Hell on Earth 1 - Hell's Belles

by Jackie Kessler

  "You were never truly alone, Jezebel. Tell me: You offered to die for love once. Would you care to live for it now?"

  My eyes popped open. Not daring to look up, I asked, "Sire?"

  His hand squeezed mine. "Your sacrifice entitles you to a soul, if you wish it. A chance to be truly human in every way."

  "Oh… Sire, what I wouldn't give to be alive again…"

  "Done." He chuckled softly. "One thing about change, Jezebel. It means the old rules do not necessarily come into play."

  "Sire, what of Hell, and the contract on me?"

  "Why, that contract is for the demon Jezebel. And you will no longer be she. That particular contract is null and void."

  "Really?"

  Smiling rather wickedly, He said, "I know something about laws and agreements. Michael will have to move on to other things, like running His new Kingdom."

  "Sire, what of…" My voice broke, and it was a moment before I could continue. "What of the Devil?"

  His smile faded. "Either Michael will succeed in His directive, or He will not. Either the Devil will be distracted by the damned, or the Devil will lead humanity to its destruction."

  I wondered if mortals had a chance to beat the Devil. They really were so clever—maybe they had a chance in Hell.

  Releasing my hand, Lucifer said, "Be human, Jezebel. Live and love." His fingers brushed my brow, and my form shimmered. "And I will see you again when it is your time to die."

  "Thank you, Sire," I said, my voice faint.

  As I faded, I thought I heard Him call me daughter.

  But really, if a piece of God is inside us all, aren't His angels part of us as well?

  Chapter 28

  After Life

  I didn't remember Paul's hands keeping my heart from dying, or being lifted into the ambulance. I did recall his voice promising me that I would be okay.

  I remembered flashes, like snapshots, showing me people's faces. Mostly they were of people I didn't know, but sometimes I thought I saw glimpses of red in the eyes that made me think of Daun. And Paul's face, above all others, his poet's eyes full of hope.

  And after some indeterminate time passed, the snapshots became moving pictures. And soon after that, they became real life.

  Three days after I'd been admitted to the hospital, I woke up.

  And Paul was waiting.

  "More flowers for you," Paul said, putting another arrangement on the table. He placed the roses in front of the others there, so that I could see them.

  "Pretty," I said, my voice weak. Paul told me I sounded sexy when I was all breathy. Me, I'd rather be breathing hard while having sex. All things in good time. "Thanks."

  "You're very welcome." He sat down in the chair by the bed and took my hand in his. "How're you feeling today?"

  "Better," I said, lying only a little. Seeing him made me feel better. For all other times, there were truly spectacular painkillers.

  "Good." He smiled, his eyes sparkling like sunrise over the sea. "We'll get you out of here in no time."

  "Not too fast," I said, feeling tired already. "Still need a place to live."

  "Maybe I can help you with that." He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. "If you're nice to me."

  "Me? I'm always nice."

  "That's what I like best about you."

  "Thought you liked the wild animal sex."

  "Close second." He offered me my cup of water, and I took a small sip. "When you're all better, we have to reschedule that date. Dinner and a movie."

  "And wild animal sex?"

  "Maybe for our second date."

  I smiled just thinking about it. Yum.

  He kept holding my hand, gazing at me and me at him. At one point, I'd have to figure out what to tell him about my past, explain how I had the looks and name of a woman living in Salem. And I'd have to figure out what to do with my life.

  Even without the pressure of Hell on my heels, it felt daunting.

  Relax, I told myself. I had time. I had time, and a soul, and a life. A life, hopefully, with Paul. I'd figure out the rest.

  Paul smiled, squeezed my hand. "You look wrecked, Jes. Go ahead, close your eyes."

  "Don't want to. I'll sleep when you're gone."

  "You can do that too. You're still recuperating; you need your sleep. Go ahead," he said, kissing my brow. "I don't mind."

  So I closed my eyes for a minute. When I opened them three hours later, Paul was long gone. He'd left a note on my lunch tray, saying he'd be back to visit after five. I started counting the minutes.

