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.

I was in jail? For what, jaywalking? This had to be a joke. I grabbed the bars, pulling on them as hard as I could. They were thick as broom handles, cold and unforgiving under my clutching fingers. Rattling them was like trying to shake a bus.

Beyond the bars was nothing but an empty hallway. “Hey!” I shouted. “I was just hit by a car! Hello? I need medical attention!”

Sweat oiled my fingers, and my cell phone slipped from my hand. I’d forgotten all about it. Picking it up, I attempted to dial, but there was no service. As I shoved the thing back into my pocket, I realized that I was entitled to one call.

That thought steadied me. Yes, I was entitled to a phone call. That and a lawyer, too. And Miranda rights! I’d been jailed without having been read my rights! My fear gave way to outrage. I was the victim of an auto accident, yet instead of being taken to a hospital, I’d been carted off to prison. This was Detroit, for God’s sake, not some third-world dictatorship!

I glared at the hallway beyond the bars. When the guard came, I’d let him have it! Though I was no longer married to Dr. Ted Dempsey, the most sought-after orthodontist in the metro Detroit area, I still had connections. My stepfather a lawyer, and I had plenty of friends in the judicial system. I even knew the county sheriff who had once slipped me some tongue at a New Year’s Eve party. Just wait and see whose career went into the toilet because they arrested Lilith Straight!

I smoothed my sweater, then combed my fingers through my hair, dislodging a myriad of tiny pebbles that rattled onto the floor. Stunned, I picked one up. It was a fragment of glass, probably from the windshield of the car that had hit me. I frowned at it. If I’d been hit hard enough to get glass in my hair, how on earth was I standing upright now?

Puzzled, I re-examined my surroundings. There were prison bars here, but also an expensive leather couch with an oil painting hanging above it. Not one of those cheesy ‘starving artist’ things, but a genuine work of art. In addition, there were brass lamps, rugs, and a bookcase full of leather-bound books. In the corner stood a water dispenser alongside a coffee maker. Three sides of the space looked like a waiting room in a plastic surgeon’s office, yet the fourth had the steel bars of a prison.

Although the books and coffee maker seemed out of place in this jail, my cellmate did not. She sat with her legs apart, and her elbows braced on her knees. She had the shoulders of a linebacker, and her feet were clad in boots with thick, crepe soles. Looking at her gave me the same, uneasy shiver as the steel bars. This woman could eat me in two bites.

As if hearing my thoughts, the woman lifted her head. I pressed my back against the bars, not daring to meet her eyes. Instead, I took in the white T-shirt with the cut-off sleeves, the thick leather wristband, and the enormous chain that went from her front belt loop to her back pocket. She was a bruiser who would make me her bitch.

When a full thirty seconds passed without her speaking, however, I risked meeting her eyes. What I saw stunned me. Her expression was a bottomless well of loneliness and despair. Concerned in spite of myself, I let go of the bars and took a cautious step towards her.

She finally spoke. “If I’d known this was gonna happen, I never would have said those things to my brother.” Her lower lip trembled. “I should have kept my big mouth shut. He probably thinks I hate him.” Her brown eyes looked into mine, pleading.

Unable to bear her misery, I said, “I think your brother understands.”

Instead of looking relieved, however, she sadly shook her head.

I risked coming closer. I started to pat her shoulder, then thought better of it. “I’m sure he knows that you care about him.”

She pressed her lips tightly together.

“Lilith Straight!”

I jumped as if I’d been goosed by a shank. Standing at the cell door was a small woman whose iron-gray hair matched her uniform. “Get over here!”

Relieved, I hurried to the door which slid open with a metallic clank. “Let’s go,” the woman said.

“Am I free to leave?”

The woman’s eyebrows drew down in puzzlement. “Of course not.”

“No?” I paused, shocked. “What am I being arrested for?”

“I’m taking you to someone who will explain all of that.”

I hoped that someone was an attorney. I followed her into the hallway, but before the door closed, the woman glanced at my cellmate. “Hey, hon.” Her voice softened so that she sounded more like a nurse than a prison matron. “You want to leave now?”

The woman on the couch shook her head sadly.

A little bit of high school English crept back into my mind. Hawthorne, I think. The saddest prison of all, he’d said, is the human heart. Looking at my former cellmate, I knew exactly what he meant.

My concerns for my former cellmate lasted only as far as the first set of security doors, however. As I followed the prison matron down the long, windowless hall, the reality of my situation took shape. Like expert witnesses in a trial, the facts began to present themselves one-by-one, leading me to a verdict that I couldn’t bear to think about.

First, there was my body. I had no injuries. Not so much as a bruise or a scrape. In fact, other than the glass in my hair, there was no evidence that I’d been hit by a car.

“Keep moving,” the prison matron ordered.

I obliged, but walked slowly as I continued to ponder the evidence. Besides my physical proof, there was the strange jail cell and the fact that I’d been allowed to keep my cell phone and purse. In a real prison, I would have been fingerprinted, posed for a mug shot, and had my belongings confiscated. Lastly, there was the hallway I was now walking. Not only was it the longest corridor I’d ever seen, my tired legs told me that I was travelling steadily downhill.

This place I was in, this anonymous bureaucratic building, was nothing like the terrifying images of damnation that the nuns had conjured up when I’d been in Catholic school, but I sure as hell wasn’t in Heaven.

Panicked, I stopped walking again. Fear locked my joints like rigor mortis. I pressed myself against the wall and started to cry.

I was in Hell! The realm where the damned were punished. A place worse than the strange jail cell with the bruiser cellmate. Far worse. I swore I could already feel the Devil’s pitchforks under my fingernails, and his fire blistering the soles of my feet.

“Please,” I begged my guard. My stomach pitched, and I was sure I’d throw up all over that polished linoleum floor. “Don’t make me go.” I was shaking now, violently. My teeth rattled together in my mouth. “I can’t go through with this!”

The guard was slack-jawed with amazement. “What is wrong with you?”

