Giving Him Hell_A Saturn's Daughter Novel Read online

  I stuck it in my pocket and watched them depart before I started an office search for my cat. Ned and Sarah could take care of themselves.

  Milo had parked himself on the far side of the hall from the cellar door. The gnome boxes still blocked access. His ear tufts stood on end, and he growled when I came in sight. Take my word for it, my cat growls. Think lion. I studied the door worriedly, but I couldn’t see anything.

  “What is it, killer? Did the evil monster come visiting?” That wail had been almost physical and still gave me cold shivers. And it had been in my damned basement. With huge red-eyed bats.

  I didn’t want hell—or Gloria—to be under my floor.

  One of these days, Milo would learn to speak. As it was, he gave me a glare of disdain and trotted toward the back entrance where I’d left his food.

  Stupidly, I put a hand to my cellar door. It was hot.

  I should have barricaded that tunnel. With my luck, it probably provided a direct passage to the Zone, and zombies would come parading up one of these days.

  They’d have to wait in line. If my mojo wasn’t working anymore, I was not about to tackle demons with a law book.

  Sarah was free to come or go, so I refused to worry about her. Hoping Ned was just out to lunch, I returned to my office, fired up my fancy new computer, and began contacting eminent domain specialists. This was what I’d trained to do.

  I was nicely into my comfort zone when the front door blew in with a cold blast of wintry wind and the fresh scent of pine. I’d left my office door open so I could see anyone entering. I saw a sideways-moving evergreen tree. With feet.

  Tim followed the tree, carrying Ned’s glittery tote bag spilling with packages. He waved at me and set about dismantling Andre’s ugly electric monstrosity.

  “Ned, we had clients standing outside,” I shouted at the footed tree.

  “I’m allowed a lunch hour,” he caroled back. “And that bike in here is really bad feng shui.”

  I shut my door.

  I’d found a specialist willing to consult with me and was up to my ears in the intricacies of fighting city hall when Andre rapped on my office window. I’d forgotten to pull the shade. At least he’d warned me before he sauntered in, carrying the icy scent of winter and a draft of pine. In the lobby beyond, I caught the glitter of a proper Christmas tree—although a little on the bent side if my eyes did not deceive.

  “Not into pink and purple and artificial, I see,” he commented, nodding at the lobby. “Why is Ned standing on his desk?”

  “He saw a mouse? Do I really want to know?”

  Andre peered around the doorjamb again. “Nope, you probably don’t.” He shut the door and dropped into the chair. “Got your nuns?”

  “I do. Got your exorcist?” I countered.

  Damn, but he looked good occupying that chair. I wished he wasn’t paying my bills. If he wasn’t my client, all we would need was a fireplace and hot toddies and I’d forget all his faults and mine and jump his bones.

  Except I wasn’t jumping anyone’s bones these days. I’d fired off questions to my mother, in hopes she’d actually read her email sometime in the near future, but until I knew what genetics I was dealing with, I wasn’t producing any more Rosemary’s babies.

  “I’ve lined up an exorcist, a witch, and a voodoo priest, as promised,” Andre replied. “And we have a date with Hell tomorrow. Dane says he has the gas company turning off the lines to that neighborhood at three.”

  “The nuns said they would send whoever was available when we need them. They think they’re doing a benefit. Let’s try not to scare them. We won’t have them arrive until what . . . four?”

  “Three-thirty so they can sing our souls to heaven after we’ve blown up the place,” Andre said cynically.

  “You don’t have to be there,” I pointed out. Saying it was damned dangerous for him to go would only convince Andre not to miss the show. I was starting to believe his Special Forces training required a suicidal mentality—especially since he’d been suicidal at one point. The experimental Acme pharmaceuticals he’d taken had sent him tripping into other worlds not so long ago. Now, he had hallucinogenic flashbacks when stressed.

  “Neither do you,” he pointed out, reasonably enough. “But you’re going aren’t you? Want to enjoy our last night on earth?”

  “Some of us have to work,” I reminded him, conceding his point without argument. No way was I letting Max do this himself. “The DG’s want to rent your insurance building for a minimal sum, and the cops are sending back-up patrols to harass the vagrants and tourists. Cora just called to report the utilities are shutting us down again tomorrow, and that there’s a bulldozer on the harbor grounds. There’s no joy in Whoville yet.”

