Of Heaven and Hell

by Anthology

  “I’d like to make a new deal. Is that possible?”

  His question takes me by surprise, and I don’t have an answer ready. In the end all I can muster is, “What did you have in mind?”

  “Give me ten years, like on the tele. Ten years and then you can have my soul.”

  “In exchange for...?” I ask the follow-up automatically, my mind still struggling to keep up with what’s happening.

  “You stay with me throughout that time. Not during the day—I know you’ll have to work—but every night. If ten years is too much we can make it five, three even.”

  I raise my hand to stop him. I don’t mind confessing, I’m a little overwhelmed by his request. And touched. See, I told you I could channel my inner female—I truly am a twenty-first-century demon.

  “No, Tom, no more contracts. I should never have made you sign the first one. I regret it.” I can’t meet his eyes. I have to look away.

  “Hey, you didn’t make me do anything. I weighed up the offer and made my choice. It was of my own free will.”

  “But I seduced you.”

  I start when Tom’s hand comes down on my shoulder. I hadn’t even noticed him approach.

  “I’m not quite as naïve as you seem to think, and you’re not as irresistible as you’d like to believe either.”

  “Hey!”

  Tom holds up his hands and laughs. “Don’t ‘hey’ me. I’m not saying you aren’t awesome or that last night wasn’t the best I’ve ever known, but a little humility goes a long way.”

  “You’d really sign away the best years of your life for a few nights with me?”

  Not that I’m accepting his request for more humility, I would have you know, but I do find it unbelievable this sweet boy would give up decades of his existence just to be with little old moi. The thought leaves an unfamiliar yet deeply pleasant warmth in my chest.

  “Yes, I would. I’ve never met anyone like you, Saul. And last night, being with you, felt more right than anything I’ve ever known.”

  “I know.”

  “You feel the same? Really?”

  “Yes. But no more contracts. In fact, not even this one, not if I can help it.”

  I pull the contract out of the jacket pocket and take it into the kitchen. Tom trails behind me, dragging the sheet in his wake. I open a white cupboard and pull out an equally white saucer which I place on the white counter.

  I drop the folded contract onto the saucer and concentrate my energy. I draw the fire up from Hell itself—yeah, I can do that, pretty cool, eh?—and concentrate it into the paper. The parchment bursts into flame. I watch it burn until all that’s left is ash, and then I tip the remains into the sink, washing it down the drain with a strong burst of water from the tap.

  “Will that actually work?”

  There’s a hopeful edge to Tom’s voice that causes a tightness in my chest.

  “I hope so. I’ve never actually attempted anything like this before. Of course it may just make the boss very angry, in which case we could find ourselves flung into a fiery pit or on the run forever.”

  “Fiery pit or a life on the road. As long as I’m with you, either is fine by me.”

  I close the gap between us and pull him into my arms. Our kiss is fierce and desperate, and I try to throw into it all the things for which I couldn’t find words to say. I hope he gets the message. Romance has never been my strong suit, I confess. I’ve never had any call for it before, never needed anything beyond the basics of seduction and the pleasures of sex. But now a spark of light has come to life inside me, and it’s burning hotter than all the fires of Hell.

  Something else has come to life, too, not so much internal as external, and if the hardness pressing into my thigh is what I think it is, I’m not the only one experiencing this... animation.

  I break the kiss and reach my hand through a gap in his sheet to grasp something hot and pulsing and utterly mine. “Well, since there’s a chance we’ll be hunted down pretty soon, I feel it imperative we make good final use of that soft bed.”

  Tom grins and runs ahead of me, nearly tripping over the sheet in his excitement. I cast a final glance at the empty sink and move to follow him.

  This is the end of the road for you and me, I’m afraid. I’ve enjoyed your company, enjoyed sharing my world with you, but this time Tom and I want some privacy. I think we deserve it, don’t you?

  Go and find another member of the legions of Hell to follow around—though I’d appreciate it if you kept stumm about the events you’ve witnessed here with me. Let the sweet boy and I make a clean break for it, eh?

