A Demon And Her Scot (Welcome To Hell)
Read A Demon And Her Scot (Welcome To Hell) Online
Authors: Eve Langlais
By
Eve Langlais
Copyright © July 2013, Eve Langlais
Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey © July 2013
Edited by Devin Govaere
Copy Edited by Brienna Roberston
Produced in Canada
Published by Eve Langlais
1606 Main Street, PO Box 151
Stittsville
, Ontario, Canada, K2S1A3
ISBN: 978 – 1 – 927459 – 40 – 9
A Demon and
her Scot
is a work of fiction and the characters, events and dialogue found within the story are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living or deceased, is completely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to digital copying, file sharing, audio recording, email and printing without permission in writing from the author.
What do you get when you mix an ornery Scottish vampire with a mission-oriented lamia? A whole lot of sizzle and snark.
“Fetch me a Scot,” Lucifer commands. Sounds simple, except the skirt-wearing jerk won’t cooperate. But Aella isn’t one to give up. Willing or not, she delivers her target to the Lord of Sin. In retaliation, the much-too-sexy Scot has Aella assigned as his bodyguard for the golfing match from Hell.
One shot ruined Niall’s life. A second shot could help him regain it. Niall sold his soul once to win a lady’s heart only to end up betrayed. Does he dare take a risk and give love a second chance?
An unlikely duo, the golfing match from Hell, and a devil determined to win, even if he has to cheat. Lucifer’s up to his matchmaking mischief again in this fast-paced, humorous jaunt into the bowels of the pit. Think you can handle the heat?
Sconces ignited as the devil’s irritation overflowed and manifested itself in the form of flames. Usually
, he held better control over his power; however, the golf tourney loomed only days away, and Lucifer still hadn’t figured out how he’d cheat his way to victory.
“There’s got to be a way,” he mumbled as he paced his living room—decorated in the latest fashion, or so the demon he’d hired from Hell’s Home Design claimed. A chimera shag rug, whose plush lion and goat fur contrasted nicely with the smooth snakeskin texture, tickled his bare cloven feet. A floor-to-ceiling volcanic rock fireplace of the deepest ebony, which blazed to life as his gaze lit upon it. A sectional sofa covered in troll leather, the skin worked until it was as soft as a demon baby’s ass. Oh and a ninety-inch Sharp Aquos, a television made for a man and his action movies, the stunning sound and picture quality so vivid, so real, it was almost like being there in person.
The fact it currently displayed some wimpy-looking guy bent in a pretzel failed to send him on a rant, just like his on again-off again paramour, bent over in spandex doing yoga, couldn’t distract him from his dilemma.
As if noticing his lack of commentary on her posterior, Gaia peek
ed at him upside down from between her legs and queried, “A way to do what?”
“Win.”
“Are we talking war or that bloody golf match?”
“That bloody golf match is a war! A war to see who is the best.” Usually a foregone conclusion as far as he was concerned, however, given the competition he’d face
this time round, not a sure thing, or so his psychics claimed.
Intolerable
.
“It’s just a game.”
“Wh-what!” He sputtered the word and halted his pacing. “Just a game, she says? Have you not paid attention? We are talking about the most powerful beings in the universe, coming together for a once-in-every-century event, an event viewed by zillions.”
“I’ve been paying attention. How could I not? You’ve only been running commercials about it every two minutes on
HBC.” Hell’s Broadcasting Corporation, the only channel to watch in the pit, other than PBS, which was reserved for inmates as its own special form of torture. “I, for one, am dying to see a bunch of males with nothing better to do with their time and power than hit a little ball with L-shaped sticks.” Her dry tone smacked of mockery.
“You have no respect,” he muttered with disgust.
“Nope. None at all,” she admitted with a wink. “Want to punish me for it?” She waggled her ass suggestively. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of giving her the punishment she demanded. But then he thought of his latest spy reports claiming his brother, who liked to call himself the Almighty One, had improved his game by over five strokes! And all because of a new caddy, one he’d not yet managed to steal or destroy.
“I need a teacher.”
Gaia almost landed on her head, the shock of his admission obviously unbalancing her. He knew the feeling. It stuck in his craw to admit he required help.
“Holy buzzing bees,” she exclaimed. “You? Taking lessons?” She chortled. “Oh, that I’d pay to see.”
His dark glare, which had frightened countless over the centuries, did nothing but make her laugh louder. “I fail to see the humor.”
