Fashionably Dead Down Under

by Robyn Peterman

  For someone who didn’t kill, she was awfully bloodthirsty.

  “No, not that I didn’t want to,” I said, remembering Lust slinking all over Ethan’s bound body. “No, I’ll take care of his torturer in a more creative and painful way.”

  “Good,” she nodded with approval. If she only knew.

  “Your offer to be my protector is lovely, but I do have my mate and he’s a badass mofo.”

  “But he’s only a Vampyre and their magic doesn’t work here,” she said.

  “I beg to differ,” Ethan said from the couch.

  “Oh Hell,” Dixie shrieked and jumped behind me. Peeking out, she grinned sheepishly and waved. “Guess I would have made a crappy bodyguard . . . ”

  “You make a better cousin,” I teased, then took her hand and drew her over to the couch. “Dixie, this is my mate Ethan.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she whispered, clearly awestruck by his beauty.

  “Nice to meet you too.” He grinned and she blushed. I even felt myself swoon under the spell of his wicked smile. “I want to thank you for being good to Astrid and my child. It will not be forgotten.”

  “You’re the father of the Baby Demons?” Dixie sputtered. “Astrid, I had no idea that you’d given birth to those little cuties. I thought you found them. I guess it’s kind of odd that you have three-inch kids, but maybe that’s because you mated with a Vampyre. I’m kind of shocked you can have kids since you’re dead and all . . . but I think it’s great that you don’t make them feel bad or inferior, not that you would . . . Oh my Hell, they actually ate their own grandfather.” She turned a pale shade of green when she put that theory together. In truth, she had put nothing together, but she was talking so damned fast I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

  “Done?” I asked.

  “Um, sure.”

  “I most certainly did not give birth to the hooter obsessed Baby Demons,” I laughed. “They have about fifty to sixty years on me and Vampyres have normal sized kids.” I glanced over at Ethan for confirmation on this and he shrugged his shoulders. WTF? I was aware that Vampyres didn’t normally have babies, but he didn’t have to be an unsupportive dick about it. Now I was going to worry that I’d be blowing out an alien until the big day arrived. “Whatever,” I huffed, and gave him the evil eye. He was going to be working those blue balls for a while. “Dixie, I’m pregnant now. It’s a boy.”

  “When are you due?” Her body tensed with excitement. “I’ll be coming to Earth in six months. Maybe I’ll be there for the birth! I can babysit for you.”

  Did all immortals consider themselves good babysitters? Dixie was a vast improvement over Gigi, but . . .

  “I met Grandma.”

  “No way.” She backed herself up to the wall and scanned the room nervously.

  “Yep. She wants to be called Gigi. Grandma makes her feel old. She’s planning on taking up knitting and pole dancing and I suggested that she might want to try some meds.”

  “And you’re still alive?”

  “As a dead person can be. She offered to babysit too.”

  “Oh . . . um, I’m not sure you want to do that,” she hedged. “Grand, um, Gigi is fucking insane,” she said in a rush and then slapped her hand over her mouth in terror.

  I laughed, but checked the room as well. Another visit would be one too many at the moment. “She took Grandpa home with her. For a week.”

  “That will be loud.” Dixie giggled and rolled her eyes.

  “Yep,” I agreed. “So will you play poker tonight?

  “No, normally I watch, but I’m meeting some friends.” She picked very seriously at her nails as a slow blush travelled up her neck and landed squarely on her lovely cheeks.

  “Friends?”

  “Well, um . . . a friend, but my dad doesn’t know and I . . . ”

  “Secret’s safe with me,” I told her, grinning.

  She glanced over at Ethan. “My lips are sealed.”

  “Thanks.”

  “When do we have to be there?” I asked as I waded through the piles of clothes. Satan had thought of everything. There were undergarments as well as casual clothes mixed in with the formal wear. So much for going commando . . .

  “In an hour. Go ahead and change and I’ll be over to pick you up in forty-five.”

  I peeked over at Ethan as Dixie raced out. His grimace of pain made me smile. “No time for nookie,” I purred. I need to shower and daydream about our three-headed, four-armed baby.”

  “Our son will be perfect,” he growled as he tried to stand, only to hunch forward due to his unsatisfied hard-on. “I’m letting you play this little game, Angel, but the consequences will be devastating.”

