“Astrid,” an eerie voice that sounded exactly like the one from the palace whispered.
I whipped around, quickly grabbing the first weapon I laid my hands on. A butter knife... A butter knife? Crap, couldn’t I do better than a freakin’ butter knife? Where in the hell were my Vamp powers?
“Who’s there?” I demanded. My stomach clenched. I clutched my pathetically dull blade, dropped low and waited to do battle with my killer.
It laughed.
You have got to be kidding me. I was so not in the mood for this. Far too many people, and I use that word lightly, had laughed and given me crap lately and I was done.
“Who are you?” I spat. Fear began to seep away, slowly replaced by anger. “Show yourself, asshole.”
My temper flared and my hands began to tingle. Good. The freaky gloves had shown up. I wasn’t exactly sure how to use them, but they were better than nothing. I didn’t feel like dying tonight.
“Feisty,” the disembodied voice hissed.
“I’ll show you feisty, you butthole.”
Damnit, butthole sounded kind of junior high. Asshole was way better—or fucker. I didn’t want whatever invisible freak show that was in the kitchen to know I was basically power free at the moment. Butthole kind of put me in the league of ‘I won’t really kill you because I’m too nice.’ Not good, not good. Maybe if I call him an asshole again, or maybe shithat... Sweet Baby Beelzebub...shut up. I needed to turn off the inner monologue and focus or I was going to end up so dead.
I scanned the kitchen, but my intruder was invisible or just hidden very well. I felt an energy but it was all over the place. I was unable to locate the source. This was new. Did the glitter gloves make me aware of energies?
“I said,” I ground out through clenched teeth, “show yourself and I mean it.”
“And what will you do if I don’t?” the voice whispered ominously.
My fingers were tingling and sparks began to fly. Shit, shit, shit.
“I’ll blow up the entire house and burn your sorry ass alive.” No clue if I could actually do it, but bluffing worked occasionally...
“There are a few problems with that plan,” it said quite matter-of-factly.
Was the voice critiquing my methods or offering advice? Could this get any weirder?
“Oh yeah, what?” I countered with way more confidence than I was feeling.
“Well, for starters,” the voice said, “you have no idea if fire would even kill me, but there’s a fine chance you’d kill yourself and your cousin Dixie in an explosion like that.”
Damnity damnit, the voice was right. Wait a minute. “Why in the Hell would you care if I killed myself or my cousin?”
“Because I love you.”
“Okay, eeewww. Are you some kind of disgusting pervert weirdo stalker who loves the people he kills?”
I quickly rescanned the room. Why couldn’t I find him? I inched toward the archway next to the foyer which led to the living room which in turn led to Dixie’s room. Maybe she would know what to do.
“Don’t. Move,” the voice bellowed.
I’d had just about enough of being the victim. It was time to go Clint Eastwood on the monster in my cousin’s kitchen. I didn’t care what it was, it had to go. Now. I dropped the useless butter knife, closed my eyes, raised my flame throwing fingers and began to chant. I was chanting in a language I’d never heard, although it was distantly familiar. The words flowed freely from my body and it felt wonderful, powerful, dark and fucked up.
With my eyes closed I was able to locate the source. The melodic chant gave me a different kind of sight. Not being able to see with my eyes heightened every other sense I had. I was able to see everything around me with a clarity that was as alarming as it was accurate. My creepy killer was cloaked in invisibility and stood about three feet away. I couldn’t tell what he looked like, but I knew where he was. That was all I needed.
I pointed my fingers at the energy and a fireworks show exploded from my hands. I hit my intruder. I didn’t want to kill him. I wanted to question him before I destroyed him. And if I was perfectly honest with myself, I wasn’t sure I could kill him. I had no clue what he was.
“Very good!” the voice yelled.
Why in the Hell was the voice happy? I blasted it with some kind of Demon magic. I mean that shit had to hurt. Right? Come to think of it, why in the Hell did the voice all of a sudden sound familiar to me? It sounded like the Sprite I met at my mother’s funeral. What was a Sprite doing in Hell?
