My Way to Hell

by Dakota Cassidy

  Kellen shook Clyde’s hand and smiled. “I promise to call if anything happens. Get some rest.”

  Clyde chuckled dotingly. “Like she’ll ever do that until she finds a way to get Marcella earthbound again. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get all romantic with a woman who’s passed out on the couch with her nose buried in a book?”

  Kellen laughed, giving Clyde a slap on the back and sending them out the door.

  Silence fell between them.

  “I—” They spoke simultaneously.

  Silence came again—words had become laborious.

  When Kellen finally spoke, his voice was still laced with his confusion. “I think I’ve said this about a hundred times since this thing with Carlos began—I don’t get it.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Solana looks exactly like you, Marcella, with the exception of her shorter hair.”

  “And her shitty attitude. Oh, wait. I have one of those, too,” she joked, to lighten the dark turn meeting Solana had brought on.

  He ignored her joke. “You’re identical in every way.”

  “Ya think? I think my boobs are better.”

  “This is serious, honey. Could we try to treat it as such?”

  “Okay, you’re right. I think I’m just freaked out. They say everyone has a twin . . .”

  “Did you have a twin?”

  “No. I had a sister, but she was several years older than me. She looked more like my father.”

  “So how is it that this woman looks exactly like you? I’ve been telling you there’s a connection with you and Carlos. I think we might have found it. Maybe you’re related. It’s entirely possible, honey. You’ve technically been dead a long time, but you did leave family behind, right?”

  “Just my parents and my sister. And, as far as I knew, my sister was barren.” She’d never forget the look of love on Isabella’s face when she’d handed David to her sister and made her swear she’d hide him. It was as though she’d given her the greatest gift in the world.

  “Maybe things changed. Infertility’s a funny thing.”

  “Maybe, but Isabella’s married last name was Lopez.” Marcella shook her head. “Carlos’s last name is Vega, and Solana’s family name is Ramirez. I don’t know anyone with the last name Ramirez but Carlos’s grandmother.”

  “Okay, so maybe Mrs. Ramirez’s maiden name was Acosta. Maybe your sister had a baby and that baby was Mrs. Ramirez. Though, I’ll admit, Solana and Mrs. Ramirez look nothing alike. You know, this is an easy fix. I’ll just call her and ask what her maiden name was.” While Kellen grabbed his cell and dialed Mrs. Ramirez, Marcella paced—or floated back and forth—across the room.

  The shock of seeing Solana had dulled—but the explanation for their uncanny resemblance gnawed at her. Carlos had said she looked like his mother with longer hair, and that was no fabrication, but he hadn’t said they could have been twins.

  But there was more than just the trouble with her lookalike . . .

  Caught up in her fear, Marcella was taken by surprise when, from the corner of her eye, she saw a flutter of movement by the children’s story area.

  Kellen clicked the phone shut and grabbed her by the waist. “You’re right. Mrs. Ramirez—Juanita—was a Gonzalez, not a Lopez. Could she be the child of a second cousin?” He leaned in to kiss her with a bone-melting swipe of his lips. “I dunno. I say we keep looking. Until then, I think you and I shouldn’t be vertical,” he teased, skimming her lips with his tongue.

  Wanting only to wrap her arms around him and find comfort in his embrace, she couldn’t ignore the presence in the story area. “We have company.”

  Kellen turned with a sigh and frowned. “Familiar?”

  Marcella rolled her eyes at him. “How could you not know who that is?”

  “Because I’m seventy-six years younger than you?”

  The man in the corner winked at the pair and tipped his black fedora at them, then straightened his tie with a smile that was infectious.

  “Hey, I was twenty-six when I bit the big one. That’s younger than you are right now. And does ‘Luck Be a Lady Tonight’ ring any bells? ‘Summer Wind’?”

  “Didn’t Nirvana do that?”

  Marcella giggled. “Frank Sinatra. You know, Ol’ Blue Eyes?”

  “Oh, yeah. Part of the Rat Pack, right?”

  “Right.” Frank sidled up to them with a soft shoe and moved his lips.

