"Unexpected guests," Satan called breezily as she swept in, the Ant right behind her. "Lucky, lucky me. "
As usual, Satan looked beautiful and fearless. It pleased her to take the form of an older woman-a really gorgeous older woman-and as usual, her designer suit and shoes were dazzling. I tried to avert my eyes but, like Lot's wife (Laura told me who that was and what happened to her), I always, always had to check her footgear.
This time she was dressed in a smartly cut tan suit; it looked like wool. In hell! Well, I suppose if the heat didn't bother Satan . . . which, given her job description, made sense.
The skirt was a black high-waisted pencil skirt with the hem stopping just above the knees . . . a risky move for an older woman (or fallen angels who chose to look like older women) but Satan had the legs to carry it off. The sleek jacket had long sleeves and crisply notched lapels. Her blouse was cardinal red and, from what I could see, silk, with a soft, almost scooped neckline and mother-of-pearl buttons. No makeup, no jewelry. And she didn't need either, dammit.
"To what do I owe this unexpected intrusion?"
I opened my mouth to answer, then looked at her feet again.
The devil was wearing my shoes. My red Christian Louboutin honeymoon flats.
My shoes.
The devil had my shoes.
The devil. Was wearing. My honeymoon shoes. In hell.
"Something catch your eye, vampire queen?"
I had no memory of deciding to move, of wondering what I should do. Somehow I'd made it all the way across the room while "catch" was coming out of her mouth. Somehow my hands were around her throat and squeezing. There was a dim sound behind me-like muffled waves hitting a beach made of cotton, not sand. Faint and not important.
I felt and heard the crunch as Satan's vertebrae shattered. Her eyes were brown and bulging. She had her hands locked around my wrists. Somebody had ahold of the back of my shirt and was trying to pull me back. Too late.
Then a distinct sound, one I couldn't remember ever hearing before but recognized all the same: death rattle.
Best sound ever. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The Ant and Laura had succeeded in pulling me off. This helped mostly because I stopped resisting them. They yanked back so hard I ended up sitting on the floor. Garrett still hadn't moved. When I glanced at him, wondering if I'd hear dismay or anger or fear or something, he said, "We're going to go get Antonia now, right? Betsy? Right?"
"Jeez, you've got a one-track mind. " I wasn't as annoyed as I sounded. For one thing, I was still high from throttling the Lady of Lies. For another, if I were in his place I'd have the same focus. Well. That wasn't true; I could never, ever have that kind of focus. But I'd be anxious about Sinclair.
Sinclair! Thank you, thank you, thank you, God, thank you he wasn't here. Thank you he wouldn't be here when Satan came to.
Because I wasn't kidding myself. There was no way someone who was once in the Miss Burnsville Pageant could have killed the devil.
I hope I startled the shit out of her, though. I hope the next time she thought about fucking with me, her neck throbbed like a rotten tooth.
"Look what you did!" The Ant was staring at the crumpled form of her boss, tossed in the corner like a new toy six months after Christmas. "You-I can't believe what you did!" The Ant looked scared and exhilarated. But mostly scared. She'd always had an easy face to read, and I could see her wondering about which way to jump.
The devil was the big boss in town; it was safe to align with her. But her bitchy entitled stepdaughter had just kicked Satan's ass all over Satan's waiting room. So maybe the balance of power wasn't as stable as she imagined. "What-what are you going to do next?"
"What, like I know?" Actually, I did know. I walked up to the (temporarily) prone body, bent, and slipped off first one shoe, then the other. I held them with the two fingers on my left hand. I could have put them on, but that would have meant abandoning my loafers (Ella Signature, Coach, black). With luck I wouldn't have to choose between them.
With luck. I could have rolled my eyes at myself. I just bitch-slapped the devil on her home ground and I was worrying I'd have to leave a pair of shoes behind? If I was lucky.
Well, I wasn't going to bitch (much). I wasn't going to whine and blame Satan and snivel to myself that life just wasn't fair for poor old me, boo-hoo, how come my life is so weird and dangerous and full of felony assault?
I wasn't going to indulge because a) I wasn't sorry, and b) I'd do it over again, which I guess is the definition of not sorry, and c) I was okay, probably, with sucking up the consequences of those acts.