I gritted my teeth and waited for him to show himself. “Materialize. Now.”
He did. My annoyance increased with the smug satisfaction on his face. It was that little Sprite shit. I was going to kill him. “Did you think that was a good joke? Because I didn’t.”
“Darling Astrid, you were wonderful!” He clapped his adorable little Oompa Loompa hands and grinned from ear to ear.
As cute as he was I was not about to let him off easily. “Clearly you know my name, but I’m at a loss about yours.”
“I’m your grandpa.”
“What? You’re a Sprite.” He was so full of shit.
“I’m a Demon Sprite and I’m most definitely your grandpa.” He grinned with delight and held his arms out for a hug.
“Nope. No bonding until you answer some questions, little man.”
“I prefer Grandpa, but I’ve answered to much worse.”
My Grandpa was the cutest man alive. I pressed my fists into my sides so I wouldn’t start squeezing him. It didn’t surprise me that he spent a lot of time in traction because the Deadly Sins had squeezed and loved on him too hard. I had a horrific compulsion to grab him and cuddle him. I knew my jaw had clenched and my lips had pursed. The same way they would if I saw an adorable puppy or a super cute baby. I had to bite my tongue so I wouldn’t start spouting baby gibberish to him.
“You want to hug me to your bosom and shower me with kisses,” Grandpa informed me smugly.
“Ewwww,” I groaned, “do not say bosom. That’s disgusting.”
“You have a mouth like a sailor and you’re offended by bosom?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“No. Just when you imply that I’m going to connect you to mine. It sounds wrong—like illegal wrong.”
“I do see your point,” he agreed. “But I meant nothing of the sort.”
“Good to know.” I rolled my eyes and stared at the little man who called himself my grandpa. “Was that you in the bedroom of the Dark Palace?”
“Yes!” He was positively gleeful. “I wanted to show myself, but it wasn’t the right time.”
“So wait, you’re Satan’s dad and God’s dad?”
“Oh no dear, Satan and God share the same mother. They’re half brothers.”
“And their mother is?”
Grandpa glanced around the room in terror. “Mother Nature,” he whispered.
“Right.” I laughed and rolled my eyes.
“For the love of everything evil,” he moaned and shuddered, “don’t do that. If she’s hears or sees you, we’re all screwed.”
“For real?” His fear was rubbing off a bit. Although I was having a hard time believing Mother Nature was real.
“Yes, my dear. Let’s leave that subject for now, shall we?”
“Ooookay, um . . . I killed your other son.” I figured just getting it out on the table was for the best.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Thank you for that. He always was a problem child.”
“You’re not mad?”
“Absolutely not. Now, his mother may be a bit put out . . . ”
“And his mother is?” I asked, hoping he was also Satan’s half brother.
Grandpa glanced around and then mouthed “Mother Nature.”
Fuck.
“I suppose that meeting will turn out just peachy,” I muttered, praying that day never came.
“We’ll try and avoid that at all costs,” he said. “How are you controlling yourself around me?
Dixie is the only one who doesn’t cause me bodily harm.”
“No clue,” I answered. “I would like to squish you, but maybe if you stay over there I’ll be able to abstain. And why in the hell didn’t my fireworks show hurt you? You should be dead.”
“Yes, yes.” Grandpa’s eyes sparkled with joy.
“So?”
“So,” he continued gleefully, “on any other Demon that would have worked, but not on me. In fact,” he pondered seriously, “I believe there are only several beings in the entire universe that your power will not work on.”
“And they would be?” I asked.
“Oh yes, of course,” he giggled. “What’s the difference in a True Immortal and an immortal?” he asked, eyeing my sandwich.
“Is this a test?” I moaned.
“Of sorts,” he replied, picking up my PB&J and examining it.
“I have no idea.” Was he going to steal my sandwich before I had a chance to see if I could eat it? I think he was . . . I watched him stare lovingly at my late night snack and I rolled my eyes.