Beyond shame, I dropped to my knees and grabbed her around the legs. “Please, take me back.”

A door opened. “What’s going on out there?” a woman’s voice asked.

“She says she doesn’t want to go.” The guard tried to pry me off her legs, but I clung to her like a toddler who’s had a nightmare.

“Lilith Straight, get in here. Right now! We don’t have time for your silliness.” The owner of the voice stepped into the hallway. She was older than me by about three decades, but her forties-era film-star elegance would have turned a lot of heads. She was like Katharine Hepburn, maybe. Or Grace Kelly. The kind of woman who could wear pearls with a cardigan and look elegant, not prissy. Her hair and makeup were old school – short, permed curls, deep red lipstick and heavy eyebrows – but it worked for her. She was graceful and poised, sexy and chic. In short, she was not the Devil’s torturer.

I let go of the guard’s legs.

“That’s better,” the older woman said. “I’m Miss Spry, your supervisor. Now come along, and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.” She held out a be-ringed hand which I took. She may have looked sixty-something, but her firm grip marked her as a younger woman.

She led me to the door, but I balked, still not convinced that I wasn’t heading for the iron maiden or the rack.

“Come along, Lilith.” She tugged on my hand.

Bracing myself, I stepped through. Instead of finding myself amid the fiery pits of Hell, I entered an office. Not a government bureaucrat-type office with filing cabinets and computers, but a gentlewoman’s study. A delicate writing desk stood in front a pair of French doors overlooking a well-manicured garden. An enormous, potted palm sat near a painted silk screen, and a Persian carpet covered the floor. If this was Hell, then the nuns had gotten it all wrong.

Miss Spry guided me to a chintz-covered chair while she sat behind her desk. She put on a pair of steel-rimmed reading glasses. “Ms. Straight, I will get right to the point. You were hit by a car earlier, but you are not dead. Not quite.”

I felt my mood lift the tiniest bit. Not dead? Was I just in a coma? Or, better yet, drugged up and dreaming? I held my breath, waiting.

“You’re, let us say, in between realms.” She pushed a sheet of monogrammed note paper towards me and drew three dots. “This,” she said, pointing to one, “is where you came from. Call it ‘life’ if you want. This,” she pointed to another, “is where you would have ended up if I hadn’t prevented it. You can think of it as ‘death’.” She drew a line connecting all three dots, making a triangle. “Right now, you’re in the middle.”

“What’s that third one?” I pointed to the dot she hadn’t named.

“Don’t worry about that.”

Not worrying was the last thing I was capable of right now. I just had to know. “But what is it?”

Her eyes went hot. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it. An enraged fire blazed behind them, making it perfectly clear that no matter how much this Miss Spry looked like Katharine Hepburn, she was not. Her unearthly rage instantly rekindled my fears about demons and pitchforks and hellfire. The room, despite its French doors and view of the garden, was not a safe place. I shrank back in my chair.

“We don’t talk about that one,” she said, clearly enunciating each word. I nodded quickly, eager to show her that I did understand.

“Now you are in the center of all this.” She put a little X in the middle of the triangle. Her temper had blown over in an instant, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Not living, not dead. Right.” So what did that make me? A zombie? A vampire?

Miss Spry smiled slightly, as if guessing my thoughts. “My dear, you are a succubus.”

My jaw went slack. A succubus?

There was a knock at the door, then the prison guard entered pushing a tea tray. Miss Spry thanked her and began pouring tea from a china pot. She offered me a cookie from a silver tray.

A succubus? In college, I’d taken a course on mythology and remembered that a succubus was a female demon with insatiable sexual desires who slept with men before sucking out their souls. And now I was supposed to be one of these creatures? Was this woman kidding me?

“I’m an elementary school teacher,” I told her.

“I know.”

“I haven’t had sex in over a year.”

She pursed her lips. “Let’s just keep that to ourselves, shall we?”

“Look at me,” I insisted. I stood up to give her the full view. Since the divorce, I’d added several extra pounds. I also hadn’t had the money to visit a salon so my roots showed under the dye job and highlights. My nails, once perfectly manicured, were bitten to the quick. “I’m a soccer mom, not a super model.” I had a thought. “Maybe you’re confusing me with my stepsister Jasmine?”

“No, you’re the one,” she said firmly. “My dear, it’s what’s in here that counts.” She tapped the side of her head.

“What’s in here?” My voice was climbing octaves, making me shrill. “What’s in here is trying to make sure that my daughter has clean underwear every day, and that she’s done her homework. And that my niece, Ariel, isn’t going to burn down the house again. And that my sister doesn’t get a hold of my credit cards. And that there’s enough cat litter in the house so that the cat won’t start peeing in the plants…”

“Ms. Straight.”

“And then there’s my ex-husband. Don’t even get me started on him…”

“Ms. Straight!”

I was pacing now, too aggravated to sit still. “And my job. My stupid job. You’d think the school district would want to hire a woman with a master’s degree in women’s studies, but no! How am I supposed to pay bills on a substitute teaching job?”

“Sit down!” The eyes behind Miss Spry’s steel-rimmed glasses glowed hotly.

I sat.

“Now drink your tea, and listen.”

I took the cup with a trembling hand and took a careful sip. After years of living with my stepfather, the tea expert, I consider myself quite an authority, yet I’d never tasted tea like this. It was strong but not bitter. Its rich flavor reminded me of fall leaves, the smell of the first frost, and honey.

“How much do you know about your family?” Miss Spry asked. When I shrugged, she said. “Did you know that your mother was a succubus?”

My mother, the ex-hippie, who claimed that she’d traveled (and slept) with every rock-n-roll legend who’d ever tuned a guitar at Woodstock. My mother who would willingly tell anyone (her hairdresser, her gynecologist, the paper boy) about the time she’d spent with Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters aboard their psychedelic bus. My mother whose freak flag could have been the official banner of Haight-Ashbury. My open-yourself-to-all-experiences mother was a succubus.

