"Indigo Bunting" belongs to none of those series. It just amuses me. An excerpt:
Myself, I've been a good Catholic. Well, good enough to attend Mass every Sunday; not good enough to keep from spending my time in the church watching Fiona McCarthy bow her pretty head so fetchingly. That sight, my boys, was far more divine than anything coming out of the side of the mouth of Father O'Rourke. I can see how the wee folk get such pleasure out of teasing the likes of priests. Sure, and half what they say is nonsense. It's not proper Irish faith, at all.
Another wave racks through me, braking my reverie. My fists grasp uselessly at the crumbling dirt and shriveled grass between my fingers. I moan lowly. I wish I had the strength to curse. It's time for going, but I'm not ready yet.
A shadow blots out the sun. I focus on a tall figure standing over me. Sure, and doesn't it look like the dark angel himself. His eyes strike me most of all. They're a piercing sort of black. I think they stand out so much due to his pale, almost Irish complexion. I smile. I always knew the Devil was Black Irish, like me.
"So, you've come for me then?" I ask. My voice sounds strange to my ears, like it's coming from a long distance.
"I have." I'm disappointed not to hear a Donegal accent in his words.