  If you do want to find one of my comrades, you should have no difficulty. There’re plenty of us out there, mingling amongst you, looking to make a deal and gain a soul. Perhaps you’d like to strike a bargain yourself? Well, good for you, but you’ll need to locate another agent because this demon is already taken.

  NICKI J. MARKUS was born in England in 1982, but now lives in Adelaide, South Australia with her husband. She has loved both reading and writing from a young age and is also a keen linguist, having studied several foreign languages.

  Nicki launched her writing career in 2011. She published works through Wicked Nights Publishing and Silver Publishing before both companies closed their doors. She is now self-publishing some of her works, including the novella Time Keepers and the fantasy novel The Ragnarök Chronicles.

  Nicki also writes M/M fiction under the alternate pen name of ASTA IDONEA and has had several short stories published by Wayward Ink Publishing. She is currently working on her first M/M novella.

  Nicki works as a freelance editor and proofreader, and in her spare time she enjoys: music, theatre, cinema, photography, sketching, and cross stitch. She also loves history, folklore and mythology, pen-palling, and travel.

  ASTA IDONEA can be found at:

  Website: http://www.nickijmarkus.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/NickiJMarkus

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/NickiJMarkus

  City of Angels

  THE MORNING sun had crested the mountains and shone low and mellow in the east. Yesterday’s rain—a rare pleasure for all who lived here—was long gone. Showers had washed the city below clean. Skyscrapers gleamed in sunlight, grass on hillsides grew vibrant green, and on the western horizon, a perfect line separated azure Pacific waters from bright, cerulean skies. January be damned. It was going to be another heavenly day in Los Angeles.

  Angelo felt his skin warming. Without breaking stride, he pulled off his sweat-soaked tech shirt and glanced at the map on his iPhone. MapMyRun had tracked his route from the observatory, over Mt. Hollywood, down the horse trails, and up the steep slopes of Mt. Lee. He was the pulsing green dot on the screen rapidly heading for the HOLLYWOOD sign.

  Ahead, a trio of fit young women in neon Nikes jogged up the mountain. Aspiring actresses no doubt. Like him, they were probably escapees from the Midwest hoping Providence would grant fame, fortune, and happiness in Tinseltown. Did they have SAG cards yet? Had any of them landed a national commercial? Or a role on TV? Or were they really like him? Still trying to book auditions for paying spots while waiting tables and teaching Zumba, Pilates, and Yoga?

  He slowed when he reached them. Two pretty brunettes and a blonde, they made him think of Charlie’s Angels.

  “Good morning, Angels.”

  The brunettes eyed him curiously.

  But the blonde got the joke. “Good morning, Charlie!”

  He flashed them all his Ultrabrite smile and resumed his quick pace. Their chatter followed him up the mountain.

  “Holy cow, he’s more divine than a vat of Ben and Jerry’s Karamel Sutra.”

  “Where’s my spoon? I’m diving in.”

  “Spoon, hell! I’m using my fingers. And not sharing with either of you.”

  He couldn’t resist showing off. Gripping his iPhone, he sprinted up the mountain like an Olympian. The rush of air on his face was exhilarating. His feet becam
e a blur beneath him. It felt as though his Saucony Triumps had wings, and if he pushed himself just a bit more, he’d become airborne and soar over the city.

  When he reached the mountain peak, he was winded and stopped to rest. As he gazed down at the HOLLYWOOD sign’s backside, his iPhone blared his favorite one-hit wonder, Toni Basil, clapping and chanting her cheerleader anthem. He swiped the screen.

  “Hey, Mickey!”

  “Angelo! How’s LA, buddy?”

  “Sunny, as usual. How’s Ann Arbor?”

  “Flurries. We’re up to our frigging eyeballs in snow. Again.”

  “Come out for a visit.”

  “No, I want you to visit me.”

  “Michigan in winter? No way.”

  “Not here. In Colorado. I’ve rented a place for gay ski week in Purgatory.”

  “Ah, Mickey, I’d love to, but money’s kinda tight right now.”

  “Everything’s gonna be my treat.”

  “You can’t afford that.”

