Soul Bound (17 page)

Ugh. “And how long will that take?” I ask worriedly. After all, we need to talk to him before Sunny gets judged and becomes a permanent resident. We have no time for bureaucracy.

Head #3 does some quick mental calculations. “On a good day? Maybe a month? But if any of the six committees finds an error on your application, which, let’s face it, sixty-six percent of the time, they do, you’ll have to wait another six hundred and sixty-six days to reapply.”

Head #1 gives us a smug look. “Our best guess in your case?” it says, giving us a critical once-over. “You’re probably in for a three-year wait at the very least.”

“Three years?” I cry. “That’s crazy!”

“
If
Hades decides to grant your request at all,” adds Head #3.

Head #2 utters a self-satisfied growl that almost sounds like it’s laughing at me. I give it a dirty look.

“It’s better than the alternative,” Head #1 reminds us. “Which is an eternity.”

Okay, this is not good. Time for some creative problem solving here.

“Listen, Dude… Dudes?” It’s hard to know whether I should be speaking in plural to the three-headed beast. “We’re all adults here. Let’s talk about what we need to do to make
everyone happy. Maybe I could swing by the butcher and grab you some meat? A nice, big juicy steak perhaps? Or maybe three? Would that help… speed along my application?”

All three heads give me a horrified look. Head #2 growls menancingly.

“A steak?” cries Head #1. “Are you kidding me?”

“Don’t you know we’ve been vegan since 1994?”

“Are you
trying
to mess with our cholesterol?”

I sigh. “A head of lettuce maybe?” This is not going well.

“Tsk, tsk,” scolds Head #3. “Attempting to bribe an officer of the court. Just for that, your application will be denied.”

“What? But I haven’t even submitted one yet!”

“Well, then you’d better get on that, don’t you think? Time’s a wasting.”

“Why you little—” I make a threatening move toward the beast, but Jareth and Race grab me and hold me back. Probably a good idea, in hindsight. Those sharp teeth may be vegan, but I have no doubt they’d be happy to tear me apart then spit me out, given half the chance.

“Come on, Rayne,” Jareth says firmly, dragging me away from the dog house. “Let’s go find the office and fill out the application.”

“What, so these guys can play fetch with it?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.”

A
fter some wandering, we do manage to find the application building, but, of course, it’s closed for the weekend and a bored-looking attendant suggests we come back Monday. Discouraged and exhausted, we head back down the street wondering what to do next. Jareth suggests perhaps finding a motel room where we can crash and then regroup. (
Three
motel rooms, he clarifies after Race starts asking about who’s sharing what bed.) Luckily, unlike the ferryman, many of these establishments advertise taking American Express. So we agree and head through the parking lot, and enter the first place we see. It’s not five-star, by any means. Heck, if it got one star, I’d be shocked. But at this point none of us feel particularly picky.

We walk into the lobby, which is just as dreary and sad as the rest of the Way Station. The air is overwhelmingly musty
and the furniture is ancient and filled with holes. There are cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and even the plastic plants seem wilted. The old clerk behind the counter is fast asleep. We walk up and ring the bell and he grunts as he wakes and looks up at us.

“No room,” he mutters, looking only half conscious.

“What? What do you mean, no room?” I ask.

“Last flash flood flooded the place,” he says with a big yawn. “We’re all booked up for months while people wait for judgment. You’ll find the same everywhere you look. The Way Station is bursting at the seams right now.”

Jareth frowns. “Surely you have something,” he presses, after noting my dismayed face. “We’ve come a long way. And this poor girl is about to drop with exhaustion.”

I nod, doing my best to look pathetic, which isn’t hard considering I haven’t slept in days. “Please, good sir,” I beg. “Maybe even a broom closet?”

The innkeeper frowns, straightening up and adjusting his tie. “Even if I did, you’d be last in line to get it,” he huffs after giving us a critical once-over. “I run a proper establishment here. Dead only.” He points to a sign on the wall, as if to prove his point. Sure enough, it reads: L
IVING
N
EED
N
OT
A
PPLY
.

