Fashionably Dead Down Under(27)

“Abe, Beyonce, Rachel, Ross?” I whispered. Nothing. Where had they gone? Did they know their way around Hell? Why hadn’t I thought to ask them that? I’d bet they knew what a portal looked like. Shit. Where were they?
“Guys, I need you.” Nothing. They’d always come before. Crap, did something happen to them? If I’d remembered that they were in my pocket when I was unceremoniously dragged to Hell, I’d have tossed them out. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to them . . .
Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I turned away. Looking at myself seemed to make me more Demon than Vampyre and I didn’t want that. Ever. Although I hadn’t tried eating food yet, I was curious. I knew liquid was out, but I wondered if I’d be able to taste solid food. I’d been jonesing for peanut butter and jelly since I’d been turned.
Only one way to find out.
Dixie’s kitchen was awesome. After a short search I found bread, peanut butter and jelly. I rounded up a knife and a plate and I was ready for my experiment. Holding the most perfectly made peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my hand, I froze.
“Astrid,” an eerie voice that sounded exactly like the one from the palace whispered.
I whipped around, quickly grabbing the first weapon I laid my hands on. A butter knife... A butter knife? Crap, couldn’t I do better than a freakin’ butter knife? Where in the hell were my Vamp powers?
“Who’s there?” I demanded. My stomach clenched. I clutched my pathetically dull blade, dropped low and waited to do battle with my killer.
It laughed.
You have got to be kidding me. I was so not in the mood for this. Far too many people, and I use that word lightly, had laughed and given me crap lately and I was done.
“Who are you?” I spat. Fear began to seep away, slowly replaced by anger. “Show yourself, asshole.”
My temper flared and my hands began to tingle. Good. The freaky gloves had shown up. I wasn’t exactly sure how to use them, but they were better than nothing. I didn’t feel like dying tonight.
“Feisty,” the disembodied voice hissed.
“I’ll show you feisty, you butthole.”
Damnit, butthole sounded kind of junior high. Asshole was way better—or fucker. I didn’t want whatever invisible freak show that was in the kitchen to know I was basically power free at the moment. Butthole kind of put me in the league of ‘I won’t really kill you because I’m too nice.’ Not good, not good. Maybe if I call him an asshole again, or maybe shithat... Sweet Baby Beelzebub...shut up. I needed to turn off the inner monologue and focus or I was going to end up so dead.
I scanned the kitchen, but my intruder was invisible or just hidden very well. I felt an energy but it was all over the place. I was unable to locate the source. This was new. Did the glitter gloves make me aware of energies?
“I said,” I ground out through clenched teeth, “show yourself and I mean it.”
“And what will you do if I don’t?” the voice whispered ominously.
My fingers were tingling and sparks began to fly. Shit, shit, shit.
“I’ll blow up the entire house and burn your sorry ass alive.” No clue if I could actually do it, but bluffing worked occasionally...
“There are a few problems with that plan,” it said quite matter-of-factly.
Was the voice critiquing my methods or offering advice? Could this get any weirder?
“Oh yeah, what?” I countered with way more confidence than I was feeling.
“Well, for starters,” the voice said, “you have no idea if fire would even kill me, but there’s a fine chance you’d kill yourself and your cousin Dixie in an explosion like that.”
Damnity damnit, the voice was right. Wait a minute. “Why in the Hell would you care if I killed myself or my cousin?”
“Because I love you.”
“Okay, eeewww. Are you some kind of disgusting pervert weirdo stalker who loves the people he kills?”
I quickly rescanned the room. Why couldn’t I find him? I inched toward the archway next to the foyer which led to the living room which in turn led to Dixie’s room. Maybe she would know what to do.
“Don’t. Move,” the voice bellowed.
I’d had just about enough of being the victim. It was time to go Clint Eastwood on the monster in my cousin’s kitchen. I didn’t care what it was, it had to go. Now. I dropped the useless butter knife, closed my eyes, raised my flame throwing fingers and began to chant. I was chanting in a language I’d never heard, although it was distantly familiar. The words flowed freely from my body and it felt wonderful, powerful, dark and fucked up.
With my eyes closed I was able to locate the source. The melodic chant gave me a different kind of sight. Not being able to see with my eyes heightened every other sense I had. I was able to see everything around me with a clarity that was as alarming as it was accurate. My creepy killer was cloaked in invisibility and stood about three feet away. I couldn’t tell what he looked like, but I knew where he was. That was all I needed.