FOURTEEN
Cathie and the Ant were waiting for us in my office in Hell, which was exactly as alarming as it sounded.
“Welcome back!” my stepmother said with a big too-much-lipstick smile, and I thought I’d known fear before? Any fear I’d known in the past faded to mere concern as I watched my stepmother projecting warmth. Bonehomie? Is that the word? She was just spewing bonehomey everywhere.
“Thanks,” I replied, already anticipating the body blow. Something horrible was bound to be coming. Then I real-ized . . .
“So, Marc. How’s your new friend?”
. . . she wasn’t talking to me. Thank you, Jesus. I don’t deserve it, but you did me a solid. Never hesitate to call in that favor. Love, Betsy. (My prayers were mostly like notes between pals. If Jesus came here, we’d hang out. We’d go fishing, after I got him some decent footgear.)
“My new friend?” Marc’s expression didn’t change, though he raised his eyebrows.
“It’s Will, isn’t it?” This from Cathie, whose efforts to squash her natural bitchiness were probably giving her abdominal cramps. “The orphan boy you’re into?”
“He’s in his twenties,” Marc said mildly. “I don’t know that he identifies as an orphan boy.”
“Well, you’re going to reschedule your date, right? You’re not going to let your Hell duties impact your love life. Right? Marc? You deserve a social life.”
“Or you’re a thorough professional and wouldn’t dream of letting your love life impact your Hell duties. Right?”
“Yeah, I’m already sick of this,” was his (wise) reply, and he shooed them away like ill-tempered ducks. In a few seconds we were the only ones in the office.
“The reason I’m here—” he began.
“I know, I appreciate the support.”
“Uh. Yeah, that. I’m definitely all about the support. And also, you can find anyone in Hell, right?”
“If I know their name.” One of the many dumb arbitrary rules. I careened from godlike powers (teleporting in and out when I liked) to rodeo clown (I tried to make it rain marshmallows, and it rained maple syrup instead and, oh my God, the screams). The only person who would have been any real help was banished after I beat the ever-lovin’ crap out of her. “Who’d you have in mind?”
“David Bowie.”
“The guy who invented hunting knives?”
Marc’s mouth popped open. “Okay, even for you, that—”
“Mmph.”
“Oh, you bitch, don’t tease.”
“Can’t help it.” I giggled. “Your face! Like you wanted to hug me, then hit me. Or hit me, then hug me.”
“Those two options are always on the table. So: is he here?”
“I want David Bowie.” I should start keeping a list: “Demands I Never Thought I’d Make in Hell.”
We waited.
Nothing.
“Okay, great. Great! I think that’s great.” His smile faded. “Okay, I’m now a little bummed I won’t get to meet him, but it is good knowing he’s not burning in a lake of fire somewhere. Thanks for checking.”
“Sure. Should have thought of it myself. But it’s just one more arbitrary rule that makes no sense around here.”
He sighed at the ceiling. “Oh, here we go.”
“I mean—take Antonia, for example.”
Marc made a noise like he was chomping on lemon rind. “Uggghhhyecchhh, why?”
“Not my stepmother. The other Antonia, the werewolf.”
“I stand by my question.”
“Well, that’s fair.” I slumped back in my chair—the only chair in Hell that was comfortable, because why the Hell should I have to suffer along with everyone else? “So, she died saving me. Took bullets for me.”
“Yep. It was gross. Her brains were everywhere.”
“You’re a doctor; you can’t use words like gross to describe medical conditions.”
“She presented with multiple GSWs resulting in penetrating brain injuries including but not limited to brain parenchyma seepage from her skull and multiple intracranial fragments—”
“Never mind, stick with gross. Anyway, we escorted her body to Massachusetts and they had a funeral and buried her.”
Marc plopped down in the chair opposite my desk, winced, tried to get comfortable, gave up. “Yeah, just because I didn’t go to the Cape with you guys doesn’t mean you didn’t tell me all about it when you got home. I know all this.”
“Shut up, this is my process.” I swiveled in my chair and swung my legs up on my desk, and reminded myself that it would be sandal season soon enough. See ya next winter, red leather midheel Gucci loafers. Your time is almost up. “So fast-forward a few months, I’m in Hell by accident.” Ah, the golden days when I thought just visiting Hell was the worst thing to happen to me. “And there she is: Antonia. And what with one thing and another, I bring her back to the real world. And so she’s alive again.”
“Right. Which is troubling you.”
“Yes.”
“Because it’s weird.”
“So very, very weird. I mean, she’s alive now. She’s got a body, a physical body, and she can die again. And if we went to Massachusetts and bought shovels and found her grave and dug it up—”
“If you’re angling for company during this ghastly-sounding field trip, I’m busy. For years and years.”
“—her dead body would be in there! So what the fuck?”
“It’s confusing.”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t make much sense from any scientific standpoint you’d care to name.”
“Right.” I knew talking to a scientist about this was the right move. Hooray, physicians!*
Marc leaned forward. “Want to know why?”
“Yes.”
“This isn’t science.”
