Personal Demons

by Lisa Desrochers

  “It means you have much more control over your world than you know.” His eyes are intense and he’s starting to scare me.

  I push away from him and haul myself off the couch. “I think you’ve lost it, Gabe. I’ve got control over exactly nothing.”

  “You’ll see it—eventually.”

  “See what?”

  “Everything,” he says. I feel a shiver race through me.

  He stands and folds me into his arms. “Everything’s going to be good, Frannie,” he finally says.

  But he doesn’t sound sure of that. Far from it.

  LUC

  Arrgghhhh!

  The most confusing day of my existence is now officially the most Hellish day of my existence. And that’s saying something.

  I cruise around the neighborhood trying to settle my nerves and get my head straightened out. I have one priority: my job. The same one I’ve been doing for the last five thousand years. It’s not rocket science or brain surgery—either of which I could handle better than I did Frannie. It’s just tagging one little soul for Hell. Child’s play. So why can’t I do it?

  Rhetorical question. It doesn’t matter why I can’t do it. It just matters that I can’t—which is painfully obvious.

  Frannie is with Gabriel. She’s safe, from Belias and from me.

  I crank the stereo and I drive by Gabriel’s again, once, twice, three times. I slow down each time, desperate to catch a glimpse of Frannie through the window. I loop around the neighborhood, past Frannie’s and Taylor’s, over and over, trying to figure out what’s happened to me—reliving the last three weeks of my existence.

  I’m burning hotter than the Fiery Pit, but, at the same time, drowning in a torrent of emotions that demons don’t feel.

  How do I make them stop?

  I can’t breathe. Then I remind myself that I don’t have to. But the hole in my chest still hurts.

  Focus. What now?

  By the tenth loop of the neighborhood I know what’s got to happen. As much as it rips me apart to think about it, I need to leave and let Belias handle this. I let myself get too close.

  I drive once more past Gabriel’s and feel the ache deep in my chest as I turn west, back toward my apartment. When I get there, I phase back to Hell and out of Frannie’s life.

  I intend to phase inside the high Walls of Hell, bypassing the Gates (a perk of being a First Level demon) because I’m really in no mood to deal with the Gatekeeper. But as my feet contact the ground, I find I’m undeniably outside the stone walls and the Gates. Not a good sign. Privileges have been revoked. As I approach the Gates, the Gatekeeper, Minos, scrutinizes me with a single squinty bloodred eye in the middle of his long, narrow serpent’s face. He bends his tall, sleek, scale-covered frame to get a closer look.

  “Fallen out of favor, have we?” he says with a flash of his fangs and a self-satisfied sneer. His high-pitched voice stings my eardrums, intensifying the building ache in my head.

  Too dejected to argue, I lean on the blistered iron Gates for support. “It would appear so.”

  Maybe he’ll refuse admittance. Fine by me. But dark foreboding mingles with anticipation on his face as he steps aside to let me pass. “We’ve been waiting for you. I’ll be by the Pit later to see you off.”

  “We’ll make it a party. You bring the balloons,” I say over my shoulder, passing through the Gates without a backward glance.

  Once inside, the first thing I notice is that Hell feels hotter than I remember. Which doesn’t make sense, because it’s only been three weeks since I was here. And, besides, anything hovering a few hundred degrees at either side of Hell’s two-thousand-degree mark is going to feel pretty much the same: hot. Maybe there’s something to all that global warming hoopla after all, even here at the core.

  The second thing I notice is that I seem to have maintained my human form … which is now sweating. No matter. This body can be dismembered and thrown into the Fiery Pit as easily as my other.

  The third thing I notice is the real security. Minos is just for show. Other than the occasional interloper, keeping people out of Hell isn’t generally an issue. And, really, what could be more fun than an interloper? No, the real security is Rhenorian and his crew, who keep the minions inside. He props his stocky seven-foot frame against the wall, eyeing me intently from just inside the Gates. His red eyes flare out of a golden-brown face, flat and leathery. When I look his way, a menacing grin splits his face, as if daring me to try to run. He glides his forked tongue along an impressive set of fanged teeth and spins a three-pronged ranseur in his hands. That’s Hell’s version of a machine gun. It’s capable of focusing enormous amounts of Hellfire into a single burst—over and over. It can’t kill a creature of Hell, because almost nothing can, but it can make you wish it had.