  “But Logan can. He just landed a new project in balmy Rio de Janeiro, and the bastard’s leaving me here for two months. So guess what? He’s footing our bill. Of course, he doesn’t know that yet.”

  “Mickey, that sounds like grounds for divorce.”

  “Are you kidding? He’ll be grateful I didn’t take us to Sydney for Mardi Gras. Do you think you can clear your schedule next week and join me?”

  “I’ll find a way. Boy, you scored big time when you married him.”

  “I know. He’s great. Speaking of scoring, how’s your love life?”

  “Can’t complain. Hot guys are plentiful here.”

  “But no one special?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I’ve heard LA’s a hard city to find someone to fall in love with. Kinda like New York. And speaking of that rat-infested hellhole, have you spoken to Damon lately?”

  “God no, you know he brings out the worst in me. Why? Have you?”

  “As a matter of fact, he Skyped me last month. The dude he was dating from Yonkers broke up with him.”

  “I’m not surprised. No doubt his bad boy act drove the poor sucker insane.”

  “Now, now. Don’t be harsh. Damon’s got lots of redeeming qualities.”

  “Yeah, he’s a regular fistful of penny coupons.”

  “You’d have seen a different Damon if you’d moved to New York with us after graduation.”

  “No thanks, I prefer LA and my sanity.”

  He heard Logan in the background calling Mickey’s name.

  “I’ve got to run,” Mickey whispered. “I’ll email your itinerary. No posts on Facebook about the trip. Or tweets either. I don’t want Logan finding out until he gets his credit card statements. Oh, and bring a costume. There’s a masquerade ball.”

  “Cool, can’t wait.”

  “See you there.”

  They ended the call, and he felt a pang of regret in the quietude above Hollywood. Even though Damon had driven him crazy, hadn’t he been happiest at U of M? He’d loved his drama classes and the little red house with a basement the three of them had shared in Ann Arbor. He missed U of M’s student-run Basement Arts theater company too. He’d felt real camaraderie with everyone involved in productions, not the cool aloofness he felt at auditions here. And he doubted any production he worked on in the future would top Hellions, a play Damon wrote, Mickey directed, and he headlined. The knock-down, drag-out artistic arguments he’d had with Damon had led to a stellar opening night and record-breaking run.

  Yet he was sure he’d made the right choice not following Mickey and Damon to Manhattan. Mickey hadn’t lasted there six months, and from what Mickey told him whenever they talked, Damon was miserable.

  He shaded his eyes from bright sunlight and surveyed the sprawling city below. He was happy enough instructing Zumba and Yoga and working hard for his first big break. Still, he couldn’t help but feel something would always be missing here.

  Hell’s Kitchen

  FROM HIS window, Damon watched a worker below get out of a garbage truck and step onto West 39th Street. The man’s dingy green coat, filthy red gloves, and New Jersey Devils stocking cap were no protection against the bitter cold. He shivered as he inhaled the frigid air, and then his nostrils released a frosty vapor. He trudged through dirty street slush toward several overstuffed black trash bags heaped onto a pile of grey snow. As he hefted one, the bottom tore, and a rotten avalanche buried his work boots. He growled and kicked and scattered garbage everywhere.

  He could hear the man’s curse from four flights up: “Damn this fucking hellhole!”

  He turned his back on the tormented soul. The trash was not his problem. He had enough worries inside his tiny, messy, run-down studio apartment. Like when in the hell would Manhattan warm enough for him to shovel the Matterhorn of dirty clothes off his futon and into a laundromat? And would the thermostat in the temperamental old Hotpoint go haywire again? Would the damned old oven char his breakfast and lunch, a dozen Betty Crocker devil’s food cupcakes, until they tasted nastier than brimstone? And what about the chocolate batter he’d slopped around the kitchenette? He had to clean it up before the cockroaches came out for a taste. Damned brazen little demons. And worst of all, would his MacBook Pro ever stop taunting him? Amid the clutter on his tabletop, the fiend displayed a blank Word document. The blink, blink, blink of the horrid little cursor repulsed him. He’d rather go downstairs right now in only Ben’s Angry Birds briefs and pluck garbage from snow than start drafting a new play.

