Highway to Hell

by Lydia Anne Stevens

  Sure enough, there's Damien himself, son of Satan, sitting sprawled on one of the black leather couches, watching a football game on a big plasma TV. Two of his boys are playing pool at the far end of the room with a third leaning against a pinball machine, looking on. The newest recruit is perched like a watchdog, sitting stiff and rigid in the armchair next to the couch. Damien obviously hasn't bothered to make him feel welcome, but not my problem.

  The space is like a coed clubhouse for both gangs. The Hounds constantly dominate the Pound, watching whatever they want on TV and emptying the fridge of whatever is good and unspoiled. I'm not sure we have to eat, but who doesn’t love stirring a French fry in the puddle of grease and ketchup at the bottom of one of those plastic dinner baskets? Some of the best food that won't ever kill me slowly anymore is in those truck stops just off the highway. I’m always down for a stop-off, knowing the fridge here is always empty. The way I see it, as long as you can stomach the sound of crackling roaches falling into the deep fryer, you're all good. It doesn’t really bother me since roaches were like pets in our apartment before the state of Arizona took Fiona and I from Mum and gave us to the Andersons.

  As I watch the domination seep out of every Hound in the room, I know there isn’t a chance we’ll get to chill and relax or veg-out on the couch with them all around. I try to think of the positive. At least we all have our own private rooms and aren't sprawled out all casual on a torture rack or something.

  "Kitty Cat! You aren't going to say hello?" Damien rises from the couch, shoving his hands in his jeans as he walks over to me.

  Shit. I'm caught between him and the TV. I hate being cornered by him, but my crew takes a step back behind me. I hear the leather from their clothes as they do. They aren't even going to try to help me weasel my way out of this confrontation. I'm going to have to play "beat a bitch" later.

  "It's Catriona or Trina. I've told you this before. Glad we had this chat. Later.” I try to walk around him, but he sidesteps, blocking my path. I can feel my whiskers and fangs again. Damn it. Now is so not the time to show off the goods. “What?"

  "Did you miss me?" His cocky grin makes me want to punch him too.

  I flip him off.

  "You're always such a delight to talk to.”

  "And you're always a pain in the ass.”

  "Throw a dog a bone, Catriona.”

  I hate it when he uses my full name. Like he has a secret he is willing to tell me after he uses it, but he is waiting for me to ask. “For you or your crew?"

  "You know what I meant.”

  I cross my arms and look past him at my bedroom door. “Never going to happen.”

  "Why not? We could be indestructible, you and me. Or we could destroy whatever the Hell we want, when and where we want, and do anything we want.”

  His black and silver eyes bore into mine and I feel like prey being hunted as he tries to wear me down. He's been trying since I joined the ranks of mercenary soul-hunters for his father. The problem is I can't figure if he is just jonesing for a tumble in the sack or if there's something else he's coming after me for. He talks like he wants to take over the world, but he has never come out and said it’s his end game. I shudder to consider if he does have a personal vendetta in the tug of war between Heaven and Hell and what it means if there is a shift in the regime leadership. Damien will destroy the organized chaos that is the system down here and we can't have evil running amok doing as it pleases, can we? Hell, versus Heaven and Humanity, are still not odds I'm sure I want to bet on.

  As I stare back into his dark face, I get the feeling like he is asking me for something more. He's never outright said he wants a skin on skin session. I've always just assumed he meant sex. I've had my fair share of the bad boy types and I'm done with them. Despite the fact Damien is tall dark and damn-he's-fine, there is no way I'm falling in with the likes of him. That path only leads a girl down the road of chaos and destruction.

  "I told you once, I've told you a thousand times, Damien. I don't play well with others, especially you. Not interested.” I wonder when my breaking point will come and I'll just haul off and deck him? Maybe around the time I have to tell him one thousand and two times not to piss in my litterbox. I really should be getting into Heaven soon. I have the patience of a saint when it concerns him. Not.

  "I understand. You're all about saving the remnants of your soul. I could retrieve it for you.”

  Temptation, damn you look so good in those jeans.

