"Larry." Circe said his name with a sob.
Pasting a smile on my face, I did something very brave, and completely stupid. I walked over to her, sat in the chair next to her, within spitting distance of the hulking demon. Pay no attention to the evil creature behind the curtain. The stench emanating from him was strong enough to make my eyes water. Now I recognized it for what it was: brimstone.
I said, "Larry? You mean the skinny blond guy? Sweetie, you can do better than him."
"You gave him your heart," the demon said. "He chewed it up and spat it at your feet. Show him how much he hurt you, how you can't live without his love."
Circe's breath was coming in hitches. I reached over to pat her hand, and that's when I saw the bottle of prescription pills she was holding in a death grip by her chest. "Whatcha got there?"
"He doesn't love me," she said again. "I gave him my heart, and he chewed it up and spat it at my feet."
Uh oh. Cyrano de Bergerac, infernal style. Very bad news. "Sweetie, there are other guys out there."
"I can't live without his love." Her voice faded as if someone had turned the volume way down, and something went dead in her eyes. She unscrewed the bottle cap. In a tiny voice, she said, "I'll show him."
I grabbed her arm, but she wrenched it away. Shit, she was strong. Massaging my sore hand, I darted a glance over her shoulder. Yup, the demon still had his hands clamped onto her shoulders. Not quite possession, but definitely influencing her actions.
The cheating bastard.
"Show him you still have your pride," Mister Gorgeous said. "Swallow the pills. All of them."
"I still have my pride," she said, her voice a monotone. She opened the bottle.
I touched her elbow. "Circe, listen to me. Unrequited love is a bitch, but it's not worth dying over. Come on, girl, this is stupid."
She spilled some blue pills into her palm.
Fuck. Okay, let's try some shock therapy. I slapped her, hard. The crack echoed in the room.
Blinking, she turned away from the mirror to look at me. My handprint stained her cheek an angry red. "Jesse… ?"
"Forget about the skinny blond asshole," I said. "He's not worth it."
"She doesn't understand how he hurt you," Mister Gorgeous said.
Circe echoed, "He hurt me…"
"Sweetie, he has no idea what he's missing out on. You're a sexy, funny, wonderful girl. And if he doesn't want a part of that, he's an imbecile."
She looked down at the bottle, at the pills in her hand. "You think so?"
"Probably impotent too."
That brought a faint smile to her lips. "Yeah?"
I said, "I read it somewhere, in one of those business magazines, that it's been proven that the higher the level of imbecileness, the higher the likelihood of impotence."
"'Imbecileness'?"
"What, it's a word."
Her smile slipped. "I really love him. Why doesn't he want me?"
"Because he's an imbecile. I thought we covered this. It's not even his fault. Imbecileness runs rampant in the male sex. Comes with all the testosterone."
"Think so?"
"Yup." I held out my hand. "Care if I hold your pharmaceuticals for you?"
In her ear, the demon roared: "Swallow the pills!"
Circe frowned, turned her head. "You hear something?"
"Just the hum of the fluorescents. Know what you need?"
She shook her head.
"A glass of wine and a good vibrator."
Circe barked out a surprised laugh. "Jesse!"
"I'm telling you, it's a surefire cure-all for everything that ails you, from a broken heart to the common cold."
"I thought that was chicken soup."
"I have never heard of pleasuring yourself with chicken soup," I said. "But I'm willing to give it a shot." I made a gimme gesture. "Fork it over."
With a sigh, she plopped the bottle into my hand, then the loose pills.
Behind her, Mister Gorgeous said nothing, radiating pure rage. Gleep.
"Come on, sweetie," I said, doing my best not to eye the invisible demon. "Let's cut out early. First round's on me."
Circe stood, looking vulnerable and beautiful, like a sculpture of flowers. "You sure?"
"Absolutely. Let's tell Jerry to move us off the stage lineup, then we'll tip out." The DJ was a real prick about dancers missing their rotation; I'd have to slip him an extra twenty to mollify him.
"Okay." She smiled at me. "Thanks, Jesse. I…Jesus, I don't know what I was thinking. Suicide's a sin."