“Isn’t that a little racist?” Race demands indignantly. “After all, it’s hardly our fault we haven’t been properly staked yet.”

But the innkeeper has already plopped his head back down on the desk and only snores in response. Reluctantly, we give up and head back outside and continue on down the street, looking for some place that might take us in. Unfortunately, each
establishment seems to have the same policy, with signs ranging from D
EAD
or D
ON’T
E
VEN
T
HINK
A
BOUT
I
T
to N
O
S
HOES
, N
O
G
LOW
, N
O
S
ERVICE
to even N
O
L
IVING
A
LLOWED—
Y
ES
, H
ERCULES
, T
HIS
M
EANS
Y
OU!

“What are we going to do?” I ask the boys, dismay knotting in my stomach. “I mean, no one’s going to take us in. But if we stay out in the open, we run the risk of running into one of those Demon Patrols Charon was talking about. And while I’m desperate for a bed, I do not want to sleep in a Hades jail cell, thank you very much.”

Jareth nods, rubbing his chin with his hand. “I think we best keep moving,” he says, looking up and down the desolate street. “If we stay in one place too long, we’re bound to be noticed.”

So we keep trudging forward, through the darkened streets, looking for some kind of shelter. I’m so exhausted and discouraged at this point, I can barely stand and I manage to trip over my feet twice. Luckily, both times Jareth catches me and helps me back upright.

“Thanks,” I murmur, giving him a grateful glance.

But he only grunts in response, looking at me with sad eyes, then turning away. I know what he’s thinking: If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t be here. I’d be safe in my bedroom playing Vampires vs. Zombies. I wish there was some way to convince him that I don’t blame him for what happened and that I’d rather be here with him than anywhere on Earth alone.

“What was I thinking?” Race grumbles on my other side. “I should have never come. This place sucks. There’s not even any groupies around to—”

“OH MY GOD—RACE JAMESON? IS THAT YOU?”

Seemingly out of nowhere, a blond, buxom vampire leaps into our path, her glowy purple eyes dancing with excitement. She throws herself at the vampire rock star and hugs him tight. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re here! You’re really here! I wrote to your record company at least fifty times, trying to get you to come down here for a gig. But I never heard back! I’d been ready to give up hope!” She burrows her face in Race’s chest. “I’m Amanda. Your biggest fan. When did you die? I checked your Hellbook status this morning and it said you were still living. What happened? Blood OD? Pyrotechnics gone bad?”

“Whoa, whoa!” Race says, trying to pry her off of his body. “I’m not dead. I’m just down here visiting with some friends.”

She looks him up and down. “Oh right. Of course. I should have known. You don’t have that new soul glow, do you? Sorry, I was just so excited to see you. I mean, I’ve been waiting for you to die forEVER so we can get some of your music down here. There’s, like, no one at the Way Station that’s half as good as you.”

“Well, thank you. That’s very… flattering. But I think I still have quite a long life—”

“What’s a HellBook?” I interrupt curiously. “Is that like Facebook in Hades?”

Amanda turns and glares at me suspiciously. “Who are you?”

“She’s with me, luv,” Race reassures her. “I mean, not
with me
, with me,” he adds quickly as the girl’s eyes narrow. “She’s just a friend.”

“Oh!” The groupie’s face clears. “Okay!” she cries. “Any friend of Race’s is a friend of mine.” She pulls out a glowy purple iPhone from her pocket. “Here, check it out. It’s pretty cool.” She loads up the app and then hands me the phone. Sure enough, it appears to be a social media site for the dead, go figure. Mark Zuckerberg sure has a long reach.

“Wow, that’s pretty cool,” I say, scrolling through her profile. Evidently she’s been dead for twelve months, waiting for judgment. Her blood mate is still alive on Earth and her latest status says she’s pissed because she believes he’s hooking up with another living chick.

“It’s super popular,” Amanda assures me, as she takes the phone back. “I mean, in addition to keeping tabs on the living—though we can’t write on their walls or anything—it also serves as a directory of who’s down here and where. Hades is a huge place, and it used to take hundreds of years sometimes to find someone you know. Now you can look up your past loved ones in the directory and connect with them in an instant.”

