The Road to Hell

by Jackie Kessler

  Sometimes, it was really nice to be nothing more than an object of sexual desire.

  Money in hand, I draped myself over the brass rail, lacking one leg up behind me while I waited. The music switched over to "I Want Your Sex." It must have been Faith's first show of the night; she always lacked off her performances with a three-song tribute to George Michael. The menfolk never seemed to mind—they were too busy wondering whether Faith's body was as soft as the feathers strapped to her back.

  Faith ditched her robe and wings, revealing a lacy white bra and matching G-string. Shimmying in time to the music, she bounced her way to the tip rail. If she was surprised to see me, she hid it masterfully.

  I blew her a kiss, held out the folded ten. The spotlight illuminated my movements, temporarily making me part of her show. As Faith offered me her cleavage, I fought back an urge to climb up next to her and strip off my dress.

  Slowly tucking the bill between her breasts, I was careful not to touch the exposed tops of her mounds. No groping the dancers. If our customers couldn't do it, I shouldn't do it. She winked at me, then dropped to the floor to crawl over to the next patron, standing to my right. Look at that—based on the line by the rail, I'd started a trend.

  Heading back to the bar, I watched the angel pick up her shot glass and sniff the contents. Making a face, she put the drink back on the counter. That she was curious about it at all was a victory. I'd have her ready to spread her legs in no time.

  So I wasn't a succubus any longer. I would always belong to Lust. And that was gospel I was happy to preach.

  Chapter 8

  New York City

  After midnight on a chilly November Friday along the streets of Manhattan: wind howled like a werewolf in heat, kicking up litter and swirling the tails of my trenchcoat around my legs. My heels clicked on the sidewalk, but those steps were swallowed by gales, silenced in the blustery whine that stung my ears and whipped my hair around my face. Car exhaust and the dank, cloying pressure of impending rain dampened the ever-present odor—now just the lightest hint of a smell—of too many people and too much sewage in too little a space. Graffiti and billboards alike were shrouded in darkness, their promises and enticements illegible. Store windows slept; no stars shone in the nighttime sky.

  Perfect weather for a drunken walk home.

  My arms out for balance, I tottered in my high heels, singing Chumbawamba's "Tubthumping" at the top of my lungs, not giving a shit who heard.

  Behind me, the angel said, "You're sort of staggering. Maybe we should get a taxi."

  That wasn't how the song went. Taxis were nowhere in the lyrics. "He drinks a… wait a second. How's this part go? He drinks a something drink."

  "You're drunk, aren't you?"

  "He drinks a cider drink. Or a vodka drink. Or a bourbon drink. Fuck, I think I lost the words. What's that song with bourbon in it?"

  "And this is why the Cherubim don't drink alcohol."

  "Come on, you have to know the one I mean. One bourbonnnnnnnn… one something, one beeeeeeeeeer." I grabbed the angel's hand, swung it wildly in a two-person wave. "Come on, sing with me!"

  She wrenched her hand free. Anger flickered in her eyes, a sudden flash of lightning. "I can't. Only the Seraphim can sing."

  "Bullshit. I'm singing, and I'm no angel. Hey, I know that song." I took a deep breath, then belted out, "I'm no angel…"

  "You're right," she said, her voice crisper than the midnight air. "You're no angel. You're not even a demon. You're just a drunken human."

  "Fin just one demon," I tell Meg. "What sort of damage could one demon do?"

  "You could inspire a revolt in the Pit. You could incite the mortals on Earth."

  "I'm not the type to inspire anything other than lascivious thoughts."

  "You'd be surprised. And you know too much to be allowed to roam free."

  "I know just as much as all the nefarious."

  "The others aren't considering what you are. The others are complaining, moping, taking out their frustration and rage on the damned. But none of them are contemplating the possibility of other options."

  "Millions of demons," I say, "including the elite and the various Kings, and none of them have any thoughts of… questioning the new status quo?"

  "None."

  None, I thought now, icy fingers creeping up my spine. Why had I been the only creature to balk at the King of Hell's absurd declarations? My tongue thick from alcohol and fear, I whispered, "What am I?"