  Marcella squinted right along with Kellen. “I’m beginning to sound like a broken record, but I don’t get it. I can’t make out what he’s saying.”

  Frank extended a hand to Marcella, bowing in front of her. She took it, letting him whirl her around while his lips moved incessantly. “Okay, Frank—slow down and answer me this. Does whatever you’re trying to tell me have to do with the title of one of your songs?” she asked.

  He winked, dipping her and muttering the same words; pulling her back up, he spun her again, letting her go free from his arms to point at his wrist.

  Marcella righted herself. “So it’s a title of a song? Jesus, Frank, you’ve got a million songs. Oh, ‘My Way’!” she shouted.

  Frank scowled from beneath his hat and shook his head.

  “‘Night and Day’?”

  His head moved back and forth, his glare impatient.

  She shook a finger at him. “Cut me some slack, would you? It was a long time ago. Okay, wait. I’m just going to yell out titles and you nod yes if I get it right.”

  Frank smiled his consent.

  “‘Almost Like Being in Love.’ ‘Moon River.’ ‘The Way You Look Tonight.’”

  Frank had stopped moving, his look of disapproval growing.

  “‘I Left My Heart in San Francisco’!”

  Kellen made an irritating buzzing noise and followed it with a pleased smile. “Survey says: wrong answer. That was Tony Bennett. My mother loved him.”

  “That’s helping how?”

  Kellen made a zipping motion with his fingers to his mouth.

  Frank grumbled, his image beginning to shimmer and fade.

  “No! Wait!” She held up a hand to keep him from leaving.

  “Don’t go. I never liked Tony anyway. What about ‘That Old Black Magic’?”

  His ghostly outline waffled and wavered, displaying his displeasure.

  “Shit! I can’t think of any more. I sucked at Name That Tune! Ohhh! Hold up—‘I’ve Got You under My Skin’!”

  Just before he began to make his exit, Frank nodded in the affirmative, tipping his hat gallantly at Marcella.

  “Oh, suuure, now you tell us? You know, Frank,” she chastised his disappearing form, “you could have dropped by much sooner with that information!” She blew out a breath of air. God, she’d forgotten how exhausting this could be.

  “Does that make any sense to you at all?” Kellen asked.

  “In fact, it does.” Perfect fucking sense.

  “Wanna share with this piss-poor excuse for a medium?”

  No. Actually, she was dreading it. “When we were in the bar, do you remember what Solana called her mother?”

  “Truthfully, I was so busy internally getting my freak on that it’s hazy.”

  “She called her a cheeky wench.”

  “And that means something?”

  “Not to Mrs. Ramirez, but to me, it means something.”

  He dragged her to him. “Can I tell you how goddamn frustrating it is to always be in the dark? Shed some light, would you?”

  “Armando used to call me a cheeky wench.”

  Kellen snickered. “I hate to agree with the asshole, but ‘cheeky’ isn’t an adjective I’d dismiss when it comes to you, honey. Even if a little outdated.”

  She gulped, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Outdated is right. Know why?”

  “Gimme the hundred-watt explanation.”

  “I think we have a much bigger problem than either of us could have imagined. I think Armando didn’t just get out of the
box . . .”

  Kellen frowned just seconds before his eyes went wide in realization. He was a smart man—clearly, where they were at had clicked. “No. Jesus Christ. Is that even possible? I mean, I’ve heard, but . . .”

  She’d seen Darwin do it. “Oh, it’s definitely possible. I’ve seen it. Plus, it explains a lot about Solana’s sudden bad behavior.”

  “Do you really believe . . .” It was obvious he couldn’t comprehend what they both knew. His throat worked, but the words wouldn’t come, so she said them for him.

  “I think the spirit of my dead husband, Armando, has taken possession of Solana Vega’s body.”

  Cue spooky music.

  thirteen

  Kellen slumped down on the couch. “Christ, this is bad.”

  “This is badder than bad.”

  “Let me be clear. Armando’s possessed Solana’s body, but what does that mean for Solana? Does that mean she’s dead—or alive—or . . . how does that work?”

