I don’t blame you, l’il hairs. We should all leave. So how dumb does that make me, that I’m just standing here waiting to be smited? Or whatever?
Satan was getting up. Carefully and slowly, she was rising to her feet. Her movements were stiff and forced. Her face was still a mottled blue; the whites of her eyes were severely bloodshot. No, they were filling with blood. No, they were red. The whites of her eyes were red. No. The whites and her pupils were red. It was like being glared at by a stoplight. A stoplight who had a run in her pantyhose.
And her wings were out. They were red, too, cardinal red. They fluttered and seemed to help her with her balance as she climbed up from the floor into a standing position. They were huge . . . the top of the wings started just above her neck, and the tail feathers stopped just above the floor.
What I found really strange was that the wings and her new and improved eye color didn’t make her seem alien or odd, though I’d never in my life seen someone (something?) who looked like that. In a weird way, seeing her wings pop made the whole package easier to swallow. It showed that the suits and the shoes and the carefully prepped hairstyles were the camouflage. The woman in this room with me now, that was the
real
Lucifer.
Weird, to look at something so alien and unfamiliar and think,
This is right. This is the way she’s supposed to look.
It made me think of Laura’s eyes and hair . . . when she got mega-pissed her hair would deepen from blond to red, and her eyes would go from blue to poison green. It was like the coloring was her litmus test for rage. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t terrified when we fell through the library into hell and, for me, anyway, woke up on a coroner’s table. Her hair and eyes had never changed. So at the time I knew she was pissed, but not, like, lethally so.
Lucifer finally got all the way to her feet—it seemed, at least to me, to take a long time. It also seemed to hurt. Awwww. The devil had a boo-boo. She clutched her head in both hands, then closed her evil scary red eyes and gritted her teeth. We could all hear them grinding together and then a new sound, a sort of dim crackle. It took me a second to realize: she was healing her shattered vertebra. They were knitting back together right in front of us.
My finger marks stood out like vivid red brands on her Anne Boleyn neck (“I have a little neck,” remember? A great line for someone who knew she was going to be legally murdered by the thug who was Henry VIII). While we watched, the marks on her neck slowly faded . . . it was like watching a film run backward. Harsh marks, then lighter, then fading, then . . . look at what the miracle of plastic surgery can do for women of
all
ages!
“Wow, who could have predicted any of that?” I wondered out loud. “Weird. Do you think it was something you said? Or something you did?”
Satan glanced down at herself, saw her skirt was rumpled and her pantyhose had runs. Then her skirt was fine and her pantyhose were flawless.
She looked at her bare feet for a few seconds, which seemed like years, and then simple black flats appeared, probably Dior.
I wasn’t certain why she was taking so long to smite me, but I had an idea. An idea that might have occurred to her right around the time I was making her neck go squish.
I shouldn’t have been able to hurt her, that was the thing. She was a zillion-year-old angel, she was
the devil
for crying out loud, and this was her world, her realm, her turf. No one ever tried to stomp her before? Ha. No one ever got the drop on her since God nailed her with His official smackdown? Double ha. No one ever tried to stomp her on her own turf before? And again, I say ha. Even if I took my considerable shortsightedness and vanity into question, I couldn’t make myself believe that.
Not because I was a mega-powerful vamp queen. Because I wasn’t especially original, and no one could tell me that in skatey-eight billion years, not one person had ever tried to pop Satan here in hell.
So I figured that had to mean one of two things. Lucifer let me kick the shit out of her. Or she didn’t. And right now I had no idea which one it could be. I almost wished Sinclair were here. He was pretty smart about the sneaky stuff. So was Tina. She practically had a master’s in trickery. Either of them would have been able to figure this out by now.
I glanced at Garrett. I hoped the devil didn’t hold grudges now that we were about to ask a favor. Then I almost laughed at myself
again
. I had never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I normally wasn’t this naïve, either.
I cleared my throat. Peeked at Garrett once again. There was no chance,
no
chance, but I had to ask for Antonia anyway. I wasn’t going to come all the way to hell and not even say her name. “So, you’re probably all wondering the reason we’re all gathered here today—”
Satan held up a finger. “You should not talk right now.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but that never has, and never will, be—”
“What do I have to do to get you to leave?”
Uh. What?
Get
me to leave? Like she couldn’t throw my ass out whenever she wanted? Like she had to be careful because she might need me? Or I might fuck her up? Please. I hadn’t even been able to make her dead for more than a minute. Maybe if I reeeally pissed her off she might have a stroke . . . for about fifteen seconds. There wasn’t anything I could do to her that she . . .
She . . .
Okay. Wait. Vain as I was, I’d never believe I could hurt the devil, really hurt her. Not right
now
, at least.
But how about, oh, I dunno, let’s grab a number at random. How about a thousand years from now? Hmm? How about
then
? Was I a danger to Satan after the world ended and I was king of the mountain?
Aw, shit. You know how when you think of something and have no evidence any of it’s true, and no way to prove it will
be
true, but you know it is all the same? The way you know your name, and how your husband’s hands feel on your skin? That’s how it was. Even as I was speculating, I could almost feel the
click
as my brain engaged and coughed up explanations that felt right.
So: Lucifer was afraid of Ancient Me, or needed Ancient Me, or both, so she couldn’t smite me anytime this year, or the next, or the next. So: she wanted us out of her living room (in a matter of speaking). So: what do you ask the devil for when you know there’s not much she won’t give you?