“Says the demon who is usually such a know-it-all.”
“Knowing it all hasn’t helped my swing, though.” He couldn’t intimidate the dimpled golf ball into heading straight to the hole. He knew this firsthand, having tried it.
“And just who do you trust to give you advice? Or more accurately, who is left? If I remember correctly, you tossed anyone who ever beat you
at the game into the abyss for recycling.”
He had. Lucifer couldn’t abide people with natural talent
, and he hated to lose. “There is one guy I’ve left alone.”
“Who?”
“A certain Scot.”
Her eyes widened. “Him? But he swore he’d never play again.”
“He also swore he’d never fall prey to a woman’s wiles again.”
“He hasn’t.”
“Yet.”
A gasp left his lover. “Oh no. Are you still playing matchmaker?”
“Who said I ever stopped? I’ve got a knack for it if I say so myself. I went through my employee files and came across the perfect candidate for that ornery Scot. It’s time a certain slithery minion of mine did her duty to my empire.”
“But with him? They’ll hate each other.”
“I know. Won’t it be fun to watch?” As his plan fermented, so did his ardor finally rise to a boil. Nothing like multitasking—AKA plotting evil at the detriment of others for his amusement and gain to get the blood flowing, which, in turn, would get his sassy girlfriend doing something more productive with her mouth than talking.
As usual
, it was great being the Lord of Sin.
“I need you to find me a Scot.”
Sharpening the edge of her battle-axe while sitting on a rock at the edge of the training grounds, Aella held in a sigh. Not another stupid task. The sweat still cooled on her body from her recent workout—where she’d kicked some cocky demon ass around the training ring. She’d looked forward to a long, hot soak—with frothy bubbles
, of course—followed by an evening of doing nothing but playing Candy Crush—level sixty-five had her stumped. Recognizing the voice, though, she knew better than to ignore the speaker, no matter how strange the request. Why did her boss want a fancy tie? “You want me to find an ascot? Didn’t those go out of style a few centuries ago?”
Brows beetling together, the distinguished gent with silver at his temples, dressed in a sharply pressed Armani suit with wing-tipped polished loafers, known as the Lord of Sin, Beelzebub, or more commonly as Satan, frowned. Not an I’m-about-to-make-you-wish-you’d-never-crossed-my-path grimace, more of a what-the-fuck-do-you-mean? “No, I don’t want an ascot. I need a Scot, as in a man dressed in a kilt.”
Still just as odd, but hey, he signed her paycheck. “Skirt-wearing man. Gotcha.” Aella tested the edge of her weapon—the bead of blood welling on the tip of her finger attested to its sharpness—before she slid her dusty, booted feet off the massive rock where she’d propped them. “I’ll get right on it, boss.” She knew of a few bars not far from here that catered to men who liked to wear frilly things.
“Slow down a second. I’m not done giving you the details. See, I don’t want just any man in a kilt. You need to fetch me Niall McGregor.”
The name didn’t ring any bells. “Any particular reason why?”
“Why? Don’t you watch sports at all? Niall McGregor is only the greatest golfer who ever lived. Or he used to be. Damned man gave it up centuries ago over a silly misunderstanding.”
Hmm, knowing her lord, she doubted it was as minor as he indicated. “Why do I get the impression there’s more to that story?”
“Because there is.”
“Anything I need to know?”
With a vague wave, Lucifer replied, “Nothing pertinent to your mission. Suffice it to say the Scot hasn’t lifted a club since the incident. Such a waste of talent.”
Even more curious now, she had to ask, “If he’s retired, then what do you need him for?”
“To caddy for me
, of course, in the upcoming tournament, Golf Across the Planes. It only happens once every hundred years and is quite the event. Surely you’ve heard of it. It’s being advertised every few minutes on HBC.”
Yeah, she’d seen it
, and fast forwarded the commercials, which featured everyone’s favorite devil. Check any dictionary in Hell and under the definition of attention whore was an image of her boss. If he wasn’t the center of attention, then he was killing or torturing whoever was. “Oh, that tournament. Already got my DVR set, boss, so I don’t miss a minute.” Everyone who intended to keep a head on their shoulders did. Or at least lied about it. Some might sneer at ass-kissing, but Aella credited it with buying her big screen television and her cool new pump-action shotgun with the spattering acid pellets. “I gotta ask, if this Scot of yours hasn’t lifted a club in centuries, how do you figure he’ll help you?”
