by Mari Mancusi
“You saved me,” I remind him. “When no one else could.”
“Did I?” Jareth’s voice turns suddenly bitter. “Or did I damn you to the life of a monster? Sometimes I wonder.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” he says with a small shrug. “If I had only let you go… allowed you to pass peacefully into a happy afterlife with free Wi-Fi and video games… would it have been better in the end? Was I really saving your life when I bit you? Or was I just being a selfish monster, not able to bear letting you go?”
I stare at him in disbelief. Is that what he really thinks? That I should have died rather than become a vampire?
“So what you are saying?” I ask, not able to help the undercurrent of anger in my voice. “That everything we’ve shared, everything we’ve said, means nothing to you? That if we had to do it all over again, you’d rather let me die?”
Jareth stares down at his feet, his eyes rimmed with blood tears. “I’m just saying I think you would have been better off if you never met me,” he says at last, his voice tortured and broken. “Or if I’d never walked the Earth at all.”
I open my mouth to protest—to tell him he’s being crazy, ridiculous—that my life is three thousand million times better because he’s been a part of it and I wouldn’t change it for the world. But before I can speak, I hear a shuffling behind us. Whirling around, I see Charon standing above us, dressed in a pair of Superman silk pajamas, a big frown on his face.
“What the hell is going on here?” he demands, gesturing to the ruckus up by the fire pit. “I’ve never heard such obnoxious noise in all my millennia! It’s four in the morning, for Hades’s sake!”
I grimace. I was afraid this might happen. Here we are, trying to charm him and instead we’ve only managed to piss him off. I hope Torrid lets me take over his WoW account when he finally crosses the river. Otherwise it’s going to be a long hundred years…
“Sorry,” I say, rising to my feet. “I’m really sorry. We didn’t mean to wake you. I’ll tell them to lay off for the night, okay?” I start toward the band, but Charon grabs me by the arm.
“What, so they can begin again tomorrow morning?” he demands. “Absolutely not. I will not tolerate another nanosecond of this blasted noise on my shores.”
I’m about to apologize another hundred times, but suddenly an idea strikes me. It’s a risk, of course. But those who dare, win, right? “Oh, well, good luck getting them to stop,” I say breezily. “Race told me they plan to practice every day for the next hundred years. Evenings and weekends, too.”
The ferryman stares at me with horror. “But they can’t!” he protests. “I need my beauty rest. Eight hours a night, the reconstructive surgeons said, or I could end up back with my old skeleton face. I paid too much money for this skin to have it flake away from exhaustion.”
I feel Jareth rise to my side. “Sorry,” he says, looking the distraught ferryman right in the eyes. “But you know how musicians are. I doubt you’ll be able to do anything to stop them.” He pauses, then adds, “I mean, as long as they’re here, on this side of the river, that is.” He gives him a meaningful look and it’s all I can do not to grin widely.
Charon crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at us. “Okay, okay,” he says at last. “I’ll take you troublemakers across to the other side. Let Hades himself deal with you. But I’m telling you now, Prim is in big trouble the next time he dares show his face down here. Bringing the living to Hades,” he grumbles. “What’s next? Honeymoons? Bachelorette parties?”
“So you’ll take us?” I ask, trying not to reveal my total excitement. “Even though we don’t have any coins?”
“Yes, yes,” he agrees impatiently. “Just don’t tell anyone, okay? If Hades finds out, he’ll dock my pay again. And I’m trying to save up to have my chin done.” He involuntarily reaches to his chin, which I notice, does indeed look a tad too pointy. “I’ll ready the boat. You get them to stop that noise.” And with that, he storms over to the dock, leaving Jareth and me alone.
I turn to my ex-boyfriend, practically jumping up and down with excitement. “We did it!” I cry. “We actually did it!”
Jareth nods, unable to hide a small smile at the corner of his lips. “I guess we did,” he admits, looking pleased, despite himself. “Now, let’s go tell Race the good news before we both lose our hearing permanently.”
