A Demon And Her Scot (Welcome To Hell) (2 page)

“Fuck the dog.”

“What?”

“Hellhound racing. Saturday’s match. Fuck
the Dog is a sure win, if his trainer doesn’t get caught by his wife screwing his girlfriend while using baby oil on satin sheets.”

“That is way too much information.”

“Tell me about it. I got a peek of it in living color, and trust me when I say that trainer naked isn’t something anyone wants to see.”

“Can I take a rain check on the coffee?”

“Of course. You’ll be back soon enough.”

“I will?”

“Yup. Oh, and the answer is forever.”

“Answer to what?”

“I can’t tell you the question yet. It’s in the future. But, since you’re such a stubborn bitch, I thought I’d help you with the answer.”

“I hate it when you do that,” Aella grumbled.

“I know.” Sasha smiled smugly. “Here’s lunch to go.” Sasha handed her a paper bag, which magically appeared at her elbow.

Aella’s stomach gurgled. She didn’t need psychic powers to know what hid within would taste good. Damned good. “Thanks. Hey, before I go, how’s the romance coming with that vampire, what’s his name?”

“Vlad? I staked him. He was going to cheat on me and break my heart.” Sasha shrugged. “I broke his first.”

Never screw around with a psychic. Especially not murderous ones. After hugging goodbye and promising to get together soon, Aella left. As she munched her souvlaki right off the stick, she couldn’t help mull Sasha’s mysterious words. Forever.
What the fuck does that mean?

And even more perplexing, what was the damned question?

Even through the hank of stringy hair hanging over his eyes, McGregor noted her the moment she strode in. Everyone with a cock did. It was not often a female such as her tarnished her reputation by entering this bar. Only those who’d lost all hope ever came here. Dirty, dank, and disreputable, the Triple D—Despair, Desperation, and Destiny— catered to those one step away from flinging themselves in the abyss. They charged too much for the drinks, astronomical prices for their whores, and encouraged those who entered to wager their every last penny before they went on to the next stage of their unlife. Or, as some called it, their rebirth.

Hell, despite what many believed, wasn’t the final stop when a soul died, more of a way station, a place of judgment for sins. Once a soul paid for their misdeeds when they lived, they could choose to eke out an existence in the overcrowded cities that littered the nine rings or take their chance with the abyss and start over. Wipe the slate clean so to speak.

Problem was, no one was quite sure what that meant. People who entered the abyss didn’t return. Or, at least, their memories didn’t. Once their souls got recycled, hopefully to end up reborn, no one ever heard from them again.

Needless to say, this uncertainty led to many choosing to delay their final plunge to the next level. As a result? Hell was a crowded fucking place.

Except for here, at the edge of the abyss. Here, the damned didn’t choose to set down roots. So close to this major landmark, only a few dared to set up shop and eke out a living. The very lack of crowds and the general air of misery was why McGregor chose it. He enjoyed the quiet, the solitude, the chance to stagnate in misery. Oh, and the ale was wonderfully strong, if you had the coin to pay for it, and thanks to his deal with the devil, Niall had plenty of that.

He could have anything he wanted. Whores? The only other thing of worth in this place, if you could call the blood-sucking slags in this place by such a kind name, abounded. They could make quite the profit selling their charms to those determined to spend it all before going away. Not that Niall paid the slags any mind. He’d stopped partaking of their services a few centuries ago. Why have meaningless sex? Fuck one, you’d fucked them all. Once he lost interest, though, it became a game with the sex workers. Try and seduce the Scot. See what he wore under his kilt. He bore it with good grace most days.

On those he didn’t…he always paid for his damages.

Niall had no interest in pleasure. He lived, if you could call it that, for the next drink. And even that he cared very little about. He’d gone through all the stages that resulted in an acceptance of his fate.

Stage One. Rage and revenge. Done during his mortal years, he didn’t recall much other than the fact rinsing with cold water didn’t always wash away the bloodstains.

Stage Two. A twinge of remorse. Not much mind you, but once the battles were done and the dust settled, he discovered the pain at the treachery done him unabated. All that bloodshed. Comrades lost. People reviling his name. And yet, he still couldn’t forget…

Stage Three. Depression. Owning the title to all kinds of land did him no good when no one would marry him. Sure, the lairds of other castles promised him daughters—who wouldn’t when they feared retaliation?—but none of the women wanted him. None wanted the Fearsome McGregor who chopped off his first bride’s head and drank her blood. He didn’t—the blood drinking came later—but legend was a powerful thing.