  "You heard me," the angel sniffed. "You're nothing more than a one-time demon, drunken to the point of idiocy. You're just one human."

  Alecto's voice, whispering: Fury friend.

  "Jesse Harris?"

  Why did she want me to go back to Hell?

  "Jesse Harris, are you all right?"

  The angel's voice grabbed me, pulled me away from the memories threatening to drag me under. Gasping, I stared at the tall blonde who radiated otherworldly beauty and celestial coldness, desperate to ask her why Daun taunted me with possibilities, why Alecto mocked me with secrets, but the only word that came out was: "Why?"

  "You've gone pale. Are you going to vomit?"

  Alecto, impatient, nervous: Are you coming?

  Since when does a Fury ask—

  I will take you to Megaera.

  Oh, bless me, Meg, what are they doing to you?

  Until tomorrow, Fury friend.

  "Humans tend to vomit when they consume too much alcohol," the angel said.

  Shivering, I wrapped my arms around myself. Yes, I was human. King Lucifer had given me a choice, had given me a soul… My lips tingled, remembering the feel of His kiss, remembered telling Him…

  "You will always be my King, Sire."

  "No, Jezebel," Lucifer says. "But you may call Me sire, if you wish."

  My stomach heaved. I staggered to the curb, doubled over, and retched. Violent waves of sickness burst from my mouth, stinking of alcohol and acid. My knees budded and I collapsed to the ground, panting.

  I didn't realize the angel had been holding my hair away from my face until she released it. Tangled curls plastered themselves against my wet cheeks, fell heavily in front of my watering eyes. Without speaking, the angel handed me a tissue. I stared at its white crumpled form, wondering if His wings once had been just as fair, just as fragile.

  Lucifer the Light Bringer.

  Sire.

  "Your nose," the angel said.

  Numbly, I wiped away runners of snot. When I finished, I opened my hand, watched the wind snatch the used tissue and carry it away—refuse dotted with bodily waste, memories of something that never was.

  "Everything used to make sense," I said, tracking the tissue's flight until it disappeared from view. "I knew my role. I knew my place. I knew what I was."

  A cold, beautiful hand touched my cheek. I turned to face the cherub, to see her eyes brimming with something softer than pity.

  Sympathy.

  "I understand." Her voice hummed like a bumblebee serenading a flower. "I, too, had my place. I was one of the Cherubim, and I watched over the mortals and shined the light of God upon them."

  "I loved them all," I said, remembering tangled sheets, sweaty bodies, hungry kisses.

  "Whoever they were," she agreed, "whatever they'd been."

  "I made them feel loved, and then I took them to Hell."

  "I helped them see the Light, helped them walk the righteous path that leads to Heaven."

  "And then everything changed."

  She nodded sadly. "Everything."

  "Everything used to make sense," I said again, clenching my fist. "Now the only thing I understand is that I love Paul, really love him. All I want is to spend my life with him."

  "That is a good want."

  "And now they have my friend, want me to go back to something I can't be. Why can't they leave me alone?" My words echoed in my ears as I shouted, "Why won't Hell let me go?"

  The angel, if she had an answer, kept it to her
self.

  "And maybe I should go back," I said numbly. "I'm screwing up with Paul. Maybe I should leave him before it gets worse."

  "Screwing up how?"

  "He wants me to stop dancing." I opened my fist, let my hand go limp, defeated. "More than that. He wants me to be something I'm not."

  "Is that what he said?"

  I bit my lip. "He said he wants me to stop dancing."

  "And?"

  I saw Paul, his sea-green eyes troubled, his kissable lips pressed into a thin line… "And that I should do what I need to do."

  "And?"

  … Paul's hand, outstretched to me as he says he wants me to come home to him…"And that he loves me."

  "He loves you, Jesse Harris. He cares for you. Doesn't everything else pale? Aren't the possibilities of how to share that love endless?"

  I sighed. "Not counting the no dancing thing…"

  "To love another is to sacrifice a piece of yourself."

