“You want to blackmail me into taking this on,” I clarified, horns straightening, readying for a fight. “You are no better than Hellen.”

“Ah, but remember the big difference,” she said in a singsong voice, oblivious to my rising anger. “When it’s for the greater good, sometimes a wicked deed must be excused.”

She snapped Her fingers at another of the cherub paintings, which swung open. “Now, I know you must be in a hurry, given you and Hellen had an agreement on a number of Soul Tokens that I believe is about … oh, six days late.”

“Six days!” My chest constricted. “I’ve been a prisoner here for six days?”

“Time flows differently here, compared to the Human Realm, and Hell. But yes. And I’m guessing that now you quite urgently want to ensure your sister hasn’t been meddling with your sweet little Mouse.”

I ground my teeth together, but nothing, not even the utter fury I felt towards Her, using Jemma’s pet name to rile me, could stop my stomach from spinning with worry.

Six days. Hellen had agreed to stay away from Jemma on the proviso that I manufactured Soul Tokens for her. But I’d been missing almost a week. Hellen was impatient at the best of times. There was no way she wasn’t at the very least plotting some form of retaliation. And Jemma was stuck in the crosshairs, completely oblivious to the danger she was in.

I’d been such a fool to think keeping her ignorant would protect her.

“What do you want from me?” I rumbled.

“All I need is your scribble on the dotted line. Your father always intended you to inherit Hell, but I’m giving up a lot here, relinquishing Heaven to you. I need a written agreement on your part that you will do the right thing by my queendom. You sign, and I promise you’ll be free to go and check on your little human.”

She snapped Her fingers again, impatiently peering up at the open painting. A snort erupted from the darkness beyond, and finally a hideous old cherub appeared out of the open painting. It had the proportions of a baby and the weathered, leathery skin of an octogenarian. Its yellowing wings dropped feathers as it flew down, a scroll clutched in its knobbly, liver-spotted fingers.

“Ick,” Bub muttered. I silently agreed. Even Father retired his imps when they got too old to rub his horns without their arthritis playing up.

The thing flopped onto the desk and handed a scroll to God. She swatted the ancient cherub away. It fell to the floor with a wet thump. Ignoring Her minion’s obvious incapacitation, God unrolled the scroll on the desk, beckoning me over, picking up that sparkly pen and clicking it in a way that set my teeth on edge.