  I meander past the Inferno, inside the Gates. Shrieks of agony and pleas for mercy issue from barely discernable shapes writhing within the eternal flames: the souls of the damned. Tending demons cackle with mirth as they poke at the occasional limb or head protruding from the white-hot flames. Just watching makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. I smile to myself as I take in the pungent smell of seared flesh mingled with decay, earth, and brimstone and revel in the sights, sounds, and scents of home. For a moment, I can imagine that I never left. That the last three weeks never happened.

  For a moment.

  But as I continue to meander south, skirting the Fiery Pit at a distance, my mood turns. The screeches echoing from these high walls are of a different sort altogether. Demons who have stepped out of line or come up short in the eyes of management scream from their depths. And as I pass the Pit on my way to the Lake of Fire, I notice every demon, especially the tenders of the Pit, leer at me. Nothing makes a demon’s day like impending death and destruction.

  Then I see Marchosias moving stealthily toward me from the Pit, mottled crimson skin shimmering in the flickering vermillion and indigo light. His glowing red eyes burn as he strokes his tail, and his satyr’s hooves crunch over the lava rock as he makes his way toward me.

  My first instinct is to run—not sure why—but I stand my ground. Marchosias is a tender of the Pit, but he can’t take me until I’m summoned and sentence is pronounced. Besides, if demons have friends, which is debatable, then Marchosias would be mine. He’s currently on canine patrol, apparently, because he’s got an immense black Hellhound in tow.

  “Thought you could just slide right by without stopping?” he says with a sneer on his flat, pinched face. I take an involuntary step back as he approaches. Few, other than King Lucifer Himself, radiate evil as thoroughly as Marchosias.

  “Hoping.”

  The Hellhound sits at Marchosias’s side, nearly as tall as me, and the smell of rotting meat permeates the strong scent of brimstone. “How long have you been here?”

  “Not long.”

  “How did you end up on my list?”

  “No clue.”

  “Hmm …” He glances across the Lake of Fire toward Flame Island and the distant black mass of Pandemonium, its high castle walls and jagged spires towering over all of Hell. “The only reason you’ve lasted this long is because Beherit is preoccupied trying to save his own skin.”

  I feel myself shudder, but it would be a mistake to show weakness. “What’s up?”

  “Just avoid Pandemonium. King Lucifer is meeting with the council, and it’s a bloodbath up there.” Marchosias’s eyes shine with malice, white fangs glimmering through his sinister grin. “Word is, your boss is on the chopping block. Something big’s brewing topside, and Beherit’s not getting the job done.” His grin pulls into a leer. “You wouldn’t know anything about that … ?”

  “No,” I lie, because that’s what we demons do, but also because I feel sudden and overwhelming despair that this is my existence. This is all there is in my world. Our only source of joy, if demons are even capable of that emotion, is the pain, suffering, death, and destruction of others. “Tell me what you’ve heard.”


  “There’s a mortal the king wants, and Beherit’s crew,” he leers at me, “is falling down on the job.”

  “What’s so important about the mortal?”

  “Word is this person is exceptionally gifted.”

  Is Frannie exceptionally gifted? I’m sure there are others that we’re after. “Gifted how?”

  The pure evil in his grin makes me hope we are talking about someone other than Frannie. “Sway,” he hisses.

  The force of that one word is like a wrecking ball, knocking me senseless. It can’t be Frannie. Frannie has Sight. I don’t even want to think about what would happen to a mortal with the ability to sway others’ thoughts and emotions here in the Underworld. There have only been two others, and things didn’t end well for the one that belonged to Hell. In a daze, I turn to continue walking, but Marchosias grabs my arm, his claws nearly piercing my human flesh.

  “So, I’ll be seeing you later.” His eyes flare red heat and a mirthless smile quirks his mouth as he flashes his fangs.