  “Promises, promises.” I laughed as he chased me to the bathroom. I couldn’t wait to get back here tonight. I was going to ride him till he was blind.

  Chapter 17

  The poker room was brightly lit, but the ambiance was anything but friendly. It was as overly opulent as the other parts of the palace that I’d visited. Highly glossed marble covered the floors and rich brocades and velvets covered the furniture and walls. The focal point was the table in the middle of the room—a heavy mahogany top with carved and bloodied headless cherubs holding it up. Nice. The dark atmosphere was in direct conflict with Steven Perry’s voice belting out Open Arms. Ethan gave me the silent raised eyebrow and I shrugged and giggled. I’d forgotten to tell him about my uncle’s Journey obsession.

  I recognized Hemingway immediately. He sat silently at the table nursing a martini. His demeanor didn’t invite chit-chat, so I kept my distance. A pompous, sullen looking man lounged on a furry black chaise lounge in the corner—had to be Dante. He was clearly pouting about something, but in ironic contrast, he sang along with the music.

  Assuming Satan would make an entrance, I wasn’t surprised he hadn’t shown up yet. Neither had Mother Teresa . . . but Mister Rogers had. WTF? Mister Rogers shouldn’t be playing poker in Hell with Satan. He should be feeding fish and making new neighbors in Heaven. Did he even realize where he was?

  “Ethan,” I whispered. “That’s Mister Rogers.”

  “Mister who?”

  “Mister Fucking Rogers,” I hissed, covertly nodding my head in his direction. He was wearing the cardigan and everything.

  “His first name is Fucking?” my mate asked with a smirk.

  “No. His first name is Fred and I can’t believe he’s here. I love him.”

  Ethan glanced over at Fred and waved. Fred smiled and waved back, then proceeded to change from his dress shoes into some tennis shoes.

  “No one will believe this,” I muttered.

  As I gaped at my childhood idol, eight Demons entered the room and placed themselves in strategic areas. Interesting. Ethan’s body tensed and for the umpteenth time since I arrived in Hell I wished I was armed.

  “How much of a handle do you have on your power?” Ethan telepathically asked as he sized up the Demons.

  “Why? Do you think I’m going to need it?”

  “Unclear at the moment, but I’m assessing our arsenal.”

  “Apparently I have an assload of power. I need to get angry to use it and I’m not real sure how to control it.”

  “Outstanding.”

  “Sarcasm will not get you laid.”

  Ethan’s mega watt smile made my knees turn to jelly. He’d get laid no matter what . . . and he knew it.

  “I’d be surprised if Satan wants violence in his own home, but stranger things have happened,” he said.

  The poker quintet appeared to be Ethan, Mr. Rogers, Hemingway, Dante and the Devil. The Demons were the bodyguards and Dixie’s therapy group was the staff. Wait. What? Carl, Janet and Myrtle were circling the room with trays of hor d’oeuvres.

  “You look lovely, Miss Astrid,” Janet tittered, complimenting the tight red Prada halter dress I wore. “Would you care for a Soy-Pig-in-the-Blanket?”

  “I’m sorry, what?” I asked, taking a closer look at the tray. Sure en
ough it was loaded with little pastry covered cocktail weenies. “Satan likes tiny hot dogs?”

  “Oh yes, but the fake meat kind. He also likes Velveeta cheese dip and s’mores. I think Carl is serving the dip and Myrtle is passing around the s’mores,” she chirped happily and popped a soy weenie in her mouth.

  “Wow.” I stopped there, swallowing all the other things that came to mind.

  “Want one? They’re the bomb,” she explained with her mouth full.

  “Um, no. I don’t eat food.”

  “Right,” she said, mortified. “My goodness, I’m so sorry.” In her nervousness, she shoved about six more mini dogs into her mouth.

  “No worries.” I gave her a quick squeeze and a hearty slap on the back as she choked on her mound of weenies. “So this is your job?”

  “It is now.” She swallowed and stood up straighter. “We’re living in the Dark Palace preparing to go to Earth with Dixie in six months. Satan, my savior, wants us close so he can monitor our progress.”

  Satan, my savior? Sweet Cousin Jesus in a miniskirt, I needed to get the hell out of here soon. “Well, that sounds awesome. You guys doing therapy anymore?”

