Kiss & Hell

by Cassidy, Dakota

  Delaney snorted, thumbing tears from her cheeks. “Yeah, suuure. You can hand me a line like that now because you’re hitting greener pastures and you won’t be here to break up with me when I’ve driven you crazy with my herbs and self-help books—”

  “And tofu . . .”

  “And tofu,” she agreed, giving in to the tears that wouldn’t be thwarted. “So . . . if this—this,” she stuttered, “is it—”

  “Huey Lewis and the News, 19—”

  Delaney planted a firm finger over his luscious lips to quiet him before she replaced it with her mouth. The salt of her tears landing on her tongue when she crushed her mouth to his, savoring, lingering . . .

  Forcing herself to pull away, she took one last squeeze to remember him by, and gulped a breath of air before saying. “So here’s the plan—when I pull the plug, I’m crossing my fingers that’ll free you up. If you see the light—go into it. Hell, run into it, and don’t look back, okay? Most of all, be happy, find your parents. I know they’re waiting. I feel it. And do us all a favor—don’t blow anything up, okay?” she squeaked, fighting for light and easy when dread was about to swallow her whole.

  “Nope.” Clyde looked down at her with an expression that had her worried.

  Her head cocked to the left. “Come again?”

  “I’ve decided I’m not leaving until I can assure myself you’re safe. We can shut me down anytime, Delaney. I realize I have to go. I’m fully prepared to do that. I’m just not doing it until I make sure Lucifer’s no longer interested in you. I don’t care what Marcella said, I won’t be doing any of this resting you all talk about when I cross if you’re still Lucifer’s target. So no can do.” He crossed his arms over his chest and backed even further away from his hospital bed.

  Whether by trick of the dim light or her tired eyes, she wasn’t sure, but Clyde’s form began to fade. Much the way the spirits had when he was around.

  Yet her mouth fell open, her tears drying up with her disbelief. “Did you just fucking lose your mind? What about that statement is rational or logical? You have to go, Clyde. It won’t be long before Lucifer comes calling because of what you did to Clyve. Marcella was spot-on. He’ll go whining back to Satan and then we’re fucked. You’re fucked. There’s nothing he can do to me that you didn’t already tell me about. But you’re a free-falling soul, pal. Up for grabs. You have to cross before he finds you—this is nonnego tiable.” Delaney tried to keep her voice to a whisper, but it rose and fell with the fear that the devil would show up and make mince-meat of Clyde. If the devil snatched Clyde’s soul back up, she’d never sleep a wink for the rest of her friggin’ life.

  “I don’t have to do anything.” His reply was unyielding and stiff as his big body began to shimmer, pieces of him falling away only to reappear.

  What. The. Fuck? She fought her surprise and confusion and focused. “You do, too. Now quit playing Sir Lancelot and hit it.”

  “Nope.”

  Delaney waved a finger up at him. “Damn it, Clyde Atwell—I’ll yank that cord so fast you won’t have time to say banana Slurpee. Then I’ll drag your ass kicking and screaming into the light. Don’t you even think for a minute I won’t.”

  His look dared her. “Try it.”

  Oh, no, he di’n’t. “Argh! I’ll be fine, Clyde. You wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for me. This goes back fifteen years—this is my fault. Please, just let me make it right by getting you where you should be.”

  He began to move closer to her again, completely unaware that he was literally disappearing before her eyes. “I wouldn’t have lived without Vincent’s heart. I’d like to think that the fact that I lived was a good thing—not bad. And I wouldn’t have known there was a mess to begin with or found out where I was—where my body was—if it wasn’t for you, Delaney. And if I weren’t in this mess, I’d be in another one. I was determined to get out of Hell. Clyve’s assignment provided me the opportunity. That you were a part of that is coincidence. Plain and simple.”

  “Technicalities, Atwell, and enough with them. Now quit with the Neanderthal crap and prepare for the light.” Delaney made a move toward his prone body on the hospital bed, preparing to do what needed to be done.

  To make what she’d done all those years ago right.

  Yet Clyde was right behind her, whirling her around to face him. His nostrils flared, his eyes shot flames of determination.

  As for his right arm, well, that was so close to missing from his body it could have been on the back of a milk carton. “I said no, Delaney, and I meant no. If you touch that cord I’ll haunt you into your afterlife. Clear?”

