Fashionably Dead Down Under(3)

“Looks like you lost some power, my dear,” the wall said.
“Ya think?” I snapped. Why was I even talking to the wall? It was a wall. I would ignore it and if it got mad—so be it.
My eyesight, hearing and sense of smell were still bionic, but my ability to cloak myself was gone along with my ability to fly. I needed to get the hell out of the room. Staying low and away from the walls just in case they had hands too, I slipped out of the bedroom and made my way down a massive hall. Ironically—or maybe not—Steven Perry belted out Separate Ways. Who in the hell knew Journey had so many hits?
Something was off besides the fact that the walls talked. Why was I able to breath and why in the hell did Hell smell so good? Was I even a Vampyre anymore? If descending to I-have-a-shit-ton-of-money-and-no-taste-and-Journey-is-the-best-band-ever-land meant that I had turned into a full Demon, someone was going to pay.
Not wanting to show fear, but filled with dread that made my heart beat like the drum section of a percussion happy high school band, I stood in the center of the dimly lit hallway. If the Demons had wanted me dead they would have already killed me. I was creeped out that I’d been talking to a wall and had seen no one. It felt like I’d plopped down in the middle of a game with no rules . . .
This world was filled with dark magic and Steven Perry . . . and strangely, I found that combination appealing. Very appealing. It was unlike the foul magic of my mother or my father and his minions. This was smarter and a whole hell of a lot more dangerous. Thankfully my body was becoming my own again. The pain was receding although I was still without my undead powers . . .
Voices. I heard voices . . . and they didn’t belong to Steven Perry or anyone from Journey as far as I could tell. A man and a girl.
Oh, I wanted to go home. Where were my ruby slippers or at the very least a fairy godmother? This was bad . . . very, very bad.
Moving quietly toward the sound with as much outward calm as I could muster my stomach roiled. Why, why, why did shit like this seem to happen to me on a daily basis? My karma couldn’t be that bad . . . Suck it up and deal with it. I’d just defeated massive evil. I killed my vicious father and my bat-shit crazy mother in the space of twenty minutes. Not something I was proud of or wanted to brag about, but it was me or them and clearly I had more to live for . . . I was a kick butt half-Vampyre half-Demon who was pregnant. I was a virtual impossibility. I could do this. I’d talk my way out and go home. Or I’d whack a bunch more Demons and go home. Done. No fucking problem.
However, when I reached the source of the voices my courage disappeared. The sheer amount of magic in the room was like nothing I’d ever felt. The darkness wound around me like a perfectly cut cashmere wrap and the magnetic pull was intoxicating. There was no turning back. It felt right to be where I was in this very moment. I was positive this was where I would get some answers. Luckily I slipped into the room unnoticed. In the spirit of self-preservation and utter terror, I quickly hid behind a massive black brocade curtain as Steven Perry appropriately busted into Who’s Crying Now.
***
“Dixie, this behavior is unacceptable!” the man bellowed.
He was magnificent and frightening. His magic was stronger than any I’d ever witnessed. I slipped farther into the shadows so I wouldn’t be seen. Fuckity fuck fuck. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to run away, but that was impossible . . . they would see me. This was a mistake—possibly a deadly one. But I’d been drawn here by an unmistakable pull. As much as I wanted to disappear, I wanted to stay even more.
The beautiful man stood at least six feet six inches tall and had long raven black hair—identical to the girl named Dixie he was displeased with. She was stunning, yet her demeanor was meek. Their eyes were golden like mine, although his turned a ruby red as his anger mounted. Was the girl related to the man? Who in the hell were they?
Their skin color differed. His was more of a pale mocha and hers was a peaches and cream. They were both long and lanky and reeked of magic. The girl, Dixie, appeared to be about nineteen or twenty and the man? Who knew . . .
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, staring at her fingernails. She picked nervously at the chipped black polish.
“Would you like to explain these grades?” The air crackled with his anger and energy. He threw the paper to the ground at her feet.
Grades? WTF? This was Hell . . . people got report cards in Hell?
“Um . . . I studied?” she whispered, ducking her head to avoid a blow.
“No child of mine receives straight As.” His voice was soft and menacing.
I was so fucking confused I almost stepped out from my hiding place, but sanity prevailed and I stayed put.