The Wish List Read Free Page B

glut.”
    Satan rose to his hooves. The tailored pinstripe he wore burst into in blue flames, exposing the red muscles and sinew beneath.
    Always the theatrics, thought Beelzebub.
    â€œI don’t care about lawyers. Who’s going to sue me? No one. I want that girl! Have you read her file? Did you see what she did to that stepfather of hers? Brilliant. Totally original.”
    The Devil’s tone became silky smooth. His most seductive. And dangerous.
    â€œFind her for me, Bub. Find her and bring her here. I don’t care if you have to send a retrieval squad into the tunnel. Get her . . .”
    Beelzebub waited for the inevitable threat.
    â€œBecause if you don’t, I’ll be holding interviews for a recently vacated position.” He paused pointedly. “Yours.”
    Satan loped into a corner. The meeting was over.
    Beelzebub barreled down the pulsating corridor, vaporizing drone souls indiscriminately with his trident. Their final squealing sizzle didn’t cheer him up the way it used to. He hated it when the Master got in one of his obsessive moods. He had to have exactly that soul, and no other would do. And God help . . . Beelzebub blinked nervously . . . Lucifer help the demon who disappointed him. He quickened his pace. You shouldn’t even think the G -word in this building. Somehow the Master always knew.
    What was so special about this particular soul anyway? Some Irish girl. Admittedly it had always been a bit special when you nabbed someone from the “Land of Saints and Scholars,” but that golden age was long gone. These days there were as many Irish down here as there were in America.
    Beelzebub hopped into a gloomy alcove, pulling a black mobile phone from the folds of his silk kaftan. Lovely little thing. All shiny and impressive. Myishi had run him up a pair. Top secret. Not even the boss knew about them. Devious admittedly. But he was, after all, a demon.
    There were no numbers on the phone pad. Just some function buttons. This was a private line. There was only one person he’d ever call. His warty finger hovered over the pad for a moment, then pressed. He had no option. The apartment was at stake. And getting good accommodations in this neighborhood was sheer hell.
    Saint Peter was not happy. If he was such a big-shot holy saint, how come he had to sit outside the gates all the time while the rest of them enjoyed the fruits of heaven? Why couldn’t James ever take a turn? Or John? Or Judas, for that matter. If there was anyone who owed him a favor, it was Judas. There was a strong contingent of the opinion that the tax collector shouldn’t be up here at all. And if it hadn’t been for yours truly putting in a good word for him, he’d still be floating around purgatory with the rest of the don’t-knows.
    Peter heaved open the cover of his ledger. What he wouldn’t give for a good mainframe. A powerful server with plenty of workstations. But you rarely got any computer buffs up at the Pearlies. Most of them came out at the other end of the tunnel, especially since Lucifer had begun offering his “own your own soul after a century” deal. So he was still stuck with balancing the accounts manually.
    The points system was complicated, developed over thousands of years. And, of course, new transgressions were added every year. Members of boy bands and mime artists were two recent categories with heavy representation.
    The system was straightforward enough. Even if you had enough plus points on your sheet to keep you out of hell, that didn’t mean you were a shoo-in to heaven. There was purgatory, limbo, or reincarnation as a lower life form. If it was a close call, you got an interview with the chief apostle. Everyone said he was a bit quick with the reject button. A million souls on the lower levels prayed for the day Peter got his marching orders.
    High above Peter’s head, the tunnel’s mouth pulsated in an azure sky.