  “Definitely.” She nodded and popped a few more weenies in her mouth. “We have a new therapist though. Oh my, will you look at that?” She stared in shock at her serving tray. “The weenies are gone. I need to get more from the kitchen before the Devil gets here or there will be hell to pay.” She guffawed at her pun and scurried away. I was tempted to tell her she’d eaten a dozen in my presence alone, but that would be rude and I liked her.

  Dante refused food or drink, but Hemingway was chowing down on the s’mores. Mister Rogers had brought his own snack. He laid apples, peanut butter and carrots neatly on a plate that he pulled from his pleather briefcase. Tucking a napkin into the collar of his shirt, he dug in while Hemingway watched in fascination.

  “Are you for real, man?” Ernest bellowed at Mister Rogers.

  “Oh yes,” Fred replied kindly. “Would you care for an apple? I may even have a protein bar in my bag.”

  “No, no. The s’mores are just fine,” he grumbled and shoved one whole s’more into his mouth to punctuate his point. Fred just smiled and gave Hemingway a neighborly thumbs up.

  Surreal didn’t even begin to cover this evening. There were six chairs at the table and I wondered if Mother Teresa might still show up . . . Nope. That hope was dashed when one of the uptight Demon guards removed the sixth chair and took it from the room. The music pounding through the speakers stopped abruptly and a hush went through the room. I stuck close to Ethan for many reasons. He smelled amazing and I wasn’t sure which one of us was stronger at the moment. There was no way in Hell or anywhere else I would let anything happen to him. Ever.

  “Please rise for the King of the Underworld,” one of the guards grunted in a menacing voice.

  Everyone did.

  Satan’s entourage entered first; his second in command Cole, looking very foreboding, followed by an overly made up and scantily clad Amanda. I stared in wonder at her repaired lips. I was certain they were bigger.

  “That’s Satan’s consort,” I told Ethan. “She’s pregnant with his child and claims it’s a boy.”

  “Would a male child knock one of the Sins out as the heir apparent?”

  “No clue, but that could be a clusterfuck.” That really could be a clusterfuck . . .

  “That’s an understatement.”

  Speak of the Devil, pun intended, next came the Sins—all seven of them. They were dressed in evening attire and they were gorgeous. Lust in particular was striking. She glanced over at us and her eyes rounded for a brief second in shock, then narrowed to slits. I wanted to tear her ass apart. I knew that wouldn’t go over too well at a party, so I decided bide my time.

  “Good evening,” Satan shouted joyously from the doorway. He’d chosen his entrance well. The backlighting from the hallway bathed him in a golden glow, creating the illusion of an entire body halo. I grinned at his audacity. He was a first class beautiful bastard and I liked him. “Theodore, please share the rules with our guests.”

  One of the Demons stepped to the middle of the room. Satan waltzed in and trapped Amanda in a passionate embrace. Watching the Devil seduce a woman was like watching live porn. Holy Hell, I bit down on my lip to keep from shouting, “Get a room.” The Sins did some massive eye rolling and Cole turned away in embarrassment or disgust—I couldn’t tell which.

  Theodore cleared his throat and Satan ended his little performance. “There shall be one winner. There will be ten rounds. The player with the most wins shall be the champion. If the winner is not Satan,” Theodore paused dramatically, “the winner will decide the parameters in the deal with the Devil. If Satan wins, he shall make a deal with each and every one of you.” Theodore stepped back to his spot.

  “What the hell kind of rules are those?” Dante demanded petulantly. “I call bullshit.”

  “Then leave,” Satan said and everyone froze. “But, Dante my friend, if you leave you shall never be allowed back.”

  Dante cleared his throat several times and shifted back and forth. His gaze narrowed and his face turned an unbecoming shade of red. “I can abide by the rules,” he muttered and took a seat at the table.

  “You’re a fucking opportunist asshole, but I’m in,” Hemingway bellowed with a shit eating grin on his face.

  “Carl,” Satan instructed. “Please bring Ernest a fresh martini. Use the chilled glasses and the cold onions. And make it dry.”

  “Good man,” Hemingway grunted as he took his seat. “Good man.”

