My Way to Hell (32 page)

“Oh, I dunno, Darwin,” Marcella muttered, hanging back. “I don’t know if I can do this. I didn’t pay attention in possession class. I didn’t pay attention in any class.”

Darwin nudged her. “But I did. Obviously.” He spread his arms wide to encompass his host’s stout body. “It doesn’t have to be her, per se. I just concluded you would be simpatico with that particular breed of woman. So possess what you know and all. You can certainly possess whoever you want as long as they’re young and healthy and their limbs function. Just do it so we can get this over with. Anthony’s getting restless.” He turned his head and gave it a good shake before muttering the words “maximum security” and “life without parole.”

Marcella bit the inside of her lip. “What if I screw it up?” His chubby face screwed up. “Stop behaving like you’re afraid of a good challenge. There’s no doing it wrong. You just do it. Do you want a physical body to best Armando with, or do you want to slink off without putting up a good fight? If you have a host, you stand a far better chance of walloping that no-good bastard’s behind. Once you have a body, all you have to do is clunk that pig over the head and summon his soul again. You’ve done it before, killa. I have every faith you’ll come through again. Then you lock him back in a box, but this time, we throw the bloody thing in the Hudson instead of leaving it with a pair of nonbelievers.”

Darwin turned Marcella back toward the two women and pointed. “Look, it’s easy. First, be open to the possibility—loosen up. Then all you have to do is shove your way in. I know you’re stronger than a pair of Lycras and an overstuffed Frederick’s of Hollywood bra. Once you’re in, you use that fresh mouth of yours to quiet her down, and we go get that maniac before he takes off with Carlos.
Carlos
is at stake, Marcella.”

Carlos. Her great-grandson. And David. Juan. Whoever. What would her son suffer if he lost his grandchild to that monster? He’d hurt until his dying day. And Mrs. Ramirez. Hadn’t she suffered enough at the hands of Armando’s brutal tongue? The hell she wouldn’t do whatever it took to stop him. Even if it meant possessing a woman who thought Lycra was fashion forward.

Marcella shook out her hands, hoping to ease some of her nervousness. Two men had joined Pat and her friend Margie. This would be the perfect time to just slip right in—while they were distracted by beefcake.

Margie fluttered her eyelashes at man number one—a lot, and so obviously that, had Marcella a physical body, she’d have smacked her in the back of her head to make it stop.

Novices.

This was no way to get a man.

Man number one, blond and lean like a runner, in a pink polo shirt with the collar turned up and khaki Dockers, didn’t appear too impressed. In fact, his face was rather flushed when he looked down at his snazzy bowling shoes.

The white ones with the pink striping.

Man number two, larger and in a similar outfit, rolled his eyes at man number one, heaving a sigh of aggravated impatience.

Oh, good gravy. These broads were barking up the wrong sexual preference tree. It was just as well she was going to kidnap the bodacious Pat’s body. Not only could she try to save Carlos with it, she’d be doing some community service in the process.

As Marcella hovered, she listened to the attempts of man number one, whose name was Rick (“don’t call me Dick”) Short, to fend off the awkward Margie while Pat wet her lusciously glossed lips and eyeballed Rick’s friend.

“So, do you guys come here often?” Margie squeaked, her face turning various shades of crimson.

Pat winked and leaned back against the counter, to ensure her breasts were properly displayed.

Darwin moved to the opposite end of the counter, pretending to talk on his cell phone. “I said just do it! Jesus, Petey. We don’t got all friggin’ night.”

Licking her lips, Marcella hedged. Bowling balls crashed against pins while ’80s music invaded her ears. The scents of beer, sweat, and French fries filled her nostrils. And then Darwin again: “Petey, for Chrissake. If you don’t fuckin’ do it, I will!” he barked.

Flustered by Darwin’s nagging, she turned in time to see his meaty hand with the hairy knuckles out of the corner of her eye.

Just before he gave her a good, hard shove.

Right into Rick “Don’t Call Me Dick” Short’s body.

 

 

 

“Darwin?”

“Dick, er, Rick, uh, I mean,
Marcella
?”