At last, something that made sense.

She continued. “Your grandmother, too, was a succubus.”

My grandmother? I’d never met my grandmother – she’d long died before I was born – but I still couldn’t imagine it.

“As was her mother and her mother and so on. It’s a line of women extending back to Sarah Goodswain.”

Sarah Goodswain? I’d never heard of her. My mother wasn’t one for genealogies, and I wondered if she even knew this information.

“Sarah was born in Salem, Massachusetts in 1723 and, in 1744, she was arrested for being a witch.” Miss Spry smiled slightly. “She wasn’t a witch, of course; none of those young women were. But Sarah was a clever girl. She realized that the only way to escape hanging was to do exactly what she’d been accused of and make a deal.”

A deal? With whom, the Devil? Could people actually do that? Then again, I was hardly an expert on religion. Yes, I’d gone to Catholic school, but that place had taught me only two things: (1) everything I did was a sin and (2) I hated God as much as he hated me. When Grace went through a religious phase and asked me about God, I acted like he was a bad boyfriend. “You’re better off without him. Trust me,” was all I’d said.

“So you’re telling me that my great-great something grandmother made a deal with the Devil?”

“We don’t use that word here,” Miss Spry said tartly. “Let’s just say that Sarah made a deal with someone who could get her out of prison and away from Cotton Mather and his father. She promised that she would do the Master’s bidding in return for her freedom. But the Master is clever, too, and he drives a hard bargain.” Miss Spry’s eyes twinkled. Clearly she admired this Master person. “He made Sarah agree that every female descendent in her line would follow her path and become a succubus. And that path, Ms. Straight, has finally led to you.”

I shoved my cup aside, slopping tea over Miss Spry’s spotless desk. “Don’t I get a say in all of this? I mean, a succubus? A demon that sleeps with strange men? No. Way.”

“First of all, you are not a demon. You house a demon. The same demon that your mother and grandmother had. In fact, the same demon that Sarah herself had. You are essentially still human, but now a demon shares space inside of you, and gifts you with its powers.”

I started to object, but she held up her hand. “Secondly, a succubus is a seducer, Lilith, not a slut. It isn’t so bad.”

“It’s not so bad! Are you kidding me?” I leaned forward in my chair. “What if I refuse?” I might have acted brave, but my legs trembled and my mouth was bone dry.

I expected the older woman’s eyes to go hot again, but instead she smiled. “You may choose not to become a succubus if you wish.”

There was an unspoken ‘but’ at the end of that sentence. I just knew it.

Miss Spry didn’t disappoint me. “But then, of course, you’ll remain here.” She hesitated just a moment. “Dead.”

Dead. The word hit like a jab to the solar plexus, and I sank backwards in my seat. “I can’t be dead! I know I was hit by a car, but still.” I stood up. “I mean, look at me! I look fine. I feel fine.” I spun in a little circle. “No injuries. No scars.”

She shrugged. “Believe me. You are dead. In fact right now, your broken body is crumpled on the road, and a stray dog is lapping up your blood. But don’t worry. The funeral director will do a fine job of covering up the damage, so your young daughter won’t have to witness the gruesome condition of your corpse. Of course, it won’t prevent her from becoming hysterical when she sees you lying in your coffin.”

Miss Spry’s cunning little smile lit a fire inside me. “You can’t do this!” I lunged across the desk. Miss Spry lifted her hand in defense, throwing me across the room. I hit the wall so hard that all the air in my lungs expelled in a single gasp. My chest ached as I sucked wind.

Miss Spry left her desk to stand over me. Her face was hard; her eyes hot. “You either become a succubus, or you die and the next female takes your place. Either way, the line will continue unbroken. There are no exceptions.”

Die now or allow the Devil to take my soul. It wasn’t much of a choice. Still, I didn’t have to think it over. My mother had abandoned me when I was a child, and I wouldn’t do that to my own daughter. When my lungs reached equilibrium, I gasped, “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Miss Spry nodded. “Good. I’ll return you to your world, and you can resume your life. When I need you, you’ll be summoned. And you will come.” I’d spent maybe half an hour with this woman, but I already knew that tone and that expression. Miss Spry would not be crossed. If she said come, I came.

As it turned out, I hadn’t been wrong about what would happen to me in that place; I was just wrong about who would be owning me. It wasn’t the woman in the prison cell after all. No, I was Miss Spry’s bitch.

When I came back to reality, I was standing on the same sidewalk where, seemingly ages ago, I’d been texting Jasmine. My hip ached, either from the impact of the car hitting me or the impact of Miss Spry throwing me against the wall. I couldn’t be sure.

In fact, I couldn’t be sure about any of it. I still had my purse, and my cell phone was in my pocket. Yet, at the same time, I was missing a shoe, my watch was broken, and tire tracks climbed up the side of my slacks. Feeling sick and disoriented, I heaved up my guts all over the clean sidewalk in one of the nicest suburbs in the city.

It was my guess that succubi generally don’t do this as it’s not very attractive.

My head felt strangely empty, like I needed to remember something important. The jail cell, the conversation with Miss Spry, even the taste of the tea…all of these things were pieces to a puzzle I couldn’t solve. I drove numbly, obeying all of the traffic laws out of habit, but not really paying attention to what I was doing.

By the time I got home, it was fully dark, and every light in the townhouse blazed. I sat in the car for several minutes, trying to think of how to explain the missing shoe, the tire tracks up my pant leg, and the fact that I had borrowed Jas’s purse without her permission. At last, I simply gave up and went inside, figuring whatever happened, happened.

Grace, her face tear-stained, met me in the doorway and hugged me so tightly that my injured hip protested. “Mommy! Where were you?” I was instantly on alert; she hasn’t called me ‘mommy’ in years.

Behind her stood a very worried-looking Ariel and a mournful Jasmine who was leaning against the hairless wonder who, seemingly years ago, had been sleeping on my couch. I felt a glow in my chest. They loved me! They were worried about me! “I’m okay,” I assured them. “I wasn’t that hurt.”