21
If someone had asked me, before this whole adventure, what I thought the Underworld would look like, I’d probably have spouted off some nonsense about fire-and-brimstone, red rocks, bubbling lava, narrow, crumbling bridges. Suffering people, horned demons cracking whips, lakes of fire—you get the idea.
But, turns out, I would have been wrong. By a long shot. You see, the real Hades looks a lot more like middle America. (Which, I imagine, to some, might be a hell in and of itself.) And not the nice, homey middle America with farmhouses and town squares and quaint little soda shops left over from the 1950s. I’m talking the kind right off the interstate—packed with strip malls and chain motels and crappy restaurants. Nothing unique or interesting or artsy as far as the eye can see.
To make matters worse, there’s no sun or blue sky down here deep underground, and so the colors all seem super muted—almost like we’ve stepped into a living, breathing sixties sitcom. (Without the breathing, obviously. Or the living, for that matter.) Everything is black and white, with the exception, of course, of the glowy purple people floating from shop to restaurant with bored looks on their faces.
“Ugh,” I remark as I step off the ferry, glancing over at Race and Jareth. “I’d almost rather go for the lake of fire at this point. At least it would be colorful and interesting.”
Race nods. “Prim told me about this place. They call it the Way Station. Souls hang out here until their lives have been judged and their punishment decided. Then they’re shuffled off to other areas of Hell. Pits of brimstone, cells of sulfur, or maybe, if they’re lucky, an address in the elite Elysian Fields subdivison.”
“It used to be a lot worse, too,” adds Charon as he readies the ferry to go back across the river. “A few years back, Hades got some stimulus money from the gods and decided to spruce up the place. Added a few office buildings, warehouses. He figured if people were going to be sitting around for months on end, they might as pull their own weight.”
I do a double take as a soul floats by, carrying a briefcase. “So wait, you’re saying when you die you still have to work?”
“Afraid so,” Charon says, restarting the boat’s motor. “The real estate investments the boss made down in Florida went underwater big time during the recession. So he needed some quick cash. And what better way to get it than put all these lazy souls on the payroll?” He snorts. “In fact, China’s outsourced about thirty-three percent of their labor to Hades in the last couple years. Course, they still put ‘Made in China’ on the label. Otherwise people might start asking questions.”
I make a face. “Sweatshops from Hell? Remind me never to die.” In fact, the whole waiting around on the riverbank for a hundred years is seeming more and more an attractive option.
“So where does Hades live?” Jareth interjects. “We need to seek an audience with him.”
“Yeah, good luck with that,” Charon replies. “Your best bet is to head over to the Pearly Gates.”
I raise an eyebrow. Charon shrugs. “Hades thought it’d be amusing to call it that,” he explains. “You’ll find he has a weird sense of humor.” He hands me a map. “Take one of the free buses down to Demonia Lane and then take a right onto Spirit Avenue. You can’t miss it—looks exactly like Graceland.”
I look down at the map. “Okay, sounds easy enough.”
Charon steps into his ferry and pushes it away from the dock. “Good luck,” he says as he floats down the river and into the night. “And watch out for the Demon Patrols.”
“Wait, what?” I cry after him, running down the dock. “What Demon
Patrols?” But it’s too late, he’s already disappeared. I bite my lower lip, looking up and down the street, searching for anything remotely demonic.
“Come on,” Jareth says, pointing to an approaching bus. “Let’s get a move on.”
We board the bus and it takes off down the dreary streets, puffing nasty-smelling smoke from its exhaust. I peer out from the greasy windows, watching all the souls we pass, hoping to see Sunny. I know it’s like a needle in a haystack, but what else do I have to do?
The bus pulls up outside a wrought-iron gate, covered with black pearls. Above it reads: ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE. Guess this is the place. We scramble off the bus, locating a little guard shack, to the right of the gate. As we start to approach, we’re suddenly cut off by a dog, straight out of Harry Potter—with three heads’ worth of dripping fangs and a tail lined with spikes.