  My stomach suggested that lunch would do me a lot more good in my body instead of in front of my face. I lifted up the tray over my lunch, and I wrinkled my nose at the milk container. Blech. No way.

  "Oh, I see you're awake."

  I smiled at the nurse checking the various machines I was strapped to. "Temporary condition."

  She smiled at my humor… and bloomed into vibrant colors. Swirls of pink, shot through with green and blue. And like that, I knew she was going to be pregnant within the month and have a son.

  Oh… crap.

  "Jesse? You okay? You've gone pale."

  "Fine," I said. "Just imagining things."

  So I was seeing her aura. Not a big deal. It was probably the spiffy drugs they were feeding me for the pain. That stuff was strong enough to bring the Northern Lights to the South Pole.

  That's when I knew I was completely human. Demons didn't lie to themselves.

  "That's a wicked smile on your face if I've ever seen one."

  "Wicked? Nah. Just… glad."

  "I don't know," she said with a giggle. "You've got yourself a grin like the devil himself."

  I thought of King Lucifer, of his gentle kiss, of how He said we were similar. Touching my smiling lips, I said, "Maybe I do, at that."

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek at

  Jackie Kessler's

  THE ROAD TO HELL

  coming in trade paperback in November 2007!

  Prologue

  On the Precipice

  Whoever said you see your life flash before you when you die was full of crap. You don't see your entire life. Just the most important parts.

  Or, in my case, just the most recent parts.

  As I die now, feeling strong arms holding me tight, hearing a voice whisper that it's okay, my mind plays back the events that set me on the road to Hell, good intentions and all.

  Faces flash behind my closed eyes, almost too fast to follow—the incubus's fang-filled grin, the Erinyes hissing with reptilian fury, the angel crying fat, salty tears.

  My love, my White Knight, a name on his lips that isn't mine.

  Darkness pulls me down, my heart slows stops… and once again, I'm in Spice.

  Chapter 1

  Spice

  "I'm from Death Valley."

  "Really?" I smiled as I poured champagne into two long-stemmed flutes. Death Valley. Heh. People had such a sense of humor when it came to naming things. Take Slaughterville, Oklahoma, or my personal favorite: Hell, Michigan. There's also Paradise, Pennsylvania, but I don't hold that against them; they also have the spiffy town of Intercourse.

  Handing a glass to the dark-haired man seated across from me, I said, "I've never heard of anyone actually being from Death Valley before. Scorpions and vultures, sure. People, not so much."

  He grinned, and a blush crept up his cheeks until it stained his big ears. Bless me, he was so endearing—he embarrassed easily and he was free with his money. What more could a girl ask for?

  "Actually," he said, "I just work there. I'm a park ranger."

  Ooh, a do-gooder. The last ranger I'd met had been of the bow-and-arrow variety, many years ago. Different beastie altogether. That ranger, a Royal Forester by trade, had been all too happy to bloody those he'd been sworn to protect in between bouts of raping women. Charming fellow. Sexy, in a pond scum sort of way. Remembering forest and frost and picking twigs out of his beard before our last r
omp in the crisp snow, I sank back onto the black leather sofa, feeling a smile stretch across my face.

  Those had been good times.

  "A ranger," I said to my latest client, rolling the word on my tongue. I tucked my legs beneath my body as I inclined on my left elbow, making sure my boobs almost, but not quite, spilled out from my low-cut red gown. Why give something away when Ranger here would be all too happy to pay me? I flashed him my best Utterly Smitten smile. "I'd love to hear more about what you do."

  His blush deepened. "I guess that depends on what day it is. Sometimes I'm a tour guide. Sometimes I'm a naturalist. And then there's times I have to be a cop."

  Ah. No wonder I'd taken a shine to him. Thinking of my own cop—who would actually be home tonight the same time I was, huzzah!—I asked, "Is there really that much trouble in the desert?"

  "Well, not so much as in the cities. But we get our share." The redness faded from his ears and cheeks as he spoke, and something hard and proud flickered in his brown eyes. Watching Ranger transform from a blushing boy into a seasoned man sent a delicious tingle up my spine. Yum.