  “I’m sure. Try not to enjoy yourself too much,” I say, walking away.

  Finally, my head starts to clear, and I reach my sanctuary: the sliver of Hell from my wall mural. I walk along the cragged banks of the Lake of Fire until I reach the southernmost tip, where the lake meets the Walls of Hell, and the river Styx flows in from the south. Here, the distant shrieks of the damned and the mirthful laughter of the infernal blend and echo off the high walls like a dissonant choir. This is my cathedral.

  Sitting on a pitted lava outcropping over the Lake of Fire, I let the music of Hell welcome me home for the last time. I stare out over the lake at the glossy black hulk of Pandemonium, perched above all of Hell on Flame Island. I admire the orange and red roiling molten lake swirling around the large crags of brimstone, pointing like accusing fingers at Heaven. Its accompanying light show—flickering scarlet and indigo with blue and white flame eruptions—is like Hell’s fireworks. And as the clouds of sulfuric gas emanating from those eruptions engulf me, I breathe them in, savoring the smell of brimstone as it stings my human nose. It’s easy to forget how beautiful home is, at least to us demons.

  But then I remember Frannie’s soul—how it took my breath away. True beauty. Nothing like any soul I’ve ever seen in Hell before. Will it still look the same when Belias is through with it?

  Pushing that thought away with the ache in my heart, I close my eyes and lay back on the sharp lava rocks. But all I see, feel, taste, smell, as vividly as if Frannie were right here, is her—the essence of the girl who made me question all that I am. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I feel a trickle of moisture evaporate into a puff of steam at the corner of my eye. What I’m sure I do feel is my brimstone heart breaking as I lay back and wait for the summons. Because there are no second chances in Hell.

  FRANNIE

  I stare out the windshield as Gabe drives me home, lost in his thoughts. I lean my head on the window as we drive by Taylor’s, and out of nowhere, I feel the lightning strike my brain.

  Not again.

  And, sure enough, as I groan and close my eyes against the pain, I see Taylor’s dad, laid out on his bed … not breathing. My head spins. I’m going to be sick.

  “Stop the car!” I yell, and I open my eyes to see that he already has. I push the door open and puke on the pavement. When I turn back to Gabe, he’s not scared or concerned. He’s totally calm. I bolt out of the car and run back to Taylor’s, pounding my fists, one on the door and the other on the bell, till the door opens.

  Taylor’s face twists into a scowl. “Fee … what’s the deal?”

  “Where’s your dad?” I pant.

  “Sleeping … why? What’s going on?”

  “You need to check on him. Right now!”

  “Oh, that’s not such a good idea. Seriously, Fee. What’s up?”

  I push past Taylor and climb the stairs to her parents’ room. She catches me halfway up the stairs by the back of my shirt and nearly pulls me over backward, but I hold tight to the rail and continue my forward progress, pulling her behind me.

  “You can’t go in there, Fee. Stop acting so insane!”

  I drag her up the rest of the stairs and push open the bedroom door. And there he is, just like I saw him—except I can see his chest rise and fall. He’s just sleeping.

  “Oh, God.” I turn back to Taylor, who’s already pulling me out the door. “Sorry … I thought …” But as I glance back at him, I see the empty pill bottle on the carpet. I pull against Taylor and take another step into the room. There are three more bottles on the nightstand—all empty.

  “Taylor,” I say, pulling free of her, “call 9-1-1.” I run to the side of the bed. “Mr. Stevens, wake up!” I shake him. “Can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  Taylor just stands there. I push past her to the phone on the other nightstand and dial 9-1-1. As I explain the emergency, Gabe steps into the room and puts his arm around Taylor. She barely seems to notice, standing rooted to the floor staring at her dad, her eyes wide.

  The ambulance arrives five minute later and, as they load her dad in, she turns to me. She doesn’t say anything, but the question is clear in her eyes. It’s a question I can’t answer. I just shrug. Taylor climbs in with her father, and, as they pull out, sirens blaring, I let loose a flood of unexpected tears. Gabe pulls me to him and walks with me to his car.

