by Tara West
Demonic and Deserted
Eternally Yours, Book Four
Tara West
Copyright © 2016 by Tara West
Published by Shifting Sands Publishing
First edition, published April, 2016
All rights reserved.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Edited by Theo Fenraven
All Eternally Yours cover art designed by Tara West
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
A message from Tara West...
Dedications
Demonic and Deserted | Eternally Yours, Book Four | Tara West
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
A Message from Tara West
BOOKS BY TARA WEST
A message from Tara West...
Dear readers, I hope you enjoy my fun and flirty paranormal series. If so, would you please be kind enough to leave a review where you purchased it and tell all your friends about my books? Indie authors like me depend on readers to spread the word. It’s how we can afford to quit our day jobs and keep writing. ;)
I have a lot more romance in store for you in 2016, so please subscribe to my newsletter for updates at www.tarawest.com and as a thank you, I will send you a free download of books one through three in my paranormal Whispers series.
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Thanks!
Dedications
To my sister warrior and friend, Jan. Thanks for the ‘Dickhead’ and keep fighting.
To Ginelle, Kelly, Sheri, and Tracy, thanks for your continued support and feedback. You rock!
To all of my readers who patiently waited for this book, thanks for sticking around.
And to Theo, God of Grammar, sorry for the big, stinking turd, aka, my manuscript. Thanks for making it smell like roses.
Demonic and Deserted
Eternally Yours, Book Four
Tara West
We’ve all heard of wedding day disasters, like when a jealous ex-lover crashes the ceremony and causes a scene or the photographer cancels at the last minute.
Now let me tell you about my wedding day—the day thousands of demonic spiders chased my fiancé and me off the elevator and into the Devil’s den. And don’t get me started on hellacious honeymoons. I spent the night shaking horny Monkey Hitler off my leg.
Instead of sipping margaritas on a sunny beach with a rock on my finger and the man of my dreams beside me, I’m demonic and deserted, stuck inside Hell’s Hotel with a bad case of fleas, praying our sadistic host doesn’t throw us out.
To say my wedding day was a disaster would have to be the understatement of the millennium. I just hope our friends can save us before it’s too late, because that squirming thing on my fork definitely doesn’t taste like chicken, and I forgot to pack my SPF 10,000 sunblock.
Chapter One
Sergeant Santiago Sanchez
I followed Archangel Cam with rigid steps as a lead weight settled in my gut. I was about to meet the Big Man face-to-face for the first time, and I feared I was underdressed in old camos and boots. I should have borrowed a toga from Cam. Then again, I doubted I’d look as regal as Cam, who walked in his knee-length Grecian robe with a confident gait that could only be perfected after thousands of years of practice. Even more impressive, a casual observer wouldn’t notice Cam’s wings, which he’d tucked behind his back, the exposed tips of pale feathers blending in with his long blond hair.
I had no idea how Cam managed to arrange a meeting, but I haven’t been this nervous since the Taliban had blown up my Humvee. I clenched my hands, breathing through a tight chest as we walked across the slick marble floor, under an archway, and onto the verdant grass.
The view was more breathtaking than the gardens in the pyramid. A tropical waterfall flowed into a serene river skirted with bright flowers and fruit trees. The grass, which was a golf-course green, seemed to stretch on for miles, cresting at a gently sloping hill.
In the distance, a man hit golf balls toward the hill. Cam had already warned me God would take on the appearance of a person I’d most admired during my mortal existence. I’d looked up to many heroes back on Earth; which one would God choose?
As we approached the golfer, I was not surprised to see my old battalion commander turn to us with a cheery smile. I wondered who God looked like to Cam, as the Archangel had been with God since the beginning of creation.
I took the commander’s outstretched hand, silently reminding myself this wasn’t the commander but the creator of Earth, the heavens, and all the stars. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Holiness.” I numbly spoke my rehearsed line before God released my hand. “I’d like to thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
The deity shrugged before motioning toward a white wicker table and chairs at the edge of the green. “I always have time for war heroes.”
I blushed as I followed the commander, aka His Holiness, to the table. I’d never considered myself a hero. I’d been just a soldier doing his duty, and though I’d paid the ultimate price, I had no regrets. After all, my afterlife hadn’t been so bad. I’d gotten to haunt Earth for thirteen years as the captain of a ghosting unit, and then I’d helped prevent the apocalypse and defeat a demon army while making some great friends.
I was ready to start a new chapter in my afterlife, living in a pyramid sanctuary on the top layer of hell. Though I would have preferred to reside in Purgatory, a few of my friends—one of them a particularly pretty redhead—had been banished to hell, and I wasn’t leaving without them. Fortunately, their pyramid had almost all the luxuries of Heaven, from healing holy water to lavish suites and verdant gardens. Unfortunately, their main food staple, the ambrosia fruit, had been rotting and falling off the trees. Though we didn’t need food to survive, it was a luxury I would rather not do without.