“When all is said and done, I’m going to give you a good what-for, mister,” she said with a hissing
s
in “mister.” She paused and rolled her shoulders, shoving Rick to a place that was deep inside her, and put on the sternest expression she was capable of. Marcella cleared her throat. “I mean, I’m going to beat the living shit out of you, kibble king.”

He snarfed. “Okay, fancy pants. But until then, we have a demon to catch.” He handed her a bat from the trunk of Little Anthony’s car.

“If you’d have just left well enough alone, I’d have jumped into that Pat’s body all on my own.” Which would have been far more suitable, according to Rick’s disgruntled moan sashaying around her brain.

“If I’d have left well enough alone, we’d still be back at the bowling alley watching Margie make the big moves on Rick. Which was agonizing, to say the least. Not only did we spare Margie endless heartache, we saved Rick from having to explain the difference between heterosexual and homosexual to that Pat creature.”

“But Pat’s body I understand, you fool! She’s a woman. This”—she waved her hands around the slender frame of Rick—“I just don’t get.”

He turned from the trunk and began trudging down the sidewalk, his big feet taking long steps. “Surely you’re reveling in the chance to have
real
testicles, Marcella. Metaphorically speaking, all these years, that’s really all you’ve been missing.”

It was the strangest sensation ever—to possess someone else’s body. Not to mention his man parts. Everything from your depth perception to using the appropriate facilities (she imagined) was awkward. Odder still, the ability to finally be able to touch things and walk on solid ground. “Can you slow down a little? I’m having trouble getting my feet under me.”

Darwin guffawed. “That’s because you have pink shoes on.”

Yeah. A superior shade of pink, if she did say so herself. “Aren’t they just fab?” she preened with a gushing sigh, stopping to admire them in the light of a store window. “Got them on sale at this cute little place on the Internet.”

“Marcella?”

“Yes?”

“Beat that bitch down, would you?”

She rolled her eyes with exaggeration. “Easy for you to say, big boy, but Rick’s very, very vocal and he’s not too happy about our little adventure.”

“Tell him to shut it. Now.”

“I’m trying, but you know, I think Rick and I could be friends. He’s got the most fantastic fashion sense, and he knows hair product like I know—”

Darwin interrupted with a grunt. “Marcella! Focus, for the love of . . . Tell Rick to pipe down. You’ll give him back full control when we’ve taken care of business and not before. Dig deep, find the rip-roaring bitch that lives within, and get it together.”

Marcella stopped in midstride and took a deep breath, rolling her head on her neck. Rick protested—vehemently. He wanted to go back to the Rainbowl Alley and bowl his team to V-I-C-T-OR-Y. Marcella pushed that thought out of her mind and fought to gain control, bargaining silently with Rick in her mind.

“Think Carlos, Marcella. Just keep him on the brain,” Darwin coached.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she popped them back open, catching a glimpse of herself, uh, Rick, in the store window. How utterly bizarre. Possessing a body was like having the strings to a live marionette in your hands. She held up a foot in Darwin’s direction. “Well, you do have to admit, these shoes are pretty fabulous, and this jacket? Light and easy movement, but warm and snuggly.”

His sigh was aggravated. “I’ll admit no such thing. And you’ve never used the word ‘snuggly’ ever. Get. A. Handle on this.” Darwin paused, running a hand along his tie. “Now do we have things under control?”

She cocked her head. No Rick rattling around in her brain. There was only silence and her desire to open up a can of whoop ass on Armando. “I think so.”

They rounded the corner of Carlos’s apartment building, her feet growing heavier and heavier. Jesus. For such a small guy, he had feet like twin cruise ships.

Darwin leaned in to her. “So here’s the plan. Armando’s witching hour is almost up. You wait behind that tree in the shadows. Just as he hits the corner of the street, nail him as hard as you can with the bat. I’ll pull Anthony’s car around and we dump him in the chest in the trunk. Then we summon.”

Marcella’s eyes cast Darwin a worried glance.

“You do remember how to do that, don’t you?”

“It’s fuzzy,” she mumbled. And it was. Fuzzier still, the spell she’d need most to keep Armando from the people she loved. Hard knots formed in her stomach—for which Rick suggested Tums. Quietly, subtly. She frowned and sent him an internal message to can it.

