridge’s desk and slid the Cosmo out from under his stack of official-looking documents. “And what exactly is your sexual style, Eldridge?”
If Eldridge had any blood in his body, his cheeks would have darkened. Instead, he just pursed those glossy, passion pink lips and pointed a well-manicured finger toward Dixon’s office.
I knocked on the door frame. “Dixon, can I have a moment?”