The Road To Hell. Jackie Kessler

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СКАЧАТЬ can’t let the world be more evil than the Abyss.

      Maybe it was too late for that. Maybe the humans would dance for the Devil and destroy themselves, no matter what Hell did.

      You could go back, a voice whispered in my mind. Leave the mortal coil behind and go with Daun. Hide in the halls of Pandemonium and screw your brains out in the Red Light District. The King of Hell would never know.

      No. I love Paul. I got a soul so I could be with him. Whatever’s happening to the world, I’ll stay by his side.

      What about Meg?

      My lips tingled, feeling the barest whisper of flesh as Meg kissed me and left me to die.

      Stop that. Meg would be okay. She was an Erinyes.

      “Jess?” Paul squeezed my hand. “You look sick. You okay?”

      “Yeah,” I said, sighing. “Just…sad.”

      He glanced at the papers, then pulled me away. “Come on. We’re going dancing.”

      “Really?”

      “If me making an idiot of myself on the dance floor will help cheer you up, then I’m all for it.”

      I loved my man.

      I’m sorry, Meg. But I’m not saying goodbye to him. Not for Daun, and not for you.

      I smiled grimly. Tomorrow I’d tell Alecto that I wasn’t going back to the Underworld. Decision made. Time to celebrate.

      We tromped along, heading toward the train station. Nine o’clock on a Thursday night, and New York City was getting ready to party. Groups of people strutted with us, around us, away from us, laughing and talking, contained in their own bubbles of energy. The streets hummed with cars and the distant thunder of the subways hidden below. Garbage peppered the scenery, poked between buildings and stores, littered the curb—here, overflowing cans and swollen trash bags; there, stray wads of used napkins and crushed cigarettes. The refuse, like the people in the streets, made the city more real, more awake. New York chortled with anticipation; New York reeked with life.

      A Hell of a town, indeed.

      Various peddler stands splattered the sidewalks, dotting the streets with leather purses and hot watches, with watercolor paintings of New York City, with bootleg CDs and DVDs. Ooh, lookee at all the jewelry!

      “Uh oh,” Paul said. “Jesse wants something.”

      “Jesse wants you,” I said, staring at the most fabulous gold bracelet.

      “Jesse’s got me.” He squeezed my hand. “Jesse’s also speaking in third person.”

      “That happens when Jesse’s depressed. Jewelry’s a cure for depression.”

      “I thought that was chocolate.”

      “Jewelry trumps chocolate.”

      “So do shoes, and new clothes…”

      “Be nice to me. I’m depressed.”

      Paul planted a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “I can tell. You’ve got waves of depression rolling off you.”

      To the peddler, I said, “I really like this one,” pointing to the gold bracelet that had caught my eye.

      The heavyset woman smiled, and her chins squished as she nodded. “It’s a lovely piece. It’s the links that make it special. Go on, pick it up, take a look.”

      Well, if she insisted. I carefully lifted the bracelet, ran my fingers over the chain. The craftsmanship was spectacular—the links had been masterfully wound together, giving it the illusion of being a braided golden rope.

      “Pretty,” Paul said. Gorgeous was closer to the mark.

      “That design’s very special,” the peddler said. “See how thick the links are? Strong bonds, promising a strong life.”

      “I don’t know,” I said. “I have this tendency to lose jewelry…”

      “Also a strong clasp.”

      “Yeah, but will it turn my wrist green?”

      The woman smiled. “Not likely. It’s eighteen-karat gold.”

      “How much?”

      The woman tapped her chin as she looked at me, her eyes sparkling. Crap, I shouldn’t have said how much I liked this piece. She named a price.

      “Allow me.” Paul pulled out his wallet.

      I laughed softly, my breath misting in front of my face. “My White Knight in training.”

      “What, I’m not your Cabin Boy anymore?”

      “You can moonlight as a White Knight.”

      “You’re too kind.” He winked at me as he handed money to the peddler.

      Her eyebrow arched as Paul paid her, and with a rather knowing smile, she looked at Paul, then at me. “How long have you two been in love?”

      “Forever and always,” I said, blowing a kiss to Paul. He shrugged, a sheepish grin on his face.

      “You two are good together,” she said. “Here, allow me.”

      She wrapped the bracelet around my left wrist, then fastened the tiny links. When she finished, the golden rope was snug, but not too tight, and the clasp holding it in place was cleverly hidden. “It looks wonderful on you.”

      I kissed Paul and thanked the peddler, and then Paul and I started walking again to the train. Behind us, the woman called out, “Blessed be.”

      Heh. To me, a blessing still felt like a curse. But I appreciated the intent.

      Winding our way through roughly a million people between the ages of twenty-one and forty, Paul and I finally arrived at the bar on the second floor of Dance Hall Daze. Me, I didn’t want or need any alcohol beforehand; already I felt the draw of heavy synth as Soft Cell’s “Tainted Love” blared from the speakers. But my man needed some liquid courage before his feet found their groove. So I waited patiently against the bar, my head bopping with the beat as Paul knocked back a vodka shot and ordered another.

      The smells of booze and sweat filled the dance hall, mingling to form a heady, sexy scent. Above me, screens silently begged for attention, each mutely depicting a music video that had nothing to do with the song pounding on the dance floor. People filled every crevice, clamoring to be heard over the music until their words merged with the melody and created a continuous buzz.

      Bless me, how I loved to watch the humans dance. They celebrated life, practicing rituals of worship with their bodies as they moved and writhed and pranced. Dressed in their first impressions, they flashed smiles and offered promises of flesh as they gyrated. Some moved self-consciously, too wrapped up in their anxieties of the meat market to even think about letting themselves have a good time. СКАЧАТЬ