by Celia Kyle
Oh. Closer was better. Much better. Because while she’d crawled closer, he’d stepped closer until ten feet and thick glass separated them. Thank God she’d convinced Monica not to spray the windows with the tacky faux snow. ’Cause that would have ruined this show, not to mention the window display.
The visitor, now named Mr. Hot-Pants, stepped closer, his attention focused on everything but her, it seemed. Didn’t matter, it gave her a chance to salivate over his hottiness.
Mr. Hot-Pants had a wide brow, strong nose, sculpted cheekbones and full lips. Cap off all that yummiliciousness with shoulder-length black hair, and Holly was looking at her favorite romance hero come to life. His eyes were so dark they almost looked black instead of the romancelandia stock blue, but she could live with that. Beggars and choosers and all that. Not like she’d get a shot at his hunkiness anyway. Guys like him, with their perfect bodies and movie star hair, usually had equally perfect bimbettes with their plastic bodies and botox injections.
She of the voluptuous body (totally not fat, by the way), kinky curly hair and blah hazel eyes didn’t stand a chance with a hunk of yummy man-meat like him. It was nice to stare, though. No, not staring, people watching. Made it sound less stalker-ish.
He took a few steps closer. She kept “people watching.”
Closer.
Watching.
Closer.
Nope, it’d turned into outright staring.
Closer.
He really did have good skin.
Closer.
Three feet separated them now and his attention was still focused on the windows, dismissing her as if she were just another part of the display. Yeah, story of her life.
Closer.
Black eyes focused on her, and she screamed, falling over the mechanical monstrosity in the process and taking it down with her. She landed in a pile of bright winter clothing, ribbons, bows and messed up mannequins. Instead of getting up, she simply covered her face in a child’s pink coat and prayed to the god of embarrassment that the ground would open up and swallow her whole. Like, now.
But the ground didn’t swallow her. It didn’t even nibble a bit. Instead, she heard a tap on the window. Holly shifted the coat until her eyes were exposed and, of course, she got an eyeful of Mr. Hot-Pants smiling down at her, mere inches and glass separating them.
He took a step back and opened his arms wide, mouthing words slowly. “You did all this?”
Wary, Holly nodded. Sometimes she got religious fanatics who didn’t believe in commercial Christmas. They had the teensiest problem with the way card companies seemed to have exploited the holiday. Holly? She just wanted to get paid. That, and she enjoyed her job.
He raised his eyebrows. (Perfectly sculpted eyebrows, mind you.) “All of it?” He appeared impressed. She grinned and nodded again.
Holly watched him from her window as he walked down the sidewalk, his attention never straying from the windows before him. This was why she decorated windows for a living, to give someone that moment of joy and wonder when they viewed her creations. Window dressing wasn’t the most prestigious or highest paying job in the world, but she loved it anyway.
Mr. Hot-Pants was ambling back her way, so Holly untangled herself from the pile of ribbon and kid’s clothes. She brushed her hair out of her face, cursing her momma’s curls for the millionth time in her life. Holly had yet to find a climate her curls responded well to and no matter what she tried, they took on a mind of their own.
The man paused in front of her window again, eyes and lips smiling. “It’s beautiful.”
At least, that’s what she thought he said. Reading lips wasn’t exactly an everyday occurrence for her. “Thanks,” she mouthed in return and smiled back at him. Whether he’d said “it’s” or “you’re,” it fit. She doubted it was “you’re” considering … well, just considering, but she’d take the compliment however it was meant.
“Wanna come to sell?”
Sell? She furrowed her brow. Mr. Hot-Pants was leaning toward crazy. She knew it. One super hot man she’d seen in New York and he was riding the crazy train down Park. “What?” Give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s too hot to chase off now.
“Wanna come to Hell?”
Forget riding the crazy train, he was the conductor!
Chapter Two
Waking up in a strange place is similar to waking after a person has overslept and didn’t hear their alarm clock.
First, there’s denial. “No!”
Then shock. “Holy shit!”
Followed by panic. “Oh fuck!”