  Stop that, Jesse. Don't get all hot and bothered by the nice customer. A friendly chat, a little drink in the mega-expensive Champagne Room, a private dance or two, clothing optional. No more. "What kind of trouble?"

  "We get our ravers, our smugglers, our scrappers. We even get our full-fledged homicidal maniacs."

  Ooh, really? How cool was that? "What sort of maniacs? Serial killers?"

  Okay, nipples, that's enough. Down, girls.

  "Well, the Manson Family hid out in the Panamint Valley."

  "That part of Death Valley?"

  "It's part of the larger park, yeah."

  "Sounds like it can be dangerous," I said, putting an extra purr in my voice.

  He shrugged, but the flush returned to his cheeks. My Ranger was modest. "I patrol in a Hummer, and I wear a bulletproof vest. That's with the temperature soaring well past a hundred degrees. And my M-16 of course. I wouldn't go anywhere without it."

  Broiling hot sun, combined with assault weapons. Sweet!

  "Tell me more," I said, taking a tiny sip of champagne. I hated the stuff—it was so light and airy that even angels would have bitched about it—but my current Tall, Dark, and Handsome had ordered it as soon as we'd entered the Champagne Room. Maybe he thought it was obligatory. "Why'd you become a ranger?"

  "I'm third generation. My parents both were rangers, and my grandpa before them. I love being part of the park service. And I love our mission."

  "Mission?"

  He took a deep breath, then said in a practiced singsong: "To conserve the scenery, and the natural and historic objects, and the wildlife therein, and to provide for the enjoyment of the same, in such manner and by such means as will leave them unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations." He grinned at me before taking a deep swig of champagne. "Congressional Organic Act, 1916."

  "Impressive." Me, I preferred the Orgasmic Act of the here and now. "It's good that you're doing something you really believe in."

  "What about you, Jezebel? Why'd you become a stripper?"

  "Oh, I needed a career change," I said, toying with my drink. "I love dancing on stage, feeling the music moving through me. And I like taking off my clothes," I added with a wink. "So I decided to become an exotic dancer."

  He said nothing for a moment as he stared at my face, a goofy smile on his lips. Based on how he was making with the soulful looks, Ranger seemed more turned on by my large green eyes than by my breasts doing their own rendition of "June Is Busting Out All Over." Crap, I'd guessed wrong—I'd been sure he was a boob man. There'd been a time when I automatically knew what hook worked for each client—long hair, dangerous curves, narrow ankles, you name it. Now, all I had to go by was a gut call. Clearly, that dandy "hunch" factor wasn't as fine-tuned as my sex drive.

  Mental note: Work on the whole women's intuition thing.

  Finally Ranger said, "You're about the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

  Ooh. Flattery. Right up there with chocolate. "You're a sweetie."

  "No, I mean it. Your eyes, your smile… God, your tits…"

  Hah, I'd been right. Smiling, I took another sip of champagne.

  He broke away from my eyes to slowly look me over, eating me with his gaze. He ogled the swells of my breasts, the curve of my hip, the V of my crotch. As he feasted on the image of my flesh, I swallowed my drink, knowing that all I was to him was eye-candy, a snapshot of sexual gratification. Nothing more.

  Über cool.

  I grinned at him, my lipstick shining in the softly lit room—enticing, advertising the things I could do to him with my mouth. That's right, sweetie. You want to taste the alcohol on my lips, want to bruise my flesh with your kisses…

  As Chris Rock once said, there's no sex in the Champagne Room. But that didn't mean I couldn't think about there being sex in the Champagne Room.

  In the background, the music from the hidden speakers switched to Patti LaBelle's "Lady Marmalade." Excellent tune, sultry vocals. I let my shoulders move with the beat, felt my skin humming from the piano keys.

  "Say," Ranger said, his voice husky, "would you mind dancing for me now?"

  "Love to." I placed my glass on the side table, then rose to my feet. With my stiletto-clad foot, I nudged his legs apart. Stepping forward so that I stood between his knees, I leaned forward, shoulders back, until my rack was inches away from his sweating face. I ran my hands over my twin mounds until they nipped out, straining against the material of my gown.