“A talent like that never completely vanishes. Once a great golfer, always a great golfer.”
Her turn to raise a brow. “Really? Has anyone told Tiger Woods that?”
Withholding a smirk, Aella watched the smoke curl from her
lord’s ears. So easy to rile, yet, despite his temper, Lucifer was a decent employer. Of all the people, demons, and other entities she’d dealt with over the centuries since her descent to Hell, Satan, in an odd twist, proved the fairest. And the most fun to antagonize, once you learned to dodge his groping hands.
Lucifer scowled. “Don’t talk to me about Tiger. He made a deal with the wrong god.” In other words, someone other than Lucifer. “Him and his stupid morals. You’d think these famous types would know better than to try and hold onto their souls. Don’t most of them realize I’ll own them in the end anyway?”
Ah yes, because Heaven’s requirements to pass its pearly gates kept getting more and more complicated. “Any idea where I can find this paragon of dimpled white balls?”
“How the fuck should I know? It’s why I’m giving the job to you. But, if I were to guess, I’d wager he’s getting drunk somewhere in a bar.”
She couldn’t help bugging him a little. Her payback for not getting her planned evening of relaxation. “You mean you don’t know where he is? I thought you owned his soul.”
“I do, but you try keeping track of billions of damned souls, demons, and other little fuckers who seem to think they can just move whenever and where they like in the nine circles and not leave a forwarding address with the census bureau.”
“Maybe if you hadn’t outsourced it to some call center with customer service reps who only speak dead languages, your ability to locate them would work better. No one can understand a blasted thing they say.”
Not at all offended at her criticism, Lucifer grinned. “Which is what makes it so much fun. Now stop questioning me. I am
lord of this realm, and I command you to do my bidding. As a hunter in my employ, it’s your job to find things. So find him. And quickly too. The match is only days away.”
“If you need him so bad, then why did you wait so long?” Impertinence ever was a failing of hers. Thankfully
, Lucifer didn’t see it as a flaw. Most of the time.
“My last prospect had an unfortunate accident.”
“I hardly call throwing your latest golf instructor into the abyss an accident.”
“Heard about that, did you?”
“Heard? It was all over Helltube. Do you know his scream of descent is the longest recorded one at forty-six hours, seven minutes?”
“The man had good lungs. Pity he couldn’t teach worth a shit.”
Pity her lord couldn’t golf worth a damn, not that anyone dared tell him. Lucifer might love the game of golf, but the sport certainly didn’t love him back. The only reason he ever came close to winning was because he cheated. Or killed the competition. In the case of his match every century against his brother God and other powerful beings, thankfully, they were all just as bad.
Horrible players or not, everyone still watched the televised event. To not cheer their
lord was the surest way to draw his formidable ire. Beside, the entertainment value couldn’t be beat.
With only the vaguest of information, AKA a name, Aella left the training grounds and Lucifer—who, swinging his mighty black sword, bellowed for someone to come and play with him. She wondered which unlucky demon would end up with the short straw. Depending on the boss’s mood, sparring could end up bringing glory and a spot with Lucifer’s elite guard, or dea
th. Gambling with their lives wasn’t high on any demon’s list.
With no idea where to start, Aella headed for the shop of her favorite and most accurate psychic. In the mortal realm, magic existed in weak amounts, and charlatans claiming special powers abounded. However, in Hell, the esoteric forces ran strong. Demons and other entities with abilities to conjure, locate, and shape those forces were common, if for the most part short
-lived. The competition amongst practitioners was fierce, but if you could find a good one, handy for a hunter like herself.
Calling a portal, her own magic abundant enough to sketch a one-woman doorway to places she’d visited before, Aella exited right outside the shop in the third circle of the pit. The flashing neon of the sign in the window promised,
Fortunes, Curses, and the Best Souvlaki.
Seriously. No one could beat Sasha’s blend of herbs on the mystery meat she called pork, although rumor said this part of the neighborhood had a lower number of hellrats than other areas. Whatever she used, it tasted damned good over a bed of rice with a Greek salad and tzitziki sauce.
Aella strode in to the discordant clanging of a handful of bells strung over the door. Within the shop, the familiar scent of roasting meat and fragrant herbs tickled her nose. Murky due to the ash-stained window and the single hanging light draped in colored crystals, Aella peered toward the back, seeking her friend. “Sasha? You working today? I need your help to find someone.”