“Hurt? What are you talking about? Who’s hurt?” Jas looked offended, as if I was trying to upstage whatever she had going on.

Before I could make my big announcement – that I’d been hit by a car, killed, sent to Hell and survived the trip thank-you-very-much – Grace pressed her face into my side. “She’s dead, mommy. Gramma’s dead.”

The puzzle pieces finally fell together. I’d been made a succubus because my mother had died, and someone needed to take her place. Like Miss Spry had told me, one generation must always follow another.

Chapter Three

The next morning, before my eyes had fully opened, I remembered three important things: my mother was dead, I’d been hit by a car, and I was now a succubus who worked for the Devil.

At least one of those things seemed very unlikely.

I investigated myself in the mirror. My face looked as it always did: green eyes, pert nose, rosebud mouth. The weariness in my eyes and faint wrinkles on my forehead didn’t result from any near-death experience. No, I blamed those on the divorce, the fire, and the fact that I could no longer afford my favorite Estée Lauder moisturizer.

Surely, if I’d been turned into a demon, I’d look different. I examined my scalp for demon-style horns and glanced over my shoulder expecting a red, forked tail. Seeing neither, I undressed and took a good look at myself. My body was just as I remembered: a waistline I wished would grow smaller, breasts I wished would grow larger, and an ass that was still nice and firm.

Yesterday’s run-in with the Volvo had left no bruises, scratches, sprains, or broken bones. How could I have been hit by a car, yet escape without injuries? Now, it wasn’t only the trip to Hell that I questioned. The accident, too, seemed unlikely.

As I showered, I tried to explain away my memories. A seizure, perhaps? A hallucination? Or maybe the stress of the past twelve months had reached critical mass, and I was fully insane.

After pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweater, I decided to experiment. Gathering my courage, I called, “Miss Spry? Are you there?”

Nothing answered.

“Hello? Demon overlord?”

Still nothing.

Yesterday, the bars in the waiting room, the endless gray corridor, and the terrible woman with the hot eyes had seemed so real. Now, those memories held the haziness of a dream. I shook my head as I left my bedroom. A succubus! Of all the stupid things to imagine. Real life was tough enough. The last thing I needed was drama from the spiritual realm.

To my surprise, I wasn’t the first one awake. Tommy, Jasmine’s friend, sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and eating a peanut butter sandwich. The night before, Jas had begged me to let him stay over. Since I’d been too overwhelmed to worry about the rules, I’d allowed it providing that he slept on the couch.

Seeing me, he frowned and tilted his head in a way that made me paranoid. Did he sense something different about me? Something that I hadn’t discovered myself? Then, to my relief, his face smoothed and he smiled.

“Coffee?” he asked, rising.

I nodded and sank into a chair. “You’re up early.”

“My job starts at seven.”

Job? Jasmine finally found a guy who was employed? Hallelujah and pass the ketchup! “What do you do?”

“I’m a mechanic. Mostly, I work on transmissions.” He set a mug in front of me and reclaimed his seat. “It’s not glamorous, but it’s steady work.” He sipped his coffee. “What about you? Are you an early riser, too, or couldn’t you sleep?”

I shrugged. “A little of both.”

“I’m sorry about your mother.”

“Thanks.” The news of my mother’s death had yet to sink in. It seemed as distant as a dream.

“If you need to talk, I’m glad to listen,” he continued. “When my sister died, my friends were the only things that kept me sane.” Tommy certainly looked intimidating, but his bald head, tats, and numerous facial piercings seemed to mask a gentle nature.

I didn’t want to discuss my mother’s death. In some ways, that was the least of my problems. To keep the focus off of her, I asked about his tattoos.

He held out his arms. “My friend did the work, but I drew the art. This one’s my favorite.” He patted his chest.

“The demon tattoo,” I said, remembering.

“It’s not just a demon.” He lifted his T-shirt, revealing the picture. “See, up here is the demon, but down below is an angel.”

Sure enough, there were two creatures locked in battle. The snarling demon was held in place by an equally ferocious angel. The angel gripped the demon’s hairy back leg while the demon sunk its sharp teeth into angel’s fiery wings. It wasn’t clear who was winning the fight.

“I call it ‘Duality’,” Tommy said. “You know, like in the dual nature of man.”

“Which is?”

“That we all want to behave better than we do. For example, most people will say that they want to feed the hungry, but they won’t give a homeless guy a dime because they’re frightened or disgusted by him. Or people want to be honest, but they cheat on their taxes.”

“So you think that there’s a balance of good and bad inside of everyone?”

“Not a balance, no. Evil tends to overwhelm good.” He pointed to his stomach. “See? The angel has a hold on the demon, but the demon’s already drawn blood.”

My hands tightened on the coffee mug as I thought of Miss Spry and her hot eyes. “So evil always wins.”

“Not if we keep fighting.”

I couldn’t take my eyes from the tat. What if the previous day’s experiences were real? What if I actually had become a succubus? Would I still be able to battle my evil nature? “What if someone had an actual demon living inside of them?” I hadn’t meant to ask. The question had just slipped out. Embarrassed, I forced a laugh. “Hypothetically, I mean.”

Tommy’s smooth forehead furrowed. “Demons are stronger than mortals, so I guess that a person with a real demon inside them would lose.”

My throat clicked as I dry swallowed. “Lose what? Their goodness?”

His serious gray eyes met mine. “No, their humanity.”

After sending the girls off to school, my mother’s death hit me unexpectedly hard. My mother was really, truly dead. My sense of loss came as a surprise since Carrie and I hadn’t been close – her decision, not mine. Still, I felt a sharp pang of grief. I was a first grader all over again, standing onstage during my spring dance recital and praying that, just once, my mother would show up. The terrible longing that had plagued me throughout childhood resurged with a vengeance. I sat on the couch and cried.