  Marcella’s shoulders moved upward. “I don’t know. I do know you can possess a living host. I’ve seen it. But I don’t understand possession well enough to know the signs when the host is . . .” Swallowing hard, she exhaled a ragged breath as she plunked down beside him. “Dead.” She sent a silent prayer that would likely go unheard, but she sent it nonetheless, that Solana was alive. For Carlos’s sake.

  “So Armando got out of the box and possessed Solana? What the hell for? He’d already signed his soul over before he was ever dead. Why wouldn’t he just go collect what was promised to him when he made the deal?”

  Because he’s a cagey fuck. “That’s what scares me. He should have gone directly to Hell without passing go. In order for him to stay here, without the benefit of Satan knowing where he is, he had to possess a body because his demon skills are limited—especially at the newbie stage. It’s up to you whether you hone your skills—which was why mine were so limited. That means Armando needs a host to stay on this plane so he won’t be caught and punished by Lucifer for being rogue. If he’s hiding in Solana’s body, no one would ever be the wiser. Well, with the exception of those who love Solana. Obviously, she’s doing some things that are uncharacteristic.”

  “She’s—he’s—whatever—is jeopardizing Carlos’s well-being. Damn that bastard.”

  “I have to wonder if he knows.”

  “That some demon’s in his mother’s body?”

  “Yep. He’s got the gift—he’s otherworldly sensitive. Maybe Armando’s communicated with him. I’d bet my bippy Armando didn’t count on the fact that Carlos can see the dead. If Carlos did see him when he got out of that box, Armando’s more than likely threatening him. I think we both know that bastard’s not above it,” she choked.

  Kellen ran a fingertip along the slope of her cheek. “This guy you married, he was a real nightmare, huh?”

  Worse than any ever filmed on Elm Street. “I had no idea. I swear if I’d known . . . Back then, women married for very different reasons than they do today. I was destined to end up someone’s arm candy, but I’d never be allowed to have an opinion or a hand in anything except cooking, cleaning, managing a household, and bearing children. He was different. Armando was a challenge. He was so unlike any other man who’d offered for my hand. He didn’t expect me to be some mindless twit. He loved a good argument. He encouraged them. He claimed to love to hear my opinion,” she scoffed. “But he was a lying piece of shit. In the end I found out I was nothing more than a vessel. A cheeky one, is what he called me just before I . . .”

  “Killed him. That’s the one part in all this I do get.” Stroking her hair, he pulled her back to sit with him. “How did you find out about Armando’s pact with the devil anyway?”

  One more secret well on its way to being exposed. “My grandmother.”

  Kellen stiffened, reading her body language. “You’re hedging again. How did your grandmother know?”

  “Because when she told me, she came from the other side to do it.”

  “She was already dead?”

  “I had the gift of sight when I was alive.”

  There was that silence again—pensive, hesitant—hellish.

  Sitting up, she faced him, but her eyes had trouble meeting his. “Here’s the deal. My grandmother had the gift of sight, too. If not for her, I don’t know what I would have done. She guided me. She taught me how to deal with the spirits. My parents and my sister weren’t believers in the afterlife being anything other than dead. End of. They were deeply religious, but to believe ghosts were showing up and hanging with their daughter would have been like telling them Lucifer himself was coming for Sunday lunch and bringing dessert. My grandmother warned me they didn’t believe, and until her death, she protected me from nonbelievers and taught me how to be very cautious. When she came to me about Armando and told me he’d sold his soul several years before we met—when she told me about the . . .” Bile rose in her throat, and she choked it back before continuing. “The things that he’d done to women—to . . . in the name of Satan—I had to act, or he’d use my baby for his selfish, foul needs. I couldn’t allow that. I wouldn’t.”

  “He wanted to raise David to become a follower.” Kellen’s statement was filled with his disgust.

  Her eyes flashed with the anger, the helplessness Armando’s memory brought up. “That’s exactly what he wanted. There was no way I was going to let that happen.”