  But writing hell was what he’d scheduled for his day off from telemarketing hell, so he forced himself to sit down.

  Skype’s ringtone saved him from having to touch the keyboard. Mickey was calling. He answered, and Mickey’s big grin filled the screen. He missed the little bugger something fierce.

  “Wow, Damon! Bare-chested in January! New York must be the new LA.”

  “Blasphemer! Off Off Broadway is always hotter than anything in that tepid hamlet. And so is my old furnace.”

  “So are you naked?”

  “Shame on you, philanderer. What would your husband say?”

  “He’d say, ‘Mickey, tell Damon to stand up, and then snap a screen shot of his willie’.”

  “That’s why we all love him.”

  “So, are you?”

  “No, I’m in Ben’s underwear. I pilfered a cheeky pair from his god-awful pad in Yonkers before we broke up. See.” He stood up and displayed the face of a scowling red Angry Bird.

  Mickey laughed at the big yellow beak covering his crotch. “Such a prominent pecker.”

  He sat. “Well, it ain’t pecking at much these days thanks to our breakup.”

  “Time to get out and have some fun then. Come with me to Colorado. I’m going for gay ski week in Purgatory.”

  “I wish I could, Mickey. But I don’t dare use my plastic right now. Chase and Citibank will tighten their credit limit nooses around my neck, flog me with forty percent interest rates, dip me in a vat of boiling late payment fees, and then drop me into a deep, dark pit filled with cobras, copperheads, and collection agents.”

  “Leave your plastic at home. Logan’s footing our bill.”

  “No way.”

  “It’s the least he can do. The bastard landed a primo work project in Rio, and he feels terribly guilty about leaving me on frozen tundra for two months while he cavorts around paradise.”

  “How in the hell did you marry such a saint?”

  “It takes one to know one. Now mum’s the word on Facebook, Twitter, and everything else because Logan doesn’t know we’re going.”

  “But you said he’s paying.”

  “He is, but ignorance is bliss. He said he wants me to be happy while he’s gone, and spending time with you in Purgatory will do the trick.”

  “You little devil.”

  “Can you get time off next week?”

  “Phone-Eaze can stick my headset where words aren’t uttered if anyone tries to
tell me no.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Mickey tapped keys on his keyboard. “There, your itinerary has been emailed. Be sure you bring a costume because there’s a masquerade ball. Now getting back to saints, guess who I talked to yesterday?”

  “Madonna?”

  “No! Angelo.”

  “That goody-two-shoes is no saint. I’ll never forgive him for wrecking Hellions.”

  “Did someone lace your mauwie wauwie with angel dust? Because Hellions is still the most successful play Basement Arts ever produced.”

  “It would’ve been better if Miss Priss had done the nude scenes with his clothes off.”

  “Nudity was completely unnecessary. You just wanted to see his baloney pony.”

  “I’m not having this discussion with you again. As far as I’m concerned, Angelo can kiss my behind.”

  “When’re you two gonna grow up and make amends?”

  “When hell freezes over.... So how is the prude?”

  “Single as ever. He won’t admit it, but I know he’s terribly lonely in LA.”

  “I’m not surprised. His Virgin Mary act is enough to put God to sleep. He’ll never keep a man with half a libido interested.”

  “Holy shit, is that smoke coming from your oven?”

  He whipped his head around faster than Linda Blair in The Exorcist. Behind the Hotpoint’s tinted glass face, his cupcakes were on fire.

  He scrambled from his chair, cranked the temperature knob to off, and tugged open the creaky door. The wicked old contraption belched a sweet acrid plume. His flat’s smoke alarm howled like a harpy as flames leapt from the cupcake pan and licked the appliance’s insides.

  “Close it!” Mickey shouted.

  He slammed the door shut.

  “Do you have a fire extinguisher?”

  “There’s one down the hall.”

  “Go get it!”

  He burst from his studio like an Angry Bird slung from a slingshot. As he flew down the hallway, the three evil queens who lived in unit 404 emerged dressed head to toe in Armani and Versace. They burst into laughter.

  “Oh look, it’s Birdman!”