Surprisingly, my stepsister offered to drive me to the funeral home and help make Carrie’s arrangements. I was touched. Usually, moral support isn’t Jasmine’s forte. For example, when I told her that my ex-husband was having an affair, she said, “Maybe it’s because you’re getting fat.”

Today, however, she hugged me tightly, something that once again brought me to tears. “Your mom was the best,” she said. “I’ll miss her.”

The first part of that statement was false, and we both knew it. My mother had abandoned me when I was three and rarely returned to visit. The second part of the statement, however, was true. I’d always suspected that Jasmine envied me for the type of mother I had. Jas’s mother is nice enough, but she’s very proper and reserved. My mother, on the other hand, was a spitfire. She frequently hosted poetry slams in her living room. She took bartending lessons when she was seventy-five, and could out-drink any of her college-age classmates. She was always the first to throw a party and the last to leave one. People loved her. I probably would have loved her, too, if she hadn’t been my mother.

Jasmine drove us to the funeral home that my stepfather had recommended. As expected, the place was a ponderously dreary place of heavy draperies, thick carpeting, and the sickening smell of freshly-cut, hothouse flowers. The funeral director, Harold Black, was a young man doing his very best to look as old as possible. His thinning hair and gold-framed glasses made him appear fifty rather than thirty. When we all sat down together, he gave me a mournful look. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I pressed a damp tissue to my eyes, determined not to cry again. Once again, my emotion surprised me. As a kid, I’d longed for more of Carrie’s attention. As an adult, I wished she’d leave me the hell alone. Yet now, I couldn’t stop crying.

I let Jasmine take over the arrangements. She loves shopping, even shopping of the funerary variety. As she eagerly flipped through catalogs full of coffins and flowers, Harold leaned over her shoulder offering suggestions.

Watching them, I stopped thinking about my mother and started examining the funeral director. There was more to him than met the eye. He sounded patient and soothing, but he hated his job. He was soberly dressed, yet on weekends he stuffed twenty dollar bills into the G-strings of strippers and paid for lap dances. He smoked as a way to lose weight.

I blinked, surprised. Where had those thoughts come from? After all, I’d only met the chubby, little man fifteen minutes before. I couldn’t possibly know that much about him.

Inside my head, an unfamiliar presence stirred. Look closer, it urged me.

So I did. Little clues began to take shape. Tucked inside Harold’s soothing voice was a nearly undetectable note of impatience. Every few minutes, his eyes darted to the clock as he counted the minutes until he could leave. As for the strippers, I noticed a book of matches peeking up from his pants pocket. On it, was an outline of a topless woman with her hands clasped behind her head. His suit was too large for him, and his belt was cinched past two well-worn holes. Finally, I noticed a rectangular bulge in the breast pocket of his jacket where he hid something the exact size and shape of a pack of cigarettes.

I shook my head. I was making too many assumptions. I had no idea if the matches were his, and the bulge in the jacket could be a cell phone. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my impressions were spot on.

The strange presence in my mind stirred again, this time adding a sharp nudge. Although it didn’t it use a voice or words, I understood its silent communications. You may not be entirely right, it seemed to say, but you’re awfully damned close.

I wasn’t talking to myself. I knew the sound of my own intuition, and this wasn’t it. This thing, this presence, had a sinister edge. It delighted in Howard’s secret sins. It loved his weekly lap dances and delighted in his smoking. The fact that he was miserable in his job made the thing in my head smile approvingly.

I mopped my sweating forehead with my sleeve. What the hell was happening to me? Where were these wretched thoughts coming from?

“What do you think, Lilith?” Jasmine’s voice drew me back to the conversation. Then she frowned. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

She started to put her hand on my shoulder, but Harold was quicker. He scooted close to me and offered me his handkerchief. “This is hard for you, I know.” His peppermint-scented breath puffed in my face. “Can I get you anything? A glass of water maybe?”

To my relief, the sinister presence in my head had quieted. “No, I’m fine.” To refocus myself, I thumbed through a catalog. The caskets were made of polished wood and chrome, as lovely as fine furniture and twice as costly. I gasped at the prices. Even the least expensive one was double my rent check.

Typical Jasmine hadn’t bothered with the prices when she’d made her selections. She’d picked out a cherry wood coffin with silver trim, an immense casket spray, and two enormous flower arrangements. Even if my mother had possessed the means to pay for her funeral, I couldn’t get her money until it went through probate court. That would take months.

The thought of money made the room fold over on itself. “Jas, I can’t afford this! I hardly have enough for groceries!” The insurance company had yet to reimburse me for the damage to my burned-out house, claiming the fire wasn’t accidental. In addition, I hadn’t worked in weeks because of the Christmas break. My savings account balance was zero, and my checking account was close to being overdrawn. I put my hand to my head to stall off a headache. A year ago, my weekly allowance from Ted had been well into the four-figure range, yet now I couldn’t pay for the new shoes that Grace desperately needed.

Jasmine shrugged, unconcerned. “What’s the big deal? Just put it on a credit card.” She pulled out her phone and began texting.

Harold gave a reassuring smile. “We do have a payment plan.”

Even with a payment plan, I’d be in trouble. Rent on the townhouse, insurance on the car, and utilities were squeezing me down to the last penny. I didn’t want to send my mother off in a pine box, but I was desperate. “Is there something else I can do? Cremation, maybe?” I hoped Carrie couldn’t see me down here haggling over her funeral like a tourist at a Middle-Eastern bazaar.

I’d expected Harold’s smile to fade, but it remained as bright as ever. “Let me see.” He picked up the notepad he’d been using and crossed off several items. Then he re-added figures, mumbling to himself as he punched numbers on his calculator.

He showed me the final total with a triumphant smile. It was far less than the original, but still made my stomach drop. Even pared down to the basics, the funeral would bankrupt me.

Seeing my stricken face, he said, “You’re feeling overwhelmed, aren’t you?” He slid so close to me that our knees touched.

I blotted tears from my eyes. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Believe me, I do. You’re vulnerable. Afraid.” Very softly, he began to rub my shoulder. “There’s nothing I hate to see more than the tears of a beautiful woman.” His other hand sought out my knee.

