CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

“You’re not even going to believe who I saw in Hell today.”

“Cindy Tinsman.”

“Nope! It— Wait. You’re right.” Dammit. “How’d you know?”

Sinclair had been working at the desk in the corner of our bedroom (one of three in a series: From the Desk of Sinclair; he had one in his office downstairs and a little one in the kitchen so he could play with Fur and Burr while he worked). God, Fur and Burr. The two most indulged dogs in the history of the domesticated canine. They adored me because all dogs did, but they loved Sinclair for himself, there was nothing supernatural about it. He baked them homemade dog biscuits, for crying out loud. And why was I thinking about the pampered pups right now?

Sinclair had looked up from whatever it was he was concentrating on. “You don’t talk about Hell overmuch, at least not to me, so whomever you saw would be of interest to both of us, or you would never have brought it up. Given that we’ve had recent dealings with that willful child, it made sense you would see her in your new capacity as the . . .” I mentally groaned; here came another one. “. . . Mistress of Hell.”

“Nope.” Sinclair (and occasionally Marc) kept trying out new titles for me. They were all terrible.