“Devina, the anxiety is not about the things. It’s about your place in this world. It’s the space you declare as yours emotionally and spiritually. You must remember that you don’t need objects to justify your existence or make yourself feel safe and secure.”

Okay, that all sounded well and good, but her things on the earth were what tied her to the souls she owned down below, the only link she had to her “children.” Over the centuries, she had amassed personal possessions from every soul she’d taken: buttons, cuff links, rings, earrings, thimbles, knitting needles, glasses, keys, pens, watches . . . the list went on and on. She preferred things made of precious metal, but any kind of metal would do: Similar to the way the substance reflected light, it also gave off the reverberations of the one who’d owned it, worn it, used it.

The radiated imprint of those humans was the only thing that calmed her when she couldn’t get down to her sanctuary for a personal visit.

God, she hated having to work on earth.

On a shudder, she blotted her tears. “I just can’t stand being so far away from them.”

“You need your job, though. You’ve told me yourself. And your ex-husband is better equipped to handle the day-to-day care of your children.”

“He is.” She’d had to shoehorn her backstory into some semblance of a human’s situation. There was no ex-husband, needless to say, but the parallel worked: Her souls were safe where she left them. It just killed her to be away. There was no place she’d rather be than at the bottom of her well, watching the writhing, screaming throng trapped forever in her walls.

Playing with them was fun, too.

“So where did you end up?” the therapist asked. “After your boyfriend and you decided to end your relationship, where did you go here in town?”

Now her anxiety switched to anger. She couldn’t believe she’d lost the first battle with Jim Heron . . . or that that fucking bastard had infiltrated her private space. Thanks to him and those other two angels, she’d had to take everything she had and vacate that loft at a dead run.

“I have a friend who has a building that’s vacant.” Not a friend actually. Just some guy she’d fucked until he signed all the papers. Then she’d killed him, stuffed his body into a hazardous-waste drum, and sealed the thing up good. He was in his own basement now, decomposing comfortably.

“And the move is completed?”

“Yes, everything’s there. But as I said, I just haven’t arranged it properly.” She had, however, found another virgin, which she’d promptly sacrificed and put to good use protecting the mirror that got her to back to Hell. “I’ve put in a security system, though.”