  “So here’s something else that’s been troubling me—how did you die? Did you . . . you know . . . in order to save David.” He winced when the words left his mouth.

  That awful visit from her grandmother came back to her in her mind’s eye in Technicolor. It had been cold, colder than a witch’s tit, as Armando had once put it. Armando was off on one of his late-night business ventures, as he’d dubbed them, and she’d been trying to keep the fire burning unsuccessfully while cursing him for being so late. David slept soundly in a wooden cradle her father had made for him by hand, his fist curled around the blanket Isabella had knitted for him when he was born.

  When her grandmother appeared, she hadn’t been at all shocked—only grateful, relieved to know that she was safely on the other side and happy. Then there was the fear that she’d been wandering restlessly since her death, but her grandmother reassured her she was with Marcella’s grandfather again, making Marcella smile. Yet her reasons for finding her way to bring Marcella a message held no good news, and there’d be trouble to be had if anyone found out she was passing the message on because it involved toying with fate.

  Yet her grandmother was a willful woman—willful and protective of her family. Her father had often compared her and her grandmother and their strong, stubborn determination. When Grandma Rosa revealed not only David’s potential fate, but hers as well, and after the initial horror had settled—she’d taken action. If she died, Armando could raise David freely. Not on her watch. “If what you’re asking is did I emo out and kill myself? No. My grandmother didn’t just come to tell me about Armando’s deceit—she came to tell me about my death.”

  Ba-dump-bump. More silence that chilled her bones.

  But Kellen simply tightened his grip on her. “So you knew you were going to die? Jesus Christ. I think I had a much better deal when I was just a plain old science teacher.”

  Oh, the irony of that statement. “Uh-huh, and in order to keep the wheels of fate moving according to plan, I had to let that happen.”

  Kellen whistled low, scaring Vern and Shirley off the back of the couch. “You are one tough broad.”

  His admiration was evident, but she brushed that aside in the interest of clearing the air—totally—finally. “Anyway, when my grandmother told me about Armando’s plans for David, she explained that if I offered up my soul as a bargaining chip for my son’s safety, David would be protected and he could never be touched by Satan. His soul would never be in jeopardy, but Satan would be given mine in a sort of barter, meaning no loss on his part.”

  “And then y
ou killed Armando.”

  She blew out a pent-up breath of air. “Then I killed him. I don’t know that I would have if my death weren’t on the table. Maybe I would have taken David and run away, but there was no way that son of a bitch was going to live and destroy my son, too.”

  “Can I ask a sensitive question?”

  “Ask away.”

  “How did you die?”

  “You’ll laugh . . .”

  His face said otherwise. “How could I laugh at something so fucked up?”

  Oh, he said that now . . . Her expression was sheepish. “Because looking back, it is a little funny.”

  “I have my doubts I’ll laugh.”

  “I slipped in Macy’s and hit my head on a rack of hats.”

  Kellen’s lips curled inward in an effort to keep a straight face. He shoved his hands under his armpits and turned his head, but his shoulders began to shake. And then he snorted through his nose. Long and obnoxious. His laughter was like a sneeze you try thwarting by pinching your nose, but only end up making worse because your eyes tear up. His cackle began low, turning into a high-pitched wheeze.

  Knocking his shoulder with hers, she said. “Hey, I said it was a little funny.” Though she had to admit, the irony of death by fashion for someone like her was worthy of a snicker.

  He gasped for breath, wiping his eyes with his thumbs. “I’m sorry. It’s just—I mean—you dying . . . that’s bad . . . but cracking your head on a . . .” He cleared his throat and forced his face to relax. “I’m sorry. What a horrible end to someone who likes clothes and accessories as much as you do. So did you know when and where it would happen?”

  Shaking her head, Marcella looked down at her hands. “No. I just knew it would be within a week of the visit from my grandmother. I was better off not knowing or I might have been tempted to try to escape a destiny I shouldn’t have even known about.”

  Kellen’s palm smoothed her hair. “So knowing you were going to die, you killed Armando so he couldn’t get his hands on David. Where did David end up? With your parents?”