"Oh. Oh, oh, oh. Betsy, what did you do?" Laura sounded shocked and scared. At least she wasn't avenging her mom by getting strangle-y all over my ass. And her wings had popped.
Okay, that probably sounded odd. Let me back up. Laura was the daughter of an angel. See, the devil's lineage didn't change when she moved to hell. (That was her story. Got kicked out and had to go to hell, that was my story. )
Anyway, Laura had inherited her wings. I didn't know if all those old painters were right (that angels were fair and gorgeous with snowy white wings and halos and long flowing robes), but this part was right. Angels had wings, half-angels had wings, Laura had wings.
They were lush and brown, like a sparrow getting ready for winter. And it was obvious Laura hadn't noticed they were out. So I wasn't gonna tell her.
"What are we going to do?" Funny . . . Laura had asked the question, but she and her biological mother had identical expressions of dismay on their faces. Looking at Laura was like looking at the Ant and seeing what she'd looked like when she was young. The way she used hair dye and loud clothes and vivid makeup to look like when she was young. "Should we call for help?"
"Who would we call?" the Ant pointed out. Good questions. Glad it wasn't my problem.
What I thought was really interesting was that either the Ant saw Laura's wings and decided not to comment, or she hadn't noticed they were out.
Okay, I'd better explain out. The way I understood things, Laura always had wings . . . in hell, in the past, in the present, in the future. The way I always had my appendix. But people in an ordinary shithole realm like earth couldn't see them.
Hell wasn't necessarily a hot place beneath the earth's crust (though it was nice and toasty warm here in the waiting room). It was another dimension, with different rules and different people and different customs and different physics. As in, "Ye canna change the laws of physics, mohn!" Except since this wasn't earth, anything was possible.
Laura had been staring at me this entire time, and I could tell she was torn. Yell at me? Help her mom? Yell while helping? Kick me in the shins? Flap and fly away? Call hell's version of 911? What?
None of us knew what to do, and that was a plain fact. Of the three of us, though, I was definitely in the best mood. I even hummed a little, waiting for them to decide what they were going to do.
"You . . . perfidious . . . violent . . . crude . . . hideous . . . wretched . . . bitch. " CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The voice was raspy and weak and hissed more than spoke. The voice sounded like nothing human, which made sense, because the person who owned that voice wasn't human. And check out the list of insults! The devil must have kicked ass in vocab.
Everything inside me went cold, while my face got warm. I figured out what that meant after a second . . . I was scared, yet pissed. I patted my warm cheeks (which, due to my sluggish blood flow, were almost never warm). Yep, definitely getting hot under the collar. Hmm, wonder what could have brought that on? I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck not just trying to stand up, but trying to get the hell out of Dodge.
I don't blame you, l'il hairs. We should all leave. So how dumb does that make me, that I'm just standing here waiting to be smited? Or whatever?
Satan was getting up. Carefully and slowly, she was r
ising to her feet. Her movements were stiff and forced. Her face was still a mottled blue; the whites of her eyes were severely bloodshot. No, they were filling with blood. No, they were red. The whites of her eyes were red. No. The whites and her pupils were red. It was like being glared at by a stoplight. A stoplight who had a run in her pantyhose.
And her wings were out. They were red, too, cardinal red. They fluttered and seemed to help her with her balance as she climbed up from the floor into a standing position. They were huge . . . the top of the wings started just above her neck, and the tail feathers stopped just above the floor.
What I found really strange was that the wings and her new and improved eye color didn't make her seem alien or odd, though I'd never in my life seen someone (something?) who looked like that. In a weird way, seeing her wings pop made the whole package easier to swallow. It showed that the suits and the shoes and the carefully prepped hairstyles were the camouflage. The woman in this room with me now, that was the real Lucifer.
Weird, to look at something so alien and unfamiliar and think, This is right. This is the way she's supposed to look.
It made me think of Laura's eyes and hair . . . when she got mega-pissed her hair would deepen from blond to red, and her eyes would go from blue to poison green. It was like the coloring was her litmus test for rage. Maybe that's why I wasn't terrified when we fell through the library into hell and, for me, anyway, woke up on a coroner's table. Her hair and eyes had never changed. So at the time I knew she was pissed, but not, like, lethally so.