  A cold wind blew across my heart. "You're saying I should stop dancing?" Stop basking in the spotlight, stop peeling off my clothes in time to music as it seduces my skin?

  Stop being me?

  "If love were easy," the angel said, "then no one would hate."

  Shit.

  My head pounded out a beat that made my teeth vibrate. Self-pity, meet hangover.

  Double shit.

  "Come on." The angel tugged at my sleeve. "Let's get you a taxi."

  "You really didn't have to take me home."

  Waiting patiently as I rummaged through my purse for the key to Paul's apartment, the angel shrugged. "I wanted to make sure you got home safely. You were rather inebriated."

  I shot her a look. "I spewed my inebriation all over Park Avenue South."

  "You didn't seem to be in the best of shape."

  "Well, I'm home now. You can skedaddle to wherever it is you hang your halo." Bless it all, where was the fucking key?

  "I don't have one, you know."

  I glanced at her, wondering if she was talking about a key. "What?"

  "A halo. Only the Seraphim are granted such an honor."

  Interesting, in the who-really-cares sense. "And here I thought it was a fashion statement."

  "Angels are awarded halos the day they earn the right to a name." Her blue eyes lit with the passion known by televangelists and Bible thumpers, and her pale skin seemed to glow. Maybe that was just the harsh fluorescent lighting in the hallway. "On that blessed day, they are elevated to the level of the Seraphim, and all of Heaven rejoices."

  "Hold the phone. You don't have a name?"

  "None of the Cherubim do. Only the Seraphim," she said with a sigh. "And the Archangels, of course."

  Man, that sucked. An eternity of "Hey, you with the feathers, come here" would leech away anyone's sense of humor. "Guess you weren't just being standoffish. My mistake."

  She cocked her head to the side in a way that suggested she was thinking a Very Big Thought. "Do all demons have names?"

  "Sure. Tons of them. Most of the infernal collect names the way a gigolo collects notches on his belt."

  That seemed to give her pause. She pursed her lips, and her brow crinkled prettily. Maybe she didn't get the analogy. Or maybe she was constipated.

  "So," I said, "what do I call you? Barbie?"

  "I think Angel will suffice." She smiled warmly, making me think nauseatingly lovely thoughts about birds singing and bunnies twitching their cute noses. "Actually, it's sort of pretty."

  Oy. I rolled my eyes, then continued looking for my key. "Well, Angel, thanks for doing the whole guardian stint. I'm all set, so go fly away."

  "Are you sure? Perhaps I should wait until you are inside."

  "I'm fine." I tried the doorknob, hoping it would be unlocked. Nope. I racked my brain to see if I had any lock-picking skills just collecting dust, waiting for me to hone them. My brain suggested something about sliding a credit card into the doorjamb, but I dismissed that as nonsense. Like I'd risk getting splinters in such a valuable piece of plastic. I'd sooner seduce a leper than ruin my AmEx.

  I jiggled the knob again, then let out a startled "Whoa!" as the door swung open and I stumbled over the threshold, then fell against Paul. As I regained my footing, I noted his baggy pajama pants still somehow molded around his package, making me appreciate the easy-access fly slot. But the tenseness of his bare shoulders, the set of his square jaw, made it all too clear that sex was the last thing on his mind.

  "Thought you were going to call when you were on your way home." His voice could have frozen the Lake of Fire.

  My mouth opened, closed. Finally, I opened it again and said, "I totally forgot."

  A pause that stretched uncomfortably, then he asked, "So where'd you go that you had such a good time?"

  "A pub called The Bar Fly, then a quick dash over to the club…"

  My voice died as his stormy green gaze pierced me like fishhooks. "You were at Spice?"

  "Um, yeah. But not to dance," I said quickly, watching emotions crash across his eyes like waves breaking. "My, um, my friend was interested in what it's like to be a dancer, and…" I motioned helplessly to the hallway so Paul could see Angel, could see that I'd been trying to help her out.

  "Your friend," he said, each word like a punch, "seems to have disappeared."

  I whirled around to see the hallway completely empty. Either Angel had exited stage left, or she hopped on the inter-planear express and bamfed herself away. I squeaked out, "Oh."