For Holly, it went more along the lines of “Noholyshitohfuck.” Things kinda blend when a person opens their eyes and finds that she’s being stared at by no less than ten different “men.” Can’t forget the air quotes on that one. The people things staring at her were varying shades of red , from pale pink to a deep burgundy.
“Oh! It’s awake!” A small, child-sized thing toddled toward her. She’d have almost called it a kid except for the horns. And the tail. And the purple color. And, oh yeah, lack of genitals. Otherwise it was totally a kid.
The purple thing, that most definitely wasn’t a devil because they didn’t exist regardless of how it looked, reached out to touch her and she shrank back. “It sparkles! Like those fairies in that book we read. Did you bring us a fairy?”
Another “man” pushed the devil, that wasn’t a devil, back. “Melich, those were vampires, made-up demons—”
“Demons don’t suck blood,” the little devil who most definitely didn’t sound as if he, she, it, knew for a fact that demons didn’t drink blood, cut in. “So, she’s not a fairy.”
“No,” another person, thing, replied. “She’s a Living.”
Melich reached for her and she scooted back farther, shifting and shimmying until she hit an obstacle. Glancing up, she realized she’d run into another “man.” With a jump and a scream, she crawled to the other side of the circle around her, away from the purple baby, and yet still leaving space between her and the other men.
“What,” a disembodied voice shouted over the growing crowd, “are you doing?”
The men jumped back from her, seeming to shrink in size. “Samael tried to kill her!”
“Did not! Melich tried to touch her!”
“So… So Cresil tried to steal her. So there!” And the small creature stuck out his tongue for good measure.
All of the men groaned and one of them scooped up the childlike thing. “Melich, you really should learn to lie properly. Cresil is the Demon of Laziness. Do you think he’d bother to expend the energy it’d take to steal the Living?” Sighing, the man and the child disappeared in a whiff of smoke.
The remaining men looked at each other, identical looks of fear on their faces, and as one, disappeared in the same manner, leaving her and two other strangers alone in the large room. It was almost big enough to be considered a hall in times of old. Huge pillars supported the high ceiling and it looked to be as wide as it as long. And it was really long. They could fit two McAcy’s in the space and then some.
Holly focused her attention on the two remaining men and realized that one of them bore an uncanny resemblance to her Mr. Hot-Pants. That settled things. This was a dream and nothing more. Because Mr. Hot-Pants wouldn’t be anywhere near her for any other reason.
So, her unconscious mind wanted her to spend time with the hottie and … an older, more distinguished version of the hottie. Hottie’s dad, maybe?
She waved, opening up communication with her dream guys. Not her “dream” guys, but guys in her dream. Oh, whatever. Mr. Hot-Pants smiled and waved back. The other … did not. She didn’t want him to wave anyway.
Old guy looked at Mr. Hot-Pants, then her and back again. “This is the Living you brought me? This?” He sighed. “She doesn’t even look festive!”
“But…”
“I don’t want to hear it, Damon. You didn’t want the job in the first place and you’ve brought back this p
oor excuse for a decorator just to piss me off, and do you realize how pissed this is going to make Him? He gets really angry when I kill for no reason, and she’s all covered in…” He made a disgusted face. “Goodness. I bet she would have had a ‘straight to heaven’ card too.”
The man rocked his head side to side, his neck cracking with each shift. He tossed his cane to Mr. Hot-Pants and twined his fingers together and pushed out, cracking his knuckles as well. “Let’s do this. It’s been a long time since I’ve actively taken a soul. Have to admit I’m a bit rusty.”
Holly scrambled to her feet. “Hold on a second. Poor excuse for a decorator?” Yes, out of the man’s entire tirade, the decorator comment stung the most. Because she’d long ago stopped dreaming she wasn’t good enough. “Listen, buster, I’m the best. Before I passed out I was this close to getting the Best Window Display Award for my work at McAcy’s. There is no one better. I’m so good that I could even make Hell shine. Asshole.” No one put her work down. Bitch about her looks, be snide about the way she dressed, but never ever say she didn’t know how to do her job damned well.
The old guy stopped, eyes wide. He looked from the hottie to her and back again. “Did she just call me an asshole?”