Lucifer finally got all the way to her feet-it seemed, at least to me, to take a long time. It also seemed to hurt. Awwww. The devil had a boo-boo. She clutched her head in both hands, then closed her evil scary red eyes and gritted her teeth. We could all hear them grinding together and then a new sound, a sort of dim crackle. It took me a second to realize: she was healing her shattered vertebra. They were knitting back together right in front of us.
My finger marks stood out like vivid red brands on her Anne Boleyn neck ("I have a little neck," remember? A great line for someone who knew she was going to be legally murdered by the thug who was Henry VIII). While we watched, the marks on her neck slowly faded . . . it was like watching a film run backward. Harsh marks, then lighter, then fading, then . . . look at what the miracle of plastic surgery can do for women of all ages!
"Wow, who could have predicted any of that?" I wondered out loud. "Weird. Do you think it was something you said? Or something you did?"
Satan glanced down at herself, saw her skirt was rumpled and her pantyhose had runs. Then her skirt was fine and her pantyhose were flawless.
She looked at her bare feet for a few seconds, which seemed like years, and then simple black flats appeared, probably Dior.
I wasn't certain why she was taking so long to smite me, but I had an idea. An idea that might have occurred to her right around the time I was making her neck go squish.
I shouldn't have been able to hurt her, that was the thing. She was a zillion-year-old angel, she was the devil for crying out loud, and this was her world, her realm, her turf. No one ever tried to stomp her before? Ha. No one ever got the drop on her since God nailed her with His official smackdown? Double ha. No one ever tried to stomp her on her own turf before? And again, I say ha. Even if I took my considerable shortsightedness and vanity into question, I couldn't make myself believe that.
Not because I was a mega-powerful vamp queen. Because I wasn't especially original, and no one could tell me that in skatey-eight billion years, not one person had ever tried to pop Satan here in hell.
So I figured that had to mean one of two things. Lucifer let me kick the shit out of her. Or she didn't. And right now I had no idea which one it could be. I almost wished Sinclair were here. He was pretty smart about the sneaky stuff. So was Tina. She practically had a master's in trickery. Either of them would have been able to figure this out by now.
I glanced at Garrett. I hoped the devil didn't hold grudges now that we were about to ask a favor. Then I almost laughed at myself again. I had never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I normally wasn't this naive, either.
I cleared my throat. Peeked at Garrett once again. There was no chance, no chance, but I had to ask for Antonia anyway. I wasn't going to come all the way to hell and not even say her name. "So, you're probably all wondering the reason we're all gathered here today-"
Satan held up a finger. "You should not talk right now. "
"I'm sure you're right, but that never has, and never will, be-"
"What do I have to do to get you to leave?"
Uh. What? Get me to leave? Like she couldn't throw my ass out whenever she wanted? Like she had to be careful because she might need me? Or I might fuck her up? Please. I hadn't even been able to make her dead for more than a minute. Maybe if I reeeally pissed her off she might have a stroke . . . for about fifteen seconds. There wasn't anything I could do to her that she . . .
She . . .
Okay. Wait. Vain as I was, I'd never believe I could hurt the devil, really hurt her. Not right now, at least.
But how about, oh, I dunno, let's grab a number at random. How about a thousand years from now? Hmm? How about then? Was I a danger to Satan after the world ended and I was king of the mountain?
Aw, shit. You know how when you think of something and have no evidence any of it's true, and no way to prove it will be true, but you know it is all the same? The way you know your name, and how your husband's hands feel on your skin? That's how it was. Even as I was speculating, I could almost feel the click as my brain engaged and coughed up explanations that felt right.
So: Lucifer was afraid of Ancient Me, or needed Ancient Me, or both, so she couldn't smite me anytime this year, or the next, or the next. So: she wanted us out of her living room (in a matter of speaking). So: what do you ask the devil for when you know there's not much she won't give you?