"I keep forgetting you're so damn religious."
"I'll find Joey, tell him we're cutting out. Meet you back here to change?"
No freaking way was I staying in a bathroom with an angry demon. I started to get up when I felt a crushing weight press down on my shoulder, my neck. The demon squeezed, and suddenly I couldn't breathe.
I wanted to shriek at the top of my lungs. What I said in a hoarse whisper was, "You bet."
Circe took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and sauntered out of the women's room.
As soon as the door closed, something tangled in my hair and yanked my head back. I dropped the bottle and the pills spilled from my hand, bounced on the tile floor. Over the nauseating odor of sulfur, the ripe stink of my fear clung to my nostrils. Blood roared in my ears, pounded in my head, and my heart jackhammered like it wanted to break free from my chest. My arms were leaden, dead things; my feet were rooted on the floor. I couldn't run, even if the demon released me.
But as I stared up into his face, I had a sinking suspicion that the last thing Mister Gorgeous wanted to do was let me go.
"I know you," he said, his face twisting into a leer. "You're the slut from the Courtyard."
Even through my overwhelming fear, I heard the capital C in Courtyard… and I placed him.
Tell us, is it true that all Seducers are pox-infested carriers of disease?
Oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. Mister Gorgeous was a demon of Pride—and he had a personal grudge against me. Granted, most creatures of Arrogance had a chip on their shoulders when it came to one of my kind… former kind. Pride and Lust rarely work well together, unless there's seriously strong drink involved. But he had a reason to despise me: I'd embarrassed him in front of his buddies. To one of the Arrogant, there's no worse crime.
Licking my lips, I tried for the Dumb Blonde approach, ignoring the fact that my hair was a curly brown. "Never saw you before." I even spoke with the right balance of Pants-Pissing Terror and Indignant New Yorker. Maybe he'd think I was just one of those rare mortals who were able to see the supernatural. "Let me go."
"You're lying. You smell of sex, slut."
"Last customer got too happy, got his splooge on me."
"That's not a lie." His grip on my scalp tightened, and I felt clumps of hair tearing at the roots. Between the shriek of agony atop my head and the flare of pain from biting my lip to keep from screaming, I was one raw nerve. "But you do know me," he said. "Oh yes, slut. And I know you."
Fuck.
He grinned, and my breath strangled in my throat. Icy fingers tripped up my spine, reached out to grip my heart. The demon bent down until his mouth was inches away from mine. "Once a fifth-level succubus, now a flesh puppet with a soul. How appropriate. The only thing lower than your type of trash is humans."
"My soul," I said through clenched teeth. "It's clean."
"You entice humans with thoughts of lust. Your work is in the name of Sin."
Yeah, well, old habits die hard. After four thousand years as a Seducer, what was I going to do, be a telemarketer? "Not Sin. Entertainment."
"A fine line."
"Maybe. Still a line. You can't claim me."
He growled, deep and low in his chest. "You talk tough for a mortal slut. You don't have your Fury friend with you to keep you safe this time."
My throat constricted as I remembered the softest brush of lips on my own. Just thinking of Meg brought angry tear
s to my eyes. "Don't need her protection."
"You think not?"
"You can't claim me for Hell. My soul's clean." Benefit of being only thirty days old in mortal years: that's not a lot of time to wreak havoc.
His eyes narrowed, and for a moment I glimpsed his true form swimming beneath his false human shell—charred black flesh, white holes for eyes, a maw crammed with razor-blade teeth. Then he pulled my head up until I was sitting up straight in the chair. He spun me around to face him, his hand still tangled in my hair.
"Old rules are bending, breaking."
"I got that," I said, far calmer than I had any right to be. "Seems the nefarious are encouraging mortals to kill themselves. What, business is too slow?"
"Business is booming." His dark gaze held me, explored me. "You mortals make excuses for your sins, think you can talk your way out of damnation. As if understanding why you commit certain actions allows you to forgive the action itself."
A demonic therapy session. Spare me. "The end doesn't exactly justify the means. I know that."
"The mortal coil is steeped in Evil. Murder because of disrespect. Genocide because of disgust." He leered. "Lust because of entertainment."