The hottie smiled at her. Yeah, she used to think he was cute. “Used to” being the operative words. “Yes, Uncle, she did.”
“Damon, she says she can do the job, so let her try, but I refuse to put up with the woman.” He snatched his cane back from Damon and turned on his heel. “I swear, no respect. My domain and no one gives me an inch. I should cause some havoc and then let them come running. Maybe I’ll borrow the soul of Mother Theresa. See how everyone likes having her around for a few millennia.” The man kept grumbling and mumbling as he stalked toward the other end of the room. The whole hall vibrated, as if an earthquake suddenly overtook the building, and the man stopped walking and looked at the ceiling. “Fine. Don’t lend her to me. Be that way you selfish pri—”
“Uncle!”
The man looked back at Damon and scowled, tapping his cane to punctuate each word. “No.” Tap. “Respect.” Tap.
“Yes, Uncle, we’ll work on that.”
Damon’s uncle harrumphed and vanished in a puff of smoke. Why did she dream up such a jerk?
Mr. Hot-Pants, still wearing said hot pants, took a few steps toward her, closing the distance between them. Holly knew his name now, Damon, but still had a hard time getting her brain past hottie! to actually process that he was something other than scrumptious. Like, pink.
The uncle’s skin had been white. As in whitewash-white and Damon’s skin … was pink. Lighter than baby-pink, but not quite white either. A shade of blush that was just this side of pasty. But what you wouldn’t call the color, was human. As in no peach or beige or anything related, near or far from a natural “person” color. Nu-uh, she couldn’t dream up mister human-wonderful. Nah, she got mister pink man.
Damon tucked his hands in his pockets, pulling the leather lower on his waist and exposing some finely chiseled, pink marble abs. Again with the pink. “So…”
Yeah, she’d dreamt up some talkers. “Look, this dream isn’t doing much for me. So, if my subconscious could just get to the point of all this, it’d be appreciated.”
Damon froze, like marble. Pink marble. She snickered. He swallowed and stayed silent. For all of a second. “Um…”
Oh yeah, she hit it outta the park with this dream. Right over left field. Crack!
He cleared his throat and swallowed again. Maybe he had some sort of salivary gland problem. “This isn’t a dream, um, ma’am?”
Holly closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Which part of that was a question? The dream or whether I’m a ma’am or not. Because if my own subconscious doesn’t know what I am, I’ll check myself into the loony bin now and save my family the trouble.”
“No, no. This isn’t a dream and I just didn’t know what to call you. ‘Living’ seems very generic. They give you names there, don’t they?”
Damn, she was dealing with someone who belonged in the loony bin with her. “My name is Holly. Ho-lly.” Then the rest of it hit her. “What do you mean this isn’t a dream. It isn’t like your subconscious to fuck with you. Scare you to near death, yes. Fuck with you? Not so much. Can I just say that this isn’t one of my best dreams?”
Oh, pink guy was offended now. “What do you mean it isn’t one of your best dreams? You should know that you were perfectly happy to come with me before you woke up.”
“I was passed out, asshole. I would have been happy to do anything.” She sighed. “How did I get here and where exactly is here?” She wasn’t convinced he was right, but she wasn’t all that sure that this was a dream, either. Damn it.
“We’re in Hell.”
“Like hell.”
“No.” He furrowed his brow. “There isn’t anything like Hell. We’re in Hell.”
“Uh-huh.” Soothing words … Singer, needle, thread, buttons, bows… “I’m in Hell?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “I navigated the portal from Hell and emerged in the middle of a great plain. I walked and fought through the brush to find you and then brought you back here. To Hell.”
“Wait a second. You emerged in the middle of a “great plain”?” He nodded, almost looking pleased with himself. That was going to be short-lived. “Liar. You navigated Central Park, dipshit. I ‘navigate’ that place on a daily basis. It’s a great walk, but it’s not some great plain that requires stocking up on food and water first. Try again, pinky.”
“Fine. The grass was short and the brush was minimal. Happy?”
