“With noisy melted rock?” I teased, feigning ignorance. I’d taken a semester of Latin in high school.
“With great honor,” Ira translated. Kali flicked the back of my head.
“Ow.”
“And to present your scythes to you today, we are honored to have our great Dark Underlord—make that Underlady. None other than Her Satanic Majesty herself. Everyone, please join me in welcoming Lucy Phurr.”
There was a smattering of polite applause. I craned my neck, anxious to finally see the ruler of Hell in person. Preceding Lucy, a mousy-looking woman with a bad haircut and an ill-fitting suit ambled onto the stage. I peered closer. Oh, wait. That wasn’t some lady-in-waiting or other attendant; that was the great queen herself. Huh. She seemed . . . ordinary.
Lucy accepted the microphone from the Emcee. Her pale lips moved but even in the front row I heard nothing.
Some underling trotted out and showed her how to turn the mic on.
“Thank you,” she said to him, nearly deafening us. He showed her how to adjust the volume. She thanked him again, this time at a manageable volume level and faced us. “And thank you all for inviting me to be part of your commencement ceremonies today. Before I hand out the scythes, there are just a few words I want to say.” The mic clunked on the podium and the crinkle of paper grated across the sound system and my eardrums. “Sometimes we forget, here in Hell . . .”
After five minutes of boring drivel badly delivered, I tuned her out. Even feeling smug about how much better a speech I could have written for her got old fast. This gal could use a good makeover and a huge PR campaign. I felt sorry for her. “Sympathy for the Devil”—now the campaign in my head had a theme song.
“Lucy ought to fire her speechwriter—with real fire,” I whispered to Kali. She nodded and yawned. You’d think with six hands she’d put one over her mouth.
The speech went on and on and on. I fidgeted until Kali flicked me again. Ow.
“And on that note, I’d like to call the graduates to the stage.”
M’Kimbi punched me in the arm, grinning. “She is addressing ourselves. We must go to her now.” He dashed to the stage, shouldering Horace out of the way. Ira bypassed the stairs and flew to the front. I ended up near the back of the line, glad there were only six of us now, then appalled at myself for that selfish thought. Why, if Rod were here, I’d be glad to see him—at the back of the line, that is.
“C’mon. C’mon.” I jittered nervously. I had a scythe to get and an aunt to save.
“Before we begin to distribute your scythes . . .”
Oh, seriously, lady. Now what?
“I’d like to call Reaper Alighieri up on the stage. Dante, dear. Where are you?” She shaded her boring brown eyes and scanned the crowd. “Oh, yes. There he is, in the back. While we wait for Dante to make his way up to the stage, I’ll just entertain you with an amusing anecdote, shall I?”
She told some dull tale about a soul Deal she’d once made. I barely listened, although the name Faust seemed familiar. Instead I searched the crowd for Dante. He stepped past me on the way to the podium without so much as a glance in my direction. By the time Lucy Phurr finished her speech, Dante stood before her and my feet had started hurting.
“To show my appreciation for the part you played in averting the recent crisis, it is my pleasure, Reaper Alighieri, to reinstate your rank of Reaper First Class before this assemblage and permit you the right to come and go between Hell and the Mortal Coil as you see fit in the execution of your duties as Reaper.”
She shook his hand while we whooped and yelled. I was proud of him, finally getting to go dirt-side again. I wondered if we could partner up on some of the more difficult reaps that lay ahead of us. After I finished living out my life on the Coil, that is. And if Dante ever agreed to speak to me again. And if they still let me be a Reaper when I returned from rescuing my aunt and having a life. I suspect that going AWOL your first day on the job is something that goes in your personnel file, even in Hell.
Dante left the stage and Lucy Phurr began calling us over to the podium one at a time.
She congratulated each new Reaper warmly and personally. It took for-skeggin’-ever: Ira, M’Kimbi, Horace, Kali. Only Amber remained behind me.
It reminded me of my high school graduation, when I felt like a jittery bundle of boredom. Of course, when I’d looked out into the audience on that day, in addition to my friends, Aunt Carey and Leslie had been there, smiling proudly.
