Hell's Belles. Jackie Kessler

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      Eternal gratitude to Mom and Dad, who have always encouraged me to follow my dreams (even when they lead to Hell); to Ryan and Mason, for sleeping through the nights and not minding that I was a bit tired in the mornings; and, most of all, to Brett, for everything from understanding why I would write until the wee hours of the morning to helping me with my (ahem) research, and everything in between—I couldn’t have done it without you.

PART ONE

      Chapter 1

      Caitlin’s House

      On the night the Underworld put a contract out on me, a crescent moon dangled overhead like a celestial fishhook and stars bobbed in the sky. Just my luck. I’d been hoping for a raging thunderstorm, maybe some hail. You know, something dramatic. But no. I got picturesque.

      Just another sign that Hell had gone to Heaven in a handbasket.

      I threw a nervous look over my shoulder, unable to relax even though I sensed only the thrumming energy of Salem, Massachusetts, in the predawn morning. Nothing infernal beeped on my psychic radar. For the moment, I was safe. Desperate and so terrified that I was pissing my metaphorical pants, but safe.

      Okay. Deep breath, like the way the humans did it. There. Oh, right. Release it. Mental note: Humans breathe continuously.

      Hmm. That was going to be a royal bitch to remember.

      I rang the bell and waited, taking in the details of the plain wooden door. The only obvious detriments to the uninvited were a smattering of impressive-looking metal locks. The less obvious barriers included a few nasty hexes and one particularly inventive curse.

      Excellent. Just the kind of help I needed.

      After a few moments, I felt a presence behind the door—probably scanning me through the peephole. Putting on my game face, I grinned broadly, displaying sinfully perfect teeth.

      The door inched open until the attached security chain pulled taut. A face peered through the crack. The one visible eye, very green and very wide, stared at me for a heartbeat. Then it widened even more and took on a glassy sheen. Fear wafted from her like perfume. Yummy.

      Stop that, I scolded myself. You need her help. Don’t scare her to death. Yet.

      “Hi, Caitlin,” I said, pouring on the charm.

      I heard her swallow before she replied, “Hello, Jesse.”

      My grin faltered, and I quickly pasted it back on. I’d been banking on her saying my full name. Then she would have fallen sway to my glamour and I’d be inside already, with her dancing a jig to keep me entertained, instead of me still standing on her doorstep, biting back the urge to look over my shoulder again.

      Caitlin waited to see what I wanted with her, like she had all the time in the world. Sure, she wasn’t the one who had the Scourge of Hell sniffing her trail. That honor was reserved for me.

      Okay, time for the mafia tactic. “You signed a contract with one of my associates. I’m here to collect.”

      I heard her breath catch in her throat, and I thought I had her. Then the one eye staring at me narrowed. “If this were an official visit,” she said, “you wouldn’t have bothered ringing the doorbell. You would’ve just materialized inside. Besides, since when does one of your kind do collections for the Hecate?”

      Crap. “You want an answer, or was that rhetorical?”

      “Good-bye, Jesse.” She shut the door.

      “Wait!” Hating myself, I said the magic word. “Please.”

      A pause, and then I heard the chain sliding free. Caitlin opened the door far enough to reveal her entire face, round and proud and framed with black curly hair. Let’s hear it for insatiable curiosity. I flashed her my best Adorable Female grin.

      She said, “Swear on your name that you mean me no harm, that you’ll do me no harm, that you will bring me no harm.”

      I checked myself before I rolled my eyes. Friggin’ witches and their oaths. “On my name, I so swear it.” Of course, after tonight, my name didn’t mean squat. But I didn’t see any need to bring that up.

      Caitlin opened her door wide. “Enter.”

      I sauntered through the doorway, my hips sashaying and breasts jiggling. It was part of my Farrah Fawcett look, circa 1978, complete with frosted, flipped blond hair.

      “What’re you supposed to be?” Caitlin asked as I pranced by, my boobs nearly hitting my chin with every bouncing step.

      “A Charlie’s Angel.”

      I heard a snort, and I glanced over my shoulder to see her hiding a smile behind her hand. Maybe she was terrified of me. Maybe she’d just invited me into her place of power, despite her better judgment. But she still had to admit I had a sense of humor.

      Caitlin flipped on a light, and I blinked as my eyes adjusted, taking in the contents of the small living room off the entrance. On the pale walls hung pictures of mountains, pompous in their purples and browns. Candlesticks poked up from holders set on the windowsill to my right; the faint stench of jasmine still clung to the air. Two large sofas, overstuffed with pillows, dominated the space. Each propped against a wall, the couches squatted like bloated spiders. Well, minus the eyes, legs, and webs…and overlooking the creamy white coloring.

      Okay, so maybe they weren’t exactly reminiscent of insects. But hey, I couldn’t help but look for the dark in things. You could take the demon out of Hell, but taking the Hell out of the demon required a lot more work. And that’s where Caitlin came in.

      “Have a seat,” she said.

      Choosing the sofa nearer to the door, I plopped down, and my boobs followed. Crossing my long, tanned legs, I leaned back into the pillows and dazzled her with my Farrah smile.

      She clearly wasn’t impressed. Caitlin glanced outside before she shut and locked the door. A mutter under her breath told me that she’d reactivated her magic wards. Something in my chest loosened as I realized I was under the witch’s protection. Not like she’d be much more than a nuisance to my pursuer, but still, it was comforting.

      Bless me, I really was getting soft.

      Caitlin hid a yawn behind her hand as she approached the other couch. I’d obviously woken her; she was decked out in a green flannel nightshirt, and her curly black hair was so sleep-tousled that it looked like she’d used an entire can of hairspray to get it to stand up that high. Too bad it wasn’t the 1980s—she’d have been incredibly stylish.

      She sat, folding her legs beneath her and nearly disappearing into the cushions. Because she radiated such power, I tended to forget how small she was physically—maybe she reached five-foot-four. Strong witches really should be taller. She asked, “What brings you here, Jesse?”

      I tried to think of something witty to say, but what popped out of my red-lipsticked mouth was, “I need your help.”

      Mental note: When bargaining with mortals who have something you need, don’t tell them how much you need it.

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