Holy Socks And Dirtier Demons by J.A. Kazimer Page A

handle didn’t do any good, and the window refused to
    budge. Wonderful. I’d fought a succubus, saved myself from an eternity in
    hell, only to die in a 1972 Gremlin.
    “My hair curls when it’s wet,” a voice bubbled from the hatchback.
    I whipped around, rubbing my bloodshot eyes. “Angel? I thought
    Lilith killed you.” I smiled at him, happy to see him, but that smile turned to
    a choke as water entered my lungs. “Can you get us out of here?”
    He shrugged. The car began to rise from the water, hovering just
    above it like the kid during his nightly bath.
    Water rushed from the interior of the car as I put it into gear, and
    drove across the pool, over the downed fences and onto the street. Gawkers
    stopped and stared. I waved and roared up the street, the Gremlin, and the
    angel clucking like wet hens.
    ~ * ~
    I rubbed at my wet chest with a dishtowel, careful to avoid bumping
    60

    my ribs. After my dive into the pool, I’d come home and spent forty-five
    minutes under a boiling hot shower, waiting for the ache in my bones to
    settle.
    Now I stood half-dressed in my kitchen, watching the angel brush his
    flowing hair one hundred times, as he stared into the shiny refection of my
    toaster. “Where have you been for the last two days?” I asked, tossing the
    sodden dishcloth at him.
    The angel answered with a sigh, “Locked inside that devil car.” He
    pointed to a black stain on his white robe. “Tire grease. That will never come
    out.”
    “If you heal these, I will buy you a new robe.” I paused, touching my
    broken ribs. “Two robes.”
    The angel rolled his eyes, but the pain in my side receded. For the
    first time in an hour, I took a deep breath, enjoying the rush of air clogging
    my windpipe. Everyone should have his or her own personal angel. Imagine
    what it would do for the hangover industry.
    “How did you get locked in the hatchback?” I scratched my chin.
    “Your girlfriend broke in, and dragged me from the apartment.” He
    sniffed once. “I missed the final episode of the O.C. Now I will never know
    if Suzanne Somers sells the last Thighmaster.”
    I slapped my head. Stupid angel. “That’s not the O.C., it’s QVC. A
    home shopping network.” My eyes narrowed. “You haven’t called the
    number, right?”
    He shot me an angelic smile so bright it stung my eyes. “No. I
    ordered online. It saves time and money.”
    A pain in my jaw radiated up, forcing the vein in my forehead to
    thump twice. “I’m turning off the cable. Now tell me what happened after
    Lilith dragged you away.”
    “I do not know, Nemamiah. I was locked in the trunk.” He reminded
    me, as if talking to a slow child.
    “It wasn’t a trunk. It’s a hatchback, which means you could have
    signaled for help, or opened the damn thing yourself.” I took a fast breath,
    pulled a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, and poured myself an eight-
    ounce glass. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Have you learned anything
    about the kid? Like where he is being held, or maybe why?”
    “Yes.” The angel plucked at his eyebrow.
    “And?”
    “I cannot tell you.” He didn’t look disappointed by the news. “But I
    can tell you this.”
    “What?”
    “God is not happy with His Chosen One. I wouldn’t want to be in
    your shoes when He smites you.” As concerned as the angel seemed, we
    might have been discussing the weather.
    “Well thanks for that.” I dropped onto a chair, and drank deeply from
    61

    my glass of whiskey. It tasted sour, like cheap mash. I spit it into the sink,
    missing the kid more and more.
    The angel fluffed his hair and pointed at my cell phone lying on the
    table. “It’s for you.”
    The phone hadn’t rung so I glanced at him in question. He shrugged.
    A second later, the phone twerped and I checked the caller ID. Unknown
    name. Probably a telemarketer.
    “Miller here,” I answered.
    “Please hold for God,” the nasal voice of God’s secretary sounded in
    my ear. Shit.
    A few