My friends were here today, too. Charon and Claire. Sue and Bob. I hadn’t expected Sybil to get the day off, but there she was, right down front. She waved. I gave a tiny finger wave back, but she kept waving, getting wilder and wilder until she resembled a crazy helicopter. What the skeg? She smiled hugely, gesturing and pointing at the two nice young women sitting beside her. They looked awfully familiar. Who could they . . . ? Oh, my God! I must have been thinking that so loudly that the air turned blue despite the fact I hadn’t said anything out loud. “Oops,” I said to Amber, waving the rotten-fish fumes away. Amber narrowed her eyes at me. Well, excuse me. What’s a little more sulfur in Hell? Then I remembered what had made me take the Lord’s name in vein and turned back to the audience. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There sat Aunt Carey and Leslie—the youthful, healthy versions.
Carey looked so proud. And a little dazed. They must have only just arrived in Hell. Sybil had broken all protocol to bring them to my graduation. I was so touched.
Wait. Wait! Aunt Carey and Leslie were here? Now? At my graduation? I stared at Sybil. She mouthed, “Car accident,” grimacing in sympathy.
The whole family could be together again.
But I still wanted my life back, didn’t I?
And Conrad still needed a soul to buy his extension with. If he couldn’t get Carey’s, then who would he go after? Who would he try to trick into trading their soul for his?
I had a horrible inkling.
“Kirsty d’Arc!”
Oops. I’d made the Queen of Hell call me twice. My bad. I crossed the distance to the podium.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Kirsty. You’ve been causing quite a stir since you got here.”
I probably should have been nervous, but really, I was preoccupied and unimpressed. I shook her hand, wondering if I should curtsy. “Thank you, Ms. Phurr.”
“Oh, please. Call me Lucy.”
Just hurry up and give me my skeggin’ scythe, I wanted to say, but didn’t.
“You’ve proven yourself a worthy denizen of Hell, Kirsty, and a contributing member of our little subterranean society. It’s my great pleasure today to present you with your scythe and bestow upon you the time-honored title of Reaper, Grim or otherwise.” She produced my beautiful new scythe, waving it around as she spoke.
Light glinted off its shiny chrome surface, practically mesmerizing me. I reached for it, but she whipped it away again.
“I’m not going to give you this scythe, however. At least, not right now.”
What the skeg? Hell was all about temptation, and my patience was at an end. I considered shouting, “Let’s do lunge” and diving for my scythe to rip it from her grasp, although that kind of behavior might come back to bite me on the ass someday.
“Excuse me, ma’am. I thought I’d earned—”
“Well, Kirsty. I’ve got a special gift for you. Instead of a scythe, I’m granting your appeal!” She sounded exactly like Oprah during one of her “Favorite Things” episodes, complete with little hand-claps and a big, toothy smile.
“You’re what?” I shrieked.
“Yes, I know. It’s hard to believe. Well, away you go now. Have a nice life.”
She gave a dismissive little gesture and I levitated, like a puppet, drifting away from the stage. Away from my friends. My family. My afterlife. Dante.
“Nooo!” I screamed, unheard over the applause. Applause? Oh, great. Was everyone glad to see me go?
My soul flew faster and faster, passing thro
ugh Hell’s roof, scaring the skeg out of ol’ Sol as he drove his chariot along, dragging daylight behind him.
I was getting my life back, which was what I wanted, right? But how the skeg was I going to reap Conrad without a scythe to call my own?
Chapter 14
Karmageddon
MOMENTS LATER, I bounced into my body. I drew a great gasping breath and tried to open my eyes. It took three tries since they were nearly crusted shut with dried tears. Had I been crying in my sleep?
I lay there, trying to absorb what had just happened. I had just been handed everything I wanted. Shouldn’t I be happy?
“Nooo!”
Blinking some more, I looked around. Ow. Talk about a stiff neck.
The hospital room was exactly the way I’d dreamed it over the months I’d been away—except for the tragic tableau before me.
Just as I’d feared, now that Conrad couldn’t steal my aunt’s soul to guarantee his extension, he’d found another person he was willing to sacrifice. Someone with no family except her father.