My heart, already careening at marathon speed, started rocketing at a pace just short of cardiac arrest. Bless me, I hated being afraid. I really preferred causing fear—which is hard to do when you're short, cute, and human. Maybe I should start carrying a big gun. "You know what they say. The world's going to Hell in a handbasket."
"The trip is taking too long. No more sitting back, waiting for humans to die before collecting their souls for the Pit. We're encouraging them along."
I pushed aside my fear to sniff my disdain. Even an ex-demon has Sin standards. "You assholes are cheating."
"Times are changing, slut." For a moment, his eyes closed in on themselves, faded to something old, worn. He released my hair. "We can't let the world be more Evil than the Abyss."
I heard the implication behind his words, and I shivered. People think that the Devil is the King of Hell. They're wrong. The Devil—the nameless antithesis of the Almighty—has been around way, way longer than the celestials or the nefarious. The only thing keeping It from destroying all of humanity, and the world itself, is Hell. Torturing souls amuses the fuck out of the Devil.
At least, it used to.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I said, "So your King is changing the rules. Keeping things lively."
"You have no idea just how much has changed." He shook himself like a dog, regained his malefic ire as he smiled a shark's grin, all teeth and appetite. "And that means, slut, we can influence your actions more so than ever before. To put it in language even you could understand, we can seduce you."
Arrogant prick. "You really have to work on your pick-up lines."
"What's that pithy saying the mortals like to throw around? Oh, yes. 'The devil made me do it.' Quaint." His eyes gleamed. "And now, rather accurate."
I swallowed thickly. If the infernal really were going to be actively influencing people, encouraging them to live fast and die young, life was about to get much more interesting. Mental note: Start thinking pure thoughts.
Oh, puke, who was I kidding?
"I say with supreme confidence that I'll see you in Hell, slut. But you know," he added, "the Pit is a better place without you and your Fury friend."
I frowned, wondering what he meant by that. Of course Meg was in Hell. That's where the Furies hung their hats, like most creatures who weren't inherently Good. If not in Hell, where else could she be?
Stop. Don't think about her. She betrayed you, left you to die.
Her voice, like a kiss, in my mind: We all do what we must.
"Until next time, slut." Grinning like he'd eaten all the kids in a candy shop, the Arrogant disappeared in a puff of sulfur.
There's nothing worse than a demon with a grudge. And a little dick.
Chapter 2
Paul's Apartment
Three hours and eight hundred dollars later, I was chin-deep in a delicious bath, thinking very dirty thoughts as my body got squeaky clean. I'd actually netted more than a thousand today, but Circe's thirst had burned a hole in my wallet. The girl could drink like a parched fish. After our boozefest, I'd put her in a cab and paid the driver well, asking him to make sure she got into her apartment safe and sound.
This humanity crap was really crimping my style. Had to be the soul. Next thing you know, I'd be wearing a halo. Gah.
Paul's bathtub had all the necessary amenities: frothy bubbles that tickled my nose, and a handheld shower massager that tickled me in much more sensitive spots. Dotting the corners of the tub were pale tea candles, their wicks glowing the soft, deep yellow of an overripe mango on the verge of spoiling.
Yum.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the faint scent of lavender. Whoever invented aromatherapy candles should have his own national holiday. Granted, lavender wasn't as soothing as a cup of hot tea, or slurping the marrow out of a femur, but it did fine in a pinch. (Not that I'd done any marrow slurping in quite a while, but hey—a gal can reminisce.)
The only thing missing was Paul Hamilton himself. He was still at work, busy playing vice cop, instead of home with me, playing Cabin Boy and soaping my back. I sighed, petulantly splashed some water over the rim. Figured that the one day this week we were supposed to be home at the same time, he was running late.
Well, at least I had my spiffy water buddy, complete with three settings. Speaking of which…
Ummmmmm…
Just as I was turning the dial from "light spray/pulsing massage" up to "orgasmic," something outside the bathroom went thump.
I shut off the shower attachment and sat up with a frown, bubbles clinging to my nipples like effervescent pasties. After a moment, I heard someone moving down the front hall.
