“You’re not . . . always . . .” he began loyally.
“And Tina—well, she’s been around the block a few times; I’m not worried about her. She’s used to the assistant role; she likes helping behind the scenes and hates being onstage. I can’t imagine ever having a power struggle with her. And Marc doesn’t seem any different—well, that’s not entirely true. Being in Hell makes him lonely. I don’t know why. I mean, he’s always lonesome. He needs someone in the worst way, and I can’t help him. Maybe—”
“My love, I don’t understand.”
I wriggled until I was propped up on my elbows. “Hell is changing Father Markus. He’s not as quick to forgive, and he’s much quicker to judge. He’s not very interested in decreasing anyone’s suffering. He’s fighting me on every major change, and I’m pretty sure he’s undermining my efforts when I’m not there. And since I refuse to be in Hell twenty-four/seven, he’s got lots of opportunities. And I don’t want that to happen to you. Some people would say you’re already mean. But they don’t know you like I do.
“You’re not mean, you’re driven. And ruthless, when you have to be. But you don’t enjoy it any more than I do. And I’m not downing you for any of that; your nature is the reason you existed long enough for us to meet.”
“Existed,” he murmured, but he seemed pleased. “Yes. The perfect word.”
“You’ve taken lives, like me, but you’ve saved plenty along the way, also like me. But . . . come on. Father Markus was right out of central casting for the ‘kindly priest who wants everybody to love their neighbors and their enemies’ trope. This was a guy who wouldn’t set actual mousetraps in his church, just those awful humane ones so he could release disease-carrying rodents into the wild where they could go into other houses. You remember, you met him in life.”
Sinclair was nodding. “He was compassionate and open-minded. I found him to be a good man. He certainly grieved when he thought you had died, and he’d only known you a few days.”
“Right. All that and then some. But these days? He’s pretty cold.” I reached for Sinclair’s hand again. “So I started to wonder. What would Hell do to you? You’re tricky and ruthless and brilliant when you aren’t corrupted. What if Hell changed you like it’s changing Markus?”
“I don’t understand. Are you saying—?”
“But me? I don’t take anything seriously. I’m not brilliant and I’m not especially tricky. And I’m not so ruthless I’ve lost my humanity . . . yet. But I want people to get along. I want to decrease what I see as meaningless suffering. And I have people who love me to retreat to when Hell is overwhelming. I think that’s why I can handle it down there. I think that’s why I’m supposed to handle it down there.”
He nodded. “I understand, my own. And I regret doubting you, and my unkind words. You’ve been a fine queen for our kind; I’ve no doubt you’ll be one in Hell, too.”
I sighed and flopped back. “Any other time and I’d be tempted to believe you. But now we’ve got our regular problems, plus Hell, plus the Antichrist and my useless father plotting to expose us. And they’ll probably succeed. I mean, we can’t kill them.” I paused. “Can we?”
“Likely not. I don’t doubt your sister has taken steps to ensure still more exposure for us if she were to disappear.”
It’s also morally wrong, I thought but didn’t say.
He smiled. “And it’s also morally wrong.”
“Cheater! You picked that answer out of my brain.”
“Oh, I often do. As to your father, he’s hardly worth the effort of killing.”
I giggled, which was probably the wrong reaction, but fuck it. “That’s him in a nutshell.” But the laugh stuck in my throat. Sure, we were joking about killing him, but we were doing so because he was in the middle of betraying me, putting me and mine in the worst danger of our lives, and for what? Because he didn’t like how our last meeting went.
“Y’know, if he’d loved me a tenth as much as he loved himself, that would have been enough.” I could feel my mouth trying to tremble and pressed my lips together. “More than enough. More than he ever gave me in life and a shitload more than he’s given me in death. I don’t— Was it one particular thing I did, d’you think, that made him not like me?”
Elizabeth . . . He wasn’t speaking out loud, but I could feel the pain behind my name.