And he didn’t even need to. There was no way I could locate the stapler and find a way to get it to Judge Julius in the few remaining minutes before the anniversary was up. Conrad could have just waited and his original extension would be granted. He didn’t know that, though, and so now it was up to me to do something to save Shannon’s life.
And I would, just as soon as I could remember how to make my muscles work.
I willed myself to move or yell, but fog wrapped my brain and my muscles refused to answer when I called. The spirit might be willing but the flesh was damn near useless. I could only watch in a daze as Conrad wheedled and pleaded with Shannon to sign the contract amendment.
“Okay, Dad. Okay. Calm down and let’s talk about this.” She sat in a plastic guest chair, papers and office supplies scattered on the wheeled bedside table in front of her. She must have been doing office work while she sat with me. What? I wasn’t scintillating company?
“Sign first, then we’ll talk.” Conrad waved a thin sheaf of papers at her. His fingers covered the heading, but I knew exactly what it read: Contract Amendment.
“Sure, Dad.” Shannon’s voice had a “don’t make the crazy person crazier” tone. She picked up an ordinary pen. “Where do I sign?”
“Not with ink,” Conrad grabbed up another office item from Shannon’s temporary workspace. Even dented and speckled with Liquid Paper, I’d know it anywhere. He pressed the little release button on the bottom, allowing my old stapler to swing open like a huge, gaping jaw. My heart pounded, but even so, I could still hear the click of the staple dropping into place, its chiseled points reflecting light like a pair of vicious fangs—the vampire of the stationery world. “It has to be in blood!”
He hoisted the stapler as Shannon shot a hand up to protect her face. In a flash, Conrad slashed the stapler across her upraised palm.
“Dad, what the hell?”
“Now sign it!” he ordered, shoving all the other papers to the floor and dropping the contract amendment onto the bedside table. “Sign it,” Conrad repeated, tossing a fountain pen on top of the document. He brandished the stapler in a threatening manner. She examined her hand, her palm seeping blood from the fresh scratches.
“Okay. Okay.”
He moved toward her. She reared back, the plastic chair back creaking like a cry for help.
“Use that.” He pointed the stapler toward the fountain pen. “Draw the little lever back to get some blood inside.” He raised the heavy metal stapler again. Surely he wouldn’t—couldn’t—bash Shannon’s head in to get the blood he needed. How could he do that to his own daughter? Originally Conrad had sold his soul to save his infant daughter’s life, but now he was willing to sacrifice hers to save himself.
He’d changed in the year I’d been in a coma. He’d grown desperate and afraid, willing to give up everything that had ever meant anything to him just so he could keep control of Iver Public Relations.
Fear clogged my throat and panic filled my lungs as I realized Conrad, this man whom I had once revered and admired, really could club his own daughter to death.
Frightened and confused, Shannon cradled her wounded hand to her chest, a trail of blood trickling between her fingers.
They hadn’t noticed my return from the dead. I took a quick inventory of my situation. No feeding tube; I must have just had my massage therapy. I could feel an uncomfortable pull between my legs, though. Uh, oh. I was still leashed to that embarrassing bag.
I tried to imagine what I’d be thinking if someone wanted me to sign a contract in my own blood, wanted it badly enough to injure me for it. Shannon was probably thinking, “I should humor him.” No way was I going to allow that to happen.
“Don’t do it!” I shouted, finally getting my voice box in gear. What came out was more like, “Nnngghl,” and possibly some saliva. I tried again. “Shannon.” Closer. Close enough to get her attention.
“Kirsty! You’re awake!” She half rose from the guest chair. “You’re okay!”
Conrad strode over to the bed, waving the stapler at me menacingly. “Sign it or she won’t be!”
“Okay, Dad. I’ll sign. I’ll do whatever you want.” She took a step toward me. “Kirsty, I . . .” She sniffled. “How are you?”
“Oh, I’ve been deader,” I managed, stalling. I sat up on the third try. “Don’t do it, Shannon,” I begged, croaking the words out in the direction she’d been before the room started spinning. “You’ll be signing the rest of your life away.”