A huge grin broke across my face. My Cabin Boy returneth.
Pulling myself up, I stepped out of the tub. My skin immediately pebbled from the cool air; Paul kept the apartment set at sixty-eight, but I was used to hotter. Teeth chattering, I grabbed a towel and dried myself off fast enough to give myself friction burns. Even though I was planning on getting utterly soaked again (inside and out), no one liked lying in a wet spot.
Sufficiently less moist, I wrapped the damp white towel around my torso and tucked the end between my breasts. Style by way of muumuu. The mirror over the sink showed me not quite at my finest. Without makeup, my face was very much a second-glance sort of pretty: large green eyes, sharp nose and chin offset by full cheeks and cupid-bow lips, pale skin that made Goths burn with envy. Thick black hair framed my face with a million annoying curls. Fair skin, dark hair—a striking combination that added up to bleaching, tweezing, and cursing. On the plus side, my body was lithe and lean, with tits that didn't quit and strong, shapely legs. On the not-so-plus side, barefoot I stood at five-foot-four.
I really should have opted to look like a supermodel when I had myself magicked into a human. Twenty-twenty hindsight, and all of that.
A quick finger-comb proved that my hair was on strike. Fuck it. I'd pretend the tousled wet look from the 1980s was back in fashion. And Paul would be too busy locking lips with me to notice my scary hair.
Another thump, closer to the bathroom. Time to get lusty.
Thinking about whether I would start Paul off with a tongue bath or the real thing, I opened the bathroom door and padded down the hall to the living room. And froze.
Standing by the entertainment center, a woman turned to face me. Her long brown hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back, and a white toga draped around her curves like a frat boy's wet dream. Her blue eyes fixed on my green ones, and I felt the air whoosh out of my body.
Megaera.
Look at that, the Arrogant had been right: she really wasn't in Hell.
My heart sank down to my toes, pausing only to set my stomach aflutter. I wanted to laugh for joy; I wanted to hurl curses
and assorted cutlery at her. I wanted to punch her teeth out until her mouth was bloody; I wanted to kiss her and crush her in a loving embrace. And I wanted it all to happen right now.
Bless me, how on Earth did mortals ever control their emotions? Screw that—how did they ever understand them?
Not knowing what to say, I just stared, taking in her appearance. Same old Meg. In the thousand-or-so years I'd been friends with her, I'd rarely seen her dress any differently. The ancient-Greek thing worked for her; she got a kick out of looking delicate. It was part of her warped sense of humor. My chest tightened as a memory flashed in my mind: Meg and me, roasting human drumsticks in the Lake of Fire, giggling like schoolgirls as we shared jokes about the Arrogant and Hell's elite.
And then I remembered the softest brush of her lips on my own as she kissed me and left me to die.
Now, standing before me in Paul's apartment, Meg grinned. There was nothing in that grin that spoke of friendship. It was a thing of madness—all hunger and anticipation.
The sight of that cold grin cut through my tangled mess of emotions. My breath catching in my throat, I stared at her again, stared through her shell and saw the flicker of an aura around her: red and thick, like freshly spilled blood.
In a strangled whisper, I said, "You're not Megaera."
The grin pulled into a leer, and her voice hit me like shattered glass. "I never said I was." Crimson pooled in her eyes, then leaked out of the corners and meandered down her face, staining her cheeks.
Oh shit.
My nostrils pinched from a sudden stench of rotten eggs and charred meat, emanating from not-Meg like rank perfume. Brimstone.
Apparently, tonight was Hell Night. Silly me, I'd thought that was just a collegiate fraternity thing.
As I stared into her bleeding eyes, my brain desperately signaled my legs to run like fuck, but my feet were glued to the floor. Helpless, I watched her form shift and blacken, sliding into an ebony caricature of flesh. The face wizened and cracked with age. Brown hair melted into black snakes that coiled in elaborate braids crowning her head. An enormous serpent undulated around her bony shoulders, flowing over her like a slithering ouroboros. The white tunic charred and lengthened until it was an obsidian gown of mourning. Behind her, massive bat-like wings slowly unfurled, engulfing the living room in shadow.
The Road to Hell Page 2
