Damien is the last to ride through on his Boss Hoss with the V8 motor mounted to the frame. It's loud and annoying like the demon himself, and I find it weird he is bringing up the rear. Gang leaders don't ride in the back. It should have been Phil's spot.
I catch the relief in his eyes, the tension lines slacken and his pinched lips loosen ever so slightly when he sees us sitting here. I think it's strange because I didn't know he cared so much. What's his game?
He pulls through the line and kills his motor, dousing the flames and not really caring about the gawkers around us and the tourists on the streets who just caught an eye-full of Hell. This is New York, baby. I love the people in this city who don't give a damn enough to care. As much as I hate driving here when we have to pick up marks, flaming motorcycles with sidecars and hearses aren't the strangest things any of the natives have seen. Human behavior is often a heck of a lot weirder.
"You good?" Damien's question is directed at me and I have a feeling he's asking about more than the trek cross-country. I don’t fancy a trip down memory lane back into the abyss, but just looking into his eyes, which are their serene blue today, makes me feel better somehow, knowing he was there. Weird. I didn’t know he could make me feel better. I don’t want the other’s picking up on my grateful emotes though.
"Where's Zeke?" I feel Lowell stiffen behind me and everyone looks around like they are expecting Zeke to magically appear on the back of someone's bike.
"The only place he would hold still.” Doug tosses his head behind him. He can’t be serious. I scramble off Sugar, almost knocking her and Lowell over.
"Damien! You weren't supposed to kill him already. We have to switch the marks!" I start toward him, but he holds up his hands.
"Easy, Catriona, he's not dead. Just contained. The little jackass didn't want to stay on the back of the bike. He tried to pull a tuck and roll. So I put him the only place he wouldn't escape.”
I stare at him as my mouth drops. He put a living person in a coffin to transport him cross-country? He's crazier than I am. Although, it explains why he was able to get a living person through the portal without catching fire. Still, even as a demon, there has to be some part of this that's unethical. I run over to the hearse and slap my palms against the glass. How does he know Zeke hasn’t suffocated yet? I look for a latch, a hinge, anything which will get me into the hearse and get the coffin open. When I don’t see it, I turn back around.
"Open the coffin, Damien.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, wondering if we are about to find Zeke suffocated to death lying beneath the lid. I never could figure how vampires in movies could punch a hole in them and then climb up through six feet of dirt. It just doesn't logically make sense. It would be an easy way for Zeke to go, but would make this whole fiasco an even bigger mess than it already is.
Damien walks over to the coffin and slides the glass panel open, apparently the hearse is spelled somehow. I squint and see silvery runes running through the panel. The cool air wafts out of the hearse and tells me at least Zeke won’t be dead from heat stroke. It must act like the sidecar on Fae’s bike, able to transition souls and acclimate the climate within to the needs of the person it contains. Damien then leans over as I feel his eyes on my face, but I watch as he releases a latch on the outside of the coffin. The silver latch clicks and a popping noise sounds as the seal on the lid releases.
Everyone waits, holding our breaths as Damien reaches over to push the lid up. Most coffins don't need a lock on the outside, the inhabitants aren't going anywhere, but when dealing with incubi, one can never have enough security keeping them under lock and key. I refuse to look at him, not ready to thank him for pulling me out of the Abyss. It’s easier to be mad at him. He has broken every law of ethics this side of mankind. Even human prisoners have more rights than being locked away, alive in a coffin. He better hope Zeke’s worst nightmare isn’t being buried alive, because if a Drude hitched a ride on this one, I’ll shove it so far up Damien’s--
Damien doesn't get a chance to open the lid because Zeke comes busting out of the coffin.
The only thing I can think is he resembles a shrieking banshee. It isn't a pleasant sight. The banshees are the ones who inform Auntie J someone is about to die so she can tell Damien to go mark them,and then subsequently yours truly and company steps in to go and collect. Hell really is a well-oiled machine sometimes. The banshees are a spirit more than a demon. The pale complexion stands out about them the most. And the shriek. Zeke has both going on right now as he trips over the edge of the coffin and lands on the blacktop on his face.
