Fashionably Dead Down Under (10 page)

“You’re amazing,” Dixie said. “How did you do
that?”

“Which part?” I asked, making sure my evil
gloves were gone.

“Either.”

“Not sure,” I told her. “Although it seems to
have something to do with getting pissed off.”

“Can you absorb evil and anger around
you?”

“I did at the party. That’s how I popped
Amanda’s lips.”

“Which by the way was awesome.” Dixie grinned
and I joined her.

“Thank you. Dixie, have you ever heard the
walls talk?”

“Are you making fun of me because I have an
imaginary friend—who, by the way, isn’t imaginary?” she huffed.

“No.” I decided to ignore the imaginary
friend thing. “The walls were talking when I first got to Hell at
your dad’s.”

“That’s odd. I’ve never heard that.”

“Must have imagined it,” I said, knowing full
well that I hadn’t.

“Well, I’ll listen harder next time I go to
the Dark Palace. That’s really kind of neat. Anyway, I’m going to
bed. The second door on the left is your bedroom. Do you need
anything? You haven’t really eaten anything,” she said, worrying
her lip. “Do you need to bite me or something?”

“Or something,” I muttered, wondering how
long I could go without blood. I was unsure what Demon blood would
do to me and wasn’t willing to chance it and find out. “No, I’m
fine . . . for now.”

“Okay.” She hesitated and picked at her
nails. “I know you don’t want to be here and I know you’ll be
leaving soon, but I’m really glad to know you.”

Realizing she was expecting an answer, I
surprised myself. “I’m glad to know you too. Maybe this was worth
it somehow.”

She gave me a small smile and left. I was
happy to know her, not necessarily the rest of the bunch, but it
was kind of interesting to learn about my fucked up family tree.
God, wait till Ethan found out I was the niece of the Devil
himself. That would be fun.

My bedroom was lovely. Cool blues and whites
mixed with dusty rose. The furniture looked Amish—beautiful and
well built, but that was it as far as sparse went. The bed was
soft, squishy and inviting. The walls were covered in a faded
striped fabric instead of paper and the ceiling was tin. A dresser,
desk, chair and vanity with a mirror finished off the suite. It
smelled wonderful—like clean sheets and summer breezes. Before I
got used to Hell being so lovely, I probably needed to visit the
other levels.

I glanced up at the tin ceiling and looked
for my Baby Demons. They weren’t there.

“Abe, Beyonce, Rachel, Ross?” I whispered.
Nothing. Where had they gone? Did they know their way around Hell?
Why hadn’t I thought to ask them that? I’d bet they knew what a
portal looked like. Shit. Where were they?

“Guys, I need you.” Nothing. They’d always
come before. Crap, did something happen to them? If I’d remembered
that they were in my pocket when I was unceremoniously dragged to
Hell, I’d have tossed them out. I’d never forgive myself if
something happened to them . . .

Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I
turned away. Looking at myself seemed to make me more Demon than
Vampyre and I didn’t want that. Ever. Although I hadn’t tried
eating food yet, I was curious. I knew liquid was out, but I
wondered if I’d be able to taste solid food. I’d been jonesing for
peanut butter and jelly since I’d been turned.

Only one way to find out.

Dixie’s kitchen was awesome. After a short
search I found bread, peanut butter and jelly. I rounded up a knife
and a plate and I was ready for my experiment. Holding the most
perfectly made peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my hand, I
froze.

“Astrid,” an eerie voice that sounded exactly
like the one from the palace whispered.

I whipped around, quickly grabbing the first
weapon I laid my hands on. A butter knife... A butter knife? Crap,
couldn’t I do better than a freakin’ butter knife? Where in the
hell were my Vamp powers?

“Who’s there?” I demanded. My stomach
clenched. I clutched my pathetically dull blade, dropped low and
waited to do battle with my killer.

It laughed.

You have got to be kidding me. I was so not
in the mood for this. Far too many people, and I use that word
lightly, had laughed and given me crap lately and I was done.

“Who are you?” I spat. Fear began to seep
away, slowly replaced by anger. “Show yourself, asshole.”

My temper flared and my hands began to
tingle. Good. The freaky gloves had shown up. I wasn’t exactly sure
how to use them, but they were better than nothing. I didn’t feel
like dying tonight.

“Feisty,” the disembodied voice hissed.