“Argh!” I kicked out, frustrated, and there was a quick paper blizzard.
“You just booted over a ton of manila folders,” Marc observed. “Do you even know what they’re all for?”
“Of course not.” Yes, Hell had manila folders. And not a single one of them was ever the right size for whatever project required the use of manila folders. Diabolical, really. “I’m so sick of that nonanswer.”
“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”
“And I’m not too fond of that one, either.”
“Arthur C. Clarke said that.”
“I know,” I lied. Was he the guy who wrote about the Knights of the Round Table?
Marc’s smirk told me he knew I was talking out of my butt. “It’s from Profiles of the Future. And it means exactly what you’d think it means: no matter how smart you are, some things are so far beyond our grasp we’ll never understand them.” This from a guy who held two jobs all through undergrad and medical school, never missed a party, usually showed up only on test days, and still graduated with a GPA of 3.6. Sure, Marc. Tell me about the things that are beyond your grasp. I guarantee I’ve got more of them. “If you were to go back in time with a flashlight—”
“Oooh, oooh, I know this one! I’ve done that!”*
“—and showed it to a bunch of people at, say, the court of Henry VIII, and tried to explain batteries, they wouldn’t get it. Does that make them stupid, or you a genius?”
“No,” I said slowly. “And no.” Unfortunately.
“I think it’s like that with paranormal science.”
“That’s not a thing.” Or at least it shouldn’t be.
“Of course it’s a thing; you come face-to-face with it pretty much every day. I mean, there are actual, scientific reasons why the Wyndhams change form once a month. It should be impossible, right? Well, for hundreds of thousands, it’s not. It’s obviously a perfectly normal function of their biology . . . that sounds impossible to anyone who isn’t a werewolf. Can we explain it? Nope. Is it magic? Nope.”
“So . . . what?” I swung my legs down so both feet were on the floor and swiveled in my chair. It was hard to sit still and have this conversation at the same time. I wanted to pace. And throw things. And kick the things I threw. Then pace more. “Keep blindly plunging ahead and hope for the best?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s your family motto.”
I laughed. “No, that’s not it. Would you believe it’s ‘Salvation from the Cross’?”
“Wow.” His green eyes went wide. “Whatever you do, don’t read anything into that, O Chosen One of the Vampyrs.”
“Ugh, don’t pronounce it like that. There’s no y in vampires.”
“Mmm.” I got a long stare, and then he said, “You’re nervous about sending Jennifer back today.”
“Guilty.” Cindy had fulfilled her sworn buddy duties and talked Jennifer Palmer into agreeing to go back to the real world and make amends. Or just wore her out with every cheer she could think of until Jennifer begged her to stop. Either way: today was the day!
“You’re doing the right thing,” he added.
“You hope.”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. But it’s worth trying. Hell’s still in the business of punishing sinners. We’ve just also instituted a parole program.”
“A mere trifle of a change!” I cried in a plummy British accent.
“Raw-ther. Hardly noticeable, dah-ling.”
“And also, worth doing just because the original Satan hated the idea so much.”*
“Like you needed another excuse?” He squirmed in his seat. “Dammit! Change this seat into something that doesn’t make my lower back feel like it’s on fire!”
I pointed. Smirked. “Be more comfortable.” And the resulting bright purple beanbag chair, a good five feet in diameter, almost swallowed him on the spot.
“Jesus! I—c’mon, help me—don’t just sit there and laugh—oof!—help me out of this thing! Oh, you awful bitch, I hate you so much right now!”
Ever laugh so hard your face hurts for five minutes afterward? Yep.
“Fine, fine, you big baby.” I gestured and the beanbag chair sort of barfed Marc out. He wasn’t free, exactly, but he wasn’t being swallowed so much. The thrashing went on, though. “Let’s get it over with. I want Jennifer Palmer.”
“—don’t even know how I’d do it.” Jennifer cut herself off, glanced around the office, gave us both a tentative smile. “Hi, uh, Betsy. Hi, Marc. Are you okay?”
“Hi, Jennifer.”
“I’m very fucking far from okay.” Marc managed to wrench himself free, then offered his hand to Jennifer. She blinked at it, then tentatively shook it. “Never tell anyone what just happened here. And good luck. Hopefully we’ll never meet again.”
“Thanks.”
I looked up at her. “Ready?”
“No.”
“Going anyway?”
“Yeah.”
I was on my feet by then, too. “Why?”
“Well.” She spoke slowly, clearly choosing her words with care, a trick I should get around to mastering. “If it’s a test of my obedience, to show I can obey. If it’s a trick, to show I’m a good sport. If it’s real, I owe them. The ones I left holding the bag.”
“Good enough. C’mere, give me your hand.” She tentatively stepped forward, and I took her small hand, which she offered with all the enthusiasm she’d offer a grizzly. “We’re gonna take a trip. And hopefully, never meet again.”
She licked her lips. “Okay. But if I screw this up, if I can’t make it right, please remember that I didn’t fight you. That I was willing to go. For when you see me again, and have to figure out my new punishment.”
“That’s the spirit.” And away we went.