A demon opens the cell door and pushes in a prisoner, and I freeze.
Ill-fitting suit. Receding hairline. Smug expression.
“Infamous Pete?” I say out loud without meaning to.
His head shoots up, and I see the moment he recognizes me. His eyes narrow, and a sneer paints his lips.
“You,” he growls.
I stumble back, trying to put as many souls between me and Pete as possible. Heather’s not being any help, but Bob or Bill hasgrabbed on to the bone bars again, and his thrashing is enough distraction to cool Pete’s ire. Or at least delay it.
I raise my eyebrows. “I see the destruction of your soul didn’t take.”
Pete grinds his teeth, his hands forming fists. “Last thing I remember, this little bitch cons me,” he says to the other souls in the cell, who honestly aren’t paying attention, “and then all the sudden I’m waking up in some sort of tower in the middle of this cesspool. They say I’m not supposed to be there. I think, great, they’ll take me to the Ferrymen or at least neutral territory. And instead they drag me across a lake of fire and up a billion steps to throw me in a cell withyou.” He points a shaking finger at me.
I gesture to myself. “Me?”
“You stole my watch,” he growls. “And the finger bone I brought in for emergencies.” He strides toward me.
I put my hands up. “You can check my pockets. I don’t have either.”
He hesitates. The thing about guys like this is they’re mostly all talk. And old-fashioned enough to think hitting a woman who isn’t their wife is bad form. So I guess I’m going to have to start this off myself.
I sucker punch him.
His head knocks back, and there’s acrunch, which I think might have been my finger bones.
“You little—”
I don’t let him finish. I drive my knee into his gut. He doubles over, wheezing, so I bring my elbow down on the back of his head.
It doesn’t knock him out, but it sure pisses him off.
He lunges, grabbing me by the arm, and here, I think I may have miscalculated. I undoubtedly have more fighting skills than Pete, but Pete cannot fathom a world where he’s beaten by a woman. And that belief might carry him through this fight.
I try to break free, but he holds on tighter, pulling me close and grabbing my other arm.
“What now, little girl?” he growls in my face. His breath is putrid.
And the sensation is so at odds with what I know about the Afterlife, that I think maybe things are different here. Maybe I’m imagining him into having bad breath, or maybe he just does because he does. But it doesn’t matter if I have to believe something into existence or if it’s just True. Because I know what I am. And what Iamis better than this guy.
I’m going to kick his ass.
Knee to the groin. Twist and pull free. Stomp to the foot.
He swings wildly, but I dodge. Seeing my opening, I launch a sharp kick to the knee. His legs buckle.
Now.
I pivot, step in, and fling the monkey’s paw knot out of my sleeve and straight up into his chin with all the force I can muster. His teeth clack together and his head snaps back, eyes rolling. For a second, his body teeters, and then he falls to the ground in a heap.
One of the souls cheers. I give Heather a wink.
I’m breathing hard, and my heart is still hammering when a demon opens the cell and drags me out.
I’m taken to a small room and pushed into a chair made of bones. Really, I admire their commitment to a theme.
I try to take in my surroundings, but there is a glaringly bright light shining in my face. This is all so…normal. I imagined torment in Tartarus to be more Sisyphean tasks and less Sicilian interrogation.
