Serpent's Storm
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
twenty-five
twenty-six
twenty-seven
twenty-eight
twenty-nine
epilogue
PRAISE FOR
cat’s claw
“Callie bounces from twist to twist as she explores Benson’s richly imagined world, where multiple mythologies blend, and the afterlife is run as a corporation.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An entertaining, frenzied fantasy frolic that will have the audience laughing at the chick-lit voice of the heroine, who is willing to go to heaven on a hellish cause.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“Readers get another dose of the irresistibly flaky heroine. Join Calliope on another rollicking adventure.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Incredibly imaginative and creative, silly and fun.”
—Errant Dreams
“Benson is back with a second helping of her refreshing take on death and purgatory as viewed through her heroine’s less-than-enthusiastic eyes. Normality is what Callie Reaper-Jones longs for, but it’s definitely not in the cards for this quirky and stubborn heroine. As curses and dangerous missions collide, Callie’s offbeat humor and viewpoint guarantee a madcap romp.”
—Romantic Times
“A fun, snappy read to the tune of a chick-lit writing style, set in a colorful supernatural world. It’s a charming mesh of several myths with an unconventional modern-day twist that hosts a cast of quirky, likable, and diverse characters.”
—Fantasy Dreamer’s Ramblings
“Sustains the style and pace of Death’s Daughter but adds deepening characterization.”
—The Monthly Aspectarian
death’s daughter
“Amber Benson does an excellent job of creating strong characters, as well as educating the reader on some great mythology history . . . a fast-paced and very entertaining story.”
—Sacramento Book Review
“An urban fantasy series featuring a heroine whose macabre humor fits perfectly with her circumstances. Sure to appeal to fans of Tanya Huff’s Vicki Nelson series and Charles de Lint’s urban fantasies.”
—Library Journal
“Beguiling . . . Calliope emerges as an authentically original creation . . . Benson gives [her] a wonderfully varied landscape to explore, with elements of Hindu and Norse mythology and European folklore swirling around more familiar Judeo-Christian lore . . . The humorous tone never gets in the way of the imaginative weirdness of the supernatural events.”
—Locus
“Benson provides a fun romp that defines the rules of an exciting new universe you’ll be chomping at the bit to dive back into time and again. There’s action; there’s intrigue, redemption, an adorable hell puppy, and even a hot guy or two. What more could you ask for?”
—Buffyfest
“Amber Benson writes an amusing, action-packed, chick-lit urban fantasy loaded with more twists and curves than a twist-a-whirl . . . Filled with humor and wit, this is a refreshing, original thriller as double, triple, and nth crossings are the norm.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“With a creative story line as proof, Ms. Benson adds writing to her ever-growing list of talents. Set within an intriguing paranormal world, Death’s Daughter unfolds a seductive tale of power and deception. A great start to a series that will be easy for readers to get hooked on.”
—Darque Reviews
“Opens the door on an intriguing, fully thought-out universe, with a likable main character and the potential for mayhem around every corner. It’s a lot of fun.”
—Fangoria
“The first-person point of view and the fast-paced plotting contribute immensely to creating a lively and funny story packed with nonstop action.”
—The Green Man Review
“Callie is sarcastic, smart-mouthed, and overwhelmed. I liked her a lot! . . . a lighthearted but still-suspenseful paranormal . . . The mythology and settings were unique and creepy . . . I will be eagerly awaiting more adventures of Callie, Clio, and Runt the hellhound.”
—Night Owl Romance
“A clever and well-told story . . . It’s also a step outside the current paranormal-fantasy rut but with enough elements in common to please fans of that form as well.”
—Critical Mass
“Amber Benson has created a brash, sassy heroine oozing attitude as she deals with family, business, an angry goddess, zombie armies, and betrayal in this imaginative blend of assorted mythologies. The snappy dialogue keeps pace with the quick pace while providing a fun touch of self-deprecating humor. It should be interesting to see where Benson takes Callie next.”