  I recoil, but don't take the bait. He has promised it before, but I recognize it for the pretty lie it is, all wrapped up in his masculine form of seduction and sin. If I was stupid enough to take him up on the offer, he would renege on his promise and work tirelessly to destroy the last vestiges of whatever remains of my soul. I watched him do it to his last two "girlfriends" here in Hell. They'd gone away after he'd had his fun. I don't know where and I've never asked, not even Auntie J.

  "Who's the new rider?" I look at the kid sitting in the black leather chair. He’s not looking at us but using his fingernail to scrape red paint off the wall where one of the Hounds carved last week’s hockey score between the Diablo’s and the Saints. I can never remember the states for the college teams, but ESPN seems to be the channel of choice on the TV all the time.

  "I'm so glad you asked. This is Phil, a fallen angel.” He nods to Phil, still sitting in his chair. The expressions on Phil and Tora's faces are the same; like a Grandma at the senior citizen’s home when the kids come to pick her up for the family barbecue. They bite their lips in anticipation, and squint, gauging the distance between where they’re standing and how far away the exit is. Grandma got game with her walker on BBQ day. She’s like an Indy-500 driver and will run you the big TF over if you get in her way, not unlike them. They’re ready to bolt out the door.

  "You have a fallen angel named Phil? Scary.” The poor kid is an anathema to scary. He looks like he's no older than fifteen, maybe sixteen. What sucks is Hell has no rules for underage employment. Leave it to Damien to start recruiting the young ones. Asshole. I wonder what Phil has done to fall from Heaven? With his appearance pulling a twinsy with Tora’s, he looks like he could pass off as this year’s prom king. I wonder if demons ever get their boogie on? If so, I’ve never seen it. Tabby gets another smack down for playing the pop songs in her room last week. I’m a classic rock girl and I don’t need an earworm. Phil’s baby-blues flick to my eyes. I want to smile at him, but I’m not sure it won’t land him a beat-down by the other Hounds later on.

  "I see you've got a new recruit yourself.” Damien turns his attention to Tora, who takes a step closer to Leo as she walks into the room off the elevator. Damn, girl, in this pound you need to grow a pair if you want to survive.

  "These are the two Hellhounds, Doug and Richard.” He nods to the two who are playing pool, still talking to Tora. They are huge guys with way too much macho and muscle to keep track of. So not my type. Their silver collars glint under the low light above the pool table. I can never remember if Doug is the one with the nose piercing or if it’s Richard. I’m pretty sure it’s Richard because Doug is so simple Sam whenever I see him around. Even his name screams ‘please give me a personality.’ I only know him because his flat brown hair and hazel eyes are so ordinary, I almost wish he had a cooler name. At least Richard has the bullring and dyed hair so electric blue it could light up the foyer under the broken light bulbs and torches in Limbo.

  "Wait, wait. I've got this one! Doug the dog and Dick the…"

  "And this is a recruit who has been here for about a week. The Incubus, Charles.” He points to the third guy watching the game. Charles is someone important, or at least he was when he was alive. The way he holds himself in a rigid, holier than thou stance makes me want to stick his nose in the Jeremiah juice up in the garage. Men who stick their noses in the air and use that much hair gel to grease back their ebony waves should be forced to suffer down here. His skin is pale. Too pale. Tora’s is pale
due to fright, and understandably so, but his is unnatural.

  I shift my weight, not wanting Damien to catch the shudder as I sniff the air and figure out what Charles is. Incubus smells about as well as a four-week-old corpse and it doesn’t matter how much expensive cologne he has doused himself in. There’s no covering up dead and decaying. I wonder what Damien did to merit his Daddy sticking him with one of his fouler creatures of the night? Being babysat doesn’t look good on Damien either. I see it now. The lines in his face. Talking about Charles stresses him out. There’s so much dirt here, I can’t wait to claw my way to the bottom of the pile and roll in it when I find out what Damien is hiding.

  All three men stop what they are doing and turn to us simultaneously. It's creepy as shit because there is no light in their eyes. Just irises bleeding into pupils full of dead and dangerous.