My jaw dropped. What the hell was he doing? My first instinct was to slap his face. Then a thought blipped into my head like an instant-message popping up on a computer screen: You’re a succubus now. You’ve seduced him. Keep him on the hook, and you’ll get the funeral for free.

The sinister presence in my head had returned, but this time, I recognized it. It belonged to my succubus, the demon inhabiting my mind. As Harold the undertaker stroked my knee and let his hand wander up my thigh, there was no more denying the truth. The trip to Hell, the meeting with Miss Spry and, worst of all, the contract made by Sarah Goodswain: it was all real.

Next to me, Jasmine was too deep into her text conversation to notice what was happening. She laughed at something, then let her fingers clickety-click away at the minute keyboard.

My succubus continued to urge me to use my allure to get what I wanted. It would be so easy. Harold was desperate for female attention, and with a bit of sweet talk and a few flirtatious touches, the funeral would be free. I could send my mother off in style and still afford to buy milk and bread.

When Jasmine laughed at one of her texts, I was yanked back to reality. No way would I let Harold pull me into the nearest casket for a quick tumble in exchange for a free funeral. Trying to rein in the demon, however, was like attempting to stop an oncoming train. I might not want to seduce the undertaker, but the demon certainly did.

Harold began stroking my hair and pulled my hand towards his crotch. Yes, the succubus told me. NO, I insisted. When my hand slid further down Harold’s leg, I wondered which of us was in command: me or the demon. I increased my struggle, fighting to gain control. Finally, I sent a mental command to the succubus like it was a dog: Down girl!! I’m the one in charge!

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the demon responded with a furious quiver. She had a lot of influence over me, but apparently I had the final say. Relieved, I mentally stuffed my inner monster back into the dark corner of my mind. Once again, I was plain old Lilith.

With the demon’s allure gone, Harold blinked as if waking from a deep sleep. Thoroughly shaken, I disentangled myself and grabbed a tissue to wipe sweat from my forehead. I couldn’t deny the facts. I was no longer alone inside my own head. Miss Spry had been right; I was now part demon.

Jasmine finally noticed what was happening. “Oh my God!” She dropped her phone and leapt to her feet. “Are you groping my sister?”

Harold yanked away as if he’d been burned. “No!” He looked both horrified and baffled, as if he just now realized that stroking a grieving woman’s leg was unprofessional. He blushed down to the roots of his baby-fine hair. “I’m sorry if I upset you, Ms. Straight. I didn’t mean to.”

The apology didn’t mollify Jasmine who swung her purse at his head. Luckily for him, it was a tiny bag, hardly bigger than a lunch sack. “You sick piece of shit!” Jasmine rained more blows on poor Harold who cowered behind his arms.

“It’s okay, Jasmine,” I said. Though it wasn’t okay. I felt sick and dirty. In desperate need to shower off the feeling of those groping hands.

I would have bolted for the nearest exit except my stepdad walked through the door. Simon Yoshida is the kindest, gentlest, most honest man on the planet. Which is probably why he (a) is terrible at his job as a tax attorney and (b) just the sucker my mother needed to raise her three-year-old daughter. In fact, I blame my mother’s treatment of Simon for the perpetually bewildered expression on his face. As if, after thirty-one years, he still didn’t know what hit him.

“That man just made a pass at Lilith,” Jasmine said. She swiped her purse at Harold again, but this time he ducked.

Simon, who was used to his daughter’s theatrics, didn’t take her seriously. “Settle down, Jasmine.” He kissed the top of her head before wrapping me in a hug. I hugged him back tightly, wrinkling his suit. “I’m so sorry to hear about Carrie,” he said. “You must miss her very much.”

I did, but that wasn’t why I clung to him like a frightened child. The experience with Harold had terrified me. A demon presence now slithered around in my mind; a presence with a strong will that I could barely control.

When I finally let go of my dad, he brushed my bangs out of my face. “How did Carrie pass away? I only caught part of Jasmine’s message.”

He was only saying this to be nice. I knew because I’d overheard Jas the night before as she spread the word about my mother’s death. Most people, she texted: L’s mom died. Sux huh? But since our father couldn’t work a microwave much less text, she’d actually talked to him, saying, “Lil’s mom died. But don’t worry, there’s a sale at Macy’s so you can go buy yourself a nice suit for the funeral.”

“Carrie had a stroke,” I said. “She was at a couples’ retreat with her boyfriend. They were in a hot tub with about ten other people when it happened.”

My father has a heart bigger than the shoe department at Nordstrom’s, and I know he still cared about my mom, even though she’d ditched him thirty years before. So, to spare him the embarrassment, I left out the part about them all being nude.

I patted his hand. “At least she went out Carrie-style.”

My father finished the business of the funeral with his customary efficiency. Harold, still shrinking under Jasmine’s glare, was only too happy to sell me the coffin at cost, pay for the casket spray, and take twenty-five percent off the final bill. He also gave me a calendar with a picture of the funeral home on the front and a series of inspirational messages on the inside. All the while, his embarrassed blush never paled from his cheeks.

“The nerve of that prick,” Jasmine said when we finally left.

Knowing my stepsister, her wrath wasn’t entirely due to the funeral director’s behavior. No, she was insulted because, for once, a man preferred me over her.

Maybe being a succubus wasn’t so bad after all.

That evening, as I picked through the fridge looking for something to serve for dinner, Tommy knocked on the door. He gave Jasmine a friendly kiss on the cheek and placed a bucket of chicken on the table. “I thought I’d bring dinner since you’re probably too overwhelmed to cook.”

For a moment, I was too shocked to thank him. Until now, the most generous thing any of Jasmine’s boyfriends had done was to leave the toilet seat down.

Once again, Tommy gave me a worried frown. “You okay?”

“Exhausted,” I admitted. “It’s been a really long day.”