—Monsters and Critics
“ ‘Multitalented’ doesn’t begin to cover the gifts of former Buffy TV-alumna Benson. Her quirky, cranky, and humorous heroine leads readers on a wacky first-person adventure through hell. Great supporting characters and wild antics keep the pace brisk and the humor flowing.”
—Romantic Times
“There’s a whole lot of promise here . . . enjoyable.”
—SF Site
Ace Books by Amber Benson
DEATH’S DAUGHTER
CAT’S CLAW
SERPENT’S STORM
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
SERPENT’S STORM
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with Benson Entertainment, Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace mass-market edition / March 2011
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eISBN : 978-1-101-47724-3
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For my mom,
who isn’t part fish
prologue
Blue sky.
She would do anything in the world to see blue sky again. The only window in her cell perpetually framed the same picture each and every day: large gray thunderheads always on the verge of spilling rain yet never seeming to deliver on their promise. She hated the window, the view from it, the cell in which she was incarcerated . . . all of which acted as a continuous reminder of the crimes she’d committed.
Yes, she’d done some stupid things—mostly she’d underestimated the people who’d sought to thwart her—but she didn’t regret any of her actions. She’d acted in the right. She’d done what she knew was necessary to secure a future that was most deservedly hers, and she’d do it all again if given the chance.
She’d be smarter the next time, though. There would be no compassion for the people who’d brought her suffering. She would grind them under her stiletto heel and feel no mercy toward them. She would make them suffer as she had, and she would enjoy every second of it.
There was a rattling behind her at the heavy iron door that barred her escape, and she turned, expecting to see a guard—one of the nasty Bugbear creatures with its four unblinking, button eyes showing nothing but reproach—bringing up her breakfast. Instead, the figure at the door was humanoid and covered in a light brown shroud that obscured its face. It carried no tray in its hands.
“What do you want?” she said, her words like acid as she glared at the figure, hoping to cut short this unexpected and unwelcome visit.
The figure pulled back its hood as if in answer, revealing a sharp, feminine face and curious eyes. A pair of red, cat-eyed glasses sat jauntily on the tip of the woman’s nose. A long, low-pitched laugh burbled from her throat as she smiled broadly from beneath her cowl-necked shroud.
“Why, I’m here to spring you, of course, darling. At the Devil’s behest, of course.”
The acid drained from her tongue as she took in her savior’s words, a malevolent grin slowly spreading across her face. How quickly things change, she thought to herself as she followed the woman in the cat-eyed glasses out of the cell, looking forward to the blue sky she knew was very much in her future.
one
Waking up next to a deliciously hot, naked man—one who was in my bed of his own volition—was like the most glorious feeling in the entire world. Right up there with winning an all-expenses-paid trip to Tahiti on The Price Is Right or having someone gift you a twenty-four-hour shopping spree at Barneys, Saks, and Neiman Marcus all on the same day. Yes, those were the things that rated A++ in my book, and having a naked man in my bed topped every one of them.
In the past I’d been utterly opposed to the idea of buck-naked sleeping because of my “in case of fire” phobia, in which I become the dumb girl caught running around her apartment building like a naked lunatic on holiday, giving all the firemen a “Calliope Reaper-Jones Boobies on Parade” show while they try to put out the flames. I was a modest maiden when it came to giving out free jiggle shows. I did not want to be that girl, no way, no how.
But I guess proximity changes everything—and once I actually had a man in my bed to be naked for, well, all my buck-naked sleeping misgivings strangely evaporated, fireman booby parade be damned!
You see, for me, puberty had come and gone without even the possibility of a steady beddy-buddy. Sure, I’d dated a few guys here and there, but none of them had ever hung around long enough to become my boyfriend, or anything so trite. As much as I hated to admit it, this phenomenon had to be at least 50 percent my fault. It wasn’t like I was ever: “Hey, male person I just schtupped, why don’t you stay and watch me wash my face in the morning?” I suppose I was just as eager to have them go, as they were to leave.
I didn’t understand why I behaved this way, but it had quickly become a pattern I was repeating well into adulthood. Maybe it came from being a late bloomer, or maybe I got bored easily . . . or maybe I just didn’t have what it took to make a real connection with someone unless their last name was Prada or Versace.
