Four, Sixty-Six
an excerpt

“I want to be an angel,” he said slowly, looking back up again and meeting Psythia’s eyes, “So I can stop hurting people. But I don’t know how. So I need your help.”

Psythia nodded and grinned, and tossed the bottle of wine across the three foot gap between them. Damon caught it, and poured half of what was left into his glass. “Alright. That’s – it’s pathetic and selfish, and completely absurd, and I don’t buy a word of it. But all of that aside – why me? How do you expect me to help you? More importantly, what am I supposed to get out of it?”

By way of answer Damon pulled the rain-soaked black wire-bound notebook out of the inside pocket of his coat, and tossed it to Psythia. “It’s a list of angels stationed on Earth,” he explained, in answer to Psythia’s questioning look. “That third dog-eared page – that’s you.”

“If this turns to extortion, don’t expect any help from me,” muttered Psythia under his breath, flipping the notebook open to the respective page and squinting to read it through the semi-darkness enveloping the room. “This is – impressive, actually. Not something I’d expect from someone trying to garner points with Heaven. ‘Alcoholic, chain-smoker, fond of James Joyce.’ Hmm. How many days and nights of stalking did it take you to compile this?”

“It’s been a work in progress,” answered Damon, allowing a hint of a smile to creep into his voice as Psythia laughed. “But the important thing is, you’re the only one on the list who would even consider helping me.”

“You’ve never met some of these people,” said Psythia under his breath, flipping through the rest of the list and grinning at the names. “Calliel, Charis…Jairus…He’s incarcerated somewhere in São Paulo, did you know that? Killed a drug lord. It’s all he can do to stay alive, much less break out…”

“You’re the only one,” repeated Damon, as Psythia inhaled sharply and stopped on the fifth to last page. “And we’d – we’d met before. Admittedly not on the best of terms, but still – you hadn’t killed me and sent me back to Hell, and so I figured that was a start…”

“An auspicious start,” agreed Psythia distractedly. “Do you mind if I keep this?”

Damon hesitated, and Psythia, taking his silence for agreement, snapped the notebook shut and tucked it into the side of the velvet armchair. “Thank you. It’s really been a pleasure chatting with you, but I’m afraid it’s getting late, and I really have to –”

“So you’ll help, then,” said Damon eagerly. Psythia frowned.

“Did I say that? No – I’m afraid you’re on your own.” Before Damon could say anything Psythia had grabbed him by the arm and hauled him off of the armchair, plucking the bottle of wine from his hands before shoving him towards the door. “I’m sure you can see your own way out.”

“You have to help me!” Damon caught Psythia’s arm and forced him to turn around. “You’re an angel! You’re supposed to help, to grant redemption…”

“True. But the thing is, what you’re looking for isn’t redemption. You’re looking for the quickest, cheapest way to assuage all of the guilt you’ve spent the past six thousand years accumulating, because you’ve recently discovered that reciprocity’s a bitch and you’d rather not deal with it. Tough. Here's my advice: grit your teeth, invest in a winery, always remember to drive thirty miles over the speed limit, and get the hell out of my house.”