“It’s okay, Kirsty. It’s just a piece of paper.”
“It’s so much more than that.” I held my head still with both hands. I succeeded in stopping the room from spinning but without my hands to support me, my spine went spineless and I flopped back down on the pillow, panting with all the effort.
“Sign it or Kirsty dies.”
Killing me wouldn’t serve Conrad’s purpose, since he couldn’t use my soul twice and the first time was still in question before Hell’s courts. But threatening me might extort Shannon into giving him what he wanted.
“Please, honey. Do it for Daddy?” His face twisted into something that should have been a smile.
My gut twisted, too.
Selling your soul is supposed to slow the aging process so he should only have looked around forty. And he did, except that he’d put on weight and developed a shifty, smarmy appearance. His face was bloated and toad-like, a reflection of the man he’d become. No company would have trusted him with their public image if it hadn’t been for his soul Deal. Maybe they never would have.
I tried to recall what he’d looked like when I’d first met him. Maybe he’d always been this creepy and it was the Deal that had made me feel so warm toward him. He’d always been a father figure to me, and look what kind of father he’d turned out to be. One ready to trade away the life of his own daughter!
Willing strength into my limbs, I tossed back the sheets. The hospital gown slid down—who bothers to tie the gown on a coma patient? My arms felt rubbery and there was nothing fine about my motor skills, but I managed to disengage myself from my remaining medical tethers. Ouch!
I shoved myself to the edge of the bed using my hands to get my legs in gear. I slid off the bed and directly onto the floor, blue cotton pooling around me. I yanked the gown up over my flabby body. Time may be a great healer, but it’s a lousy beautician.
Shannon knelt on the floor beside me, pulling the gown up and beginning to tie it behind my neck.
I shrugged her off; covering my pale and saggy breasts was not our main concern at the moment.
Through gritted teeth, I told Conrad, “You’re going to have to kill me or I’m going to tell the world what you did to me.”
Conrad threw back his head and laughed. “Who’d believe you? It’s just some coma-induced hallucination. Reapers. Scythes. It’s quite a good story, though. Maybe you should write a book.”
I squinted at him, unfocusing
my eyes and surveying the room. Skegging Reapers. They’re never around when you need one. I was on my own here.
“Shannon will believe me.” I turned to meet her gaze. “Won’t you?”
She looked confused and skeptical.
I doubted she’d buy my story, but the way Conrad pulled back a little told me I’d hit a guilty nerve. “Shannon, your wonderful dad here made a Deal with the Devil. He’s actually lousy at public relations.”
“Why, you ungrateful bitch! I made you everything you are today! Without me—”
“Yes, you did! You made me the incapacitated, atrophied coma victim I am today. Without you, I’d still have a life. You stole a year from me!” I looked down at my out-of-shape body. After a year of lying still, moving proved painful. I hurt. (Especially “down there,” and I didn’t mean in Hell. You try removing a catheter yourself.) I sagged. I had no home. No family. No career. No friends. Everyone and everything I cared about, and everyone who cared about me, was back in Hell.
Except I did have one friend left on the Mortal Coil. One person who’d remained loyal to me through thick and thin, through sick and sin. I was going to do whatever it took to keep her from suffering the same untimely demise I had. Plus, there was no way I was letting Conrad get any more time on Earth. Lucy Phurr had totally screwed up my original plan with her stupid gift of life. I needed a new plan. I had always been fast on my feet—well, not literally at the moment, but . . . Ah-ha! Got it. Now I just have to . . .
With grim determination and a little help from Shannon, I managed to haul myself up. It was a short distance from where I swayed to where Conrad stood, wielding the stapler. With every bit of strength and willpower I possessed, I put one foot in front of the other. I moved like a zombie—dead gal walking—but I moved.
“Don’t come any closer, Kirsty. I swear I’ll brain you.”
“Do it, Conrad. You took my life from me once with that skeggin’ stapler. Go ahead and do it again. I dare you!”
Scythe Does Matter trr-2 Page 12
