Straight To Hell

The Devil Never Forgets a Deal

I, Lilith Straight, was the woman you always wanted to be. I was married to someone better looking than your husband, we lived in that house you always wanted. Within a year, however, all of that changed. My marriage dissolved, my house burned down, and my job hardly paid the bills. So when I was hit by a car and died, I thought my life couldn’t get any worse. Boy, was I wrong.

Hell was not the place I imagined. It was worse. During my brief stay, I learned some disturbing truths about my family. Most worryingly, my ancestor’s deal with the devil promising him every female descendent as a succubus.

So these were my options: Life on earth as a soul-sucking seductress. Or death and pass the succubus baton to my sweet little daughter. There was no choice. Welcome to hell on earth, Lilith. Mother, teacher, wanton she-demon.

Straight to Hell

Michelle Scott

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013

Copyright © Michelle Scott 2013

Michelle Scott asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © October 2013 ISBN: 9781472054739

Version date: 2018-10-30

MICHELLE SCOTT

has been a fiction junkie all of her life. Although she’ll read everything from literature to mystery to modern classics, she has a special penchant for urban fantasy. She is also a huge nerd and an unapologetic Doctor Who fan, preferring Tom Baker above all others.

In college, Michelle earned her BA in psychology and met the guy of her dreams. Thirty years later, she has never once used her psychology degree, but is still married to Mr. Right which proves that a good college education is worth every penny.

Currently, she is a straight-laced community college English teacher by day, while at night, she stalks supernatural beings in her hometown of Detroit. Michelle lives with her husband and three children, all of whom are addicted to Doctor Who (and urban fantasy) as much as she.

Once again, I owe so much to so many people: Nancy Fulda, for her uncanny insights; my favorite blogger, Dani Cotton at Pen to Paper, for her unending support and enthusiasm; and to Claudia, Jenny, and all of the other wonderful people at HQ Digital who helped make Straight to Hell better than ever.

To my ever patient, supportive family. With love, Mom.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

A year ago I, Lilith Straight, was the woman you always wanted to be.

I was married to someone better looking than your husband, and his salary climbed into figures so high that you’d have to be married to six men before their incomes equaled his. We lived in that house you always wanted but never could have afforded, and drove cars that would have made you ashamed of yours. My husband and I went to those exclusive parties you read about in the newspapers – yes, those parties – and we rubbed elbows and other body parts with actors and politicians and professional athletes – yes, those athletes, the ones you also read about in newspapers. My daughter attended a small, very exclusive, private school where your child would not have been allowed even if you could have afforded the tuition.

Within the span of twelve months, however, all of that changed. My marriage dissolved, my house burned down, and the only job I could find, substitute teaching, hardly paid for a week’s worth of bills. On top of that, I’d suddenly gained custody of my antisocial, eleven-year-old niece Ariel when her mother dropped her off at my doorstep and drove off without a backward glance. A week later, my bent-for-hell stepsister Jasmine moved in after her mother kicked her out of the house.

So when I was hit by a car and died for the first time, I thought that my life couldn’t get any worse.

Boy, was I wrong.

The day I died was a Monday. Specifically, the Monday after a two-week Christmas school break, and all of us – even Drinking Tea, our cat – had slept through the alarm. Had I still been married, this never would have happened since Dr. Theodore Dempsey, my ex, woke me up every morning at five by groping me under the covers. However, my recent divorce gave me certain privileges, such as being able to sleep in without having someone squeeze my breasts like they were testing mangoes for ripeness.

When I finally did wake up and realize what time it was, I leapt out of bed and shouted orders to my daughter and my niece. “Grace, get up! Ariel, move it!”

My old house had more square-footage than the city library, but after Ariel accidentally set it on fire, I had to relocate. The only place I could afford was a seedy townhouse with walls so thin that my voice carried through them with no problem. At the same time, however, those thin walls allowed me to hear my daughter’s whine of, “Do I have to go to school?” followed by my niece’s muttered, “FU.”

Luckily, I didn’t have to be at work that morning. As a substitute teacher, I picked my own hours, and I’d given myself the day off. If I got the girls out the door on time, I still had a chance at a peaceful day.

I spared a moment to throw on my robe, then ran downstairs, so intent on getting into the kitchen that I almost didn’t notice the stranger sprawled on my couch. He was a broad-shouldered young man dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers. The large demon tattoo on his chest, and the line of metal rivets punctuating his forehead lent him a sinister air. As did the twin gauges in his earlobes whose holes were so large I could have put my thumb through them.

Jasmine! My stepsister knew my rules, but paid them no mind. Each time I lectured her about not letting strange men sleep over, she swore she wouldn’t do it again. Yet, in the past three weeks, seven guys had paraded in and out of her bedroom. I would have charged into Jasmine’s room right that minute and ordered her to pack her things, but the girls and I were already behind schedule.

