Kiss & Hell

by Cassidy, Dakota

  Delaney took long swallows of air, the thrash of her heart against her ribs almost debilitating. How in all of bloody hell was she connected to Vincent by a contract?

  Yes, Vincent must’ve signed a contract with Lucifer for all the power and connections he’d had. For all the trouble he’d escaped in the short time she’d known him, he’d had something working in his favor. But Jesus Christ in a miniskirt, no—she’d had nothing to do with it. What did Vincent’s time running out have to do with her? None of this made any fucking sense.

  Her chimes tinkled in the store, then her flesh pimpled with familiar goose bumps. “Now’s not the time, people! Can’t you see I’m in crisis?” she called to the ceiling, hoping whoever was here now could just hang on. She couldn’t piece other people’s lives together if she couldn’t even keep her own together.

  But Robert Young, one of the most famous fathers ever portrayed on television, not to mention a cutting-edge doctor on a hit medical show in the late sixties and long into the seventies, wasn’t about to be denied. What he appeared in always fascinated Delaney. Sometimes he was dressed in a crisp suit and tie, other times in his medical coat complete with stethoscope.

  “Bob? Busy here, okay? Can you come back another time? And do me a skinny, tell everyone else I’m busy, too. I’m on hiatus or something. Sort of like those breaks you rich actors who star in a series take in the summer to sail off to exclusive islands or get massages and find Jesus in sweathouses, ya know? The breaks that piss the rest of us off because there’s nothing to watch on TV but crap. It isn’t like the viewing audience doesn’t want you to have a vacation, but does it have to last for three damned months? And who the hell said you could have a midseason break on top of it, too? I don’t want to be pissy here, Bob, but that’s Easy Street. If they paid me the kind of money they pay some of these schmoes on TV these days, dude, I’d do a whole show with just me as the cast and I’d work even if I lost a limb—three hundred and sixty-five.”

  He stared her down, his expression grim.

  She took a deep breath when she saw his look of concern. “Sorry, I’m grudging, and I’m tired—makes for a crabby Delaney, but when I come back I’ll be all better, okay?”

  His sweet, gentle face floated in front of hers while he shook his head no. When he spoke, she found herself confused by his words. “Lang Memorial.” The words drifted from his lips long after they’d moved.

  “I don’t remember that. Was it a movie you were in?” Delaney shook her head. “Never mind, I don’t have time tonight. I’ve got a plane to catch and I’d really appreciate it if you guys didn’t make an appearance on said bird of flight. The flight attendants frighten easily. Plane crashes and doling out half a shitty can of soda they can handle. Ghosts? Not so much. So shoo—go haunt Jane Wyatt. She’d probably love to catch up, don’t you think?” she muttered with distraction, trying to dig out all the dog food bowls for Mrs. Ramirez, lining them up on the counter.

  Robert next appeared on top of the counter. He’d folded his hands over his knees, crossing his legs. His white medical jacket was crisp and clean as though it’d been freshly pressed. He said once more, “Lang Memorial,” enunciating each word with long drawn-out syllables that lingered long after his mouth had moved.

  Delaney put her face in his. “Again, I’m on the fly—totally don’t get your drift and probably can’t hang around to try and figure it out. I have no idea what movie that was so I can’t tell you how awesome you were in it—if that’s what you’re looking for. But I loved you in reruns on TV Land, how’s that? I especially loved Marcus Welby, M.D., and I always sided with you against that whippersnapper doctor James Brolin. He was a cocky sonofabitch, huh? Now skedaddle.” She flapped a hand at him.

  Robert reached out a hand to her, cocking his slick, dark head and giving her a beseeching look. He knew she couldn’t take his hand, but she indulged him anyway, her fingers slipping directly through his milky, transparent flesh. “Father Knows Best,” he tittered, his intent gaze asking for something she just didn’t get.

  What the hell had gotten into this bunch of dead actors lately? Everybody was so serious when they showed up these days. Used to be they hung out, had a giggle, and then they were gone. Now they were all downers. Charlie, and then Greta, Michael, and now Bob. She clenched her eyes shut to ward off the headache she was feeling the beginnings of. “Yep, I liked that show, too. And now I really, really have to hit it.” She opened her eyes only to find him gone.

