The Road To Hell Part 8

In an immediate reversal, she asked, "What happened? Are you okay?"

I looked around for the street sign telling me I'd stepped into the Twilight Zone. Nope. Just Third Avenue and 24th Street. "Why? Why do you care?"

She paused. "It's my good nature. Are you all right?"

"What's going on, Caitlin? What did you do to me?"

Static on the line. Then: "I gave you a gift. When I heard what happened to you, I came to see you. You were so pale, so cold. You'd almost died, might have still died. So I helped you. Healing's always been my best area. A little magic, and poof, healthy flesh again."

Did I remember seeing my own face hovering over me? Or was that a trick of my mind, a false memory? "You healed me as a gift?"

"Oh, no," she said with a laugh. "I did that because looking at you dying was like seeing myself on my deathbed. Purely selfish of me."

She might have been one of the strongest witches alive, but she was also a s.h.i.tty liar.

"But I couldn't have you just waltz out of the hospital after being admitted with a gunshot wound to the chest. So I... changed things."

"Things," I repeated.

"Small things. Hospital records. Memories. That sort of stuff. You were officially admitted for exhaustion."

"And malnutrition," I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose, "yeah, Paul told me."

"You know, you really need to eat better. It's not all about what tastes good. You need proper nutrients, the four food groups, plenty of fruits and vegetables, milk-"

My headache began to dance a jig. "Caitlin..."

"Paul should do a better job of looking out for you."

"Caitlin ..."

"Right. So, my gift. What were you going to do, awake and alive and human? You had no ident.i.ty. You had nothing proving you were... well, whoever you said you were. Just Jesse, huh? Original. I suppose you were going for the Cher approach to surnames?"

I closed my eyes, started counting to ten. By five, Caitlin continued speaking. "Thanks to you drinking my potion and choosing my form to dress in, you were locked into looking exactly like me. So I decided to make you my twin sister."

My eyes snapped open. "You decided-?"

"Complete with wallet stuffed with credit cards, a bank account, and a Ma.s.sachusetts State ID with the name Jesse Harris on it."

Admittedly, that was considerate of her.

Feeling the world shift beneath my feet, I grabbed onto a mailbox for balance. I hadn't remembered choosing to become Jesse Harris once I'd gained my soul. I'd gone from demon to mortal smoothly, like a street suddenly changing its name along the same path. And I'd never thought about that-about how I'd gotten credit cards with my name on them... or who was paying the bills.

s.h.i.t. I hated it when other ent.i.ties mindf.u.c.ked me. That this particular ent.i.ty happened to be a human was just salt in the wound.

Caitlin said, "I didn't give you a checkbook, though."

My thoughts churning as I processed all the information, I said, "You couldn't manage a driver's license while you were at it?"

"Sorry. I don't drive."

Something she said nagged at me, but in the torrent of thoughts and emotions. .h.i.tting me, I couldn't place it. "So... you're paying my bills and things? What are you, my sugar momma?"

"It's temporary."

"Why? Why're you being so nice?"

"I'm a nice person. A good witch, as Glinda once said to Dorothy."

"Bulls.h.i.t. You tied yourself to me, gave me your name, for h.e.l.l's sake! Why would you do such a thing?"

"Let's just say I care about what happens to you."

Then I put my finger on what was bothering me. "Wait a second. Who told you I was in the hospital in the first place?"

I sensed her smile over the airwaves. "The Hecate knows much, Jesse."

Oh... f.u.c.k.

"Don't worry. She's not upset with you for what you did to me. Actually, She was rather amused by it. And you did protect me from that demon of Greed when it came looking for you. As far as She's concerned, you did right by me."

"Why did She tell you what happened?" I felt the blood drain from my face as I realized something far worse than the patron G.o.ddess of witchcraft telling one of Her worshipers about my hospital trip. "Why is the Hecate watching me?"

"She is the keeper of hidden knowledge and new beginnings," Caitlin said. "Nothing is hidden from Her."

"That is so not an answer."

"Do you like your new bracelet?"

Black dots winked on the edge of my vision. "How... ?"

"The design's called the Rope of Hecate. Very special. Supposedly, it ties its wearer to life. If I were you, I wouldn't get mugged again."