From the rear of the room, a beaded curtain rustled as her friend made her appearance. Most people expected a wizened old woman, heavily draped in veils and scarves with large hoop earrings. Talk about a stereotype. Sasha was more of a modern gypsy sporting the most disreputable mini skirt possible, a crop top showing off her naval piercing, and short, spiked hair currently colored a fiery red. Aella thought her nasal piercing of a unicorn was a particularly nice touch.
“Aella! My favorite bitch. I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Sorry. I’ve been busy working for the big guy. Lots of misbehaving demons and souls lately.”
“Tell me about it. The forces that be have been driving me nuts with their omens and shit.”
“Oh. What have they been saying?” Unlike some crazies, when Sasha claimed spirits spoke to her, she meant it. Sasha compared it to being a conduit for any deity too cheap to take an ad out in the
New Hell Times
.
Eyes rolling up until only the whites showed, Sasha slipped into freaky mode. A deep voice emerged from her hot-pink-painted lips. “The time comes when the great and powerful Lord of Sin shall once again show his true worth, and all will tremble before his might and join him in the battle.”
Hot as Hell or not, Aella still felt a shiver. She hated fucked-up premonition shit like this.
Sasha’s eyes returned to normal, and she smiled. “Ha, what do you know? Sounds like Satan’s about to lay a smackdown on his minions. About time. Some of the folk are getting brazen even for Hell. But that’s not why you’re here. You’re looking for a hunky Scot.”
Knowing better than to question her friend’s knowledge, Aella nodded. “Yup. Some dude called Niall McGregor. Any idea where he is?”
“Of course. He hasn’t budged in a few decades. You’ll find him at the Triple D.”
Aella’s nose wrinkled. “Ugh. Not that hole. Hasn’t someone bombed the place yet?” Nothing short of an incinerating blast would ever remove the stain of despair from that dump.
Despite the human media’s portrayal, Hell wasn’t that much different from the mortal realm. If one could ignore the reddish cast to the sunless sky, the constantly sifting ash, and the general air of melancholy, the pit looked like hundreds of other industrialized cities. Big buildings, many in need of repair. Crowded streets. Pitted roads. How bad depended on the location. The inner ring where Lucifer resided in his massive castle was the most up kept; the mansions lavish, the streets mostly cobbled, the air fresher, the crowding and corruption not so prevalent. The farther out one went, the less civilized things got, the more the buildings fell into disrepair, the rougher and less interested in maintaining the infrastructure the populace got. Aella lived in the fourth ring, the best she could afford. Sasha’s shop resided in the third.
With that said, the only exception to the ring rule was the area around the abyss. Located via a winding road whose origin was lost to the sands of time—and swallowed by the giant, myopic serpent that lived in that desolate desert—the abyss was literally a giant hole in the center of Hell. Kind of the Grand Canyon of the pit and the place souls went when they’d paid their penance and wanted to move on. Lucifer liked to call it the minion recycler. The damned ones called it their second chance. It was the most feared and, at the same time, most revered location in Hell.
You’d think the opportunity to live again, to live a good and righteous life that might send a reborn soul to Heaven during their next round, would see the damned ones lining up to throw themselves in. On the contrary, it often took centuries, sometimes longer, for most to take the plunge. Something about truly dying, having their memories and their souls wiped clean, scared the fuck out of them. It was that fear that made the area surrounding the abyss such a miserable zone. Those who wanted the rebirth felt drawn, but lacking the courage, they lingered. They drank. They pondered. They hesitated. As a result, the area turned into a dump. People on the verge of suicide didn’t care if the roof collapsed around their heads or if the dust grew thick enough to act as a mattress.
Fuck did Aella hate visiting that depressing place. As a demon, Aella would never end up using the abyss, unless she wanted a permanent death. Demons didn’t have souls like humans. Once they died, they were gone for good.
Good thing she’d proven too tough to kill
—and that she kissed great ass. Lucifer had his favorite minions spelled to make them practically immortal. A handy tool to have when he needed to punish. After all, it was hard to flay the skin from a naughty soul eternally when they croaked within minutes from blood loss.
“Got time for a cup of coffee?” Sasha asked.
“I really should get going. Lucifer needs this Scot as soon as possible. Upcoming golf tourney, you know.”
“Oh I know. It’s going to be a doozy too.”
If Sasha said so, then she knew it was true. “Any hints on the winner?”
“The future is still unclear. The paths still split.”
“You suck. My bookie is waiting for me to lay a bet, but I’m still hedging on who to put my money on.”