Naturally, my first thought was of Antonia (the least annoying one). That was why we’d come, and it was good that we came . . . I was beginning to see the wisdom in the old fortune-cookie saying (“Keep your friends close, but your enemies should be watched a lot,” or however it went). Antonia should never have died in the first place. If I’d been quicker, or smarter, or bulletproof, she wouldn’t have. And, at the time, if someone had said to me while we were all staring at her brains on the wall, “If you could undo this, would you?” then yes, I absolutely would. So here was our chance, and I wasn’t going to waste it.
I opened my mouth, I was ready with my plan, my course of action seemed clear, and all the voices in my head were in agreement. But what came out of my mouth was, “I want my Valentino couture black-lace midheel peep-toe pumps back. The ones I had to sacrifice to you last week in order to get you to appear.”
CHAPTER FORTY
The devil’s eyebrows arched. “I see.”
I didn’t say anything else. I couldn’t; it felt like my vocal cords had fused together. I wanted to take it back. I would never take it back. I had to take it back. I couldn’t take it back. I’d given up a friend for shoes, and I had no idea how to fix it.
Another long moment went by. Laura had a deer-in-the-headlights look, if the deer was about to be run over by a convoy of semis. Garrett was still waiting patiently. His (misguided) faith in me was touching; he must assume I had some sort of sinister plan. And I did. My plan was, essentially, Oh shit! The Ant was still on the fence, trying to figure out the best direction to jump.
Satan said, “You have no idea how much pain this admission is costing me: I underestimated you. So yes, you may have your property back. They’re in your closet as we speak, between the Tory Burch suede clogs and the Franco Sarto animal-print clogs.”
Way to rub it in, Lady of Lies. Clogs! Clogs are the new stiletto! Should have asked for Christian Louboutin to exist in this timeline.
“And as a . . . as a token of future goodwill, Antonia is also waiting for you.”
Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO NOT SAY ANYTHING FOR AT LEAST TEN SECONDS.
“I trust there won’t be anything else at this time?”
Three-Mississippi-four-Mississippi-five-Mississippi ...
“I—that’s—” Laura clearly thought I was having one of my . . . what had she and Garrett called it? A my-brain-isn’t-here look. She must have figured that since the chances were good I was daydreaming about a shoe sale, she’d better fill in the conversation gap. “That’s very kind, Mother.”
“It certainly is,” Satan agreed.
. . . six-Mississippi-seven-Mississippi-eight-Mississippi ...
That was as long as I could hold out. “Antonia will be waiting for us? This isn’t a monkey’s paw deal, is it?” My voice was heavy with suspicion. “She’s not a zombie with maggots in her hair and a mouth full of dirt, is she?” “Only if she’s taken up some alarming new hobbies.”
I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t
believe
it. I broke Satan’s neck and she gave me presents? No smiting? No scourging? No locusts or whatever Satan visited upon people?
Shit! Not that I minded a locust-free visit. Locust-free visits were always good. But this was a sobering thought. Make that a terrifying thought.
It was all true. It was all going to happen. I was going to turn into someone so awful, the devil paled by comparison. Someone so awful, the devil had to stay on her good side. And I didn’t know how to fix it or even slow the process.
I wasn’t unaware of the irony, either. I hated, hated,
hated
when Sinclair kept things from me, but lately I’d been keeping a few secrets of my own. Irony, you are a vicious bitch.
Meanwhile, Satan had incorrectly interpreted (thank goodness) my silence.
“The book isn’t mine to give or to take,” she said as if in response to what she thought I was thinking. There was thinly veiled irritation in her voice. Single-ply toilet paper thin. “If that’s what you’re working your way up to asking about. That’s up to my daughter; it’s always been up to her.”
Uh. It has? News to
this
girl.
I was getting the hang of this, maybe. I just looked at her.
“The Book of the Dead isn’t mine to give back,” Satan said, making a sound like she’d been holding her breath. Like she wasn’t sure what I would say and was
holding her breath
while she waited to find out. Which wasn’t possible. Maybe in the future I’d be a badass tyrannical jerk with no color sense and zombies for footmen (ewww!), but right now I was just a woman in despair because Christian’s parents never met. A woman who’d broken the devil’s neck on impulse. “This was all Laura’s idea. It’s for her to decide whether or not to give it back to you.”
“Reeeeally.” I gave Laura a sideways glance. This was believable and I was sure the Lady of Lies was making a bold departure by telling the truth. Laura certainly looked like a dog who knew she’d piddled on the good rug. “Then I guess we’ll talk about that some other time.”
“There’s no need to raise your voice.”
I had raised my voice? I was pretty sure I hadn’t. I was positive I hadn’t. It was no secret from me when I raised my voice, what with the shrieky tenor and adrenaline surge. And . . . was the devil
nervous
? Stop me if you’ve heard this before: what kind of weird-ass timeline
was
this?
Aw, nuts. Lucifer was still talking. “You should thank her.”
“Yeah, hold your breath waiting for
that
to happen.”
“That’s not necessary, Mother, Betsy doesn’t owe me anything.”
“She was—”
“So maybe we should go?” Laura asked, looking at me with eyes so wide the whites were showing all around, like a scared horse. She’d interrupted. She’d interrupted one of her elders! Unthinkable. The timeline was going mad. “We should go.”
“Betsy for certain, but you may remain if you like, Laura.” Satan looked right at me. “You should thank her because she was just trying to protect you.”
“Aw. That’s sweet, Satan. And I definitely need advice from you on when and where to trot out good manners.”
“She didn’t want you to know—”
“Mother.” Laura’s voice, sharp and heavy with warning.
“—what you’ll do—”
“Mother!”
“—to Eric Sinclair in the future and—”
“Stop it!”
“—believe me, it’s far worse than anything that happened to him before.”