And here's a teaser for Book 3 in progress:

  Philo’s bitching at me because I jumped right into the story again, without telling readers who I am, so I’ll just write it now and move it to the top. Happy?

  My name is Tim Kovak, and I’m still dead. The book you’re reading is the third part of the confession I’m writing for Azael, the Angel of Magic, who wants me to tell the story of my life before he judges me and sends me to Heaven or Hell.

  He might also decide to imprison me forever in this giant magic book called Taltorak, but honestly, after he gets done reading this part, I’m probably going straight to Hell.

  I’m still spending my days in Purgatory, sitting on a marble bench a few feet away from Azael, reliving key moments of my life on a big mirror, while he gently probes for detail about my sins.

  That mirror contains water from the River Lethe, the River of Memory that runs through Purgatory on its way from Heaven, before it finally becomes a river again in Hell.

  In Heaven, the water helps you remember. In Hell, the water makes you forget. And in Purgatory, you can look into reflecting pools and watch yourself fuck up, like a third person movie of your life.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  I spent most of my life as a computer guy and my handwriting is so bad, Azael has given me permission to come back to Earth as a ghost every night, haunting the basement of a condemned high school, typing on a computer that is so old and so locked down, it’s really just a glorified word processor.

  Every night I come here and write for a few hours, making my fingertips just solid enough to hit the keys. Then, I print out two copies of my work, one for the angels, and one for the demons.

  A cherub and an imp come to fetch them, and I repeat the process, although I do get Sundays off.

  The cherub is under a permanent vow of silence or something, but the Imp is a smartass motormouth named Philo, who has gotten weirdly pushy and demanding lately, perching on my shoulder as he tries to tell me how to write. Yes, I am typing about you right now, asshole, stop looking at the screen!

  Presumably, the cherub is taking his pages to Azael, although I got the impression there’s a whole gaggle of angels reading along with him, passing each chapter around as it comes.

  Philo won’t tell me who he works for, or who all is reading this down in Hell, but I get the impression I’ve got a respectable audience down there that is deeply disappointed when I skip sex scenes.

  This is the story of how I went to another universe, the story of one of the biggest mistakes I ever made. It’s hard to imagine a bigger mistake than bringing down an army of demons to attack Boston, but where a lot of other people paid the price for that mistake, this one mainly hurt me, and people I love.

  This is the story of how I lost everything, the story of how I failed Lydia, and the story of what it took to finally break me down.