I stare at her, wide eyed. What a great idea. I grab the phone back from her and type Sunny’s name into the search bar, my breath lodged in my throat. Would she be here? Could we finally track her down?

Damn. That would have been too easy. Guess she hasn’t signed up for an account yet. Or maybe she doesn’t want to. I
know the girl was always kind of anti–social media or anything computer related.

“It takes a month or two to get listed,” Amanda adds, catching my disappointed face. “The bureaucracy in this place is mind-blowing.”

“Tell, me about it,” I reply glumly, handing her back her phone. At this rate we’re never going to find the girl, never mind actually have a chance to get her out.

“Wait a second, can I see that?” Jareth suddenly interjects. After glancing at Race and getting his nod of approval, the girl dutifully hands over her phone to him. Jareth’s brow furrows as he attempts to use the touch screen. (Being old school—super, super old school, that is—he struggles with technology sometimes.) But he eventually gets it and then hands the phone back to me.

“Take a look,” he says with a small smile.

I stare down at the screen, doing a double take, my jaw dropping in amazement. My sister may not be listed… but my father is! I look up at Jareth. “Oh my God!”

“Find someone you know?” Amands asks hopefully as Race signs her arm with a Sharpie.

“Yes!” I cry. “How do we go about contacting them?”

“Well, you could write on their wall, but then it would look like it was coming from me. Your best bet might be to use Google Maps. Click on their location and it’ll bring it right up.”

I do as she instructs and, sure enough, a moment later I have a map with my dad’s house pinpointed. I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe there’s hope for us after all!

“Do you know where this is?” I ask Amanda, showing her the map.

She squints at the screen. “Hmm. It’s not in the Way Station. He must have already gotten judged and been given a permanent address. I don’t know how to get there, unfortunately. But I’ll write it down for you. Maybe someone else can help.” She grabs the Sharpie from Race and turns my hand over to scribble the address. “There you go.”

“Thank you so much!” I say, relief flooding through me. “I cannot tell you how helpful you’ve been.”

“Just remember,” she says, giving Race a knowing look. “When you die I want tickets to your first Underworld show.”

“Absolutely,” Race agrees. “As far as I’m concerned, you can have front-row seats.”

I wait for her squeal of delight. But strangely, instead, she suddenly shrinks back in fear, her eyes glued on something behind us. I whirl around to see what’s gotten her so frightened, and my eyes fall upon a six-foot glowing green demon guard, stepping out from the darkness.

“What the… ?” I whisper, turning back around. But Amanda has already fled.

“Put your hands up,” the demon instructs in a deep gravelly voice. “You are under arrest.”

O
n instinct, I grab for my stake, once again lamenting I don’t have something more suited for non-vampire slaying on hand. If I ever get out of this mess alive, I’m so going to make Teifert give me the key to the real weapons closet. After all I’ve been through, I think I more than deserve a slightly sharper stick in my arsenal.

The fat, pockmarked demon takes one look at my “weapon” and sneers, lowering his spear in my direction and taking a menacing step forward. “Oh, you want to fight, do you?” he says in a throaty growl, his extreme enthusiasm for my non-surrender more than a little disconcerting. I suddenly realize I have no idea the extent of the prowess of the creature I’ve picked a fight with.

“Rayne…” I can hear Jareth say behind me, his voice tight with worry.

“I’ve got this,” I mutter back to him, keeping my eye on the demon, stake raised and ready.
I am slayer. Hear me roar.

I consider firing some Buffyesque-style banter back at the demon, but then decide, in this case, actions speak louder than words. With a solid, roundhouse kick, I slam my foot against his spear, succeeding in knocking it from his unsuspecting claws. His eyes widen as it goes clattering down onto the pavement.
Yeah, baby!
Guess he wasn’t expecting someone so
leet
amongst the living.

“You like that, big boy?” I ask, deciding now that I’ve disarmed him so easily I have the right to a little gloating. “Well, there’s plenty more where that came from.”