The Road To Hell. Jackie Kessler

swallowed thickly. If the infernal really were going to be actively influencing people, encouraging them to live fast and die young, life was about to get much more interesting. Mental note: Start thinking pure thoughts.

      Oh, puke, who was I kidding?

      “I say with supreme confidence that I’ll see you in Hell, slut. But you know,” he added, “the Pit is a better place without you and your Fury friend.”

      I frowned, wondering what he meant by that. Of course Meg was in Hell. That’s where the Furies hung their hats, like most creatures who weren’t inherently Good. If not in Hell, where else could she be?

      Stop. Don’t think about her. She betrayed you, left you to die.

      Her voice, like a kiss, in my mind: We all do what we must.

      “Until next time, slut.” Grinning like he’d eaten all the kids in a candy shop, the Arrogant disappeared in a puff of sulfur.

      There’s nothing worse than a demon with a grudge. And a little dick.

      Chapter 2

      Paul’s Apartment

      Three hours and eight hundred dollars later, I was chin-deep in a delicious bath, thinking very dirty thoughts as my body got squeaky clean. I’d actually netted more than a thousand today, but Circe’s thirst had burned a hole in my wallet. The girl could drink like a parched fish. After our boozefest, I’d put her in a cab and paid the driver well, asking him to make sure she got into her apartment safe and sound.

      This humanity crap was really crimping my style. Had to be the soul. Next thing you know, I’d be wearing a halo. Gah.

      Paul’s bathtub had all the necessary amenities: frothy bubbles that tickled my nose, and a handheld shower massager that tickled me in much more sensitive spots. Dotting the corners of the tub were pale tea candles, their wicks glowing the soft, deep yellow of an overripe mango on the verge of spoiling.

      Yum.

      I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the faint scent of lavender. Whoever invented aromatherapy candles should have his own national holiday. Granted, lavender wasn’t as soothing as a cup of hot tea, or slurping the marrow out of a femur, but it did fine in a pinch. (Not that I’d done any marrow slurping in quite a while, but hey—a gal can reminisce.)

      The only thing missing was Paul Hamilton himself. He was still at work, busy playing vice cop, instead of home with me, playing Cabin Boy and soaping my back. I sighed, petulantly splashed some water over the rim. Figured that the one day this week we were supposed to be home at the same time, he was running late.

      Well, at least I had my spiffy water buddy, complete with three settings. Speaking of which…

      Ummmmmm…

      Just as I was turning the dial from “light spray/pulsing massage” up to “orgasmic,” something outside the bathroom went thump.

      I shut off the shower attachment and sat up with a frown, bubbles clinging to my nipples like effervescent pasties. After a moment, I heard someone moving down the front hall.

      A huge grin broke across my face. My Cabin Boy returneth.

      Pulling myself up, I stepped out of the tub. My skin immediately pebbled from the cool air; Paul kept the apartment set at sixty-eight, but I was used to hotter. Teeth chattering, I grabbed a towel and dried myself off fast enough to give myself friction burns. Even though I was planning on getting utterly soaked again (inside and out), no one liked lying in a wet spot.

      Sufficiently less moist, I wrapped the damp white towel around my torso and tucked the end between my breasts. Style by way of muumuu. The mirror over the sink showed me not quite at my finest. Without makeup, my face was very much a second-glance sort of pretty: large green eyes, sharp nose and chin offset by full cheeks and cupid-bow lips, pale skin that made Goths burn with envy. Thick black hair framed my face with a million annoying curls. Fair skin, dark hair—a striking combination that added up to bleaching, tweezing, and cursing. On the plus side, my body was lithe and lean, with tits that didn’t quit and strong, shapely legs. On the not-so-plus side, barefoot I stood at five-foot-four.

      I really should have opted to look like a supermodel when I had myself magicked into a human. Twenty-twenty hindsight, and all of that.

      A quick finger-comb proved that my hair was on strike. Fuck it. I’d pretend the tousled wet look from the 1980s was back in fashion. And Paul would be too busy locking lips with me to notice my scary hair.

      Another thump, closer to the bathroom. Time to get lusty.

      Thinking about whether I would start Paul off with a tongue bath or the real thing, I opened the bathroom door and padded down the hall to the living room. And froze.

      Standing by the entertainment center, a woman turned to face me. Her long brown hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back, and a white toga draped around her curves like a frat boy’s wet dream. Her blue eyes fixed on my green ones, and I felt the air whoosh out of my body.

      Megaera.

      Look at that, the Arrogant had been right: she really wasn’t in Hell.

      My heart sank down to my toes, pausing only to set my stomach aflutter. I wanted to laugh for joy; I wanted to hurl curses and assorted cutlery at her. I wanted to punch her teeth out until her mouth was bloody; I wanted to kiss her and crush her in a loving embrace. And I wanted it all to happen right now.

      Bless me, how on Earth did mortals ever control their emotions? Screw that—how did they ever understand them?

      Not knowing what to say, I just stared, taking in her appearance. Same old Meg. In the thousand-or-so years I’d been friends with her, I’d rarely seen her dress any differently. The ancient-Greek thing worked for her; she got a kick out of looking delicate. It was part of her warped sense of humor. My chest tightened as a memory flashed in my mind: Meg and me, roasting human drumsticks in the Lake of Fire, giggling like schoolgirls as we shared jokes about the Arrogant and Hell’s elite.

      And then I remembered the softest brush of her lips on my own as she kissed me and left me to die.

      Now, standing before me in Paul’s apartment, Meg grinned. There was nothing in that grin that spoke of friendship. It was a thing of madness—all hunger and anticipation.

      The sight of that cold grin cut through my tangled mess of emotions. My breath catching in my throat, I stared at her again, stared through her shell and saw the flicker of an aura around her: red and thick, like freshly spilled blood.

      In a strangled whisper, I said, “You’re not Megaera.”

      The grin pulled into a leer, and her voice hit me like shattered glass. “I never said I was.” Crimson pooled in her eyes, then leaked out of the corners and meandered down her face, staining her cheeks.

      Oh shit.

      My nostrils pinched from a sudden stench of rotten eggs and charred meat, emanating from not-Meg like rank perfume. Brimstone.

      Apparently, tonight was Hell Night. Silly me, I’d thought that was just a collegiate fraternity thing.

      As I stared into her bleeding eyes, my brain desperately signaled my legs to run like fuck, but my feet were glued to the floor. Helpless, I watched her form shift and blacken, sliding into an ebony caricature of flesh. The face wizened and cracked with age. Brown hair melted into black snakes that coiled in elaborate braids crowning her head. An enormous serpent undulated around her bony shoulders, flowing over her like a slithering ouroboros. The white tunic charred and lengthened until it was an obsidian gown of mourning. Behind her, massive bat-like wings slowly unfurled, engulfing the living room in shadow.

      Swallowing thickly, I gazed upon Alecto, one of Meg’s two sister Furies. I would have prayed fervently, except I didn’t know which direction the prayers should go—up to Heaven or down to Hell. Mental note: Get religion.

      Mental note, part two: First survive