"What's going on, Caitlin?"

"Bye, Jesse. Blessed be."

I stared at the buzzing phone for a moment before I flipped it closed and stuffed it in my pocket. Blessed be. Just like the peddler had said to me earlier tonight. Friggin' witches. Mental note: Next time someone suggests I'm blessed, tell them where they should stuff their blessing.

On my wrist, my bracelet winked at me, a conspiracy of magic and gold. The Rope of Hecate. The G.o.ddess of witchcraft, apparently, was watching me so closely that she wanted to help me accessorize.

My fingers danced over the fine links of the thick rope. I should take it off, toss it into the closest trash can. Smash it against a wall. Hurl it into the street and watch its metamorphosis from jewelry to fashion roadkill.

But it really was a lovely piece of work.

The Hecate wants me to have the bracelet for a reason, I decided, admiring how it looked on my wrist. And who was I to p.i.s.s off a G.o.ddess?

Nothing is hidden from. Her.

Why was the Hecate interested in me? Why did Alecto want me to return with her to h.e.l.l? How long would Lillith nurse her grudge before she came after me?

Paul, why didn't you believe me?

Normally, when things got too tough for me to deal with, I coped by f.u.c.king my brains out. But since I wasn't about to go marching back to Paul yet, I decided to do the next best thing.

I was going to get absolutely s.h.i.t-faced.

Chapter 6.

The Bar Fly Whoever said you can't drink away your troubles was a liar.

Sitting at the bar of the aptly named The Bar Fly, I was working my way through the b.a.s.t.a.r.d series of drink-to-get-completely-f.u.c.ked-up drinks. I'd kicked it off with a Suffering b.a.s.t.a.r.d (gin, rum, lime juice, bitters, ginger ale) followed immediately by a Dying b.a.s.t.a.r.d (ditto, plus brandy). Now the bartender, a sweetie named Guy (as in, "Hey, Guy, get me another, will you?"), was cooking up a Dead b.a.s.t.a.r.d (Dying b.a.s.t.a.r.d, plus bourbon). I think Guy and the other bartender had a bet going whether I'd pa.s.s out on the stool.

That, of course, wasn't going to happen. The stool was so small, I'd collapse to the ground and do my pa.s.sing out there, crumpled like a used tissue.

The Bar Fly was one of those hole-in-the-wall sort of places that you either heard about or discovered by accident. For me, it had been serendipity. When I'd hung up the phone with Caitlin, I found myself standing in front of a magic shop. Figured. It looked like a place that fleeced the unsuspecting consumer-breakaway links, rabbits and hats, smoke and mirrors. Trickery. Illusions that people paid to see, knowing all the while they were being fooled. Stupid s.h.i.t for brains humans. But what had caught my attention was the huge fly's head on an awning over the second floor.

No words; just the insect. Maybe it was a tribute to Beelzebub. Or Vincent Price.

My curiosity had gotten the better of me, so I went upstairs to find the smallest pub in the known universe. Heavy in wood grain-both as decoration and as alcohol-and so dimly lit that they either were late with their electric bill or were being trendy, the place was surprisingly busy. Maybe sixty other patrons were squashed in, hanging by the bar or slumming over at the private tables. I'd pressed my way to the bar and s.n.a.t.c.hed the first empty seat.

One thing about being short: you can squeeze between other people like a greased ferret.

"Here you go," Guy said, handing me an ice-heavy gla.s.s. Our fingers touched briefly. The booze must have been working its magic on me, because I didn't even consider the possibility of sleeping with him. Not that I would have kicked him out of bed if I found him there-he was cute in the too-many-muscles sort of way. Kind of like an action figure. The ones with karate-chop action.

Hmm. I wondered what he'd do if I pressed the right b.u.t.ton...

"I think this should be it for you," Guy said.

c.r.a.p. Another White friggin' Knight. Why was I constantly around guys who did right by rote? Guy and his "give me the car keys" smile; Paul and his "take my cell phone please" righteousness.

"I don't know. I still remember my name." I barely slurred. Points for me.

"Remembering your name is good," Guy said. "What is it?"

"Jesse."