I wince, seeing the road rash he gets as a result and when he rights himself, he pivots from side to side, cussing Damien and his crew out.
"Well, there's one I've never heard. I'm pretty sure doing those acts with my Mother is illegal, even by Hell's standards.” Damien folds his arms over his chest.
I wait for it. The moment when Zeke spots Lowell and me standing there. He's so pissed off he's been kidnapped by demons, or terrified, or both, he hasn't noticed us yet. Seeing him is a punch in the soul I wasn’t been ready for. I feel like if I open my mouth right now, I’ll be shrieking just as loudly as he is hollering.
"Where are we? What do you want with me?" Zeke spins around like a mini tornado. His face is sweaty and even with the supernatural air conditioning, adrenaline would make him clam up pretty profusely, as is evident on his beet-red face.
It's at this moment he sees Lowell and I standing here, waiting for him to calm down when he really blows the lid off his top.
"Lowell? C…C…Catriona?"
Lowell mimics Damien's stance and I give Zeke a cheeky wave. As he looks around at all of us, his eyes widen, and his face goes from beet-red to pale and his eyes roll back in disbelief right before he faints. It’s like watching a bad 90’s cartoon, when the character would swoon in slow motion and fall to the floor. It seems like the thud of his body as it falls to the pavement takes forever before it lands right next to the coffin.
10
I send Tora for a bottle of cold water across the street from the DMV. She jogs back quickly, having grabbed two bottles from the man wheeling the trolley cart selling hot dogs and pretzels on the boardwalk. Carts like it are on every street corner in the city and when she gets back, I pop the cap on one and start pouring it over Zeke's face. It takes half a bottle before I get a reaction.
His face twitches and I give him an extra dousing when his eyes blink open. I've never been a sadist, but with the rapid blinking reflex going on, I figure it couldn't have been very pleasant getting a face full of icy water and it makes my twisted heart happy to get a jab in. My emotions rage in a battle between wishing I could crawl into the pavement and become one with the cement and wishing I could pulverize his already battered face into the black top some more.
I sit back on my heels and study his face. It never occurred to me, even as identical twins, how different he and Lowell are. Lowell's face has an aged innocence look to it. Like he's seen some shit, but he can still find the happy in life. Zeke's is twisted into an eternal sneer. Like he's caused the shit and he just doesn't care.
It's been a couple of years, but looking into his eyes, which are identical to Lowell's, the only difference is the light and hope in Lowell's. It is still a kick to the gut though.
"Zeke,” I murmur. I don't bother showing him my true colors. No need to. I'm sure Damien and crew gave him a pants-crapping preview of the paranormal to come so seeing my dead face is shock enough. No need to add whiskers to the mix.
"You're dead,” he whispers.
"You and your brother are so astute.”
"But…how?"
"You telling me you don't remember your suppliers rolling up into our home looking for you and getting a face full of me? You know what, never mind. It's irrelevant now. No time to explain the boom-I'm-back-baby! Just roll with it. We have an appointment with another dead dude.” I stand and turn my back, trying to hide the emotions on my face.
Seeing him is double the kick to the psyche, as it was to see Lowell. The memories, the good, the bad, and what the eff all come rushing back, and if he thinks he just had a shock, it's nothing compared to the anxiety going on all up in my head. I'm offended, right? I mean, who wouldn't be if their ex got them killed then didn't even have the decency to show up to the funeral? The one emotion really digging its nasty little claws in is the hurt though. Even after everything he did, there is a small part of me still caring whether his end is pretty much nigh. I feel the sting in my eyes I swore when the day came of his reckoning, I wouldn’t feel, and it pisses me off my emotions are like, “Nope! Tricked you!”