I look over at Race and Jareth. “Cerberus,” I whisper, recognizing the infamous guard dog from Hell. They nod, both looking more than a little worried.
“Who goes there?” demands the dog’s left head, snapping its teeth. As if he wasn’t scary enough without making threatening mouth movements in our direction.
“Um, hey, Cerberus,” I try, wishing I’d brought some dog biscuits with me. “My name’s Rayne. And this is Jareth and Race. We’re here to meet with Hades. Do you know if he’s in, by any chance?” I feel a little ridiculous, addressing a dog, but when in the Underworld…
The beast’s third head rolls its eyes. “Living,” it snorts derisively. “I don’t know how you got past Charon, but I can assure you that you won’t get past us.”
“At least not without the proper authorization,” adds Head #1. Head #2 growls in apparent agreement.
“Proper authorization?”
The first and third head look at one another, sigh deeply, then turn back to us. “If you want an audience with His Majesty, you must submit your request in triplicate to the Ministry of Audience,” explains Head #1. “There, the request will be heard by six committees. If all of the committees approve your request, then it gets sent up to the main office, where the master himself will consider it.”
Ugh. “And how long will that take?” I ask worriedly. After all, we need to talk to him before Sunny gets judged and becomes a permanent resident. We have no time for bureaucracy.
Head #3 does some quick mental calculations. “On a good day? Maybe a month? But if any of the six committees finds an error on your application, which, let’s face it, sixty-six percent of the time, they do, you’ll have to wait another six hundred and sixty-six days to reapply.”
Head #1 gives us a smug look. “Our best guess in your case?” it says, giving us a critical once-over. “You’re probably in for a three-year wait at the very least.”
“Three years?” I cry. “That’s crazy!”
“If Hades decides to grant your request at all,” adds Head #3.
Head #2 utters a self-satisfied growl that almost sounds like it’s laughing at me. I give it a dirty look.
“It’s better than the alternative,” Head #1 reminds us. “Which is an eternity.”
Okay, this is not good. Time for some creative problem solving here.
“Listen, Dude… Dudes?” It’s hard to know whether I should be speaking in plural to the three-headed beast. “We’re all adults here. Let’s talk about what we need to do to make everyone happy. Maybe I could swing by the butcher and grab you some meat? A nice, big juicy steak perhaps? Or maybe three? Would that help… speed along my application?”
All three heads give me a horrified look. Head #2 growls menancingly.
“A steak?” cries Head #1. “Are you kidding me?”
“Don’t you know we’ve been vegan since 1994?”
“Are you trying to mess with our cholesterol?”
I sigh. “A head of lettuce maybe?” This is not going well.
“Tsk, tsk,” scolds Head #3. “Attempting to bribe an officer of the court. Just for that, your application will be denied.”
“What? But I haven’t even submitted one yet!”
“Well, then you’d better get on that, don’t you think? Time’s a wasting.”
“Why you little—” I make a threatening move toward the beast, but Jareth and Race grab me and hold me back. Probably a good idea, in hindsight. Those sharp teeth may be vegan, but I have no doubt they’d be happy to tear me apart then spit me out, given half the chance.
“Come on, Rayne,” Jareth says firmly, dragging me away from the dog house. “Let’s go find the office and fill out the application.”
“What, so these guys can play fetch with it?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.”
22
After some wandering, we do manage to find the application building, but, of course, it’s closed for the weekend and a bored-looking attendant suggests we come back Monday. Discouraged and exhausted, we head back down the street wondering what to do next. Jareth suggests perhaps finding a motel room where we can crash and then regroup. (Three motel rooms, he clarifies after Race starts asking about who’s sharing what bed.) Luckily, unlike the ferryman, many of these establishments advertise taking American Express. So we agree and head through the parking lot, and enter the first place we see. It’s not five-star, by any means. Heck, if it got one star, I’d be shocked. But at this point none of us feel particularly picky.