Naturally, my first thought was of Antonia (the least annoying one). That was why we'd come, and it was good that we came . . . I was beginning to see the wisdom in the old fortune-cookie saying ("Keep your friends close, but your enemies should be watched a lot," or however it went). Antonia should never have died in the first place. If I'd been quicker, or smarter, or bulletproof, she wouldn't have. And, at the time, if someone had said to me while we were all staring at her brains on the wall, "If you could undo this, would you?" then yes, I absolutely would. So here was our chance, and I wasn't going to waste it.
I opened my mouth, I was ready with my plan, my course of action seemed clear, and all the voices in my head were in agreement. But what came out of my mouth was, "I want my Valentino couture black-lace midheel peep-toe pumps back. The ones I had to sacrifice to you last week in order to get you to appear. " CHAPTER FORTY
The devil's eyebrows arched. "I see. "
I didn't say anything else. I couldn't; it felt like my vocal cords had fused together. I wanted to take it back. I would never take it back. I had to take it back. I couldn't take it back. I'd given up a friend for shoes, and I had no idea how to fix it.
Another long moment went by. Laura had a deer-in-the-headlights look, if the deer was about to be run over by a convoy of semis. Garrett was still waiting patiently. His (misguided) faith in me was touching; he must assume I had some sort of sinister plan. And I did. My plan was, essentially, Oh shit! The Ant was still on the fence, trying to figure out the best direction to jump.
Satan said, "You have no idea how much pain this admission is costing me: I underestimated you. So yes, you may have your property back. They're in your closet as we speak, between the Tory Burch suede clogs and the Franco Sarto animal-print clogs. "
Way to rub it in, Lady of Lies. Clogs! Clogs are the new stiletto! Should have asked for Christian Louboutin to exist in this timeline.
"And as a . . . as a token of future goodwill, Antonia is also waiting for you. "
Don't say anything. Don't say anything. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO NOT SAY ANYTHING FOR AT LEAST TEN SECONDS.
"I trust there won't be anything else at this time?"
Three-Mississippi-four-Mississippi-five-Mississippi . . .
"I-that's-" Laura clearly thought I was having one of my . . . what had she and Garrett called it? A my-brain-isn't-here look. She must have figured that since the chances were good I was daydreaming about a shoe sale, she'd better fill in the conversation gap. "That's very kind, Mother. "
"It certainly is," Satan agreed.
. . . six-Mississippi-seven-Mississippi-eight-Mississippi . . .
That was as long as I could hold out. "Antonia will be waiting for us? This isn't a monkey's paw deal, is it?" My voice was heavy with suspicion. "She's not a zombie with maggots in her hair and a mouth full of dirt, is she?" "Only if she's taken up some alarming new hobbies. "
I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe it. I broke Satan's neck and she gave me presents? No smiting? No scourging? No locusts or whatever Satan visited upon people?
Shit! Not that I minded a locust-free visit. Locust-free visits were always good. But this was a sobering thought. Make that a terrifying thought.
It was all true. It was all going to happen. I was going to turn into someone so awful, the devil paled by comparison. Someone so awful, the devil had to stay on her good side. And I didn't know how to fix it or even slow the process.
I wasn't unaware of the irony, either. I hated, hated, hated when Sinclair kept things from me, but lately I'd been keeping a few secrets of my own. Irony, you are a vicious bitch.
Meanwhile, Satan had incorrectly interpreted (thank goodness) my silence.
"The book isn't mine to give or to take," she said as if in response to what she thought I was thinking. There was thinly veiled irritation in her voice. Single-ply toilet paper thin. "If that's what you're working your way up to asking about. That's up to my daughter; it's always been up to her. "
Uh. It has? News to this girl.
I was getting the hang of this, maybe. I just looked at her.
"The Book of the Dead isn't mine to give back," Satan said, making a sound like she'd been holding her breath. Like she wasn't sure what I would say and was holding her breath while she waited to find out. Which wasn't possible. Maybe in the future I'd be a badass tyrannical jerk with no color sense and zombies for footmen (ewww!), but right now I was just a woman in despair because Christian's parents never met. A woman who'd broken the devil's neck on impulse. "This was all Laura's idea. It's for her to decide whether or not to give it back to you. "
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