  “I received an offer on my property from MSI that would pay us to retire to Hawaii,” he said with amazing composure.

  Excrement meet oscillator. I clicked off the computer and clenched my fingers in my lap, waiting to see if Andre meant to sell out the Zone.

  It would make perfect, logical sense to do so, even I could see that.

  He raised his eyebrows and watched me with interest. “What, no comment? A year ago you would have said good riddance.”

  “A year ago, my only goal was to pass finals. There’s a little more at stake than my grades these days.” I tried to sound as nonchalant as he did.

  This was a big friggin’ deal. Andre owed nothing to the Zone inhabitants. They were mostly freaks who had lived pathetic lives until they’d stumbled on an area no one wanted to live in. Over the last ten years, they’d made something of themselves. Mostly.

  Chances were pretty good they couldn’t carry those talents into the real world, but Andre didn’t have to care. He owned the Zone. My assumption was that he’d bought everything on back taxes with the intent of blowing the place up. Only he could decide what he wanted. I waited.

  He shrugged and stood up. “I don’t have to decide immediately. Don’t tell Katerina what we have planned for tomorrow. Today was the first day she’s been outside the house in ten years. Instead of being terrified, she has Julius drawing up papers asking for Zone representation on the city council. It’s good to have her back.”

  He walked out, leaving my door open to blinking Christmas lights and the forest smell of pine.

  Andre would never in a million years admit a weakness, but he would protect his parents with his life. If Katerina wanted to represent a hellhole, he wouldn’t sell. If Katerina was endangered by her persistence at fighting eminent domain, Andre would burn down the town and everyone in it.

  Not totally reassuring, but I finally understood his priorities.

  After making a few more phone calls, I gave up for the day and wandered out to Ned’s version of Santa Claus Land.

  The Christmas tree twinkled in white and gold lights and glittered with plastic stars. Silver and gold swags adorned the tin ceiling. In the center of the swags was . . . I studied the greenery-studded object dangling from a ribbon over Ned’s desk. It had mistletoe tucked into the end. Digging into my deranged memory banks, I came up with . . . a kissing ball?

  “Tim, you’re jailbait,” I shouted at the floppy brown hair on the far side of the tree.

  He stuck his head around a branch and blinked in puzzlement. “What?”

  “Just clearing the air.” I found Ned on a ladder adding the final swag to the back of the lobby. He stuck his tongue out at me and returned to fussing with ribbons. Maybe he was just being a gay big brother. I was the one with trust issues.

  “Okay,” I announced in apology, “since this may be my last night on earth, I’m making white bean chili and spice cake. You’re both invited if you don’t have other plans. And I’d suggest you don’t tell Sarah what that giant ball represents.”

  This was the Zone, and they were male. They heard food and ignored the rest.

  So did Milo. He trotted into the room as Ned and Tim erupted in a chorus of Bring me figgy pudding.

  Of course, Milo
could have been responding to my prediction of the apocalypse. One never knew with cats.

  Fifteen

  Tuesday morning, still stuffed full of my favorite cake and chili, and warmed by the carefree laughter of Ned and Tim from last night, I cleared my desk of all Andre’s pesky problems. Most of them would have been simpler if the Zone was actually its own town, and I could become the town’s official attorney. Utilities listened to communities, not individuals.

  I doubted that Baltimore would be interested in letting us secede. That didn’t mean I couldn’t try. For now, I just called myself the attorney for the neighborhood association when I yelled at the morons at the utilities trying to shut us down.

  Of course, all I managed was to limit the hours of utility cut-offs and annoy the hell out of the EPA. I could see the temptation of using Saturn justice and visualizing them all into obedient robots who only took my commands.

  Some days, I’m my own worst enemy.

  By noon, the electricity was off at the bottom of the hill, and utility workers had all of Edgewater closed. From the reports I was receiving, bulldozers were digging up the contaminated harbor and hauling it away. I wondered what the deranged sauna guys thought about that, but I worked through lunch and didn’t stop to find out.