  Her chest tightened and convulsed. Crap, he was so damned hot when he was demanding, it made her stomach flutter. But she was just as determined. “Let me go or I’ll—”

  “What? Wrestle me? Did you remember the prism?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You cocky pain in my ass. You have some set of nads threatening me, demon. I’ll—”

  “Clyde! Get the fuck away from there!” Marcella yelled, skidding into the room on her high heels, slipping and sliding to a halt in front of Clyde.

  Both Clyde and Delaney whipped around in unison to find Marcella, her beautiful features slathered in fear. “Don’t touch that!”

  Delaney instantly backed away. “What’s going on?”

  Marcella’s chest heaved up and down as though she’d been running. “Two words. Lucifer’s coming!” she gasped out.

  Clyde glanced in Delaney’s direction, his eyes wary, his left ear missing. “At my signal, unleash Hell,” he muttered.

  Delaney gulped and nodded, struck by how crazy it was to actually remember the line Clyde had just quoted in the midst of this madness. “Gladiator—Russell Crowe . . .”

  Because certainly, Hell was going to be unleashed.

  twenty-one

  “I need you two to open up your ears and pay very close attention,” Marcella ordered. “First, Clyde—get away from your body. Now!” she roared in command.

  Clyde backed away from the bed, confusion clearly a close companion with his uncertainty.

  Marcella gripped Delaney’s arm. “Listen to me—we got big trouble, chica. No matter what, we cannot let Clyde’s soul get back into his body before we’re sure his body’s dead. Understood?”

  Delaney gaped at her. In, out. In, out. For the love of—pick one. “I thought we had to ship Clyde off—you know, free Willy, blah, blah, blah. The only way to do that is to unplug him, Marcella. What the fuck is going on?”

  Her mouth set in a thin line of determination. “Don’t say another word—just listen. We got beeg . . . er, big trouble. That fucking contract—the one with Vincent and his father? It’s connected to you, D, because you’re Vincent’s half sister. When Lucifer struck the deal with Vincent’s father, Richard, this Richard was one smart cookie. He had a clause in the contract: if anything should happen to either him or Vincent, the power he had, that you now have, would be passed on to any living relative—forever. How he got that past Lucifer is more mysterious than Area 51. But that’s why you began to see ghosts—it had shit to do with the horned one and being good and pissed off. You see ghosts because of that freak Vinny. When he died, this ability to talk to the dead was passed on to you.”

  Delaney decided she might as well leave her mouth open—because each new revelation took too much energy for her to shut it only to have it slide back to the floor again. “What? Vincent didn’t talk to the dearly departed—not by a long shot. He did shitty things and represented shitty people as a defense attorney.” No, Vincent wouldn’t have cared if he helped some lost spirit cross unless there was something in it for him.

  “Here’s the deal in a nutshell. The power given to Vincent was by proxy. When Richard died, it was passed to Vincent. When Vincent died, it was passed on to you, Delaney, because you were the next living relative in line. It’s why you can see ghosts. Jesus, I thought you could always see ghosts. I had no idea this thing you call a gif
t happened just after Vincent died. How could we fucking know each other for ten years and you not tell me this?”

  “Don’t go all put out on me now, Marcella. I’ll explain everything later—get to the point!”

  “Either way, you began to see ghosts because of this power that freak Vincent passed on to you. The power you now possess is what’s termed neutral, meaning it can be used either way. If you’d been, say, a serial killer or a murderer? The FBI, CIA, and Interpol would’ve been working some mucho overtime these past fifteen years. Because of the person you are, because you’re undeniably a good human being, you used it to cross over people who were in turmoil. Helped spirits who needed guidance. Vincent used it to be a filthy pig and get away with murder. But it’s also why Clyde couldn’t stay away from you. You’re connected by this thing—this contract and that transplanted heart—like some big cluster fuck.”

  “And you know this for sure, how, Marcella?” Clyde asked.

  “Oh, brotha—if you had any idea the feelers I’ve had out since Delaney shipped my ass off. I knew something was up—who would want to get rid of moi?” She flapped an impatient hand at Clyde. “I don’t have time to explain now. Just know I know people—have some contacts—and they paid off.”