We walk into the lobby, which is just as dreary and sad as the rest of the Way Station. The air is overwhelmingly musty and the furniture is ancient and filled with holes. There are cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and even the plastic plants seem wilted. The old clerk behind the counter is fast asleep. We walk up and ring the bell and he grunts as he wakes and looks up at us.
“No room,” he mutters, looking only half conscious.
“What? What do you mean, no room?” I ask.
“Last flash flood flooded the place,” he says with a big yawn. “We’re all booked up for months while people wait for judgment. You’ll find the same everywhere you look. The Way Station is bursting at the seams right now.”
Jareth frowns. “Surely you have something,” he presses, after noting my dismayed face. “We’ve come a long way. And this poor girl is about to drop with exhaustion.”
I nod, doing my best to look pathetic, which isn’t hard considering I haven’t slept in days. “Please, good sir,” I beg. “Maybe even a broom closet?”
The innkeeper frowns, straightening up and adjusting his tie. “Even if I did, you’d be last in line to get it,” he huffs after giving us a critical once-over. “I run a proper establishment here. Dead only.” He points to a sign on the wall, as if to prove his point. Sure enough, it reads: LIVING NEED NOT APPLY.
“Isn’t that a little racist?” Race demands indignantly. “After all, it’s hardly our fault we haven’t been properly staked yet.”
But the innkeeper has already plopped his head back down on the desk and only snores in response. Reluctantly, we give up and head back outside and continue on down the street, looking for some place that might take us in. Unfortunately, each establishment seems to have the same policy, with signs ranging from DEAD or DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT to NO SHOES, NO GLOW, NO SERVICE to even NO LIVING ALLOWED— YES, HERCULES, THIS MEANS YOU!
“What are we going to do?” I ask the boys, dismay knotting in my stomach. “I mean, no one’s going to take us in. But if we stay out in the open, we run the risk of running into one of those Demon Patrols Charon was talking about. And while I’m desperate for a bed, I do not want to sleep in a Hades jail cell, thank you very much.”
Jareth nods, rubbing his chin with his hand. “I think we best keep moving,” he says, looking up and down the desolate street. “If we stay in one place too long, we’re bound to be noticed.”
So we keep trudging forward, through the darkened streets, looking for some kind of shelter. I’m so exhausted and discouraged at this point, I can barely stand and I manage to trip over my feet twi
ce. Luckily, both times Jareth catches me and helps me back upright.
“Thanks,” I murmur, giving him a grateful glance.
But he only grunts in response, looking at me with sad eyes, then turning away. I know what he’s thinking: If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t be here. I’d be safe in my bedroom playing Vampires vs. Zombies. I wish there was some way to convince him that I don’t blame him for what happened and that I’d rather be here with him than anywhere on Earth alone.
“What was I thinking?” Race grumbles on my other side. “I should have never come. This place sucks. There’s not even any groupies around to—”
“OH MY GOD—RACE JAMESON? IS THAT YOU?”
Seemingly out of nowhere, a blond, buxom vampire leaps into our path, her glowy purple eyes dancing with excitement. She throws herself at the vampire rock star and hugs him tight. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re here! You’re really here! I wrote to your record company at least fifty times, trying to get you to come down here for a gig. But I never heard back! I’d been ready to give up hope!” She burrows her face in Race’s chest. “I’m Amanda. Your biggest fan. When did you die? I checked your Hellbook status this morning and it said you were still living. What happened? Blood OD? Pyrotechnics gone bad?”
“Whoa, whoa!” Race says, trying to pry her off of his body. “I’m not dead. I’m just down here visiting with some friends.”
She looks him up and down. “Oh right. Of course. I should have known. You don’t have that new soul glow, do you? Sorry, I was just so excited to see you. I mean, I’ve been waiting for you to die forEVER so we can get some of your music down here. There’s, like, no one at the Way Station that’s half as good as you.”
“Well, thank you. That’s very… flattering. But I think I still have quite a long life—”
“What’s a HellBook?” I interrupt curiously. “Is that like Facebook in Hades?”