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Straight To Hell
Michelle Scott
The Devil Never Forgets a DealI, 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.
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 (#ulink_85d84309-7477-598f-9092-5193648958b1)
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 (#u6bcfe86c-4f69-534e-9cd9-b24c08e5a309)
Blurb (#ucffa0489-c025-5e21-bdac-435441ceb149)
Title Page (#ub80495ee-479b-5d3f-a75e-ea875117df92)
Copyright (#u065ead7d-d112-56f5-af82-f170abc23ed2)
Author Bio (#ueac14e7a-849d-5955-84c9-a4855b55bdde)
Acknowledgements (#uc51e26ef-ce0d-5ceb-8ed6-98dbbae65de1)
Dedication (#u9b2508f8-1f09-5bfd-8caf-bae9ba2810a8)
Chapter One (#u51414e34-f683-5f7f-a5af-9bb66b4c863e)
Chapter Two (#u8b6fb222-e88e-533f-a246-c04a5b1e8bac)
Chapter Three (#u3acf854d-36bd-5f98-86ca-0cdab7fa4dd7)
Chapter Four (#ub8e2afa8-ecb1-5ebf-97c9-4f832f97986e)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_541b46c8-4e79-586f-82cc-b7382d065439)
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!”