Stage Four. Death. When the last keep he conquered rebelled in the middle of the night, he lay in bed and waited for the assassination. Even looked his killer in the frightened whites of his eyes and muttered a thank you. He was done living. He longed for death and an end to the emptiness in his heart. Problem was he woke up, in Hell, which, as it turned out, was just as annoying as the mortal world.

Stage Five. Bitterness, which led to Stage Six, drunkenness. Because of his deal with Lucifer, he didn’t own his soul, so he couldn’t just jump in to the abyss and start over. Despite Niall’s many wars and crimes, he didn’t receive punishment. On the contrary, Lucifer gave him a medal for sending so many deserving souls his way.

Oh, and he became a vampire. Apparently, those without a soul entering the pit only had a few choices. Become a demon of some sort or a type of undead. Since he preferred to not turn into a creature of nightmare, Niall chose the existence of a blood-sucking, sun-hating vampire. It went well with his mood.

As for the next stages of his fate? Niall couldn’t name them, nor did he care. He just waited for his miserable existence to end. Or for Hell to freeze over so he could try out that new mortal sport he’d seen on television called hockey. And that was his life, in a bleak, shriveled nutshell. Boring. Depressing. Monotonous. Until
she
walked in.

What set her apart?

Everything.

Good
-looking, a real model-type lady—a term he didn’t use often—she definitely made an impression in her mottled snake skin, thigh-high boots, off-the-shoulder red toga and dark hair drawn back and held high in a swinging pony tail—made for yanking as a male pounded into her from behind. She exuded a cockiness better suited to a man and the sensuality of a high-priced whore. A heady combination. However, it was the double-edged axe strapped to her back, the leather harness accentuating a plentiful bosom, that really intrigued him.

As she questioned the barkeep, he eyed her, wondering if she could wield the monstrous weapon or if it acted as a prop, a way of dissuading the more gullible into thinking she was tough. Judging by her build, sinuous curves, and undulating hips, he would wager against. Pretty girls, such as her, had other weapons in their arsenal.

Interest from all the patrons, himself included, was piqued when the barkeep inclined his head in Niall’s direction, and she spun to fix him with striking orbs, yellow and vertically slitted, much like a cat. Her full lips pursed as she eyed him. Never one to shy away from bold gazes, Niall leaned back in his rickety seat, spread his legs slightly so his tartan pulled taut across his thick bare legs, and waited for her to approach. When she seemed to hesitate, he patted his lap, curious to see how far this female would go to earn a few coins. She’d not come here because she’d heard he was attractive. Then again, paid by the hour, women of her ilk didn’t care about looks but the size of his purse. Until they saw the size of his cock. Then they demanded more—of his cock that was, not his money.

With a sure stride, she weaved her way through the rickety furniture until she stood before his table. Still staring, she didn’t say a word. Surely she didn’t expect him to ask for it? She wanted him; she could damned well beg for it.

They engaged in a staring match, neither of them blinking. A stalemate. Bored, he belched. Her eyes narrowed, the pupils dilating to a mere black slit, and she crossed her arms under her impressive chest. He almost asked her to bare them so he could take a peek at her merchandise, but that would indicate interest, and Niall had more willpower than that.

The silence stretched as she again eyeballed him from the top of his shaggy head, down his untrimmed beard, over his stained tunic, to his ragged plaid
, and then farther, right to the tip of his dirty bare toes. What a sight he must have presented. He’d not bathed or groomed in a decade or two. Maybe three. He’d lost count.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” she muttered at last.

Such foul language from such pretty lips. He rather enjoyed it. “Excuse me, lass, ye seem a tad lost. Were ye looking for someone?”

“Are you Niall McGregor?”

Oh ho. The plot thickened. Few knew him by name. Generally referred to as the Scot, Niall hadn’t heard his name spoken in at least a century or more. Someone obviously had sent her searching for him. But who? He’d eschewed those he knew in life, preferring to marinate in his self-inflicted misery. Most who’d once known him had moved on, their souls not fettered by a covenant signed in blood, a contract damning him to the pit forever—and giving him a thirst for more than just ale. “Aye, I’m he.”

“
The
Niall McGregor?”

“Depends. Who’s asking?”