  “What is with you knuckleheads lately? Lighten up, already, huh?” she told the ceiling.

  Christ on a cracker. She could use a little levity.

  A little would go a long way.

  “Uh, Boss?” He entered the room with soft footsteps—with reverence—with terror.

  “Clyve?”

  He cleared his throat, shuffling from foot to foot. “Problem.”

  “Continue.”

  “Well, it went like this—”

  “Cut to the chase, Clyve. Now. Or I’ll singe your sorry ass,” was the muffled response.

  “I’m not where I’m supposed to be.”

  “And where is it you’re supposed to be, Clyve?”

  “With that Delaney woman.”

  “Delaney Markham?”

  Whatever. “Yes, Boss.”

  “Interesting. Explanation?”

  “There was a screwup somewhere.”

  The laughter from the burgundy leather table was deep, rumbling—insidious. “Why don’t you tell me where, Clyve, and I’ll see what I can do to make everything rocking horses and rainbows for you. Wouldn’t that be all sunshine and roses?”

  Clyve gulped. He was in the shit. When he’d been alive, nobody talked to him with that condescending, bullshit tone. Nobody. He’d run the show. Things were just a little fucking different down here. “I’m not sure, Boss.”

  Satan clucked his tongue. “Not sure? That’s a pity.”

  No lie. “Yes, Boss.”

  “So why don’t you sit with me, Clyve, and tell me all about your woes,” Satan invited with a sweep of his hand to the chair beside the massage table he lay facedown on while a nubile young woman kneaded his flesh. “Go on, Clyve, make yourself comfortable. Your comfort is my reason for being.” He lifted his head briefly and flashed Clyve a smile, a brilliant, maniacal smile, before settling back into the hole carved out of the table made especially for his face.

  Clyve eyed the chair suspiciously—when Satan was being so accommodating, something wasn’t kosher. With his luck, the chair’d sprout teeth and gnaw his balls off.

  “Do you doubt that I only want your comfort, Clyve?”

  Fuck, yeah. “No, Boss.” He sat with a hard thunk, figuring he’d better front fast and slap on his suck-ass minion face. If he had no balls by conversation’s end, he’d have no balls with a fine display of bravery to keep his pride warm at night in the pit.

  “Then, please, sit and clarify.”

  “The file with my mission assignment—someone screwed with it.”

  “Who, pray tell? Who would do such a dastardly deed, Clyve? I thought all the dastardly deeds were only done by you, being so skilled at dastardly as you are.”

  Right. Like he’d have ever purposely handed himself over to some rich broad who liked to dress him up in berets and have his hair clipped by some fag named Gustav. That had been its own special hell. Pomeranians had a shitassload of hair. It was hot. “No, sir. It wasn’t me. I don’t know who did it or how it happened.”

  “Then I say we launch an all-out investigation—bring in the troops—batten down the hatches until someone fesses!” he shouted with mock, almost giddy, exuberance.

  Whew. The sweat that had begun to trickle down his spine slowed to a crawl. “I’d be happy to do that, sir.”

  “Oh, Clyve,” Satan whispered so low he almost couldn’t detect what he’d said—until he roared, that is. “You, goddamned moron!” Bottles of oil rumbled then tipped over in a crash of gooey, thick puddles. The wal
ls shook like bolts of thunder had shot through them.

  Clearly. Moron worked in this case. “Boss?” he offered in the form of a weak question.

  Satan snaked a long-fingered, clawed hand out without looking up, snaring Clyve by the front of his T-shirt. A pink T-shirt that read Cat . . . the Other White Meat and was cut off at his hairy, protruding belly. He dragged Clyve to his knees beside the massage table, raising his head to assess his minion. “You idiot!” he screeched, opening his mouth wide to reveal Hell’s very own breath, hot, rancid, flesh-eating.

  Clyve knew to struggle would be his end, so he squinted his eyes instead.

