Technically we’re being driven right into it, I say to try to lighten the moment, but he doesn’t have time to respond before Samjeeza puts a hand in the middle of Christian’s back and shoves him into the backseat, and I follow. Samjeeza slides in beside me, his shoulder touching mine now, and he likes it, this light, tantalizing contact, my human smell, the way my lips are slightly parted in terror. He likes how a strand of my hair has come undone from my ponytail, slipping out of my hoodie, how in this colorless world it shines pure white.

I press closer to Christian, who waits until Samjeeza closes the door of the car before putting his arm around me, drawing my head into his shoulder, away from Sam.

Ah, so protective, Sam says into our minds. Who are you, again? I thought she was in love with someone else.

Christian clenches his teeth but doesn’t respond.

We pass through the hell version of downtown Mountain View quickly, past Church and Mercy Streets, city hall, where there is a line of the gray people waiting outside; past the shops and restaurants, some boarded up but others open, people slouched one to a table over bowls of indistinguishable food. We reach what would be El Camino Real, the main street that connects all these little cities between San Francisco and San Jose, and turn south. Still there are no other cars on the road.

Does hell surprise you? Samjeeza asks silently. His inner voice has a bite to it, a burn, like the aftertaste of something bitter.

I guess I didn’t think there would be restaurants and stores.

It is a reflection of earth, he says. What’s true on earth is more or less true in this place.

So all these people are trapped here? I gesture out the window at the throngs of gray people pushing along the streets, always on their way somewhere, it seems, but at the same time aimless, without any true direction.

Not trapped, but kept. Most of them do not realize they’re in hell. They have died, and gravitated to this place because that is where they have willed themselves. They could leave at any time they choose, but they will never choose to.

Why not?

Because they will not let go of what it is that brought them here to begin with.

We pull into a parking lot, and the car squeaks to a stop.

Remember what I told you, Samjeeza says. Don’t speak to anyone but your friend, and only when I tell you to do so.

The driver opens the doors, and we climb out. I suck in a breath when I see where we are.

A tattoo parlor.

Samjeeza pushes us toward the building, then opens and holds the door as we step inside. It’s all in black and white, the leather couches a deep charcoal gray, the large neon word TATTOO glowing a stark, eye-piercing white, the designs on the walls flapping like startled birds with the sudden gust of wind we let in. The floor is dirty; there’s a stickiness and grit under our feet. We stand for a moment in the reception room, waiting. A bubble rises up in the water cooler: gray water in a gray container.

Then: a muffled scream from somewhere in the building.

A man comes out from the back, a small, thin, black man with a shaved head. An angel, I think, although not like any I have seen before. His nonexistent eyebrows lift in surprise when he sees us.

“Samyaza,” he says, inclining his shining head in a kind of bow.

“Kokabel.” Samjeeza greets him the way a king might acknowledge the court jester.

“To what do I owe the honor?”

“I have brought these two for my brother. They are of the fallen.”

It’s taking every ounce of Christian’s self-control not to bolt for the door and drag me with him. I shift closer and try to steady him. Stay calm, I want to whisper in his mind, but I don’t know if this new angel will be able to hear our connection.

“Live Dimidius?” Kokabel asks, again surprised.

Samjeeza’s eyes glint as he looks at me. “Quartarius. But a matched pair, and I think he’ll find them amusing.”

“Why stop here? Why not bring them directly to the master?”

“I thought it would please him to have them marked first,” Samjeeza says. “Can you fit them in today? I had hoped to present them to Asael shortly, if possible.”

“What is today?” Kokabel answers, grinning. He jerks his head toward the hallway. “Bring them back. Will we need to restrain them?” He looks like he might relish the task.

“No,” Samjeeza answers smoothly. “I have broken them thoroughly. They shouldn’t offer any resistance.”

We follow Kokabel down a narrow corridor into a small room, like an exam room at a doctor’s office. There is a person reclined on a large leather chair, with a man—Desmond, I recognize—leaning over her, a buzzing tattoo gun in his hand. From this angle I can’t see her face, only her hands as they clutch the arms of the chair.

She’s wearing dark gray nail polish, but I’m guessing that on earth it would be purple.

Christian and I each suck in a breath at the same time. Kokabel pushes us farther into the room like we are livestock, and I wish I could hold Christian’s hand as Angela’s despair crashes over me. Desmond is tattooing something on her neck on one side. She’s wearing a hueless camisole almost the same color as her pale skin, and dirty, torn jeans, no shoes. The soles of her feet are black. Her hair is pulled back in a ratty knot at the base of her skull, her bangs overgrown so that they almost obscure her eyes, a few lanky strands sticking out like straw on a scarecrow. Her entire right arm is covered in words, some easily readable, some overlapping and indecipherable.

Jealous, I make out along her forearm. Insufferable know-it-all. Bad friend. Careless.

Selfish, it reads in the curve of her elbow.

Slut, in the tender space where her arm meets her shoulder.

And other things, more specific sins, like I lied to my mother, I lied to my friends, I started a rumor, I hid the truth, in tiny scribbled print all along her bicep, the word LIAR spelled broadly across it.

“Sit,” Samjeeza commands us, and we sink obediently into a pair of folding chairs against the far wall. I try to keep my eyes down, but some part of me can’t look away from Angela.

“Desmond, we’ve brought you some new customers,” Kokabel says.

“I’m just finishing up here.” Desmond sniffles like he has a cold, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. His eyes flit to Samjeeza, then quickly away.

I lift my gaze to Angela’s neck, the spot where Desmond is currently leaving a line of characters. He spreads his fingers to stretch the skin there, touching the gun into the tender space under her ear, wiping away a smear of black ink with a dirty cloth. The letters are dark and startling against the fragile whiteness of her flesh.