  I needed time to hit the hairdresser and get my newly-shaggy hair cut, but it wouldn’t be today.

  My sugar high had worn off by the time I had to drive out to Hell’s Mansion for Max’s version of Christmas entertainment. Planning my own possible demise took the fun out of the holidays.

  Out of sheer meanness, I drove my rusty Miata convertible and filled the back seat with Andre’s pink and purple artificial tree. If Gloria meant to burn me or my friends down, I wanted her to take out the ugly first.

  I arrived early. By the time I putt-putted past the guardhouse and up the drive, Max/Dane was waiting on the portico. He lifted Dane’s elegant eyebrow at my offering and trotted down the steps to relieve me of the gaudy ornament.

  “Is this what the fashionable set brings to an exorcism these days?” he asked.

  That was pure Max. Didn’t make me any less uptight, however. “I’ve never summoned the devil before,” I retorted. “I thought I’d offer a worthy pagan sacrifice.”

  “Yourself?” he chortled at his own witticism and carried the hideosity into the towering, empty foyer. “Think this is a suitable setting for Gloria’s last stand?” He gestured at the layered rotunda of balconies.

  It had been live Gloria’s last stand. I winced at the reminder.

  “If it’s large enough to hold a priest, a witch, and a voodoo doctor, sure, the rotunda works. I’m just going to find a comfortable chair and whistle Dixie. Are you offering refreshments?”

  “Catering firm left punch and sandwiches in the kitchen.” Flipping back a brass plate in the floor, he plugged in the five-foot, plastic tree. “Gloria used to have a twenty-foot fir imported every year. This piece of shit ought to summon her if nothing else does.”

  “Then for pity’s sake, unplug it until everyone else arrives.” Men, the ultimate in testosterone stupid. I headed for the back of the foyer and the kitchen.

  Mostly, I was avoiding listening to Max’s words coming out of Dane’s mouth. The confusion was too harsh while my stomach was tied in knots. I really didn’t want to die or go to hell or take anyone with me. I didn’t have to be here. But I couldn’t let Andre and Max do this without me. Okay, so women get to be stupid, too.

  I warily cracked open the swing door and checked the kitchen for bats before entering. “You nailed that basement door shut, right?” I asked as Max/Dane held the door and followed me in.

  Instead of answering, Max/Dane stopped behind me, wrapped an arm around my business-like blazer, bent over and kissed me upside-down.

  I melted. He could always make me melt. If I didn’t have to look at Dane, I could taste Max. I could smell him and hear him. And his kiss was so damned familiar . . .

  I trod on his instep and jerked away. “Not doing this, Max. It’s Christmas and we’re scared but still not doing this.”

  To give him credit, he let me go.

  “Nothing wrong with comfort sex,” he argued, as only non-charming, Motorcycle Max would do.

  He helped himself to a sandwich and a cup of punch while I studied the lock on the gateway holding back demonic furballs.

  “Oh yeah there is something way wrong if comfort sex results in another Saturn’s Daughter on my time. Not happening, babe.” Assured the locks on the basement were strong, I helped myself to his punch and returned to the foyer, hoping a priest would show up real soon.

  Max was smart. He didn’t need explanations.

  Celibate. For a year—until the planet Saturn cycled safely out of earthly reach again. Ugly, but it certainly solved some personal confusion. Didn’t make me any less horny. How safe was safe sex when planet gods were involved? My mother still hadn’t replied to my email. My tree-hugging mother wasn’t averse to conflict, but maternal, she was not.

  Hearing a car pull up outside, I pushed the kitchen door open again. “Company coming. I suggest you stay out of sight if you want to preserve your professional image.”

  Not being the center of attention would tick off both Max and Dane. Served him right for stirring up my hormones.

  Andre arrived in his sporty Mercedes with what I assumed was the voodoo doctor beside him. Even I managed to twitch an eyebrow upward as a seven-foot tall scarecrow pried himself out of the tiny car. It was below freezing and spitting snow and this character bared his gleaming ebony torso with a red cotton wrap around his hips and a multitude of scary-looking necklaces on a chest so lean I could count his ribs. He wore bones in his braids and carried a painted gourd under his arm.