  He groaned, then parted his lips as if he were dying to give suck. "Oh, Jezebel… you're killing me…"

  Heh. Not even close, sweetie. I don't do that anymore.

  "I'm supposed to start in the middle of the song, charge you for a full. But I like you." I raised my arms high and shimmied, getting all jiggly and wiggly. "I'll just consider this a warmup. No extra charge."

  Ranger said something like "Argghluh" and proceeded to drool.

  Winking, I teased him with a teeny nip slip. Peek-a-boob.

  "Jezebel," he breathed, "would you mind if I… um… touched myself while you dance?"

  "Sweetie," I said, lowering myself into his lap, "I'd be honored."

  One thing about a guy coming while you're giving him a lap dance: it's damn sticky.

  I dashed to the ladies' room as fast as my five-inch heels would allow me. It was one thing to give the nod to Ranger doing the hand-over-fist thing with his salami; getting his jizz on my gown was something else entirely. I'd assumed he'd have enough control to hold back until I'd stripped down to my G-string. But no—as soon as I popped my tits out of my dress, blastoff. Blech.

  Not that I particularly minded being covered in bodily fluids. But I drew the line at cum dripping off my work clothes. A gal's got to have some standards. And technically, it's a no-no for customers to touch themselves, or us, even in the privacy of the Champagne Room. If any of the bouncers—or, gah, the floor manager—saw the lewinsky drying on my dress, Ranger would be banned from the club. Forcibly. Premature ejaculation aside, Ranger was a decent guy; I didn't want him to get roughed up.

  Besides, the poor dear had been so embarrassed that he'd emptied his billfold to make up for it. A five-hundred-dollar tip goes a long way to forgiving such a faux pas.

  I rounded the corner and saw the ladies' room at the end of the hall. One of the other dancers kept a supply of oxi-something in one of the bathroom cabinets for just such a stainage emergency. If I had another gown in my locker, I simply would have shucked the dress off, poured another one over my body, and not looked back. Problem was, all my clean gowns were currently balled up in the hamper at Paul's apartment, doing their dirty clothing impersonation. Mental note: Do laundry.

  Mental note, part two: Learn how to do laundry.

  Yanking open the door to the bathroom, I was greeted with a stink foul enough to curl my hair. Yow, someone recently visited the fudge factory. W
aving my hand in front of my nose, I beelined it to the sink—the one farthest from the rows of toilet stalls—and was about to turn on the water when I heard a soft groan.

  Breathing through my nose, I saw Circe seated in the far corner of the room, at the end of the huge vanity table. The dark-haired beauty was staring intently at her reflection in the wall mirror, clutching something to her chest. I glimpsed her pale face and baby blues in the mirror, but it was the hugely muscled man looming behind her that grabbed my attention.

  Dressed in a sleeveless tank and biker shorts that left nothing to the imagination, he stood behind her, massaging her shoulders. Leonardo da Vinci would have creamed his pants to have this guy model for him; his body was perfectly proportioned, perfectly sculpted, and he radiated confidence almost to the point of arrogance. Slurp! Score one for Circe. After her shift was over, I'd have to corner her and get all the juicy details about her latest love. Last I'd heard, she'd fallen hard for some skinny blond guy. Guess that was yesterday's news.

  Mister Gorgeous bent over and whispered something in Circe's ear. She sucked in a hitching breath, then let out a soft moan, closed her eyes.

  Humph. Maybe there was no sex in the Champagne Room, but it looked like the ladies' room was up for grabs. I must have missed the memo.

  I opened my mouth to ask Circe how she could even think about foreplay with the smell in the bathroom as overpowering as it was, when I realized three things. One, Circe was crying. Two, Mister Gorgeous cast no reflection. And three, there was a dull-red glow around Circe. This wasn't a freshly rucked glow, either; it pulsed around her like a dying heart—slow, sickly, erratic.

  Shit.

  I didn't know which was worse—that the aura around my pal meant that she was perilously close to dying, or that there was a demon giving my pal a backrub. Of course, the latter explained the former.