Following Cam’s lead, I sat on a wicker chair, gratefully accepting a glass of wine from His Holiness. The liquid was sweet and smooth and tasted like ambrosia. I looked at Cam, hoping the angel wouldn’t take too long to get to the point. We had already decided before our meeting that Cam would do most of the talking. After all, Cam had thousands of years of experience communicating with the deity.
Cam pushed aside his glass, folding his hands in front of him while leveling God with a serious expression. “Your Holiness, as you know, a few ghosters from level thirteen have decided to reside in the pyramid on Hell’s first level.”
His Holiness grimaced and slowly sipped his wine. “Yes, I know the story.”
“They have been subsisting on ambrosia fruit,” Cam added.
God held up his wine glass, swirling the amber liquid. “Ambrosia wine is my favorite.” He flashed a wry smile. “Although you know you don’t need any food when you’re dead.”
“They know,” Cam said evenly, “but the sweet flavor brings them a small measure of happiness.”
God’s eyes narrowed to slits. “My original in
tent of Hell was to provide punishment, not happiness.”
“My Heavenly Father,” Cam pleaded, “every soul dwelling in that pyramid has either atoned for their sins or descended from Purgatory.” He nodded to me. “Some have earned enough credits to get into Heaven.”
Heat flamed my face when God looked me over with an assessing gaze. “Yet they choose to live in Hell,” God said through a frozen smile.
Cam leaned forward. “They choose to sacrifice their own comfort and safety, My Lord, so they could be with their friends.”
“Their damned friends,” God added with a frown.
“About the fruit, My Lord,” Cam continued, his face a mask of serenity and composure. “Something strange has been happening to it.” Cam reached into a pocket in his robe and placed a fruit on the table. The skin, which had once resembled the bright green of the mango, was now covered with soft brown bruises.
God’s brow furrowed as he picked it up, eyeing it curiously. “What did you do to it?”
I knew I had that deer-in-the-headlights look when God looked accusingly at me. “N-nothing, Your Holiness.” Damn, I sounded so green.
The juices ran down God’s arm when he held up the fruit and crushed it. “You mortals take the natural bounty I give you, modify and poison it “—he waved his fist at me—“and then you blame me for your diseases.”
I swallowed a lump of nervous energy. “We haven’t done anything to modify it.”
“They harvest it the same way the Nephilim did,” Cam agreed.
God frowned at the fruit. “It’s been poisoned.”
I jerked back. “Poisoned? How?”
God smashed the ambrosia against the table, splattering rotten chunks everywhere. We jumped back when a black spider as big as my palm raced out of the debris, skittering across the wicker. God’s fist came crashing down on top of the creature, which surprisingly squealed as God smeared its carcass into the table.
My breath stilled when God looked at us, thunderstorms brewing in his eyes. “Do not bring any more of these abominations into my realm.”
Cam held out both hands in an apologetic gesture, his face almost as pale as his white robe. “I’m sorry, My Lord, I didn’t know.”
“If there was one,” God said through clenched teeth, “there are more.”
“How many more?” I asked, hardly knowing where I’d gotten the courage to speak.
“Thousands, maybe millions.” God lifted his hand, grimacing at a long trail of spider entrails dangled from his palm. “They will ravage all of hell, including your pyramid,” he said, wiping his hand with a cloth napkin.
Ravage my home? No!
I leaned forward, clenching the edge of the table with whitened knuckles. “How do we stop them?”
God looked at the splatter. One of the eight legs was still moving. Scowling, God threw the napkin over it. His face hardened, his voice dropping to an ominous rumble. “Destroy their mother.”
* * *
Ash MacLeod
“Creditors Union, please hold.” I hit the blinky button on my clunky landline phone and connected another call. “Creditors Union, please hold.” Gah! Didn’t these people have anything better to do on a Saturday, and what was I doing at work today anyway? Oh, yeah, my boss was an asshole. I pushed the last button with a stifled curse. “Thank you for calling the Creditor’s Union. This is Ash. How may I direct your call?”
“Ashley MacLeod? This is Lovelace.” A familiar nasal voice squeaked through the receiver, though I knew his squeak was meant to be a growl. Unfortunately for Lovelace, he’d been a late bloomer and had died before puberty set in, or maybe his balls never dropped. Whatever the case, his growly voice made him sound like a Chihuahua on crack.
“What do you want?” I asked, not bothering to mask the annoyance in my voice.
“I demand to know the status on the inquiry.”
Awww, how cute. Too bad I wasn’t intimidated by my creditor anymore. Ever since he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he’d been on administrative leave (aka sent to the corner with a dunce cap on his skinny pencil head) while the big bosses at the Creditor’s Union investigated numerous complaints made against the lying, cheating weasel.
“The status is still pending,” I said with a disinterested slur.
I’d sneaked a peak at his file yesterday, and so far the investigation wasn’t going in his favor. What the hell had the douche been thinking? Committing financial fraud on earth was a big enough sin to land someone in the basement (aka flaming pit of doom) but it took some big, fat, hairy balls to steal credits in Purgatory, which was kind of shocking, because I’d always figured Lovelace’s scrotum resembled two shiny little marbles.
“I demand you people drop these false charges!”