  “Planning on terrifying the ghosts?” I asked dryly as the two of them loped up the impressive stairs.

  The giant looked down on me with amusement. “Bad juju needs good voodoo.”

  Andre just gave me a disgruntled look. “Dr. Pierre Nganga, meet Annoying Lawyer Tina Clancy.”

  I didn’t offer my hand because the doctor’s appeared to be coated in magic dust. “No chickens will die for this?” I asked in suspicion, looking at the greasy white coating on his palms.

  “They already have,” he said solemnly, cruising past me to inspect the foyer. He pointed at the plastic tree. “Very bad juju. We will need this space to trap the spirits.”

  I was pretty sure he was pulling my strings by using ridiculous slang and talking down to me. Or he was a fake doctor.

  I crossed my arms and defied the skinny equivalent of Shaq O’Neal. “Believe me when I tell you that I’d rather sacrifice that tree to the spirits than anything else around here.”

  Andre rolled his eyes and began hauling chairs from the dining room. The professor circled me menacingly, looking me up and down while idly shaking his maraca. I had every right to feel intimidated. As usual, only irritation surfaced.

  “Unusual mojo,” he declared a minute later with puzzlement. “The spirits speak to you?”

  I wasn’t much interested in answering that. The explanations would be lengthy, irrelevant, and I wasn’t entirely certain that demons weren’t involved.

  Pragmatic Andre saved the day by slamming a chair down in a curved niche under one of the staircases in the three-story foyer. “Where’s our lord and master?” He checked the protective ceiling above the chairs and scooted them more toward the wall.

  “I thought it wiser to limit the explosives available,” I said dryly.

  He shot me a look of curiosity but nodded, as if accepting that.

  I hoped Max had gone up the servants’ stairs to someplace safe, but I knew him better than that. He was more likely sitting in the shadows on the next level up, prepared to bungee jump over the railing if necessary. And gritting his teeth in frustration at not being able to interrogate the professor. Or heave out Andre. I could practically feel his steam.

  But United States senators did not atten
d exorcisms involving chicken guts and witches.

  An engine with a missing piston rattled up the drive. I returned to the door to watch an ancient VW beetle gasp a dying breath as it pulled up behind Andre’s Mercedes. A short, stout woman wearing a ragbag of shawls, ponchos, long skirts, and—I swear—an apron, wiggled out from behind the wheel and emerged examining her bag of tricks. She didn’t once look at the imposing mansion or me in the doorway.

  The professor had been creating a perimeter in the center of the rotunda by scattering fairy dust from one of the many packages hanging around his neck. He stopped to look over my shoulder and snort in disgust. “Not Hagatha. The woman has beans for brains.”

  “You really need to develop a better dialect and use fewer clichés,” I said idly, watching the witch check under the hood, presumably for bat’s ears and toad spittle. She added more vials to her apron and bag.

  “Eh, mon, dat loco is no mambo, bwahaha.” His cackle lacked style.

  It was like dealing with competitive six-year-olds—or Andre and Dane in the same room.

  While the professor returned to muttering chants under his breath and poisoning any silverfish in the walls, I jogged down the stairs to help the witch carry her heavy load.

  “Hi, I’m Tina Clancy. Welcome to Mad Mansion.” I slipped the striped cloth bag over my shoulder and accepted two canning jars of pickled pigs’ feet or worse that she shoved at me.

  “Evil,” she muttered. “The house radiates evil. We’ll need . . .” She rummaged in the crowded baggage space and produced a dusty plastic carton. “Still not safe. I’ll need to get busy.”

  Okay, without introductions, I’d call her Hagatha, too. I climbed the stairs behind her in case she toppled backward under the weight of the boxes she carried.

  Andre arrived to relieve her of the burden, but she wouldn’t release the boxes. On level ground now, she bent forward, and propelled by the weight, trundled onward to drop the stack on one of the chairs.

  “Whew.” She wiped her brow with the back of her sleeve, checked her stash for stability, and then finally, turned to look around her. “Agatha Wimple,” she said, nodding at us and then glancing up at the three-story ceiling. “Bad, bad vibes.”