“Sorry,” she muttered and grinned sheepishly. She wore a black tracksuit with black Pumas on her skinny little body. Her hair was pulled away from her face. She had a pretty face. I hadn’t noticed that earlier. “This place gives me the heebees,” she said. “No offense, Dixie. I know it’s your dad’s crib and all, but damn.”
“None taken.” She laughed and hugged Myrtle. “Thank you.”
“For what?” Myrtle was confused.
“For being you.”
“Oh, okay,” she said. “Hey, do I...um, look alright?” she asked. Her face turned blotchy red in embarrassment.
“You look great,” I told her. Dixie nodded in agreement. “I didn’t realize how pretty you were until tonight with your hair away from your face.”
“Oh.” Myrtle was speechless. She looked like a fragile little girl and I felt an overwhelming need to protect her. Great . . . now I wanted to protect Demons? Home. Soon.
“Hey, um...” she continued, abruptly changing the subject, “is there a john around here? I’ve gotta take a leak.”
“Yes,” my cousin said, trying not to laugh. I sucked my bottom lip into my mouth to keep from giggling. Myrtle really was quite disgusting. “Go down that hall and you’ll find several johns.”
“Thanks.” The little Demon wandered off with a spring in her step and a new air of confidence about her.
Dixie took my hand and we made our way through the foyer. The foyer of the palace was tremendous. A huge curved marble staircase dominated the enormous space. The ceilings were three stories high with violent religious frescos painted on them.
“Oh my God.” I was shocked at how many works of art I recognized. “The paintings. Are they copies?”
“Nope. Real,” Dixie told me. “Quite a few famous artists have spent time in Hell. Some because they deserved it and others came for a visit out of curiosity. A couple of the visitors have chosen to stay on the main floor in Hell much to our Uncle God’s dismay. Apparently unless you’re burning in the Basement, Hell is a lot more fun than Heaven.”
“Huh,” I said, still shocked by the sheer amount of priceless art everywhere. “What the hell is hanging in the museums on Earth?”
“Forgeries.”
I thought the Vampyres were opulent . . . they had nothing on Satan. Thick burgundy red brocade curtains rained down from the windows that were at least thirty feet high. The curtains boasted heavy golden fringe and masterpieces dotted the creamy ivory walls. A mix of my favorites—van Gogh, Goya, Basquiat, Botacelli. And to my utter amazement—Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. Clearly the one I’d seen in the Louvre was a fake. Much to my chagrin, I realized I was not so discretely grooving to Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’ . . . WTF?
“Dixie, what’s the deal with Journey?” I asked, pressing my hands to my sides so I didn’t raise them over my head and sway.
“Daddy loves Journey. You could say he’s obsessed. He can’t wait till they all die and he can have his own personal Journey concerts in Hell. He was heartbroken when Steve Perry quit the band. He didn’t come out of his suite for a month.”
Wait. What? That was just weird. So weird I didn’t know what to say. Hell had rendered me speechless several times in one day. Ethan would be impressed. My gut clenched at the thought of what he must be going through. I wondered if there was a way to communicate with him. Were there phone lines to Earth? Would Satan let me use one? Would Dixie? Would Myrtle?
The foyer was full of Demons, from the most high ranking, who were sipping expensive champagne, to the lowliest, who were serving it. I didn’t see my Uncle Satan anywhere, but I did catch Amanda the consort greeting guests as if she owned the place. Gross.
“Thank Beelzebub, Cole is on her,” Dixie muttered as she snagged two champagnes for us.
“What do you mean?” I asked, staring stupidly at the glass in my hand. Did I try to take a sip? Could I eat down here? I could breathe and see myself . . .
“The man tailing Amanda, the wanking bitch, is my dad’s second in command, Cole. I’m glad that someone who has my father’s ear can see what an opportunistic skank she is.”
“Right,” I said, still eyeballing my glass.
“Drink it, it’s wonderful champagne. Daddy has the finest vineyard on all the planes of existence.”
“That’s lovely, but I’m a Vampyre. I drink blood, not grape juice.”
“Okay, ewww, but you’re a Demon too and you’re in Hell. Try it.”
I lifted the glass to my lips feeling like I was somehow betraying my Vampyre heritage, but when in Hell . . . Forcing a bright smile I took a sip and it tasted like ass. Not that I knew what ass tasted like, but it was bad, stinky and gross and I couldn’t have been happier. There was still some Vamp in me. I spit the offending liquid back into the glass and grinned.