"You know who I mean, you little shoemaker's nightmare." I leaned in close, until my nose touched his, flashing my fangs in a hungry grin. "Take me to Paul Hamilton. Now."
"He made his choice," he gasped, "there's naught you can do. He—"
"So help me, if you rhyme, I'll staple your lips shut." I motioned with my left hand, and a fiery red staple gun appeared in it. Testing its weight, I waved it in front of his face. "I'm having a really bad day here, so don't fuck with me."
He squeaked and tried to shrink inside of his pelt.
"Take me to Paul Hamilton, you little Santa Claus kiss-ass. Now!"
"Another mirror," he cried out. "Bring it now!"
Through the gray stone, dozens of tiny elves shimmered, stepping out of the wall. From the ground, a long, silver slab appeared, then lifted up about two feet off the floor. Beneath the mirror, a group of elves carried it over their heads. They approached me, barely up to my thighs, their red eyes gleaming—each looking like it was a toss-up between obeying the elf in my hand and dropping the mirror to take a chomp out of my legs. Without the cover of darkness, the Rhymers were sad, scrawny things, their nakedness obfuscated by their tangled pelts. They reeked of rotten oranges.
I pressed the staple gun to my prisoner's cheek. He squawked, "Set it down, set it down!"
Eyes bright, the Rhymers leaned the long mirror against the wall. Instead of reflecting the elves in its surface, it shone like jet: black, empty. Cold.
"Dandy," I said, shaking the elf. "Now what?"
"Say his name," he whined. "Say his name, and you'll see his desire."
I pictured Paul's handsome face, from his small, expressive eyes to his broken nose, to the way his lips quirked into a lopsided grin whenever something tickled him. Sculpted cheeks, strong jaw. Powerful neck. Wavy brown hair, curling around his ears, dangling over his eyes.
My Paul.
I'm coming for you, love.
Lifting my chin high, I said, "Paul Hamilton."
The mirror rippled, waves of white cresting its dark surface. Then it settled, focused, showed a gray room with a plain wooden door. Behind that door, Paul waited.
"Go in, if you dare," the elf said. "If you do, beware. It's his desire, his choice. The ending comes from his voice."
I pressed the staple gun against his mouth and pulled the trigger. SNIKT!
The elf screeched, his hands clawing at his bleeding, sealed mouth.
"I warned you, you little fuck." I dropped the thrashing creature to the ground. "Get out of here before I staple your balls together."
He took off in a sprint, leapt through the wall like a ghost that seriously had to find a bathroom.
"That goes for the rest of you too," I said to the elves. "Go annoy some marketers or something. And do it without talking."
Their eyes blazing malice, the Rhymers oozed through the stones, only the smell of putrid oranges marking where they'd been.
I looked at the mirror, wondered what Paul's greatest desire was. Wondered if I really wanted to know.
Discarding the stapler, I touched the golden bracelet on my wrist. Had Angel done what I'd asked?
One way to find out.
I stepped through the mirror, walked to the door, turned the handle.
My heart leapt when I saw Paul seated beneath a huge sycamore tree… then sank to my knees when I saw Paul wasn't alone.
Chapter 18
The Endless Caverns (II)
Leaning back against the base of the huge tree, Paul might have been sleeping. His eyes were closed, his mouth relaxed into an easy smile. He wore the same work shirt and jeans he had in my desire, the same clothing he'd worn when Lillith had stolen his soul. Grass stained his cuffs, his shoes. If I hadn't been looking for the color of his soul, I would have missed it—whether because we were in his fantasy or because he didn't belong in Hell, his soul hid beneath his form, like a ripple just beneath the surface of a pool. But it was there all the same: white, resplendent with streamers of gold and silver, branches of rose extending from his heart.
My White Knight.
A breeze caught the tails of his shirt and flapped them around Paul and the woman snuggled against him. Resting her head on his exposed chest, she was a small thing, pale with short black hair, almost swimming in her yellow shirt. Her bare legs were tucked beneath her body, her arms wrapped around Paul's torso. When the wind died down, her hair fell away from her thin face, revealing a contented smile of her own.