  "This wouldn't be the same friend that you kissed earlier, would it?"

  "What? No. No!" I said, realizing what he was implying. I turned to face him, to throw his accusation in his face, but I couldn't find the words. He just stared at me, his face like stone.

  How could silence be so deafening?

  "I'm sorry I forgot to call," I said, my voice rising, filling that ugly gap yawning between us. "Bless me, it's not like I accidentally murdered your puppy. I just forgot!"

  "I can't believe you went to Spice," he said through clenched teeth, "after what we talked about before."

  My heart slamming against my ribcage, I snarled at him, "One, we didn't talk about Spice before. You'd arbitrarily decided that I wasn't going to dance anymore. That's not a talk. And two, you also said that it was my decision to make."

  "Right. Just like it's your decision to kiss whoever you want, or to not call me when I asked you to call."

  "It's not like that! And you're the one who didn't believe me when I told you who I was, what I was!"

  "Don't change the subject." His voice was quiet, level, even as his eyes screamed at me. "You kissed some guy who you say you know, but you won't tell me who he is, and he makes it clear he's seen you butt naked. And then you walk away from me, don't call me, and go off to Spice. Give me a fucking break, Jesse—what'm I supposed to think? How'm I supposed to trust you?"

  "You didn't believe me before, when I told you what I was," I said, tears stinging my eyes. "Seems like I'm not the only one with trust issues."

  We stared at each other, the air between us charged with a tension that bordered on hatred. After all I'd done for him—after I'd chosen to live for him—how could he treat me like this?

  "You want me to trust you? Fine. Stop stripping."

  Grinding my teeth, I said, "I'll do that when you stop being a cop."

  "When hell freezes."

  A bare second after that, a smoky vapor shot out of his eyes, his ears, his mouth, surrounding him like a black nebula. I blinked and it was gone.

  No. No, no, no.

  That had to be me projecting my anger and despair. I hadn't seen what I'd just seen. A trick of the light, I told myself, that was all.

  But I knew in my heart, in my soul, that I was fooling myself.

  "I'm going to sleep on the couch."

  For a moment, his words didn't make any sense, and then I realized he was still talking about our fight. Our stupid, human fight. "But aren't we not supposed to go to sleep a
ngry? That's one of the rules. This is the part where we're supposed to kiss and make up."

  "Jesse, the way I'm feeling right now, I don't want to touch you."

  My breath hitched. The demons of Pride with their instruments of torture couldn't have hurt me more. What he was saying wasn't real.

  What I saw wasn't real.

  "Please," I whispered, reaching up to touch his cheek, "let's go to bed."

  He pushed my hand away.

  "Come on, Paul, I'll make you feel good, I'll show you how much I love you—"

  "Sex isn't going to fix this, Jesse." His voice was as soft as decay. "I need space tonight."

  Biting my lip, I looked down at my feet as the tears spilled down my face. "Want me to leave?" I asked, dreading the answer.

  The silence between us grew until I wanted to scream. Finally he said, "It's late. I don't want you walking out there alone."

  "Then…" I took a deep breath. "Then shouldn't I at least take the couch? It's your apartment."

  "Take the bed. I'll be quiet in the morning so as not to wake you."

  Always the White Knight.

  I heard his footfalls padding away, down the hall, and then I heard the bathroom fan turn on before a door closed, cutting off the sound. It was as final as a guillotine's blade hitting home.

  Paul hated me.

  All of this—falling in love, getting a soul—was for nothing.

  But even worse than all of that, worse than balking the will of Hell, the black ring of his aura meant only one thing. I sank down to my knees and sobbed, my head pounding in time to my wails.

  Paul Hamilton was going to die.

  PART TWO

  THE FURY AND THE DEMON

  Chapter 9

  Paul's Apartment

  A hint of eggs… frying, maybe… Breakfast?

  The press of lips against mine… a tongue prying my mouth open to dance over my teeth.

  Paul.

  With an ummm sounding in my throat, I surrendered myself to that kiss, let that tongue slice me, attack me. Not soft and loving… something hard. Something raw.

  Desire.