But then I’d met Daniel (the naked man in my bed) and everything had changed. For the first time, I’d wanted a man to stay at my house, to share my space, to eat my food . . . I’d wanted him to laze around my bedroom in the mornings while I got ready for work, talking to me, telling me how sexy I was in my underwear—which I knew had to be a lie, but I loved it anyway. Having a man in such close quarters was at once thrilling and completely decadent, which was a brand-new experience for me. For the first time in my life, I was a wanton woman and I loved every minute of it.
But then a week into the cohabitation, I had a complete and utter change of heart.
At first, I didn’t understand why my feelings had changed so abruptly. I’d been nothing but excited to have Daniel come stay with me while he got his new life started, so it was a shock when I realized my lack of happiness stemmed completely from the realization that Daniel wasn’t the “bad boy” I’d assumed him to be.
You see, ever since he’d been released from his duties as the Devil’s protégé (and taken up residence in my bed), he’d become a lot less exciting to hang around with. I was still ridiculously attracted to him—which I guessed was a positive—but sex was quickly becoming the only thing we had in common. Now, when we weren’t doing the nasty, all he talked about was how much he wanted to help the denizens of Hell and how the Devil deserved a one-way ticket to a jail cell in Purgatory for all the misdeeds he’d perpetuated on his subjects. It seemed like every conversation was a rehash of this same subject until I could hardly stand to be around him anymore.
I’d expected James Dean; what I’d gotten was Mother Teresa.
Daniel was a do-gooder, an all-around nice guy who just wanted to help other people—including the entire population of Hell—and the truth was I didn’t really see where I fit into the equation. I had needs, wants, neuroticisms—all the bells and whistles that went along with being a girl—and my man needed to be as interested in those things as he was in maintaining the balance between good and evil in the universe.
Of course, it didn’t mean I wasn’t interested in helping out the peeps down in Hell.
Far from it.
I’d promised Cerberus, the three-headed Guardian of the North Gate of Hell—and the father of my hellhound pup, Runt—that I’d make a trip to Heaven and take up his plight with God. And as soon as things had cooled down a little at work, I had definite plans to go to Heaven—just like I’d promised Cerberus—and make good on my tête-à-tête with the powers that be. I didn’t know if I could really make God put a stop to all the nasty stuff the Devil was doing down in Hell, but I was going to give it my best shot.
But I didn’t let the above-mentioned subject color everything I did. I still tried to have a real life outside my quasi-supernatural existence, unlike Daniel, who had no interest in anything from the human world—movies, clothes, eating out at nice restaurants—unless he could connect it back to the Afterlife.
Daniel was consumed with the idea of freeing Hell from the Devil, and he spent a lot of our time together pushing me to drop everything and go straight to Heaven to start bugging God for his/her help. When I explained to him how crazy work was, how I couldn’t afford to piss off my boss any more than I already had or I was gonna lose my job, he just look
ed at me like I was the most selfish person on the face of the earth.
To Daniel, my job was unimportant, especially when compared to all the crap the Devil was doing down in Hell. Losing my job was a small sacrifice, one I should make willingly, so he could assume the Sally Struthers position in the “Feed the Downtrodden Minions of Hell” commercials.
The odd thing was that although we were having these very intense disagreements about what was more important—my job or the servitude the inhabitants of Hell were forced to endure—none of it seemed to impact our sex life. All the arguing had actually served to make the physical stuff even more heightened, which was annoying because I couldn’t see the fairness in having our bedroom antics be so amazing while the rest of our relationship was slowly disintegrating.
“What’re you thinking about?”
Daniel’s face loomed large over mine, a grin on his handsome mug. He had an amazing smile, one that made my heart do the flip-flop dance every time he flashed it in my direction, but the smile didn’t linger long. He knew I was holding something back—and I had no idea how to even begin to broach the subject with him. As the weeks had worn on and I hadn’t conceded to help get the ball rolling up in Heaven, things had deteriorated to the point where nonverbal communication was a heck of a lot safer then opening my mouth.