“A True Immortal can’t die. Did you know that?” he asked.
“Why do you answer my questions with questions?”
“Because it’s fun,” he grinned and sniffed my sandwich. “True Immortals can die—they just can’t be killed.”
I pushed my hair out of my face and groaned. “Like that makes any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense, my love. A True Immortal can only die if they choose to.”
I pondered that as I grabbed a spoon and scooped some peanut butter out of the jar. I’d given up on getting my sandwich back. “Why would a True Immortal want to die?”
“It’s quite simple,” Grandpa replied, “a broken heart.”
“You’re joking,” I laughed... He didn’t.
“No, Little One, I wouldn’t joke about that.”
“Wait.” I swallowed a big glob of peanut butter and almost threw up. A big no on the eating, not to mention it tasted like dust. “You just get a broken heart and drop dead?”
“Sweet Baby Satan,” he threw back his head and let out a great peal of laughter, “it’s a bit more complicated than that. It’s a three part finale. One, your heart must be truly broken. Two, you must choose to die and three, The Sword of Death must be plunged into your heart.”
“Holy crap.” I was still choking on my peanut butter. Grandpa slapped me on the back and I went flying. For being such a little guy, he had one hell of an arm. “I’ve never heard that before. Hell, I thought my father was in charge down here.”
“Did he tell you that?” Grandpa asked, totally offended.
“No, I just kind of assumed.”
“Never assume, dear, that makes an ass out of you and me.”
He was definitely my grandpa.
“Anyhoo, the Sword thing is a secret. That’s not information we want getting out,” he replied. “In the wrong hands that could be a real problem.”
“Right.” Why couldn’t I have a normal family? “All of that sounds awful.”
“Oh yes,” he agreed, “but if you think that’s bad, there’s something even worse.” He took a dramatic pause and pressed what used to be my sandwich to his chest. “The Sword of Death is missing.”
Without asking, I somehow knew that was part of the reason I was here. “Do we have any idea who might have it?”
“We have an educated guess.” He flattened the PB&J into a pancake. What in the Hell was he doing? His sandwich etiquette was gross.
“Shall I guess?” I asked. He tilted his head and watched me. “My guess,” I inhaled deeply, “is that it’s a Demon and that I’m here to find the fucking Sword because I can off people and apparently you can’t.”
“Correct,” he smiled ruefully. “You are correct, but enough about depressing things—let’s get back to your history lesson.”
I didn’t stop him. I knew this was all connected. I just didn’t know how, and if Grandpa was as vague as the rest of the immortals in my life, he was only going to tell me part of it. I would have to figure the rest out for myself. Cryptic Demons sucked.
“So, where was I?” he inquired, carefully tearing his PB&J pancake into four equal squares.
“Broken hearts, Sword of Death missing, have to want to die, sandwich stealing...”
His mouth quirked with humor. “Yes, yes, of course.” He petted his flattened sandwich pieces with affection, “there are only seven acknowledged True Immortals right now, but more exist.”
“Is that important?” I tried to figure out the significance, but I couldn’t.
“Oh, yes,” he chuckled. I waited for more, but none was forthcoming.
“Grandpa.” It felt odd, but nice to say the word grandpa. “I’m assuming there is a reason you’re telling me all this...”
“Of course, darling.”
We sat in silence while I waited for him to continue. It was clear I was going to be waiting a long time. I wiped the frown off my face. A change of tactic was in order...
“Alrighty then,” I clapped my hands like a kindergarten teacher and slapped on a big smile. You get more bees with honey, right? “I’m guessing you’re a True Immortal and that Satan and his brother God are too.”
“Yes Astrid, that’s accurate.”
“I think Cousin Jesus must be one,” I added, trying to hold back my smirk. Saying cousin and Jesus in the same sentence just seemed wrong.
“No,” Grandpa cut me off. “Jesus is an immortal, but not a True Immortal. He is the only being in the universe that embodies flawless purity and goodness. He is beyond reproach and would never be touched, but he is not a True Immortal.”