I avoid making eye contact with Damien as I pass him and I let his boys close in around Zeke so he doesn't make a break for it. I pocket the key to my bike and walk past Lowell. His face is chock full of compassion, which is going to be problematic when we pull the switcheroo out from under the mark of damnation rug. Of course, he feels for his brother, no matter how much of a scumbag he is. Thinking about siblings makes me think about Fiona. I wish…no. I can't do this to myself right now. I have my girls, each with their quirks to fill the void. Yet, there will never be a force on this plain or any other that can fully make up for the sibling bond. Leo pats me on the back as I walk past her to Sugar. Tabby has the decency to put her phone down for two seconds and Tora looks like she’s about to pull another hugger, but Leo puts her arm out to stop her. Fae’s jaw tightens and I see the concern in her eyes, but the curt nod is all the reassurance I need she’s there and she’s got my back.
I shake my head, clearing my mental compass. There's no use heading down the path of emotional overload, so instead, I opt for heading to the boardwalk on Coney Island, which is just around the block on Shell Ave. I bang a left after the Aquarium and hear the thud of the boots from the rest of the party behind me. I don't stop to look back and see what's up. The looks on the faces of the tourists and the small family groups are enough to tell me we are as out of place here as a rabid pack of hyenas at a petting zoo.
Sounds and smells assault my senses. I smell the combination of greasy, fried food and my mouth waters when I see the cartons of French fries and plates of fried dough sprinkled with confectioners’ sugar. I haven’t been to a carnival in years and I could spend hours sampling the various things to eat. The neon lights from the rides flash brilliantly on the horizon in front of me and the faintest hint of ocean air blows in to mingle with the baked stench of body odor and rotting amusement park food in the many trashcans. Ah, Eau d'Brooklyn. There's a reason for the “I Love New York” signs everywhere. I hear the screams of delighted-yet-terrified ride goers on the Cyclone rollercoaster. The irony hits me. We are endeavoring to steal an amusement park ride to get back into Hell. A thought occurs to me and I turn around to confront Damien.
“Hey, how come you were able to ride through a portal at the DMV?" Everyone stops and stares at me like I've gone insane.
"Is this relevant in the middle of an amusement park?" James is the one to look around in alarm at the parents who are beginning to usher their kids away from our group as fast as they can.
"Yes. Why do we need to go steal an amusement park ride if there is a portal right back there?" I don't know why I am being so irrational, but it seems important. Either that, or I am needing to grasp onto something which makes sense to me because seeing my ex-boyfriend has sent me for a head spin.
"Apart from most of New York being on a hotspot, you must have endured the wait at a DMV when you were alive, Catriona?"
Damien has a point, those lines were sin and evil wrapped up in forty-five minutes to an hour of my life lost, but I turn back around and keep walking. I feel the memories of Zeke creep in. I missed the look in his eyes, the detached one when he first met me on campus when I tried out the good life. The straight and narrow hadn’t been my deal though. He was the first one to get me into the passion for motorcycle riding and one day when he was on campus, I couldn’t resist when he offered me a ride. Just once, just to see how freeing it was.
By the time I’d tried to hop off the Zeke ride, it was too late in more ways than one. With an impish smile that didn’t reach his eyes and the freedom from the Anderson’s it meant I didn’t have to adhere to the rigidity of their household if I left, Zeke caught me like a rabbit in a snare. Soft, fluffy, and innocent to start, but the few years we were together, his actions had skinned me and tanned my hide into the hardened shell of the woman I became. It was around that time I began enjoying the feel of leather. It would protect me against the road rash of regret every time I questioned Zeke about his actions or the validity of his “I-love-you’s.” I’d developed a love for having a thick skin and keeping the softness inside where it couldn’t get hurt. Which was probably why when he began dealing right in front of me and not trying to hide it from me anymore, I kept the vulnerable parts that knew it was wrong wrapped in the cracked and toughened skin on the outside and never let them out where Zeke could see them.
I shake my head, letting my little hamster tuck the memories away again on the miniature wheel. They’d spun out of control and off track as I walked, but bringing myself back to the present, I focus on my surroundings.
My crew is flanking me left and right, with Doug and Dick grasping Zeke under the arms and guiding him along. Lowell, Marty, and James are in the middle of our group, with Phil and Charles flanking them and Damien, still bringing up the rear. I continue walking toward Coney Island. I look around at the various rides and food carts, wondering where in all this madness we are supposed to meet up with the renowned Dante, but I stop when I realize I have no idea where to head next.