Ooh, even dream men didn’t like being made to admit they’re wrong. Score one for Holly. “Yes, actually.” She tapped her chin. “And you brought me here, to Hell?” He nodded again. “Prove it.”
His face went blank. “Prove what?”
Holly opened her arms and waved around. “Duh, that we’re in Hell. Prove it.”
Damon quirked a brow. “How would you like me to prove it? You’ve been surrounded by demons, scrambled from a devil and you’re talking to a demon now. What more proof do you need?”
Might as well go for the big guns. “Satan. Let’s say hello to the big guy down below.”
“That’s what you want? You know you’ve already met him…”
“Nah, really. Then let’s assume that this isn’t a dream. And assume further that I’m actually in Hell. I wanna meet the big kahuna one more time. Got it?”
“If I do that, then can we talk about why you’re here?”
“Sure!” Why the fuck not. Not like she wasn’t about to wake up anyway. Right?
Two seconds and a poof of smoke later and they were standing in front of the old guy again. Holly stared up at Damon. And up. And up. Funny, she hadn’t realized how tall he was before. The man, demon, thing, had to be a good eight inches taller than her five feet six inches. Huh. Tall demon-man-thing. “I said I wanted to meet Satan.”
Damon looked from her to the old guy and back again. “That’s him.”
She looked at the older man, winter-white skin and dark hair and eyes. “He looks like you, but old. You’re trying to tell me a man with a cane is Satan, the Lord of Hell?”
“No.” Tap. “Respect.” Tap. “I told you, Damon, I don’t want to deal with her. I swear to Me that if you don’t take her in hand, I will. And I’ll send her to Kobal and she can laugh herself to death.” The man harrumphed.
Holly snorted. “That is kinda funny.” She mimicked the man calling himself Satan. “I swear to me.” She chuckled. “Look, Satan, this is a fun dream and all, but I’m going to wake up now and I’ll do my best to remember all of this because I’m sure it’ll give my therapist a boatload to jot in her little notebook. In the meantime, I’ll just pinch myself, okay?”
She patted Damon on the arm, copping a quick feel of his muscles, ’cause hey, when was the next time she’d be that close to all that man yumminess? Never. “Lovely meetin
g you all, have a nice dream-life.”
And she pinched herself. And nothing happened. So she did it again. Harder. And it hurt. More. She smiled at Damon, a half-chuckle escaping her lips. “Let’s just try again, shall we?”
Skin was clamped between fingernails. Tears burned her eyes. Nothing else happened. Her attention darted between Damon, who more and more looked like a demon, and the old guy, who apparently was the devil himself. She sniffled. “You’re Damon?” Pink man nodded. “And he’s Satan?” Another nod. “And I’m not dreaming?” A quick shake, and his lips narrowed in a thin line. The bastard was either very serious or trying seriously hard not to laugh. “I swear to G—”
A hand clamped over her mouth. A pink hand. “We don’t say that word here.”
“Damon! She was going to use His name. Here of all places.” A tap of the cane. “I’ll take her soul, Damon, don’t think I won’t. No respect in my own domain! None!” Satan grumbled. “Get her out of here before I decide to do just that. Now.”
Another mist of smoke and they were back in the great hall, his hand still over her mouth. “I’m going to take my hand away and you’re not going to say anything about the big guy upstairs, okay?”
She rolled her eyes, but nodded. Yeah, no big “G” talk. She understood. She’d be praying like hell if she ever got out of this, though. He slid his hand away, and she frowned at him, just to make sure he knew how pissed she was. “I swear that if this is some elaborate ploy to do … something … I’m going to have you put in jail for forever. And ever. Until you’re a rotting whatever you are. Did you know that you’re pink? Pink!”
*
“Pink? Pink. Pink!” Damon fumed and was tempted to call Satan back into the room to steal her soul after all. “I. Am. Not.” He ground his teeth, doing his best not to yell. It didn’t work. “Pink!” Calming words… Count souls… don’t strangle the Living… He cleared his throat and called in a set of chairs and a small table with two cups of café muerte. Let her drink some of that. “Why don’t you have a seat?” Breathe. “And we can discuss a few things.”