He abruptly hugged me, and I stiffened, preparing for a repeat of Harold and his octopus hands. I needn’t have worried. Tommy’s embrace held nothing but comfort.

He ate dinner with us, entertaining the girls with stories about his adventures motorcycling across the US. Although he occasionally threw me a worried a glance, he laughed with the girls, patiently answered their questions about his hairlessness (alopecia), and let Ariel touch the studs in his face. Both girls were fascinated by him. So was I. In the old days, his tats, piercings, and dirty nails would have prevented me from hiring him to mow my lawn. Now, he sat at my dinner table. Not only that, I was enjoying his company. I wondered how many other interesting people I’d missed out on simply because they hadn’t met my standards.

After the girls were in bed and the house grew quiet, I heard Jasmine and Tommy arguing in the kitchen. Jas sounded angry, Tommy resigned. I picked up a newspaper, determined not to eavesdrop, but the thin walls made their conversation impossible to ignore. And with the girls falling asleep upstairs, I couldn’t turn on the TV loud enough to drown out their disagreement.

“I’m serious. Spend the night,” Jas insisted. “Lil likes you. She won’t mind.”

I rolled my eyes. My stepsister could have at least asked me first.

“Like I said, I can’t deal with another night on the couch,” Tommy said. “It’s murder on my back.”

There was a moment of silence. “I wasn’t talking about the couch,” Jas said. “Come downstairs with me.” Even though I couldn’t see her face, there was no mistaking her offer. She wanted to drag Tommy down to her she-lair in the basement and jump his bones.

“Jasmine, you know I can’t do that.” Tommy’s voice was gentle.

“Your vow of celibacy,” Jasmine snapped. “Yes, I know.”

Vow of celibacy? I lowered the newspaper. Was this guy for real?

“It’s not forever,” he said. “Only until I complete my pilgrimage. I want my body to be as pure as possible when I visit those holy sites.” His tone begged her to understand. “Stacy and I had planned to do this together, but now that my sister died, I want to make the trip as a homage to her. You can appreciate that, right?”

“You’ll be gone forever,” Jasmine wailed.

There was more silence followed by the creak of chairs. “I’ll be away for a year.” When Jas didn’t reply, he said, “Come with me! I’d love to have a friend along.”

She snorted. “Sleeping on the streets of Calcutta? Climbing up Emmy Sands in Thailand?”

“That’s Emei Shan in China,” he mildly corrected, “and the monks there are very hospitable.”

She snorted again.

“Think of the adventure, Jas! We’ll see as many holy sites as we can. It will be the spiritual journey of a lifetime. I know you’d find it worth the inconvenience.”

I nearly laughed out loud. If Tommy believed that, then he didn’t know my sister at all.

Drinking Tea ventured into the living room. I automatically reached down to stroke his head, and he flattened his ears, hissed, and sank his teeth deep into the fleshy part of my hand.

I screeched like a banshee and swatted at him. He let go and streaked under the easy chair, still yowling. Scared and hurting, I went into the kitchen to wash my wounds.

Jasmine and Tommy immediately fell silent.

“Sorry to interrupt, but the cat bit me.” I rinsed my hand under the faucet before examining it. Tea had bitten hard, drawing blood. Although he was not a social cat, he’d never hurt anyone before. Not even Grace who had a tendency to hug him until he looked bug-eyed.

As I went to the freezer for ice, I noticed someone had hung the funeral home’s calendar under the list of household rules. January’s page showed a snowy mountain range and said: Heaven’s doors are always open to those who knock. I rolled my eyes.

Tommy absently stroked the hole in his left earlobe. “Tea seems like a nice cat. I’m surprised he bit you.”

I wrapped the ice in a clean towel and held it against my sore hand. “Me, too.” I searched the cupboard for a bottle of pain reliever. “He’s just been acting weird ever since we moved.”

“Tell her, Tommy,” Jasmine said, sotto voce. “Go ahead.”

I shut the cupboard door harder than I’d meant to. “Tell me what?” I was in no mood for Jasmine’s dramatics. I just wanted this day to be over. No, not only that. I wanted my life back. My old life. The one with the enormous house, the cleaning lady, the private school, and a regular income.

Jas and Tommy exchanged looks, then Tommy said, “Do you remember when I told you about your aura yesterday?”

“Yes.” I found the pain reliever and pried the cap off with my teeth.

“Well, it’s gone now.”

“That’s a shame.” I swallowed two tablets with a glass of water.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “It’s gone as in, there isn’t one. Everyone, every single person on the planet, has an aura. Every single living person that is. Lilith, you should be dead right now.”

Suddenly, the water was like a fist in my throat. I coughed, bending over double, the water bursting out of my mouth and nose. Since the Harold incident, I’d decided to keep my secret to myself. Ted had fought me tooth and nail for full custody of Grace and was constantly looking for an excuse to reverse the judge’s decision. If he found out that I thought there was a demon inside of me, he’d have me declared mentally incompetent and take my daughter. The last thing I needed was for Tommy to blow my cover.

I blew my nose and gave a shaky smile. “Sorry, but that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day. Thanks for the laugh.”

Tommy’s mouth drew down, but Jasmine rolled her eyes. “I told you she wouldn’t believe you. She’s not spiritual, Tommy. She’s not a believer.”

Not a believer? After what I’d experienced, I couldn’t be anything else.

Chapter Four

On the night of the viewing, before the mourners arrived at the funeral home, I sat alone with my mom. Carrie, perfectly still in her satin-lined coffin, wore the prim, plum-colored dress that Jas and I had picked out. Generally, my mother went for Salvation Army cast-offs: outdated gypsy skirts, ruffled blouses and oversized sweaters. For once, she looked like a normal woman instead of a crazy, hippie lady.

My mother might have looked peaceful, but I wasn’t. Tears, this time angry ones, rolled down my cheeks. “You could have at least hinted at what would happen to me when you died,” I told her. “Why didn’t you bother to tell me? Did you think you were going to live forever?”

