CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

They stared at me, expectant. “So . . .” Marc prompted.

“Worked! I’d only been gone for a couple of minutes, just like here.”

“Excellent,” the Ant said with a grudging nod of almost-but-not-quite approval. “Now we can—”

“And Sinclair’s been keeping ice and fruit in our room! He was sucking down a smoothie in our bed!”

“He defiled the champagne fridge to break a rule he made?”

“Right?” I cried, thrilled to be vindicated.

“Do you two mind?” the Ant asked. “Betsy, I’m sorry you caught your husband cheating on you with a blender; somehow you’ll have to find the strength to move on. Marc, stop encouraging her. Can’t you take any part of this seriously?”

“I am taking this seriously. Surely you noticed I was wearing my business shoes,” I said, pointing to my black patent loafers. Too late I remembered I was wearing my red knee-high gladiator sandals. (Valeria, an actual former gladiator I met on my third day running Hell, burst out laughing when I told her what they were. Did you know there were female gladiators? I didn’t know there were female gladiators. They’re kind of mean, too.)

“Holy shit,” Marc exclaimed, staring, “I didn’t even notice!”

“What? She doesn’t know?” The Ant turned to me. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed this.”

“Noticed what? You know, you’re being kind of negative. Even for you.”

“Uh . . . Betsy.” Marc pointed. “You might want to look down. I mean really look.”

I did. And smiled. Valeria was wrong, dammit! This was the perfect footgear for kicking ass in Hell. Or anywhere else, for that matter. “Nothing you can say will make me repudiate these shoes.”

“So you haven’t noticed you’re not wearing your magical silver slippers?”

“Of course not; they never would have gone with— Oh.” I chewed on that for a second. “Well, the Ant did say it was all me, it was never the shoes.”

“Probably hated saying something even remotely positive.”

“I’m standing right here,” she reminded me. “I know what I said. I’m amazed you know what I said. You knew they were just symbolic manifestations to help you focus your concentration.”

“I know,” I said and didn’t sound even a tiny bit grumpy. She wasn’t the boss of me. I was the boss of me! And occasionally Sinclair. And BabyJon, when he was cutting another tooth. I was starting to think the kid was part piranha. Actually, given who his biological mother was, he was. Heh.

“It’s a little scary,” Marc said. “Even for us.”

“I know! Now I won’t have to coordinate outfits to my footgear. It opens up a dizzying array of options.”

“I meant you, you adorable asshat.”

Over the Ant’s snicker, I began, “This thing where you say something nice and immediately follow with something mean is kind of—”

He ignored me, because I am cursed with terrible friends. “A month ago you couldn’t teleport anywhere. You were out-and-out stranded in Hell, thanks to the Antichrist ding-dong-ditching you.11 But now everything’s different. You’re picking this up so fast, but you’ve been a vampire for a few years now and you still lisp when your fangs come out.”

“Hey, you try speaking coherently when it feels like your mouth has suddenly filled with needles.”

“Dear God.” From the Ant, who looked revolted. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Trust me, it sucks. Sinclair told me I’d eventually—Sinclair! That’s what he meant,” I said, the thought zipping through my brain and out my mouth before I could think about it. “He saw I was leaving without them. I was all ready to go after our—uh—afternoon—um.”

Marc smirked. “Bangfest? Booty hoedown?”

“Dear God.” The Ant managed to look still more horrified, which all by itself made the whole trip worth it.

“Right, so I was dressed and ready to go and he stopped me to say something. And then he changed his mind. And when I came right back, he wasn’t surprised. I mean, he was, because—”

“Bus-ted!”

“Right, but he wasn’t surprised I’d come back on my own.”

“No?”

“No.” It should have been comforting, but it made me feel bad. And a little scared. I was getting stronger by the month and he was paying me the compliment of assuming I could improve and grow in my new role, was openly and privately proud of me, proud to be my husband and my king. Me, I hadn’t dared bring him back to Hell after the first quick visit.

“Cindy Tinsman,” the Ant said, dragging us back to the topic at hand. I think it was the topic at hand, at least once the time thing sorted itself out. I looked down: Yep. The Hell watch was back.

“Yeah, thanks.” I raised my voice a bit. “I want Cindy Tinsman. Right now.”

“Um . . . hi?”

We all looked. And I knew her on sight—I was so much better with faces than names. I could remember our phone number from the house I lived in as a kid, but not the name of the mailman who came to our house almost every day. (Frank, I want to say? Bill? Karen? He or she had pretty muscular legs, whoever they were.) Sinclair said it was because my face perception was higher than my name retention, and that it was true of everybody, but especially me. It was a nice way of telling me I was an idiot.

“Ohhhh, Cindy,” I said, going from triumphant to sad in half a second. “Man, am I sorry to see you here.”

“Me, too,” she said and burst into tears. She rushed at me and the Ant went tense, but then she was clinging to me and crying on my shoulder. “I’m sorry I’m so so sorry you were right please I’m so sorry.”

“Stop that!” the Ant snapped. “That’s the Lord—well, Lady—of Hell you’re slobbering on, get your hands off her right now!”

“Nope,” Marc said, and he grabbed the Ant’s arm. From her wince, I was guessing he’d gotten in a good pinch before starting to escort her away. He excelled at those underarm-flab pinches; they stung like crazy.

“Marc, this kind of familiarity can’t be allowed—”

“Wow, I had no idea you even knew my name. And no one’s in charge of maintaining Betsy’s dignity, remember? She established that in the very first meeting.”

“It’d be an impossible task anyway,” my beloved stepmother snapped back.

“Yeah, I’m not touching that one. Besides, you gotta hear the backstory on this.”

“There’s no need to yank. Fine. And ouch, you ridiculous pervert.” She rubbed her arm, but didn’t pull out of his grip. “But I warn you, I’ve heard every sob story there is.”

“Not this one.”

Meanwhile, Cindy was still crying all over me, and I felt really, really bad about cutting her head off five or so weeks ago.