on the Day of the Cockroach that there was a knock at the door; quiet but firm, and Alice ignored it at first. It came again, and she ignored it again. The third time, the knocking grew more insistent, and although she’d planned to ignore it just the same, the sky outside the tiny windows darkened and a pile of Mallory’s old papers, stacked in a corner, rustled as though in a breeze. And while the sacristy was draughty, there were limits to what Alice was prepared to ignore.
“Alice,” said a voice from the other side of the door. “I’m at the door. Whether you invite me or not, I am coming in – so don’t you think we could start this on a more... civil footing?”
Alice opened the door.
On the other side was a neat man wearing a dark morning suit. His hair was cropped short and mottled with grey; his beard was clipped close to his chin. One hand was folded behind his back, while the other hung at his side, clutching the brim of a top hat.
“Going to a wedding?” Alice asked.
“Not exactly.” He frowned at her, and Alice was startled to see that his eyes were black – as though pupil and iris had merged into one. Still, they twinkled at her.
“So,” he said, turning the hat in his fingers, “will you invite me in, or must I invite myself?”
“I haven’t decided yet. I have what you might call... trust issues. Of course, you could help by telling me who you are. And what you want.”
“But of course – how rude of me. My name,” he said, shaking out his black wings, “is Adriel. And I’m here to offer you a job.”
Alice felt her jaw drop open and snapped it shut. “Adriel.”
“Yes. You’ve heard of me, perhaps?”
“You could say that.” She hadn’t needed the name. Alice had spent enough time around angels to recognise him; the one who made them all twitchy. Black wings. Black eyes.
The Angel of Death.
“A job.”
“A job. Yes.”
“‘Job’ as in ‘mission’?”
“No. ‘Job’ as in ‘employment.’ Paid employment.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry?” Adriel looked puzzled.
“You’re offering me a job. Why? You don’t know me.”
“I don’t need to. I was there, after all, in hell. I saw you, and what I saw impressed me.”
“That was kind of a one-off.”
“So I should hope. But you impressed me, and I find myself in need of a new member of staff. And I believe you are in need of a job, are you not?”
He wasn’t wrong. Alice’s own meagre funds hadn’t exactly gone far – however careful with them she was – and she was rapidly depleting Mallory’s emergency savings... which she had very nearly thrown away, hidden as they were inside an old pizza box. Along with a mummified slice of pizza. It was all well and good, this ‘living below the radar’ thing, but she still had to eat.
She sighed. Against her better judgement, she asked, “What kind of job?”
“One in a... sympathetic working environment.”
“Working for you.”
“Working for me.” He nodded. “Somewhere you needn’t worry about the... politics of your actions.” He tapped the cuff of his sleeve, where every angel’s sigil lay. He meant Michael, and his interest in her: of course he did. “So you know: anything you do while working for me will fall under my jurisdiction – not his.”
Alice weighed her options. Or attempted to. She didn’t have many options. She needed the money, and at least this way she didn’t have to worry about explaining to her boss why things around her had a tendency to catch fire.
“And what is it, exactly, that you do?” she asked.
Adriel simply turned his hat over in his hands and smiled. “If you’ll permit me, why don’t I just show you?”
“NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT.” Alice folded her arms across her chest and stared at the wide shop frontage: a large window partly obscured by curtains, and a tasteful sign above it.
“Whyever not?” Adriel was a pace behind her. “You’ve been through hell. This should be easy.”
“‘Whyever not?’ How about we start with the bloody obvious? That you’re an undertaker?”
“People die, Alice.”
“I’m well aware of that, thank you.”
“...which means it’s good business. We don’t tend to experience much fluctuation in trade.”
“But an undertaker. Seriously?”
“I fail to see your point.”
“Of course you do.” Alice shook her head. She’d seen enough. “You don’t want me in there.”
“I thought I’d already made it clear that I do.”
“You don’t. Not me. Trust me on this. The... my ‘gift’ as you lot like to