Staring at that smile, my mind flashed on a photo I'd seen only once before on Paul's nightstand, a photo from before Paul had met me. In the picture, the woman's smile was captured for eternity—a good smile, full of the promise of youth and love.
Tracy, Paul's dead fiancée.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Crap. Why couldn't he have been trapped in a tower?
A nagging voice in my mind, sounding horrifically like Lillith's, asked me why Paul wasn't fantasizing about me.
No more than you did about him, Peaches said.
That's not fair. I did fantasize about him. He pulled me out of the dream, led me back to reality.
So maybe he needs you to do the same for him.
Huh. Keep talking sense like this, and maybe I will rename you Elektra.
Peaches made happy noises in my mind, while the Lillith voice barfed.
I approached the couple, my hoof-falls muffled by the springy grass. Around me, outdoor summertime smells danced in the air—clean sheets and hot dogs and sweat, bottled with humidity. The sunlight winked off the Rope of Hecate, turned my leathery skin the lush red of ripe strawberries. I easily recognized the benches around the trees as part of a park, and a glance past the tree line revealed a row of brownstones. New York City—specifically, Washington Square Park. One of Paul's favorite haunts.
Other people littered the grass and ground, laughing, talking, reading, inhaling city air and exhaling city dreams. A large number were gathered near a street performer strumming a guitar, singing the Beatles' tune "With A Little Help From My Friends." Paul and Tracy had taken refuge on the other side of the clearing, within easy earshot but not close enough to be trampled by other listeners.
Steps away from the dozing couple, I remembered that I was still in my natural form. As tempted as I was to keep it—man, wouldn't that scare the little tramp—I thought that Paul might not appreciate it if I made his former fiancée piss her pants. Assuming she was wearing pants; from this angle, all I could see was her long shirt and hints of her thighs. So I called up my power, let it transform me into the form that Paul knew best: the twin sister of Caitlin Harris. I clothed myself in a white sleeveless blouse (sans bra) and denim cutoffs (sans undies), with low-heeled sandals on my feet. My black curls I tied back with a scarf the same bright green as my eyes. A quick poof of cosmetics later, my costume was perfect.
I stared at the streamers of energy drifting from my fingertips, watched them dissipate in the summer air. Bless me, how I'd missed my magic. It was tempting to stay in the dream, if only it meant I could work my demon mojo once more.
You did before, you know. Back in the Caverns, before you stepped into Paul's desire. You created the staple gun. Wonder what that means.
Not now, Peaches. I've got to win back my love.
If you've got your power back, you could just zap her into oblivion.
Yeah. But Paul wouldn't like that. And that's cheating.
The old rules are bending. And it's not cheating, especially since technically, he's dead.
But not damned. I won't fuck with him that way. He'd never forgive me.
Weren't you breaking up with him?
Not until after some really awesome makeup sex. Now vamoose.
Peaches vamoosed.
Wondering what to say, I walked up to Paul. Nothing brilliant came to mind. I'd have to wing it. I cleared my throat, then nudged his knee with my toe. "Heya, sweetie. Wakey wakey."
He opened his eyes. I watched a series of emotions play out on his
face, but the one he settled on was confusion. "Yes?"
"Paul, it's me. Jesse."
His brow furrowed as his gaze searched my face. "Jesse? Do I know you?"
The words sliced into my heart.
Next to him, Tracy stirred, stretched. She blinked sleepy eyes at me, then glanced at Paul, and back at me, all traces of sleep shed like snakeskin. A smile glued on her face, she sat straighter against Paul's body, her tiny breasts thrust out like weapons beneath her shirt, one hand resting lightly on Paul's lap. Everything about her body language shouted hands off. She had never met me before, but somewhere deep inside she knew me, knew what I was.
Knew what I meant to do.
"Don't you remember me?" I tried to smile, to show that ha-ha, we all forget things like the loves of our lives, but my mouth kept slipping and my chest felt too tight.
He was looking at me, focusing on my face. "You look so damn familiar, but I just can't place it."
"We met at South Station," I said, remembering that morning when we'd first met, "took a train together to New York City."
He tilted his head to the side, considering. "Really? I haven't been to Boston for a long time."