The stranger yawned and scratched, keeping his eyes closed. He was the most hairless creature I’d ever seen. Not only was he bald, but his legs were so smooth that I was jealous. His chest was as pink and clean as a newborn’s. He had no eyebrows. Nor, for that matter, armpit hair, a fact I realized when he raised his arms over his head to stretch. I eyed his boxers, wondering just how far the hairless area extended.

Unfortunately, before I could chase this frightening spectacle out of the house, Grace pounded down the stairs. To hide his nearly-naked body, I tossed a blanket over him. He muttered a ‘thanks’ and immediately went back to sleep.

“Mom! Mom!” Grace skidded to a halt. “Hey, who’s that guy?”

“Probably a friend of Aunt Jasmine’s.”

“So why isn’t he sleeping with her?”

The question was a good one, but it broke my heart to hear her ask it. I wanted to keep my daughter innocent for as long as I could, but with Jasmine in the house, that didn’t seem possible.

“I have no idea.” I swept Grace into the kitchen before she could ask more questions. Heading for the coffee maker, I stepped in a puddle of water that soaked my slippered feet. The entire floor of the tiny kitchen was underwater.

With a cry of, “Ah, shit!” I started mopping up the mess with an armload of dishtowels, tracing the puddle to the washing machine which sat innocently by the back door.

I wanted to cry. A broken appliance was the last thing I needed. I’d spent the last of my savings to pay my car insurance bill and had nothing left over to buy a new washer. In fact, I didn’t even have enough quarters to go to the Laundromat. “Goddamn, shit!!”

“You broke rule number one. Now you need to put a dollar in the swear jar.” Grace stood in the doorway, looking solemn. She’d dressed herself in the same T-shirt and jeans she’d worn for the past two days and brushed the top layer of her brown hair smooth over a bottom layer of wicked snarls.

A year ago, when I was still married and living in my mini-mansion, Grace would have been dressed in her school uniform eating an egg white omelet in the breakfast nook while I braided her hair. The scene, once ordinary, was now so surreal that I might have dreamed it up.

There was no time for regrets, however. Not with the clock ticking. “I know I swore,” I agreed. “I’m just having a really bad morning.” I dropped the soaking wet rags into the sink and put down another layer of towels.

“You also broke rule number nine.” Standing behind Grace was a very triumphant-looking Ariel. My niece loved catching me in the middle of bad behavior.

The rules the girls were referring to were known as the “Ten Commandments of the Straight Household.” I’d posted copies of them on the refrigerator, above the TV, and on the bathroom mirror. Also, next to the computer, on the doors of all the bedrooms, and even on the dashboard of the car.

I’m nothing if not thorough.

Rule number nine had been written specifically for my stepsister. It said, “Thou shalt not let strange boys sleep overnight (either on the couch or in your bed).” Not that it did any good.

“You’re right. I did break the rule,” I told Ari, thinking of the man on the couch.

“And eight, too,” she added.

For a moment, I couldn’t remember rule number eight. When it finally came to me, I was shocked. Eight was: “Thou shalt not leave prophylactics (either used or unused) lying about the house.” Again, this rule was for my sister. Personally, I hadn’t needed prophylactics since long before my divorce.

“I never broke that rule,” I argued.

“Really?” Ariel held up several square, foil packages.

“Give those here,” I said, furious. “Where did you get them?”

“They were on the end table next to the couch. They probably belong to that bald guy.” Ariel’s eyes were alight with evil mischief. “But you should have thrown them away, so you just broke number eight.”

I snapped my fingers at her, and she surrendered the condoms with a smug smile. It never occurred to me to ask how she knew what those things were. Ariel’s mother had given her the flipside education to the ‘no boys, no drugs’ message most girls get at home. Grace, however, looked on with heartbreaking innocence. “What are those things, Mom?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I shoved the condoms into the pocket of my robe. “Just grab your coat and get going before you miss the bus.”

“But I need to change my clothes!”

I’d gotten careless with my laundry duties over vacation, and dirty clothes piled on the floor like the slopes of Kilimanjaro. Although I’d started a load the previous night before I went to bed, obviously nothing had gotten clean. There goes rule number two, I thought. (Rule number two: Thou shalt not pick dirty underwear out of the hamper and re-wear it.)

There was one silver lining to this terrible day, however. At least none of my old friends and neighbors were around to witness my current, desperate situation. If they had been, every woman in the subdivision would have been roasting me alongside their coffee beans.

“What about breakfast?” Grace whined.

I shoved an apple at her. “Here.”