“I’ll show you feisty, you butthole.”

Damnit, butthole sounded kind of junior high.
Asshole was way better—or fucker. I didn’t want whatever invisible
freak show that was in the kitchen to know I was basically power
free at the moment. Butthole kind of put me in the league of ‘I
won’t really kill you because I’m too nice.’ Not good, not good.
Maybe if I call him an asshole again, or maybe shithat... Sweet
Baby Beelzebub...shut up. I needed to turn off the inner monologue
and focus or I was going to end up so dead.

I scanned the kitchen, but my intruder was
invisible or just hidden very well. I felt an energy but it was all
over the place. I was unable to locate the source. This was new.
Did the glitter gloves make me aware of energies?

“I said,” I ground out through clenched
teeth, “show yourself and I mean it.”

“And what will you do if I don’t?” the voice
whispered ominously.

My fingers were tingling and sparks began to
fly. Shit, shit, shit.

“I’ll blow up the entire house and burn your
sorry ass alive.” No clue if I could actually do it, but bluffing
worked occasionally...

“There are a few problems with that plan,” it
said quite matter-of-factly.

Was the voice critiquing my methods or
offering advice? Could this get any weirder?

“Oh yeah, what?” I countered with way more
confidence than I was feeling.

“Well, for starters,” the voice said, “you
have no idea if fire would even kill me, but there’s a fine chance
you’d kill yourself and your cousin Dixie in an explosion like
that.”

Damnity damnit, the voice was right. Wait a
minute. “Why in the Hell would you care if I killed myself or my
cousin?”

“Because I love you.”

“Okay, eeewww. Are you some kind of
disgusting pervert weirdo stalker who loves the people he
kills?”

I quickly rescanned the room. Why couldn’t I
find him? I inched toward the archway next to the foyer which led
to the living room which in turn led to Dixie’s room. Maybe she
would know what to do.

“Don’t. Move,” the voice bellowed.

I’d had just about enough of being the
victim. It was time to go Clint Eastwood on the monster in my
cousin’s kitchen. I didn’t care what it was, it had to go. Now. I
dropped the useless butter knife, closed my eyes, raised my flame
throwing fingers and began to chant. I was chanting in a language
I’d never heard, although it was distantly familiar. The words
flowed freely from my body and it felt wonderful, powerful, dark
and fucked up.

With my eyes closed I was able to locate the
source. The melodic chant gave me a different kind of sight. Not
being able to see with my eyes heightened every other sense I had.
I was able to see everything around me with a clarity that was as
alarming as it was accurate. My creepy killer was cloaked in
invisibility and stood about three feet away. I couldn’t tell what
he looked like, but I knew where he was. That was all I needed.

I pointed my fingers at the energy and a
fireworks show exploded from my hands. I hit my intruder. I didn’t
want to kill him. I wanted to question him before I destroyed him.
And if I was perfectly honest with myself, I wasn’t sure I could
kill him. I had no clue what he was.

“Very good!” the voice yelled.

Why in the Hell was the voice happy? I
blasted it with some kind of Demon magic. I mean that shit had to
hurt. Right? Come to think of it, why in the Hell did the voice all
of a sudden sound familiar to me? It sounded like the Sprite I met
at my mother’s funeral. What was a Sprite doing in Hell?

I gritted my teeth and waited for him to show
himself. “Materialize. Now.”

He did. My annoyance increased with the smug
satisfaction on his face. It was that little Sprite shit. I was
going to kill him. “Did you think that was a good joke? Because I
didn’t.”

“Darling Astrid, you were wonderful!” He
clapped his adorable little Oompa Loompa hands and grinned from ear
to ear.

As cute as he was I was not about to let him
off easily. “Clearly you know my name, but I’m at a loss about
yours.”

“I’m your grandpa.”

“What? You’re a Sprite.” He was so full of
shit.

“I’m a Demon Sprite and I’m most definitely
your grandpa.” He grinned with delight and held his arms out for a
hug.

“Nope. No bonding until you answer some
questions, little man.”

“I prefer Grandpa, but I’ve answered to much
worse.”