“I am unfortunately.” She didn’t bother to stop her lip from curling into a moue of disgust.

Shame at his appearance fought to rise. He booted it back down. What did he care what she thought of him? Best find out what she wanted—
my cock is hers for the asking—
and send her on her way. “What can I do for ye, lass?” The endearment slipped out, a habit from his more civilized days. Funny. He could have sworn he didn’t have any civility left in him.

“Not me. Our
lord. Lucifer wants your ragged ass back at his castle pronto.”

Her answer surprised him. “For?”

“He requires your assistance with his upcoming golf match.”

For a moment, Niall recalled the thrill of holding a club in his hand. Of lining up the perfect shot. The sound the head made when it hit the ball’s sweet spot. Then, with even greater clarity, he recalled what golf did to him. “No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean no. I am not going back to Lucifer’s castle. I’m no longer in the golfing game. So march your sweet buttocks back to him and tell him you found me, but the answer is no.”

How he enjoyed the flummoxed mien on her face. “You do realize he’s the boss?”

“I know and don’t care. What’s he going to do to me? Sentence me to Hell? Already there, lass.”

“He could make your stay a lot more unpleasant.”

“How? I’ve done my share of pain. Shed my pints of blood. Tried just about every torture this damned place has to offer.” Anything to try and
feel
again. None of it worked. Niall rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “He’s welcome to do his worst. I dinna feel a thing.” His brogue thickened with his irritation.

The answer thinned those plump lips into a straight line. Sour mood or not, she was still too damned attractive, and worse, the longer she stayed, the more she drew attention. From the dark corners, shadow
s—
which had lain dormant for many, many year
s—
crept forward, drawn by her feisty spirit. If she didn’t leave, she’d soon discover why the brighter souls and demons chose to avoid this place.

Just like many a female with a one-track mind, she seemed oblivious to the approaching menace. “Are we going to do this the easy way or the hard?” she asked. “Because, like it or not, you will be coming with me. I’ve got an impeccable record when it comes to completing my missions, and I am not giving up the title or my bonus just because some ancient, hairy caveman—”

He took offense at the insult. “I’m a Scot!”

“—refuses to get his fat ass—”

“Fat?” He straightened from his slouch to glare at her. “I’ll have you know, this is all muscle, lass.”

“—out of
his chair and toddle his skirted, dirty self to the nearest fucking portal.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you have a foul mouth?”

The dirty mouth in question curled into a derisive smile. “All the time. It’s one of my more endearing qualities. So, what’s it going to be, Nancy?”

His brows drew together in a fierce frown that didn’t daunt her one bit. “My name is Niall. And the answer is still no. I am not budging.”

“Listen, Nellie. I am going to be nice here, given Lucifer did ask me to bring you to him with as little damage as possible, but you are trying my nonexistent patience. Don’t make me hurt you. I can promise you won’t like it.”

As if this sweet little thing could harm him. He did, however, find her attitude perplexing. “What is up with name calling, lassie?”

“It’s the skirt. It’s throwing me off.”

“It’s a kilt.”

“Whatever. Kilt, skirt. You’re still a man showing off his bare legs in something that went out of style centuries ago.”

“Says the girl wearing a toga.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’d make fun of a male, even a Greek, wearing one of those too.”

Niall changed tactics. With a leer, he asked, “So what are you wearing under it?”

She tossed it right back at him. “What are you wearing under your skirt?”

“Nothing. Want to see?”

“It’s too early in the day for laughter.”

Drunk or not, Niall caught the insult. “Lass, I promise ye what hides under me kilt is anything but funny.”

“You’re right. Anything that hasn’t bathed in decades is probably more likely to send a woman screaming. Or fainting from the smell.”

“Why you little harpy.” Incredulous, he could only stare at her while she smirked.

“Ah, have we reached the point of pet names? How sweet. I was thinking of dung beetle for you.”

He went to lunge at her, prepared to toss her over his knee for the spanking she begged for, but caught the way her body tensed in preparation.

The lass intentionally baited him in an attempt to get him upright. She’d probably tussle with him, do something to unman him like kick him in the balls, and then force him to chase her out into the street where the real troops waited to net him and drag him back to Lucifer. Never!

He’d given the devil his soul. But he’d never promised to loan him his talent. Golf had destroyed his life. He’d rather suffer the taunts of the sweet lass than take up a club again.