“Do you know him?”
“Of course, I spend a good amount of time in Heaven. That’s how I know your Nana.”
“I thought Demons weren’t allowed in Heaven.”
“Ah yes, but I’m also a Sprite which is genetically close to an Angel.”
I didn’t want to touch that.
“Wow, neat.” I was stuck. Who in the Hell were the other True Immortals?
“God begat two Angels, The Angel of Death and the Angel of Light. They are True Immortals. Your Grandmother is also one.”
“Does she like to be called Grandma?”
“Oh hellfires, no. She’s a colossal bitch.” Grandpa gave me a sly grin.
“You like her!” I accused, laughing.
“No,” he insisted. “I don’t like her at all. She’s very difficult,” he smirked. “But I do love her.”
“Is she your true love?” I asked quietly, thinking about Ethan.
Grandpa stared at his snack. “Yes, Astrid, she is...but that doesn’t mean I can live with her. I’d kill her . . . Dixie’s mother is a True Immortal.”
“Her mother is alive? Does Dixie know her? I haven’t heard her talk about her.”
“Oh no, Dixie knows nothing about her.”
“But she’s alive?”
“As far as I know, my sweet. I’m sure I would have heard if she bit the big one. Although if you ask me, she may as well be dead considering how she’s neglected her duties and the mess she’s made.” He finally took a large bite out of the PB&J and closed his eyes in ecstasy. “Why does food taste so much better when someone else makes it?”
“I have no idea, Grandpa, but we need to back up a little bit.” He was excellent at avoidance, but he was not avoiding this.
“Fine, darling, what can I help you with?” He finished off the sandwich and made another.
“Do you have a good reason for showing up and scaring the Hell out of me?”
“Oh yes.” He took my hands and stroked them lovingly. “I was testing your abilities. You need to be ready. I’m so worried for you and so is your nana.” He let go of my hands and took another huge bite of his sandwich.
“Am I?” I asked, holding my breath.
“Are you what?” he replied with a mouth full of PB&J.
“Am I ready?” I huffed in exasperation.
&nbs
p; “Oh, For the Love of Everything Repulsive, No,” he laughed.
I deflated like a balloon and dropped onto a kitchen chair. My head fell to my hands and I gave into the impulse that had been clawing at me since I arrived in Hell. I cried.
“Oh, my baby.” Grandpa smoothed his little hand over my hair.
“I’m okay,” I said, wiping my tears.
He giggled with relief and squeezed himself. Holy Hell, he’d better not do that. I wasn’t sure I could curb my hugging impulses if he was going to rub my face in it by loving on himself.
“I’m not going to be of much help,” I told him. “I can’t use my Vampyre powers down here.”
“Of course you can,” he corrected me.
“Um, nope. They’re gone.”
“You must accept your Demon powers and you will find your Vampyre powers have been with you the whole time.”
“What do you mean? Accept my Demon powers . . . ”
“It’s more mind over matter,” he explained. “You don’t need to have control of your Demonic power, you simply need to accept and embrace your Demon heritage.”
“You want me to accept evil?”
“No. I want you to accept that there is a balance—a Balance of Chaos, if you will. We are all good and all evil.”
His answer was simple, but I knew by now nothing was simple and nothing came without consequences.
“I saw no good in my father or my mother.”
“At one time your father was very good. Time and choices made him dark and quite honestly unredeemable.”
“Why did he look like he did? Do you look like that too?”
Grandpa was silent for a long moment and if I’m not mistaken a flicker of sadness crossed his face. “That was choice, not necessity. You father chose his physical appearance and after a while he was stuck with it. The outside often ends up being a manifestation of what lies within.”
“How do you control what you become?” I asked, wondering what had really happened to my father.
“That, my beautiful child, is a question we all wrestle with for our entire lives. And some of us have very long lives with which to wrestle.”
Fashionably Dead Down Under Page 8