“That’s not breakfast!” Grace started to cry, and Ariel rolled her eyes and told her to grow up. Then Jasmine shouted up from the basement, “Shut the hell up! Some of us are trying to sleep!”

That’s the way my last morning as a living being started off. Compared to other Monday mornings, it wasn’t all that bad, really.

With the two younger girls out of the house, I finally had a chance to deal with the other member of our tribe: my stepsister.

The townhouse had three levels. Ariel and Grace shared one tiny bedroom upstairs, and I occupied the one across the hall. Jasmine dominated the basement. Between us, like a demilitarized zone, lay the living room and kitchen. Ignoring the hairless wonder who still gently snored on the couch, I marched downstairs and pounded on the basement door. “Wake up!”

“Go ‘way.”

I opened the door and flipped on the lights. Jasmine pulled the covers over her head, but I yanked them down again. “It’s Monday, Jas. You promised you’d find a job today.”

Jasmine was twenty-three; a college dropout who was convinced the only thing standing between her and a career as a high-paid fashion designer was a run of bad luck and not a deficiency of talent, drive, and energy.

What Jas lacked in skill and knowledge, however, she made up for in looks. I don’t mind admitting that I’m good looking – at nearly thirty-five, I have no wrinkles, perfect legs, and auburn hair without a single thread of gray – but Jasmine is absolutely gorgeous. Hers is a blend of my stepfather’s Asian features – hair like black silk, flawless toffee-colored complexion, dark, exotic eyes – and her mother’s perfect cheekbones, impressive height and natural grace. Needless to say, men fall for her. Hence, the need for those two commandments on my list.

Jas glared at me, yanked the covers out of my hands, and pulled them back over her head. “I’ll find a job tomorrow,” she said, her voice muffled.

“That’s what you said last week. Which is now last year, in fact. Don’t forget; your New Year’s resolution was to get a job.”

On New Year’s Eve, Grace, Ariel and I had planned to watch the ball drop in Times Square, but I’d fallen asleep even before Ryan Seacrest began the countdown. Jasmine, on the other hand, stayed out all night. When she came home the next morning, she was missing one of the shoes she’d borrowed from me, had put a dent in the front fender of my car, and was still drunk. However, she had promised to find a job. Something I wouldn’t let her slip out of now.

“Jasmine, you getting up?”

I jumped at the sound of a male voice. Standing behind me was the hairless wonder. To my relief, he’d done the decent thing and wrapped the blanket around his waist to hide his skivvies. Despite his fearsome appearance, he grinned good-naturedly and held out his hand. “Tommy Lefevre. Nice to meet you.”

“Lilith Straight.”

“Jas’s stepsister.” His smile widened. “She talks a lot about you.”

No doubt she complained a lot about me. “That’s funny because she hasn’t mentioned you at all.” I’d wanted him to flinch, but he only smiled serenely.

“Tommy’s my spiritual advisor,” Jasmine said.

I snorted, unimpressed. Was she kidding? But, no, I could see by her reverent expression that she wasn’t. Only my stepsister would willingly take spiritual advice from an unemployed bum with a demon tattoo and more metal in his face than the hardware section of Home Depot.

“I’m helping Jasmine find her path,” Tommy said. He glanced at Jasmine who sat on the end of her bed wearing nothing but a tiny chemise and a thong. Watching him watch her, I wasn’t fooled for a moment. This guy could call himself a minister, a shaman, a monk, or even a witch doctor, but his eyes were crawling over Jasmine like a greedy bumblebee on the center of a daisy. Spiritual advisor, my ass.

“Well, maybe you can help her find a path to the employment agency,” I said. I started towards the stairs, but he blocked my way.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” he asked, disappointed.

I’m a master in the art of sarcasm. I can draw blood at fifty paces. “Of course I do. And I think it’s wonderful that Jas is interested in religion.”

“Not religion,” Jas chided. “Spirituality.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Whatever.”

“Here, let me see your palm.” Tommy reached for my hand. The narrow hallway made it impossible to move away, so I unwillingly relented. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he examined my hand. “H-m-m.”

I was curious in spite of myself. “H-m-m what?”

“Your lifeline is very short. It stops here, but picks up again here.” He tapped the center of my palm.

“Oh, let me see. Let me see!” Jasmine crowded against me.

Tommy frowned. “There’s also something strange about your aura.”

I yanked my hand back. “Oh, please.” If there’s anything worse than a cliché, it was a religious cliché.

“I’m not kidding,” he said. “Something’s off. Possibly something serious.” He anxiously tugged on one ear. “My sister’s aura was bloody red on the day she… Well, it was bloody red.”

“What’s going to happen to Lilith?” Jasmine’s eyes glowed. She looked as excited as Ariel when she caught me breaking a rule.