  Delaney struggled for clarity, an answer to this tangled mess. “Okay, so what does that have to do with crossing Clyde over?”

  Marcella rolled her eyes, but her grip had become more urgent. “Here’s our problem, and this has to be done precisely right. Vincent’s soul still lives because of that freakin’ heart. He’s still in there in some fucked-up way.” She pointed to Clyde’s body on the bed with a glossy, pink nail.

  Delaney tried to grasp what she was saying, but her confusion only mounted.

  “Don’t you see?” Marcella shook her with a bone-rattling shake. “The devil never collected Vincent’s soul the night he died. What does the devil love more than a fresh soul—especially a contracted soul? That’s why he showed up the night of Vincent’s death, D! He didn’t get it when you donated Vincent’s heart, and now Satan wants that shit back. But here’s our fucking snafu.

  “If we don’t get Vincent’s soul out of Clyde’s body, which means pulling the plug, Clyde can’t get back in because if he does before Vincent’s kaput, his soul will once more be tied to Vincent and the devil will take him, too. He won’t be able to cross. Lucifer’d eat up Clyde’s soul like an ice cream sundae because Clyde deceived him by switching those damned assignments. We need to stop that heart from beating—get Vincent’s soul out of that body— and then we have to get Clyde back into his body, and cross him so he’s out of harm’s way.

  “Look at Clyde, Delaney—look!” she demanded. “That’s why Clyde’s beginning to fade—because his soul needs to be freed. His soul, no matter what his brain’s saying, belongs in his body, and before long, we won’t be able to keep him from trying to get back in.”

  Delaney’s stomach began to roll like waves in the sea as realization sank in. It was true. Clyde had been harboring Vincent’s soul in his body for all these years . . . your heart, according to some, was the essence of your soul, Marcella had said. Not only had Delaney screwed up Vincent’s soul when she’d donated his heart, but she’d screwed up Clyde’s shot at going where he needed to be because he was all twisted up in Vincent. “So all this time Clyde’s been keeping Vincent’s soul from Satan because he had his heart? Their souls have been all tangled up?”

  “Yes!” Marcella bounced from foot to foot. “And he ended up in Hell because somebody didn’t keep track of his soul. It sprang free from his body before it should have. I swear, I don’t know who’s in charge up there, but bloody hell, they screwed this one up royally.”

  Clyde’s nod of understanding was vague, his teeth clamping together as though he was fighting off something neither she nor Marcella could see. “So my body has to die to free both Vincent and myself up,” Clyde assessed with his usual succinct logic, cutting into Delaney’s own heart as surely as if he’d used a Ginsu. Yet his legs, filmy and becoming transparent, moved toward the hospital bed.

  Marcella nodded with vigor, jumping in front of Clyde to keep him from his lifeless form. “Exactly, and we need to get on that shit now. Now!” She whirled to face Clyde, putting a hand on his chest. “Clyde, you have listen to me!” She snapped her fingers in his face, but only a flicker of awareness crossed his eyes, now intent on getting into his body. “Clyde!” Marcella roared up at him, her eyes blazing with urgency. “Stop—you have to stop! D,” she shouted, “pull that fucking plug! Hurry up before he gets any closer!” Marcella butted up against Clyde’s chest, expelling a harsh gasp of air in her effort to keep him from getting to his body.

  It was as if he’d become transfixed, and stopping him was like trying to stop a steamroller.

  Delaney couldn’t take her eyes from Clyde’s face, hard, intent, determined, all while Marcella butted up against him, the heels of her shoes leaving dark marks on the white floor. Her fingers clamped onto his arms, digging into his biceps to keep him from getting to the bed.

  “Madre santa—Delaney, pull the fucking plug!”

  In an instant, she knew there was no time for words, no time for good-byes—she had to end this so Clyde could find peace.

  Delaney lunged for the back of the bed, fighting for focus to find the plug that connected to the ventilator. Fuck! There were so many friggin’ cords!

  “Delaneyyyyyy! Pull the fucking plug!” Marcella screamed so harsh and frantic it made her jump.

  She dove through the tangled mess, landing on her knees, yanking at anything she could get her hands on. With trembling fingers she found the thick cord that led to Clyde’s ventilator and yanked.

  With everything she had in her.

  Sending up a desperate prayer that Clyde’s journey would be successful.