My Grandpa
was the cutest man alive. I
pressed my fists into my sides so I wouldn’t start squeezing him.
It didn’t surprise me that he spent a lot of time in traction
because the Deadly Sins had squeezed and loved on him too hard. I
had a horrific compulsion to grab him and cuddle him. I knew my jaw
had clenched and my lips had pursed. The same way they would if I
saw an adorable puppy or a super cute baby. I had to bite my tongue
so I wouldn’t start spouting baby gibberish to him.

“You want to hug me to your bosom and shower
me with kisses,” Grandpa informed me smugly.

“Ewwww,” I groaned, “do not say bosom. That’s
disgusting.”

“You have a mouth like a sailor and you’re
offended by bosom?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“No. Just when you imply that I’m going to
connect you to mine. It sounds wrong—like illegal wrong.”

“I do see your point,” he agreed. “But I
meant nothing of the sort.”

“Good to know.” I rolled my eyes and stared
at the little man who called himself my grandpa. “Was that you in
the bedroom of the Dark Palace?”

“Yes!” He was positively gleeful. “I wanted
to show myself, but it wasn’t the right time.”

“So wait, you’re Satan’s dad
and
God’s
dad?”

“Oh no dear, Satan and God share the same
mother. They’re half brothers.”

“And their mother is?”

Grandpa glanced around the room in terror.
“Mother Nature,” he whispered.

“Right.” I laughed and rolled my eyes.

“For the love of everything evil,” he moaned
and shuddered, “don’t do that. If she’s hears or sees you, we’re
all screwed.”

“For real?” His fear was rubbing off a bit.
Although I was having a hard time believing Mother Nature was
real.

“Yes, my dear. Let’s leave that subject for
now, shall we?”

“Ooookay, um . . . I killed your other son.”
I figured just getting it out on the table was for the best.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Thank you for that. He
always was a problem child.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Absolutely not. Now, his mother may be a bit
put out . . . ”

“And his mother is?” I asked, hoping he was
also Satan’s half brother.

Grandpa glanced around and then mouthed
“Mother Nature.”

Fuck.

“I suppose that meeting will turn out just
peachy,” I muttered, praying that day never came.

“We’ll try and avoid that at all costs,” he
said. “How are you controlling yourself around me? Dixie is the
only one who doesn’t cause me bodily harm.”

“No clue,” I answered. “I would like to
squish you, but maybe if you stay over there I’ll be able to
abstain. And why in the hell didn’t my fireworks show hurt you? You
should be dead.”

“Yes, yes.” Grandpa’s eyes sparkled with
joy.

“So?”

“So,” he continued gleefully, “on any other
Demon that would have worked, but not on me. In fact,” he pondered
seriously, “I believe there are only several beings in the entire
universe that your power will not work on.”

“And they would be?” I asked.

“Oh yes, of course,” he giggled. “What’s the
difference in a True Immortal and an immortal?” he asked, eyeing my
sandwich.

“Is this a test?” I moaned.

“Of sorts,” he replied, picking up my
PB&J and examining it.

“I have no idea.” Was he going to steal my
sandwich before I had a chance to see if I could eat it? I think he
was . . . I watched him stare lovingly at my late night snack and I
rolled my eyes.

“A True Immortal can’t die. Did you know
that?” he asked.

“Why do you answer my questions with
questions?”

“Because it’s fun,” he grinned and sniffed my
sandwich. “True Immortals can die—they just can’t be killed.”

I pushed my hair out of my face and groaned.
“Like that makes any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense, my love. A True
Immortal can only die if they choose to.”

I pondered that as I grabbed a spoon and
scooped some peanut butter out of the jar. I’d given up on getting
my sandwich back. “Why would a True Immortal want to die?”

“It’s quite simple,” Grandpa replied, “a
broken heart.”

“You’re joking,” I laughed... He didn’t.

“No, Little One, I wouldn’t joke about
that.”

“Wait.” I swallowed a big glob of peanut
butter and almost threw up. A big no on the eating, not to mention
it tasted like dust. “You just get a broken heart and drop
dead?”

“Sweet Baby Satan,” he threw back his head
and let out a great peal of laughter, “it’s a bit more complicated
than that. It’s a three part finale. One, your heart must be truly
broken. Two, you must choose to die and three, The Sword of Death
must be plunged into your heart.”

“Holy crap.” I was still choking on my peanut
butter. Grandpa slapped me on the back and I went flying. For being
such a little guy, he had one hell of an arm. “I’ve never heard
that before. Hell, I thought my father was in charge down
here.”