"Sweetheart, what're you talking about?" Tracy looked up at Paul, her mouth set in a moue. Her voice was deeper than I would have imagined. "We're in Boston now."
"We are?" He smiled at her, bemused. "Looks more like New York City to me. See? There's the Fifth Avenue Arch."
A sheen of panic glinted in Tracy's eyes before she blinked it away. Interesting. Smiling big and fake, she said, "Who's your friend?"
"I'm trying to figure that out. Jesse, right?"
I nodded.
"Well, pleased to meet you, even if I don't remember you." He laughed, a wonderful rich rumble from his chest. Tracy must have felt that sound vibrate against her back. Jealousy wormed its way through me, turned my stomach to acid. "This is Tracy."
"Paul's fiancée," she said, honey dripping off the words.
"Hey, that's great." My words were as phony as Tracy's smile. "Congratulations."
"Thanks." Maybe sensing my unease, Tracy settled back against Paul, smile still in place. First blood, Tracy. Bitch. She said, "It's been a long time coming."
"Will the big day be here or in Boston?" I asked, trying to figure out what to do. How could I make Paul remember me?
"Boston," Tracy said over Paul insisting "Here." They looked at each other, shared a laugh in the easy way that lovers do. It made me want to claw her eyes out and suck on them until they popped between my teeth.
"We're figuring it out," Paul said, chuckling.
"Nice meeting you." Tracy snuggled deeper into Paul's lap, dismissing me.
Fuck that. "Paul, you really don't remember me?" I squatted on my heels, looked into the stormy depths of his eyes. "Hotel New York? Belles?"
Something moved over his face—a spark of recognition. "Belles. The gentlemen's club, right? I heard that place was shut down."
Tracy clucked her tongue, drawing the attention back to her. "What do you know about those lands of places?" she asked, playfully slapping his arm, then shooting me a look that should have flayed the skin from my bones.
"Research," Paul said to her, waggling his brows.
She giggled, a lighthearted titter behind a delicate hand, all the while murdering me with her eyes. For someone who was the prior light of Paul's life, she was downright evil. Maybe love brought out the best in her.
Oblivious to her look of pure hatred, Paul smiled at me. "I'm a vice cop."
"I know." I reached out, stroked his cheek. Instead of balking from the familiar touch, he leaned into it, his body remembering what his mind had forgotten.
In his lap, Tracy stiffened. "Hey. Do you mind?"
"I know a lot about you," I said, willing him to remember me. "I know how you got that tiny scar beneath your left eye. I know how you love Chinese food and hate anything with curry. I know how you love Eighties music but would rather get a root canal than go out dancing. I know how you have to save the world at least once a day before coming home."
As I spoke, his eyes flashed between concern and distress, now blue, now green, now settling into hazel. Voice thick, he asked, "How do you know all this?"
"I know you" I said. "You're my White Knight."
The moniker clicked; I saw it in his eyes.
"You've got some nerve," Tracy huffed, but Paul shushed her with a touch on her shoulder. She quieted, but her body radiated poison. Silently, she skewered me alive, watched me bleed, and gleefully tap danced on my carcass.
If Paul sensed her ire, he ignored it. To me he asked, "Who are you?"
"I'm the one you saved from Hell. I'm the one you taught how to truly love. I'm the one who returned to Hell to save you. I'm Jesse," I said, pouring my soul into the name. Then I kissed him.
Our lips barely touched before small hands shoved me back, pushed me away. But that instant had been enough—a force had moved through us, lightning quick, connecting us stronger than any magic.
"How dare you," Tracy screamed. "Who do you think you are?" .
"Jesse," Paul whispered, touching his lips. A grin broke across his face, and he reached out to me. "Jesse!"
My fingers entwined in his. "I told you I'd come for you," I whispered, smiling through sudden tears.
"Paul Matthew Hamilton," Tracy said, her tone cold enough to freeze over the Sahara Desert. "What on Earth is going on?"
Paul's eyes widened. He looked down at Tracy, then over at me. "Well," he said, "this is a little awkward."
"Get out of here," Tracy yelled at me. "Just go away!"
"Not without him," I said, a growl sounding in my throat.