  “Do you have any idea the kind of stress I suffer when you half-wits can’t get it right? If I weren’t already dead, I’d have had a triple bypass by now—maybe two. What have you done, Clyve, and why are you wearing a shirt that looks as though you’ve been frolicking with pink poodles?”

  Because he had. Lots and lots of poodles, to name just one yippy, snippy, snarling, diamond-studded-collar-wearing toy breed. Poodles, Pomeranians, those uglier than coyote ugly Pugs, Chihuahuas—you name it, he’d been in a cage with the fuckers, fighting for his right to a stupid rubber hot dog coated in beef broth while he waited for Gustav to milk his renal glands.

  Yet, to deny he’d had anything to do with the fuckup in the Markham assignment would only enrage Satan to the point that he’d be in the pit for a year, his ass sizzling, his worst fear, snakes, slithering over him while he was chained to something, pissing in his pants. To offer a solution was the only way out. Thank God—okay, maybe not Him directly, but thank the universe—he had one.

  And Clyve had one, all right.

  The fight now was to keep his voice free of any hint of tremble; deliver the information; redeem. In that order. “I have a solution, sir.”

  Satan dropped Clyve with a jolt that might have broken bones, had his bones retained the ability to break anymore, sending him skittering sideways to crash against the far wall. Satan gave him an affable smile from his place on the table. “Oh, please share, Clyve. I so love resolution. It’s very Oprah-ish.”

  Clyve bit back a whimper of agony. Even if he was dead, and his bones couldn’t be broken, it still wasn’t a warm fuzzy to end up with your face smashed against a wall. He couldn’t wait to fucking hit level seven—you couldn’t feel pain there. “I have information about Delaney, sir. Information I think will make you happy. Very happy.”

  “Suh-weet! Now get on with it, Clyve, before I pop out your eyeballs and play a rousing game of marbles with them right here on the floor.”

  When Clyve spoke next, he kept his words confident, and quiver free.

  As Satan listened, his smile of malicious pleasure grew.

  So, for the moment at least, he’d pleased the freaky fuck.

  Meant he could keep his balls.

  He had the world on a string now.

  sixteen

  “Holy explosion, Batman.”

  “I did say I screwed up, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you did. I just don’t know that I understood fully how big you screwed up.”

  Clyde picked through the charred rubble of what had once been his basement, looking for even the smallest of clues regarding his accident. “Could we maybe not be quite so direct?” He pointed to his chest. “Sensitive here, okay? This is the scene of my death. Have some respect.”

  “You wanna hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”

  “Not funny.”

  Her tendency to crack wise, even in times of discomfort, sometimes went beyond couth. This was one of them. “Sorry. No fire-side songs. Okay, so here’s the thing—we’ve been here for two hours and nothing. I’m all about moving forward, and that’s what we need to do here. You torched this place, there’s not a lot left but a shell. I doubt we’re going to find anything that helps us in this blackened Cajun-style mess. So let’s go, okay?” She held out her hand to him, hoping to offer some comfort. His eyes held a million emotions behind his glasses, and he made no effort to hide them. “I say we go talk to the one lone neighbor you have over there in the north forty and see what he knows. He has to know something. An explosion this big had to have caught his attention. Now, c’mon,” she coaxed when Clyde made no move to step over the heap he was almost knee-deep in.

  “Hypotenuse.”

  “What?” She gave him a bewildered stare, twisting a strand of her hair in her fingers.

  “My cat. He was in the house with me, probably upstairs in his cat condo sound asleep. I know it’s ridiculous three and a half months later, but I hoped to . . .”

  Her heart clenched into a tight fist even in the bone-numbing cold of North Dakota. “Find him.”

  “Yep.”

  “Maybe he was outside when it happened and he wandered off.” One could hope. Delaney knew it was futile, but she offered the words of comfort anyway. She was all about realism for the most part, and facing the truth—well, except when it came to Clyde’s theory that she wasn’t living her life to the fullest because she was afraid of rejection—but now just wasn’t the time for harsh realisms.