  “Now, neighbor, while I do find your rules a bit slanted in your favor, I’ve been looking forward to this for months. I’m in,” Mister Rogers said sweetly. “And Carl, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d love a glass of milk and some cookies.”

  “Thath no trouble at all, thir,” Carl said, bowing to Mister Rogers.

  “Thank you.”

  Ethan said nothing. He walked to the table and took his seat. Damn, he was hot. Unfortunately all my cousins and the skank-ass Amanda thought so too. Lust couldn’t keep her eyes off of him and it made me feel a little crazy.

  “Green doesn’t become you,” Ethan said.

  “Everything becomes me,” I snapped. His chuckle bounced around inside my head and I almost slapped him until he sent a visual of what he planned to do to me later this evening. “Okay, fine. I won’t kill her, but I want to.”

  His wink made me smile. He was mine. I had nothing to worry about.

  “Let the games begin,” my uncle said.

  The atmosphere shifted quickly to intense in complete juxtaposition to Journey’s greatest hits that spilled out of the hidden speakers. I watched the players, but I also watched the peanut gallery. Cole kept his eyes firmly on Amanda as she stared moon eyed at my uncle. He clearly didn’t trust her and I was curious what he knew. Dante kept glancing up at the Sins. From where I stood, it was unclear who he was making eye contact with. It was either Sloth or Greed. Greed. It was definitely Greed. Interesting. Was she helping him cheat? Would those girls work against their father?

  Carl, Janet and Myrtle quietly made sure drinks were full and no one went without as many weenies as they wanted. Janet placed a large plate of pigs in a blanket next to Satan and he savored them the same way some enjoy fine caviar. Bizarre. Hemingway threw back his martinis and Carl kept them coming at the Devil’s discreet nods. I was certain the drinks got stronger and stronger.

  Dante sipped wine and Mister Rogers drank his milk and ate his cookies. Ethan was the only one who ingested nothing. He was of a Vampyre age that he could enjoy a blood-laced beverage, but that was not on the menu. The first two hands went to Ethan and the second two to Satan.

  “Why have we lowered ourselves to play with Vampyres?” Dante groused, slamming his hand down. “Are we slumming it now?”

  “Touché, Dante,” Satan said in an overly polite manner. “Perhaps next time we can play on
level eight or seven or six . . . Ahhh, but wait, they don’t exist.”

  Dante’s fists clenched and his jaw worked overtime. “Pardon my rudeness,” he ground out. “It was thoughtless of me.”

  Ethan simply nodded and then ignored him. Mister Rogers shook his head sadly and Hemingway burst into laughter.

  “My God, man, relax. It’s a game. We’re playing with the Devil–why not throw a Vampyre in for good measure?” Hemingway said and signaled to Carl for another round. “Who cares if you lose? I’ve been making deals with the goddamn Devil my whole life . . . what’s one more?”

  “Well said.” Satan grinned at the famous writer and glanced over and winked at me.

  It was the first time he had acknowledged my presence this evening and I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t thrill me. My uncle was a magical evil man. He was temptation and all the sins of his daughters rolled into one. The safety I felt in his company was a lie. I needed to remember that everything down here was a game and the stakes were high.

  Ironically Mister Rogers won the next two hands, and that’s when that slut Lust made her move.

  “Daddy,” she purred. “I have a bit of a headache. Would you excuse me for a bit? I promise to be back.”

  “Of course,” Satan said absently as he examined his cards.

  Lust stood slowly and stretched. Every eye in the room except her father’s was on her. She ran her hands down her body, spending a little extra time on her boobies. The guards were almost salivating and poor Mister Rogers looked like he might pass out. Ethan watched her in the same detached way I did and it was clear she didn’t like that one bit. As she sauntered past the table she ran her hands over Ethan’s shoulders and tangled them into his hair. Leaning forward, she kissed his neck. He roughly shoved her away as her sisters laughed. She hissed her displeasure and left the room in a huff.

  Satan glanced up from his cards, having missed the exchange. He looked curiously at Cole, who gave him the ‘everything’s okay’ look and he went back to his cards. Cole might think everything was okay, but I did not. It was time for the bitch to pay.

  “I’ll be right back,” I muttered and quickly made my way to the door. Wrath smiled viciously. Shit, she wanted me to go kick her sister’s ass. Well, I hate to disappoint so I gave her a curt nod and left.