  "Sticking with your usual crew huh? All bottom feeders? I suppose we all knew you couldn't sink any lower.” Bravado is my only recourse sometimes, but at least it gets the Hellhounds attention off Tora, the fresh meat.

  "There's the pot calling the kettle, Kitty Cat. Have you helped your boy toy sell any more drugs lately?"

  I stiffen, ready to pounce. I just sauntered my ass into that one, didn't I? I loathe the knowing sneer on Damien's face. Why is he looking at me with a damn secret in his eyes again? Screw it, why should I care about his games? I shake my head, clearing the fiery feline eyes and rescind my fangs. I push my way past him, walking across the sitting room to the door of my own room. My girls follow as Damien crosses his arms and grins. I’ll figure his secret out someday. It’ll wipe the smirk off his face and rub his nose in the litter for sure. I feel my ears turn pink.

  "Come on, Trina! If you're going to come home, claws sharpened and fangs out, you can't really expect me, my father's son, to play fair now, can you?"

  "You're pathetic.” I yank open the door of my bedroom and slam it shut behind Leo, the last one in the room. She’d come down not long after we did and walked into the middle of the confrontation just as Damien really got his game on.

  The girls filter through my room, standing awkwardly around like they don’t know if they should ask me to move so they can leave or sit and lean against any available surface.

  I lean back against the door as if it will keep the wolves at bay. Breathing hard, I listen to the sounds of deep demonic laughter coming from the Dog Pound. I can't stifle the growl of anger rising in my throat as I yank my jacket off and toss it on my forest green Rattan Papasan chair sitting next to my bookshelf.

  "Don't let him get to you, luv.” Leo and the rest of my girls remain scattered around the room, waiting for me to cool my head. Tora gazes around the room, taking in the details on the walls and the simple furniture. The ivy and cream décor is an anathema to my persona, so it amuses me watching the confusion parade across her face. Tabby continues to thumb through her phone, snapping her gum and looking ignorant and happy. I envy her sometimes, which isn’t a good thing since it seems to be one of the seven sins getting the souls bit in the ass down here.

  I peek at Fae. I always know when she pinches the bridge of her nose the way she’s doing, she’s either planning the best possible way to take someone out with the least amount of effort or she’s running sciencey things none of the rest of us understand. Leo is toying with the barbs on her whip, pretending not to be sneaking glances at Tora.

  "He's a douche bag,” Tabby finally says and slings her own colors over her arm. The emblazoned red and black cat skull on the back of the leather is face up. I walk across the tiny five-foot expanse and fling myself onto my bed, not caring my boots are still on or the fact I still have Jeremiah's blood on my favorite shirt.

  "He's such an asshole,” I mutter.

  "Yeah, but we knew that already.”

  I peek out from under my arm as Leo leans against the spot on the door where I just vacated.

  "Umm, why did they have collars on?" Tora raises her hand.

  "Sweetie, don't raise your hand. This is Hell, not third grade.” Faline looks like she's going to argue Tabby's supposition. Sometimes interacting with the Hounds feels like playing nice on the playground with the class bully.

  "Those are Satan's Hounds. The collars of obedience.” Fae’s tone is clipped and matter of fact. I half expect her to whip out a clip board and start jotting notes like in the days of yore when she was playing doctor.

  "Hellhounds are obedient?" The creases on Tora’s face deepen.

  "Aren't all dogs? You'd be surprised by the codes some demons live by down here. I need five," I hold up my palm and waggle my fingers, "before I go find Auntie J. Show Tora to a room.”

  "She can sleep with me.” Leona, as my second, has her own room.

  Tora doesn't catch on, but Tabby giggles. “Not sure she plays that way, Leo.”

  "Huh?" Tora's head is playing the Ping-Pong routine.

  Leo looks disappointed, but knowing her, she won't be deterred for long. Tora will catch on to the rhythm soon enough though and then decide if she's up for some Leo-loving.

  "Come on.” Faline opens the door and ushers them out into the Pound, leaving me in peace.