“I have to use the bathroom.” I shoved myself in between them.

“I know you don’t believe me, but do yourself a favor, okay?” Tommy said. “Be careful today. Wear your seatbelt. Don’t give rides to strangers. That kind of thing.”

Jas made a farting noise through her lips. “Are you kidding me? Lilith wouldn’t cross the street without looking five ways. She wouldn’t even talk to a stranger, let alone give one a ride. For her, leaving the house without an umbrella is risky. And she’d never –”

“Okay, Jas, we get the picture,” I said.

“I’m just saying, you’re a careful person, that’s all.”

I glared at her and started up the stairs. “I’m leaving in an hour. Jas, I’ll expect you to be gone by then as well. And before you leave, take out the trash.”

“That’s Ariel’s job, not mine,” Jasmine howled.

“That’s not what she meant, Jas,” the hairless wonder said. “She’s talking about me.” This time, I was pleased to see that he did look hurt.

Not until Grace complained that her clothes no longer fit did I notice that she had a little gut hanging over her jeans. The next month, her doctor confirmed what I’d suspected: my daughter was gaining too much weight. Don’t get me wrong – I love my daughter the way she is – but I also wanted to keep her healthy. Hence rule number three of the Straight Ten Commandments: Thou shalt eat no junk food.

However, twenty minutes before being run down by the white Volvo, I ordered a double Bates burger, large fries, and a large Coke. I always eat when I’m nervous, and my upcoming meeting with my ex-husband was making me very anxious. When my order was finally up, I eagerly grabbed the greasy bag.

Before I took my first bite, however, I paused. Jasmine’s friend’s warning rang in my head. Be extra careful, he’d told me. Could a simple hamburger be my undoing? Was a case of e-coli poisoning in my future? I wasn’t a superstitious person, but then again, I wasn’t one for tempting the fates, either. Plus, Tommy had seemed so sincere. I dithered for a moment before deciding not to take any chances. I dumped the burger and fries in the garbage, then tossed the Coke as well. Who knew? Maybe all that sugar would put me into a diabetic coma.

Stopping for the Bates burger made me late for my appointment. This meant I’d broken rule number six (thou shalt not be late). When I saw a SALE sign hanging in the boutique window across the street, I probably would have broken number seven (thou shalt not spend money frivolously), but I died before I had the chance.

Breaking all of these rules isn’t what sent me to Hell, of course, but it was part of the equation. Because if I been paying more attention to where I was walking instead of fiddling with my cell phone, I would have seen the car before it hit me. In fact, I might have even changed my destiny. Who’s to say? But one thing’s for sure. If I hadn’t been trying to text my sister, I wouldn’t have broken the biggest rule of them all: number ten. Thou shalt not upload or download porn from the Internet.

Then again, whether or not I actually broke number ten is a matter of opinion. After all, what’s pornographic to me, probably isn’t so bad for someone else. If, for example, you think that snapping a picture of an enormous dildo is pornographic, then so be it.

But it probably says a lot more about you than it does me.

The truth is, the sight of that ridiculously huge vibrator gave me the giggles. The owner – a fifty-something, bleached-blonde, leather coat-wearing woman – had just come out of a store called the Love Nest. The Love Nest was a porn shop, but a classy porn shop. Classy, because everything in that neighborhood, even the Bates Burgers, was upscale. The woman’s paper shopping bag, unbeknownst to her, had a large rip in the side and the dildo was leaning out of it like it was thinking of escaping. It kept wagging up and down in time to her stride as if trying to make up its mind. This struck me as hilarious.

Thinking quickly, I took out my cell phone. The moment I had snapped my picture and sent it to Jas, I looked up to see an oncoming car: a white Volvo being driven by a man in a white suit. A moment later, there was a terrible jolt as if the hand of God had suddenly jerked me upwards by the back of my collar and hoisted me into the heavens.

Unfortunately, I soon realized that I hadn’t gone up at all. In fact, I’d gone in the exact opposite direction. The express elevator, as it were, straight to the very bottom.

Hell.

Chapter Two

I didn’t lose consciousness, but my vision blurred and there were a few, terrifying moments of darkness. Then things slowly faded back in, like the change of scenes in an old movie. Objects took shape: a bookshelf, an end table, a painting, and a hulking woman with cropped, black hair who sat on a couch and stared at the floor.

Dazed, I put my hand to my head, trying to remember how I’d gotten there. Had I walked in myself? Had a passerby seen the accident and helped me? I glanced at the woman on the couch, hoping for answers, but she continued to glare at her shoes.

Other than the strange woman and me, the place was empty: no doctors, nurses, or even a receptionist. What kind of hospital was this? That’s when I discovered the prison bars.