I winced, holding the phone away from my ear at his nails-on-chalkboard screech. What an idiot. His eternal fate was on the line, and the guy had the nerve to make demands? He was either really brave or really stupid. I wasn’t one to make bets, but if I’d been in Vegas, I would have wagerd ten thousand credits on stupidity.
I slouched in my seat, reluctantly bringing the receiver back to my ear. “The Creditors Union didn’t file the charges. We’re the ones investigating. We’ve had over a dozen complaints from your clients”—including one from me—“that you’ve mishandled their credits.”
“This is bullshit!” he yelled.
I cringed, but then I inwardly smiled when I remembered what was in his file. “Hmm, let’s see. So far this past year you’ve sent one person to the Penthouse despite insufficient credits and two unlucky souls to level two, even though they were slotted for the upper tier of Purgatory. And then there’s the ten clients who claimed you’ve lost over 100,000 credits and the question of how you’ve managed to earn double the max amount of credits for a level two credit counselor, despite the fact that you haven’t worked any overtime.” My voice rose along with my ire, and I imagined he was sitting across from me, so I could hover over him from behind my desk and jab a pencil in his scrawny chest. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Lovelace. This is bullshit. You do know the max penalty for credit fraud?”
“Yeah,” he groaned. “I know.”
I so wished I had the ability to bitch-slap him through the phone. “Then I suggest you stock up on sunblock,” I said in a voice dripping with so much sugar, I imagined him drowning in it. “Have a nice day,” I hissed before hanging up.
Damn, that had felt amazingly good after the many times Lovelace has tried to screw me over since my untimely demise by electrocution. First he’d sent me to the Penthouse, aka Heaven, where I got to eat all the cheesecake I wanted, without getting explosive diarrhea, and have sex with the hottest stud east of the pearly gates. Then he’d sent the Grim Reaper back for my soul. Apparently, Lovelace had miscalculated my credits, and I was actually supposed to have been on level two in Purgatory, which was one step above the top level in Hell. The place had stunk to high heaven, not to mention it was eternally dark and infested with rats.
Thankfully, the grim who collected me also had a crush on me, and I’d had the hots for him, too. I had the melted panties to prove it. The grim, Aedan O’Connor, lent me enough credits to get to the top level of Purgatory and even moved me into an apartment in his building. It didn’t take long for Aedan and me to find our own slice of heaven. Unfortunately, a sadistic demon’s blood-slave trapped me in Hell not long after, and Aedan had to go down and rescue me.
That’s when I knew I’d found a keeper. I mean, he’d risked an eternity of damnation to save my soul. I knew guys from the 1900’s were chivalrous, but this went beyond laying his coat in a puddle so I could cross it. And who did that shit, anyway? If guys really threw their coats over puddles every time a nice ass walked by, they’d go bankrupt from all the dry cleaning bills.
“Ashley!” a familiar booming voice called from the other room. “Where’s my damned coffee?”
Ugh. I tensed up every time my asshole boss said my name. “Comin
g, Mr. Head.”
I looked at the phone. Thankfully, the other two callers had hung up. I stood and smoothed down the sides of my dress, a 1940s number my grandma had leant me, a starched blue dress with little white polka dots, a wide white collar, and matching sash. Despite the fact it made my tits look like torpedoes, I loved how it flared at the hips, concealing the extra bit of fluff on my behind and thighs. Aedan liked my curves, though. He said I had the body of a “real woman,” and he preferred to have something to hold onto at night.
I imagined myself a pinup girl as I sauntered to the coffee machine and poured Mr. Head a tall cup of steaming liquid. Then I proceeded to add the “enhancers,” as he liked to call them, namely a little milk and sugar and a lot of rum.
“Hurry the hell up!” he yelled.
I twitched, then proceeded to stir longer than necessary, adding more coffee until it reached the rim of his cup. I inwardly smiled, imagining Mr. Head spilling hot liquid down his shirt when he tried to drink it.
My boss could kiss my ass. The guy’s nag-o-meter had been stuck in overdrive ever since I’d landed this job at the Creditors Union, a facility where we managed all things relating to credits. Credits were pretty damn important in Purgatory. If a soul earned enough credits, he or she could move up another level. Purgatory had twelve levels total, floors two through thirteen. Level fourteen was what we ascended referred to as the Penthouse, aka Heaven, where everything was perfect, from the cheesecake to the sex. Oh, and I’d lived in my dream home, complete with a cappuccino maker, margarita machine, and my own personal valet. Of course it took a whole lot more credits to move up there, and since Aedan and I had been bumped down to level ten after he got canned by the Grim Union for losing his spare scythe, we had a heck of a long wait before we ever made it back to Heaven.
Too damn bad, because I couldn’t imagine myself working for an asshole like Head—or as I had affectionately named him, Mr. DickHead—for another thirty to forty years. DickHead’s first name was Richard, so he was asking for that moniker. I could only imagine what his childhood had been like. What I wouldn’t have given to have been a fly on the wall during classroom roll call. “Head? Head? Is there a Dick Head in the class?”