Damien circumvents the group and I walk next to him in silence as he weaves in and out of the tourist groups. We walk through the park and exit at the rear, walking out on the boardwalk where I stop and stare at the bay. The blue water reminds me of the illusion cast on the open highway where I think if I just go a little farther, I'll be able to meet the place where the sky meets the earth, but the horizon always jumps when I get to the spot where I thought the two realms connected. It's why I love the open road and the ocean. I feel like I could go on forever and never stop. It was the one wish I had for my soul, but now I worry with my deal with Damien, I won't get the beauty of Heavenly eternity. Some souls in Hell are destined for eternal torture, and some eventually fade and blink out, their energy no longer able to sustain their existence. I wonder if in one hundred years, one thousand, I will completely lose my will.
"You won't. It's not who you are, Catriona.” Damien whispers the words so softy, I should be the only one able to hear them, but it’s debatable with Hellhounds who have supernatural healing trailing us.
I jump in my skin. "Can you read minds?" No sugar coating it if he can.
"No, but it's the wistful way you look at the ocean. I've seen it on your face a couple of times now.”
He has? When? Where? Has he been following me? "Why did you help me in the Abyss?" I figure we might as well have this out now. Trust between partners and all. But if he has been following me--
"Because you needed help.”
"You aren't the helpful type. Can you see why I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop here? So, what gives?"
Damien doesn't answer me but stops at a hot dog stand. An old man with a long, wrinkled face looks up and grunts. His beard blows around the side of his chin and I want to reach out and pull it back into place because just looking at it makes me hot and itchy. Don't get me wrong, a man rocking some scruff or a well-trimmed goatee gets me going for sure, but his is wiry looking and reminds me of one of those scrub brushes for dishes in the sink.
"How many?" the old man asks. His Italian accent is so thick it takes me a moment to understand what he is saying. Then I notice the sign on the side of his cart. Dante's Dogs.
"Are you kidding me?" I look around at everyone else who looks just as shocked. James looks like he wants to cry. It's hard seeing a fellow scholar, a starving artist, whe
n life has them so run down, they have to give up the dream. Except, Dante has been dead a long time so the hot dog stand is just a ruse.
"Alright, Dante, cut the crap. We came here for some info on how to get back into the big house.” I cross my arms as the scent of overcooked, processed meat hits me in the face when he opens the lid to the steamer.
"Hey, lady, you gonna order a hot dog or not?" His hazel eyes twinkle when he asks and Damien accepts two from the old man. He moves slowly, his hands curled in on themselves from severe rheumatoid arthritis. No wonder he never went on to write another bestseller of his time. Judging by the state of those fingers, he probably lost the capacity to hold a quill. At least he isn’t offended by our abruptness, but I figure it might do me some good to play nice.
"Sorry. Not hungry. You just weren't what I was expecting is all.” I scuff my boot on the pier as two teenage girls walk up to the stand and order a dog each. Coconut and pineapple suntan oil wafts thick in the air and the bleach blond whispers something to her brunette friend and both giggle behind their sunglasses. They sashay back down the boardwalk as I whisper, "Down boy,” to Damien.
"Eh, forget about it!" Dante raises his hand and then circles around the stand and begins walking down the pier toward the park's maintenance sheds.
"You aren't going to just leave your cart, are you?" Tora looks distraught at the thought of someone walking off with Dante's livelihood.
Dante looks back at it and shrugs. “It was never mine, Mia Cara.”
She turns back and a man walks up to it, having come from the direction of the public bathrooms. He’s wearing a red and white apron with a nametag, Dante with a picture of a flaming hot dog on the front of the apron. I chuckle and continue following the old Italian. The man stops outside the maintenance sheds on the boardwalk and points to one in the back and looks like it hasn't been unlocked in a few years. The navy-blue paint on the sides of the building is beginning to chip and the lock is lying rusted against the white slats of the vehicle bay.
Highway to Hell Page 13