Scolding a corpse was ridiculous, but I was desperate. Desperate and terrified.

“What’s going to happen to me?” I asked her. “What kind of things will Miss Spry force me to do? Will I ever get used to having this thing slinking around in my thoughts?”

My mother kept her eyes closed and her hands demurely folded.

I’d been speaking in a hushed voice, afraid that the funeral director would think I was crazy, but the more agitated I became, the louder my voice grew. “Will I become evil? Or slutty?” I swallowed. “Will I abandon Grace like you did to me?”

I held my breath, longing for an answer, but nothing happened. For the first time in my life, I really needed my mother but, once again, she was nowhere around.

Funerals are a lot like weddings. You invite people, find a minister, buy flowers and a new dress, and serve food. But unless the bride is up against a nine-month deadline, wedding planning is very open-ended. Funerals, however, must be quickly thrown together before the guest of honor rots away.

For three hours, I stood in a tiny, stifling room, as a parade of men and women I’d never met paid their respects. Carrie’s first visitor was a dumpy, gray-haired man in wire-framed, rose-tinted glasses, and a tie-dye T-shirt so old and full of holes that it might have been a survivor of Woodstock. He smelled of pot and pressed my hand so tightly that my knuckles rubbed together. “I’m really gonna miss Carrie. She was something, you know? One in a million.”

I nodded and mumbled, “Yes, yes. That’s true.”

He cocked his head. “You don’t look anything like her.”

I sighed. It seemed that my mother’s death would be very much like her life: the visit would be short, she would be surrounded by people whom I didn’t know, and everyone would find me disappointing.

When the dumpy man in the rose-tinted glasses finally shambled off, Jasmine slunk over. She’d come for moral support, but had been sitting in one of the plush chairs all evening, texting her friends. Her eyes were wide. “Was that who I think it is?”

I rubbed my temples. “Who do you think it is?”

“That old guy from that band. You know, the one from the sixties. The Happy Dead? The Grateful Zombies? Something like that.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” I had no idea what Jas was talking about, but it was easier to agree than try to make sense of it.

She leaned a little closer. “Maybe that guy is your dad.”

Leave it to Jasmine to make a bad situation worse. I had no idea who my biological father was. I’m pretty sure my mother didn’t know either. On the few occasions I’d asked, she’d scratched her head and said, “There are so many possibilities.”

As a child, I hadn’t given much thought to my biological father. In fact, if Simon hadn’t been Japanese, I might have thought he was my real dad. Although I went through a curious phase in high school, as I grew older questions about my sperm donor fizzled away. Now, the only time I thought of him was when filling out health history forms at the doctor’s office.

Jasmine continued to scan the room. “Maybe it’s that guy.” She pointed to a squat man whose turtleneck sweater made his large head and thin neck look like a light bulb. “Or that one.” She indicated a lanky transvestite in a silver lamé dress.

“Give it up,” I begged.

“Aren’t you a little bit curious?”

“No.” A lie since I was now looking over the male visitors. Please God, not that one, I thought as I watched a man in a hooded parka stuff his pockets with tissues. Used tissues.

“I’ll find out. Don’t you worry.” Jasmine floated off before I could stop her.

Ariel had refused to come to the visitation and had stayed home with Tommy. Grace, however, had solemnly asked to go along despite the fact she’d never met my mother. For the past two hours, my daughter had been lingering by the casket, alternately reading the cards on the flower arrangements and peering fearfully at her grandmother’s body.

Catching Grace’s eye, I held out my hand. She rushed over and hugged me tightly. “Grandma Carrie sure knew a lot of weird people,” she whispered. She indicated a pair of men in biker’s leathers and bandanas tied around their heads. They had matching eye patches and enormous, mutton-chop sideburns.

“Yes,” I wearily agreed. “She sure did.”

When my father came through the door, both Grace and I hugged him: me tearfully, Grace enthusiastically. My stepdad was accompanied by his current wife and Jas’s mother, Evelyn. As always, she looked like she’d just stepped out of the salon and dressed in clothes fresh from the drycleaner’s. I, on the other hand, was wilting like an uprooted weed on a hot summer day. My dress was as limp as the used tissue in my hand, and there were circles of dampness under my armpits.

Evelyn is a kind person, but she and I had never been close. Even so, she hugged me, something she rarely did, and whispered, “You’re a very good daughter.”

The unexpected compliment made me cry all over again, and Simon offered me a fresh tissue. Grace hugged my waist until I regained control.

“We thought we’d take Grace out for something to eat,” my stepdad said.

Immediately, Jas’s selective hearing kicked in, and she came over. “Can you drop me off at the movies? And I need some cash.”

Evelyn’s lips thinned. Jasmine’s childish behavior was one of the many reasons Evelyn had ousted Jasmine from the house. Simon, however, was already pulling out his wallet.

“Can we go to Chuck E. Cheese or McDonald’s?” Grace asked. “Or that place that has the double fudge sundaes with the sparklers on top?” Evelyn winced, but agreed. Evelyn and I might have been distant, but that didn’t stop her from being a doting grandmother.

After they left, my cell phone vibrated. It was a text from Ted, my ex-husband. “We need to talk.”

As much as I loathed my ex-husband and regretted our marriage, I hadn’t completely soured on relationships. In fact, I would have loved some male support. I longed for broad shoulders to lean on, and a strong hand to hold mine. I would have given anything for a cuddle under the covers after this long, difficult day. Now, the only thing I had to look forward to was a hot shower and an empty bed.

Ted texted again. “What are you doing right now?”

His callousness made my insides shrivel. I texted back, “I’m at the funeral home. My mother died. Remember?” With great effort, I kept myself from adding: a$$hole.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed a man watching me from across the room. I didn’t remember him coming in, not surprising since the evening had been a blur of unfamiliar faces. He had one of those chiseled chins that belong on male models, and thick, dark hair that begged to be tousled. His conservative V-necked sweater and leather loafers looked out of place among the flamboyant hippies and club kids.

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