"See, Jesse, it's like this. I wouldn't be able to live with myself, knowing that I let you get completely smashed, with no one to take you home."

"Sweetie," I said, perking up, "is that an offer?"

He smiled warmly. "More like a concerned bartender not wanting to have a customer go to the hospital with alcohol poisoning."

I slumped back down. Fabulous. I just got shot down by Action Figure Guy. My life sucked. "You know, it feels like I could go one past the Dead drink. Maybe you've got a Burn In h.e.l.l b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

"Jesse, I think the bar's closed for you after the one you've got now. Unless you switch to soda. That's six fifty."

I handed him a twenty and told him to keep the change. If Caitlin was paying for my life, I could afford to be generous. Lifting the gla.s.s, I saluted him before I took a swig. My taste buds were pretty numb by now, but I thought Guy might have overdone the ginger ale.

d.a.m.ned White Knights. Give me the bad boys. At least they knew how to have a good time.

I sipped my Dead b.a.s.t.a.r.d. The fine hairs in my nostrils had long since burned to a crisp from the acrid stench of booze and smoke, so I drank without benefit of smell. Or, apparently, taste. No problem-I still felt the warmth roll down my throat, setting my blood to a quiet simmer.

Now if only I could forget my name, I'd be a happy former malefic ent.i.ty.

"Jesse Harris?"

c.r.a.p on toast. I hunched over, hoping that I'd misheard.

A woman sidled up to me, turned to face me. I felt something ugly cross my features as I recognized the blonde from Dance Hall Daze.

"You have got to be s.h.i.tting me," I said, staring at her wholesome blue eyes, her spun-gold tresses, her flawless skin. She had the nerve to be wearing a white clinging dress that charitably could be called a sc.r.a.p-and she made it look good. Her legs started approximately at her chin and ended in white strappy stilettos so high heeled that my feet hurt just looking at them. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.

Of course she was beautiful. She was an angel. They don't do fugly in Heaven.

b.i.t.c.h. I wanted to barf all over her sky-high Manolo Blahniks, but then I would have lost all the lovely alcohol I'd consumed. Not worth it.

For a moment, I considered the possibility that this was Lillith, getting ready to do some serious a.s.s kicking. But no-even for someone as vain and power-hungry as my former Queen, there are limits. Dressing like a cherub would have been out of the question. Even she had standards.

"It's official," I said. "This day just can't get any worse."

"Jesse Harris," the angel said, p.r.o.nouncing my name like it was a prayer, "I need to apologize to you."

I took a long swallow of my drink, heard the ice cubes rattle like broken teeth. "For what? Being a walking Barbie doll?"

"For flirting with your man. My Lord Daunuan told me to distract him."

Lord Daunuan? Hooboy. "Your lord is a little satyr with a big d.i.c.k," I said.

"My Lord outranks me, so I had to obey." Her brow crinkled prettily. "I didn't know what else to do. I think I may have upset you."

"No, you think?" I knocked back my Dead b.a.s.t.a.r.d and slammed the gla.s.s on the counter. "Piece of advice, sweetie. You want to succeed at being a Seducer, don't apologize for being a b.i.t.c.h."

One thing about the human const.i.tution: the combination of fear, stress, and alcohol is murderous on the bladder. I leapt off my stool and fled to the ladies' room, leaving the celestial creature floundering behind me.

In the bathroom, I maneuvered around the gaggle of women cl.u.s.tered by the mirrors over the sinks and sequestered myself in a stall. I did my business quickly, my head buzzing from booze. But I was in no rush to leave; the last thing I wanted was to see the angel again.

So I sat, and as my b.u.t.t molded itself to the toilet seat, I stared at the graffiti penned onto the walls. Ballpoint poems. Some witty sayings about love; more about s.e.x. A handful of a.s.sertions regarding certain men's abilities in bed. Meaningless scribbles from bathroom scribes. I tried to focus on the words, but the memory of Daun's chuckles played in my head, his l.u.s.ty voice stealing my attention.

Come back to h.e.l.l.

I frowned as I considered his words. Could I do it? Go back to the Pit, rid myself of my mortal sh.e.l.l and human soul, and just get jiggy with it?