Fashionably Dead Down Under(12)

“Hell has a basement?” I asked, trying to absorb the massive amount of info she’d just spit out.
“That’s your question after what I just told you?”
“Yep.”
“Ooookay,” Dixie laughed. “Yes. Hell has a basement.”
“And nine other levels?”
“Um, no. Dante was completely wrong.”
“You’re kidding me,” I gasped. Was everything I knew about Hell a fairy tale?
“Dante will be here on Thursday. It’s poker night. You can grill him then. He’s been pissed for ages. He went ballistic when he found out the actual layout.”
“So much of what you just said was screwed on so many levels.”
“Nine?”
“Touché,” I laughed. “Dante lives in Hell? And he plays poker?”
“No and yes. Dante resides in Heaven, but comes over every Thursday to play poker with my dad.”
“God lets people out to play poker?” This was too much for even me to believe and I was a Vampyre. A myth . . .
“Free will, Cousin. God has no say if his residents want to vacation in Hell.”
“Does that work both ways?” I asked, still amazed that Satan played poker with Dante.
“Absolutely not. God doesn’t let evil touch his doorstep.” Dixie sniffed with disdain.
“Who else plays poker with your dad?”
“It depends. Most of the time Hemingway comes. Occasionally Marilyn Monroe, Elvis, Picasso and Mother Teresa.”
“Back the fuck up. Mother Teresa plays poker with the Devil?”
“Why wouldn’t she? My dad is charming and throws a great party. Besides, she’s always trying to reform him.” Dixie giggled and shook her head. “Oh, and one time Nixon came.”
“How’d that work out?”
“Dad says he cheats.”
“Of course he does,” I muttered, wondering if she was just pulling all of this out of her ass and fucking with me . . .
“With all that being said, it would be a grave mistake to assume Demons are goody goodies. They’re not . . . alright, I kind of am, but I’m a freak here.”
“I have no issue with freaks. I ride that train too,” I told her.
“Here’s the bottom line. I’ve been raised to be grateful to evildoers, because without them Demons wouldn’t exist. We derive our power and magic from the chaos and evil of humans. So while we don’t necessarily cause it, we thrive on it or feed on it, so to speak. Don’t forget that our Uncle God dealt out the free will thing, not my dad. And now to combat his error in judgment, God and his army of Angels keep trying to end evil so my dad and his people, including me . . . and you, will cease to exist. No offense, but God really screwed himself by letting men and women choose their own paths. If he wanted everyone to be good, he should have come up with a better plan. Daddy thinks that particular subject is hilarious.”
“I bet he does,” I mumbled and wondered how to broach the what-does-a-portal-look-like subject without seeming too obvious.#p#分页标题#e#
“There’s a ton more for me to tell you, but we only have a couple of hours before we have to go and not to be rude, but you need a shower. You hair is kind of wild and there’s soot all over your face and you’ve got some dried blood on you.”
“Um, you waited till after your therapy session to tell me I looked like a homeless person?” I snapped.
“No, I did that on purpose. You look dangerous and crazy with all that hair and blood. I thought it might throw our bitchy therapist off her game . . . and it did.” Dixie grinned and gave me a thumbs up.
I couldn’t bite back my grin. Dixie wasn’t quite as nice as I thought and I was glad. “Fine. Show me to your bathroom and I’ll get spiffied up for your evil shindig.”
“Wait till you see your hair,” she giggled and led me deeper into her home.
“That won’t happen,” I told her as I examined her house. It was awesome—all done in earthy colors with bold slashes of chocolate brown and dusty rose woven in. “I’m a Vamp. No reflection.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said. “The red streaks in your hair rock.”
“What red streaks? I don’t have red streaks.”
“Um . . . you totally have red streaks.”
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered, running my hands through the tangled mess. “Is that some kind of Demon gift?”
“Don’t know, but I sure wish I had them.”
Her bathroom was huge and better than any bathroom I’d ever been in. On one side were floor to ceiling mirrors and Dixie was right—I was a fucking mess. I mean I was still hot in that Vampyre undead way, but I was covered in dried blood and my clothes were torn. But my hair . . . holy Hell. My hair was its usual dark brown, but there were blood red streaks running through it. She was right—it was hot, but it shouldn’t be there.