  His lips thinned in apparent disagreement, the rustle of his hair against the collar of his thrift store down coat clear. “Hypotenuse was an indoor cat. He wouldn’t know how to survive if he got out of this anyway—especially when it’s this cold out. If I even opened the door to suggest that he indulge in outdoor sport, he gave me the look and headed straight for the comfort of my bed.”

  Shit. She blew warmth into her cupped hands. “I’m sorry, Clyde. Believe me, I understand how you feel.” And she did. She loved her furbabies, probably more than what some would term normal. But she loved them, and when they shipped off to the other side, it still hurt.

  “I know you do.”

  She tugged at his sleeve with a gentle yank. “C’mon. Let’s go see the neighbor and then go back to the hotel. I bet there’s a 7-Eleven on the way. I’ll buy you a banana Slurpee. My treat. Whaddya say?”

  Clyde’s smile was vague when he finally focused on her again. “Now I know you feel bad if you’re willing to spend your hard-earned money for all that sugar just for me. You wear sympathetic and sensitive well, ghost lady.” He took her hand and led her out of what used to be his basement.

  Once outside, the cold air filled her lungs, almost stealing her breath away. It was buttfuck cold in North Dakota, yet the sweet, unsullied air cleansed her mind, leaving behind the scene of Clyde’s death added to that calm. She slid behind the wheel of their rented car while a distracted Clyde handed her the keys and took the passenger side.

  After checking in with Kellen to ensure he was still safe, Delaney drove the half mile or so to Clyde’s neighbor’s in thoughtful silence. Not having found anything in that mess he’d once called home left her desolate for him. If they didn’t figure this out soon, his pass from Hell would expire. They’d come for him when he didn’t show up with her death on his hands.

  Bad shit would go down.

  She refused to let any more bad shit happen to him.

  Pulling to a stop in his neighbor’s long driveway, she was grateful for some scattered landscaping lights. It wasn’t just buttfuck cold here—it was buttfuck dark, too. Turning to Clyde, still brood ingly silent, she said, “You stay here. Don’t move. Don’t even think about getting out of this car. If someone saw you, they’d shit a whole chicken coop. Got that?”

  His laughter caught her off guard. It was filled with bitter regret. “They probably wouldn’t know me if they saw me. Like I said, I didn’t make an effort much.”

  The hand that reached out to comfort him had a will of its own, curling around his shoulder with sympathy. “I know, but we can’t take a chance. You stay here—I’ll be right back.”

  “What’re you going to say to them?”

  Delaney shoved open the door of the rental car, looking over her shoulder at him. “It’ll go like this. Heeeey, I’m Delaney Markham—Clyde Atwell’s spirit guide. You know, the guy who splattered himsel
f all over parts near and far here in your fine state of North Dakota? I need your help . . .”

  Clyde didn’t crack the smile she’d hoped to elicit from him.

  Delaney popped her lips. “Okay, totally inappropriate. Sorry—again. I don’t know what I’ll say, but don’t sweat it. I’ll figure it out as I go along.” Hopping out of the car, she made her way with cautious steps to the double white doors of an updated farmhouse. There was only one light on inside, and peeking through the sidelight, she saw it came from the kitchen.

  What was she going to say? “I’m Clyde’s medium. Got any thoughts on his ghost showing up at my store in New York?”

  Clearly, that’d never work. She was almost beginning to feel a simpatico with Melinda Gordon and all those stupid tears she shed week after week. Right now, she wanted to cry, too—and it was in helplessness and frustration.

  Flexing her fingers, she jabbed the doorbell and waited.

  The door cracked, revealing one light brown eyeball with long eyelashes. It looked like it belonged to a woman. “Yes?”

  Delaney heard the fear in that one accented word. Who could blame the poor woman? Not only was it buttfuck cold and dark here in North Dakota—it was damned lonely. When someone rang your doorbell out here, it had to be, like, an epic event. “Hi, um . . . I’m Delaney Markham—from New York, and I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions?”

  “The mister and missus, they not home. I am the housekeeper. Ju come back next week.” Her accent was thick and slurred, thicker than Mrs. Ramirez’s, and a far cry from Marcella’s occasional slips.