Darwin snapped his fingers to catch her attention. “Marcella, we can’t afford to flub this. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I know that! It’s been a long time since I used a spell as powerful as a summoning. I’ve only done it once, and that was over seventy years ago. I’m rusty, but I’m good under pressure.”

“Speaking of pressure . . .”

“Now what?”

“A little something that slipped my mind.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Like?”

“Be very careful with Rick’s body.”

“Because?”

“Because you have to remember, while your spirit may not be susceptible to death, Rick’s body is. Damage to the host is frowned upon in all afterlife circles.”

Marcella planted her hands on her Dockered hips. “Darwin?”

“Yes?”

“Rick says you’re a heathen, and I have to agree. If we get out of this in one piece, I’m going to poison your kibble and coat all of your pig’s ears with arsenic. Rick says he’ll help. How could you have forgotten to share something that important with me? Jesus.” She ran a hand through Rick’s highlighted blond hair in frustration, his fingers, though lean, feeling cumbersome compared to her smaller ones.

“Just be careful with him. Now get over there and watch for Armando,” he demanded, pointing to the tree.

She shot him a dirty look then slunk to the big maple, standing behind it, her eyes peeled.

Waiting.

 

 

 

“Kellen? Hey, where are you?” Catalina shouted from the front of the store.

The frantic tone to her voice had all three of them running. “What’s going on?” he asked, worried by her stricken look.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully. That phone’s going to ring any minute and it’s going to be Carlos’s grandmother.”

“What?”
three voices said in concerned unison.

“It’s Carlos. That son of a bitch is taking Carlos!” she barked, jamming a hand into her long hair, pulling it back from her face to tie it into a ponytail with a rubber band. “That Armando you left me a message about—he’s going for Carlos, and there isn’t anything anyone can do because he’s running around in a body that everyone thinks is legit. I swear to Christ, if I get to this motherfucker, I’m going to make him wish he’d stayed in that box.”

Kellen’s stomach plummeted; his chest tightened. “So it’s true, then. Armando’s using Solana as a host.” That was what Frank had meant when he’d hummed “I’ve Got You under My Skin.” He hadn’t been kidding, and once again, Marcella had been right.

“That’s right, and when I lay hands on his pathetic minion ass, I’m going to squeeze the demon right out of him,” she gritted out.

Clyde, ever practical, held up a hand. “Hold on. How do you know Armando has Carlos?”

Catalina pounded her chest. “I can
feel
it. I get this weird vibe when a kid’s involved in demonic play. Never mind that, I have to go, but before I do, there’s something you need to know,” she said to Kellen.

Fists clenched, Kellen asked, “Is it Marcella?”

Catalina grimaced. “Yes. It’s about Marcella, and I’m not going to dick around with the info I have. So prepare.” She inhaled a ragged breath. “Carlos is her great-grandson. His grandfather is Marcella’s son. The one she sacrificed her soul for. It took me days and some serious beat-downs to figure it out, but I finally got a weasel who’s in on this thing with Armando to sing.”

Kellen felt like he’d been sucker punched. He fought to keep his head on straight. “Carlos is Marcella’s great-grandson? But his grandfather’s name isn’t David. It’s Juan. I asked Mrs. Ramirez.”

Catalina’s lips thinned with impatience. “I don’t have time to explain the details, just trust me when I tell you Carlos is Marcella’s flesh and blood. Here’s what we’re faced with. Armando has Carlos. He wants revenge on Marcella. He didn’t get his son the first time around. His plan is to take Carlos away from his grandparents and raise him to be a minion. A sort of payback for what Marcella kept him from all those years ago. Carlos sees the dead. Do you have any idea how many souls he can steer Satan’s way if Armando can talk him into it? Feasibly, with a host’s body, he can legitimately take that kid.

“When Armando got out of that box, he knew almost instantly who Carlos was. He also knows Marcella’s on this plane, and he wants vengeance on her for stealing his son, killing him, and locking him in that damned box. He knows she’ll come to try to help Carlos. He made sure Marcella would know what his intentions were by spreading it all over that plane she was ditched on. The plan is to trap her, by luring her with Carlos as his hostage; capture her soul; and dump her in a place I might reconsider dumping even Satan in. If you think the plane she’s been banished to now blows, I promise you, it’s like a trip to a day spa in comparison to where he plans to unload her.”