"Okay, ladies, hang on a second." Paul had untangled his hand from mine, had set Tracy next to him instead of on his lap. The three of us were sitting in a semicircle, Paul sandwiched between Tracy and me. Normally, the thought of a ménage-a-trois would have made me all sorts of happy. But the idea of Tracy fucking Paul turned my stomach to putty.
Oblivious to our metaphysical soap opera, the other people in the park went about their business. Off to the side, the guitar player switched to a different Beatles tune, strummed the opening chords to "We Can Work It Out." Terrific. Our own Greek chorus.
Paul said, "Let's talk this through."
"There's nothing to talk about." Tracy crossed her arms over her chest. "She's trying to steal you from me!"
"You're dead," I told her.
"What's that got to do with anything?" she snarled. "So're you! So's he!"
Pretty intuitive for part of a soul's fantasy.
"I'm not dead," Paul said.
"Yes you are," Tracy and I said together, then glared at each other.
"Really?" Paul touched his face, his chest. "I don't feel dead."
I said, "A demon seduced you and stole your soul. I'm here to bring you back."
"You're the demon," Tracy shouted, pointing at me. "You're the one stealing him from me!"
Hmmm. The girl sort of had a point.
"Jesse's no demon," Paul said to her.
I thought of how I'd tried to tell him the truth Above, how he'd scoffed, refused to believe me. How he wanted me to be something I wasn't. Swallowing the lump that had formed in my throat, I said, "Yes, sweetie. I am." With my silent command, my costume slid off my skin, pooled to the ground.
Tracy stifled a scream and slunk backward, seeking shelter behind the base of the sycamore tree. I didn't care about her; my eyes were focused on my love.
Paul stared at me, wide-eyed, his mouth open in an 0. I heard his heartbeat slamming in his chest, smelled the fear wafting from him like strong aftershave. Once, that smell from him would have been an aphrodisiac, would have inspired visions of me seducing the terror away from him. Now it just made me sad.
"This is me," I said, my voice soft, imploring. "The demon Jezebel. I ran away from Hell, pretended to be a human. Then I met you and fell in love with you. I almost died for you. I earne
d a soul because of you."
His adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed, staring at me. The fear in his eyes dimmed, and he squinted, stared through me. "This is how you see yourself?"
"This is who I really am."
"She's evil," Tracy cried from behind the tree. "Get away from her!"
Paul's gaze softened, and a smile blossomed on his lips. "Oh, Jess. You really have no idea, do you?"
I felt my brow furrow. "No idea about what?"
He reached out and clasped my hand. "Who you really are. I see it, like a glow around you."
Did he see my soul beneath my demon's guise? Had he pierced Angel's magic to glimpse the truth? In my mind, I saw Daun's awed face, Angel's look of amazement.
You may call Me sire, if you wish.
Unholy Hell, what was I?
"What do you see?" I asked Paul, dreading the answer.
"I see you." He squeezed my hand. "God, you're so beautiful."
I blushed from the top of my bald head down to my hooves. "Flatterer."
"It's a lie." I couldn't see Tracy's face, but I heard the sulk in her voice. "She's trying to take you away from me."
The sour taste of truth on my tongue, I said to Paul, "She's right, you know. I am trying to take you away. This is Hell, sweetie. You don't belong here."
"No!" Tracy emerged from the safety of the tree, claimed Paul's other hand. "She's wrong, she's lying. This isn't Hell, this is Heaven! Here with you, this is Paradise."
"If this were Heaven, love," I said to Paul, "I wouldn't be here. Whatever you think of me, I am a demon. And demons can never know Paradise."
Tracy said, "Please, sweetheart, don't listen to her. Just tell her to go away. You can do that. This is your Paradise, here with me."
Paul looked from me to Tracy, and back again, like a kitten watching a tennis match.
"Paul," I said to him, "if anyone's meant for Heaven, it's you."
"Yes," Tracy said, nodding. "That's right. Paul's meant for Heaven. So go away, leave us alone."
Frowning, Paul looked at her, peered through her. "If this were Heaven, why would Jesse try to lure me away?"
The Road to Hell Page 20