  “Jesus!” Marcella huffed, the scuffle of her feet stopping as she expelled another breath.

  Delaney’s breath shuddered in and out, too, when she saw Marcella’s feet stop moving.

  It was done.

  Let the weeping and wailing commence.

  Her hands reached for the edge of the bed, hauling herself up off the floor to come only a hairsbreadth from Clyde’s handsome face.

  But the sob of agony she’d been about to wail turned to a gasp of surprise.

  “Delaney, Delaney, Delaney. How goes it, sunshine? We really have to make it a point to get together more often than every fifteen years, don’tcha think?”

  Satan strolled to the ventilator and flipped a switch with long, milky white fingers.

  “Battery pack—every ventilator has one,” he remarked with casual nonchalance.

  And then he grinned.

  twenty-two

  Delaney looked to Marcella, whose chest heaved from keeping Clyde away from the bed. She clung to his big hand, positioning herself in front of him, clearly taking no chances he might make a sudden break for his body.

  Delaney’s hands went possessively to the shell of Clyde’s form, prepared to shield him if need be. She clamped on to his forearm while beads of terror-induced sweat popped out on her forehead.

  Satan clucked his tongue, leaning over the bed and chucking Delaney under the chin. “So here we are, Goody Two-Shoes. You, me, and the souls I’d better have when this conversation ends.” He flapped his pale hands at her. The black T-shirt he wore, which said Don’t Say No until You’ve Seen My Dungeon, stretched over his thin chest when he spread his arms wide. “Back up, do-gooder, or you’ll force me to singe that pretty hair of yours. Vincent’s soul is mine, and I think I’ll take the rocket scientist’s, too.” He pointed at Clyde. “He did a bad, bad thing—punishment is my only option.”

  Delaney’s eyes narrowed, her lips thinning. Not a fucking chance on earth she was leaving Clyde before he crossed. He’d have to tear her away from him. That meant stalling him. “The fuck I will,” she spat, curling her fingers into Clyde’s shoulder.

  Satan heaved a play
fully tortured sigh, his sculpted face taking on a put-upon expression. “Oh, Delaney. So righteous—so indignant—so old. Do you have any idea the shit you stir up? You’re like this big metaphoric spoon in a pot full of perfectly good waffling souls. Not that I minded all that much. Most of the time your interference was pretty harmless. Most of the time. If you’d just stayed out of things, Delaney Markham, if you’d just kept your Susie Sunshine crap to yourself, none of this would be happening. But no—here you are, spreading your fucking rays of sunshine everywhere. Not to mention, you made me leave a perfectly lovely vacation in the Falklands because you just couldn’t let this joker alone, and it appears my staff is incapable of collecting a simple soul. Do you have any idea the burdens I bear?”

  Delaney narrowed her gaze, her eyes slits in her head. “Take Vincent, leave Clyde the hell alone,” she growled.

  “Yeahhhh, I’ll get right on that,” he taunted with glee.

  Marcella’s eyes captured hers for the smallest second—her lips moved soundlessly, repetitively, compelling her to read the message she was trying to send. The only thing Delaney was clear about was that she had to stall until she could figure it out. What better way than to poke at him? “Clyde’s soul isn’t yours to take, you freeloading asshole!”

  Satan chuckled, thick and resonant. “Says you, princess. Besides, who’d stop me?”

  Yeah. That presented a pickle. Truly, it was too bad these powers she’d been given didn’t include the gift of screaming fireballs and the ability to produce, like, locusts.

  He turned his attention to the soul in question. “And you”—he pointed at Clyde, who appeared incapable of anything more than remaining frozen in place—“are in for some really deep shit. Though I will say, I admire your craftiness, Clyde Atwell. Job well done; deceiving the entire filing department was brilliance. The only trouble is, you just didn’t do it for the right reasons. If you’d just paid attention in class and taken to heart the whole ‘evil is your ruler’ message, I’d have personally planned your interdepart ment celebration for induction to level two. We’d have had cake and ice cream and all the frills.” Satan let go of a mockingly forlorn breath of air. “Sadly, now I have to drag your sorry ass back and throw you in the pit. I hate doing that. There’s always screaming and loads of whining. A real yawn.” He made an expression of supreme distaste.