  “You did a good thing, Frannie.” He doesn’t question how I knew. He doesn’t question anything. He just holds me.

  “It’s my fault,” I manage through the sobs.

  He lifts my chin with his finger and looks me in the eye. Then his lips trace a course from my forehead, down my temple, across my cheek and brush across my lips. “You need to stop blaming yourself for every bad thing that happens,” he says, his voice low.

  I push him away. “I was going to talk to Dad. Have the church help them.” But I got so wrapped up in my own drama that I forgot. The wave of guilt crashes over me and I let it. I want to feel like crap. It’s the least I deserve.

  We pull into my driveway, and Gabe looks around warily, reminding me of Luc doing the same thing the other night. As Gabe steers me up the walk, I slide on my sunglasses so Mom won’t see my red-rimmed eyes.

  “You going to be okay?” Gabe’s voice is soft and sympathetic. It almost makes me cry again. I swallow back the lump in my throat.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay … so you’re not going anywhere else?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Good. Lock the door behind you.” He wraps me in a hug, his eyes still darting around.

  “Why does everyone want me to lock everything? What’s wrong?”

  Pulling away from me, he diverts his eyes, staring at the shrubs next to the front porch. “Nothing, really. Just better safe than sorry these days.”

  “You’re such a bad liar,” I say, pushing him further away.

  He pulls me back to him, and when he kisses me I press into his hard body. I trail my hands along his chest and down his sides. “Come in with me,” I say, suddenly not wanting to be alone.

  He blows out a sigh then quirks a lopsided smile. “I’d love to, but I need to have a conversation with Lucifer. Promise me you’ll lock the door and stay inside.”

  “Whatever,” I say, feeling disappointed and weary, and wondering if I have the energy to climb the stairs. “Will you come back?”

  “When I can.” He pulls away and looks me in the eyes. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “I will be.”

  “Get some rest.” He leans in and kisses me, then opens the door, pushing me gently through. “I’ll be back,” he says. He smiles, but his eyes are still dark and darting.

  I close the door and call out into the unusually quiet house. No answer. Wow. Since no one’s home, I do what Gabe asked and lock the door.

  I only make the third stair before my shaky legs won’t carry me any further. I turn and sit, hugging my knees to my chest. How could I
have forgotten to talk to Dad? The one thing I could do to help Taylor and I blew it. Depression settles over me and I tip to the side, lying across the hardwood stair, and think about what a shitty person I am.

  But I stopped it.

  That’s something, I guess. It’s the first time I’ve seen it and been able to change it. There’s a little comfort in the thought.

  After forever, I drag myself up the rest of the stairs. When I get to my room I crank my stereo and flop back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. When I close my eyes, Luc is there. And it’s not just the image: I can feel his dark energy, smell his cinnamon. I’m furious with myself when I feel tears seep out of the corners of my eyes. I won’t cry—not over him.

  I haul myself up, wander to the window, and lift the blind. Gabe is long gone, but I swear I see the sun glinting off the windshield of a 1968 Shelby Cobra GT through the trees.

  Luc?

  I imagine running out there and throwing myself at him. But then I flash on Mystery Girl lounging across Luc’s bed and think about calling the police instead. Report him as a stalker.

  I peek again. Still there, parked two doors down on the other side of the street. In front of the Brewsters’. In the same place he was parked the night I walked back from Taylor’s. What the hell does he want from me?

  With a sudden burst of energy born from rage, I yank my door open and fly down the stairs and out the front door in a flash. The grass is cool under my bare feet as I storm across the lawn. As I cross the street to Luc’s car, I hear loud music pounding and shaking the pavement under my feet. The glare of the sun off the window makes it hard to see into the car, but he’s there, sitting in the shadows. The music volume lowers as the window rolls down. I lean on my hands on the car door, and I’m just about to lay into him when my breath catches and I pull back.

  It’s not Luc. But I swear it could be his brother.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say when I get my bearings. “I thought you were someone else.”

  The stranger smiles at me, eyes glowing. “I’ll be whoever you want me to be,” he purrs. His voice is velvet and there’s something entrancing about it—about him. His intense black eyes won’t release me.