  I gaze up at my sky-blue ceiling, wishing I were anywhere else but locked up in here. I purposefully decorated my room with colors of nature. Blue and green swirl with earthy browns on the ceiling in a kaleidoscope of colors. It makes the room feel less like it is suffocating me. I trace a finger down the ivy leaves on the cream wallpaper next to my bed and close my eyes, letting my hand drop to my chest, along with the irritation and annoyance at everyone and their uncle, just as a knock sounds at the door.

  I groan and jump out of bed. I cross the room in a heartbeat and open the door to tell Damien to piss off, but find Auntie J standing on the other side with her hands on her hips. She looks ripping mad, which doesn't bode well for me. Uh oh. I should have read her text.

  "Auntie J, what's up?" I step back, holding the door wide. When Auntie J wants to talk, there is no way anyone is going to deny her entrance to do so.

  "Why do you let that boy get to you? You know he does it on purpose just to get you going.” Auntie J looks around the room like it offends her, scrunching her nose up like she can smell the freshness of the vines and flowers.

  "I can't help it. I mean, can he be any more blasé about who his father is? The way he flaunts it. His transparency is so friggin' aggravating.” I shut the door behind her, pointedly refusing to look out into the Pound.

  "You'd be surprised by the depths of Damien.” She walks over to the chair.

  "He's the epitome of depravity.” I skulk to my bed and sit back down, folding my arms over my chest.

  "I see you've been bending the rules again.” Auntie J nods at the blood smear on my t-shirt. She picks up my colors and sits in the low bucket seat, folding the leather jacket over her lap. The wicker base of the chair creaks as a whoosh of air leaves the plump cushions.

  "I didn't bend the rules. Jeremiah just got a little lippy.” I'm not supposed to dole out any punishment to the marks, it's for the Drudes to decide, but he had it coming.

  "And my wings are made of glitter.” Her black eyebrows shoot up and I quaver under “the look.”

  "You don't have wings.” I feel the tension leave her. It’s like a wave of heat and I settle back against the bed. Whatever made her mad, for some reason she has always been quick to let it go whenever I piss her off, which isn’t often.

  "That you know of, child.” She winks at me and I always get the sense she's seen a millennium of time down here when she calls me child. I've never asked her what the crime was in exchange for the time. It's an unwritten rule not to ask. And if there is even a modicum of decency in the souls down here, we don't want to know.

  I sit back up and lean forward, looking over Auntie J's shoulders. “Have you been holding out on me?" How Auntie J hides her wings, I have no idea. Probably how I hide my tail and whiskers, but she does it well.

  "Just don't shake them
out on the carpet. I have a theory glitter spawns itself and its damn near impossible to pick up with a vacuum cleaner.”

  "This is Hell, Baby Girl, why do you think glitter is a favorite craft of mine?"

  "Tabby could bejewel your wings for you like she does her jeans. It would be less messy and you'd be sporting the bling permanently,” I offer.

  "I'll pass on that nefarious business. Speaking of, you've got another mark to collect.”

  "Really?" Yes! I'll collect anyone to crawl back out of this hole. Well, almost anyone. Freedom is just a few job details away again. I can almost taste the crisp air out on the highway filling my lungs. I can hear the rush of wind and feel the heat of the sun on my face.

  "Don't sound so excited about it. You would have known if you answered my text.”

  Something in her voice is off, but I’m too excited to be getting out of here, I ignore it. Auntie J has a lot of issues to deal with as Hell’s handler. No use prying open Pandora’s Box.

  "Sorry, Wi-Fi was down. Besides, it just means the girls and I get to ride again!" I jump up and hold my hand out for my jacket. She holds it out to me.

  "Anything troubling you lately, Trina?"

  I look into brown eyes so dark, they almost match her hair. I think about telling her my own hope and despair is at an all-time low. How many more years of collecting souls do I have before I will be redeemed? How much longer do I have to put up with Damien and his shit? I have sins to atone for, I know, but my punishment seems eternal despite my deal, and now there is another recruit to train and build a bike for. Airing my grievances may fall on deaf ears though. She is still a demon.

  "Nah, I'm good. You know how I roll, Auntie J.” I know I'm not fooling my handler for one minute, judging by the ancient eyes staring back at me, but I might have stalled for some more time before I have to truthfully answer her question.