Chapter 11: Wasn't That A Party?

Ypsilanti Times-Chronicle, May 26, 20—

Local Man's Disappearance A Mystery

(Belleville) Friends, relatives and volunteers continued the search for Dennis Gardner over Memorial Day weekend.

According to his family, Gardner, 27, went to their summer home in the Irish Hills on May 15th. He was last seen leaving a local drive-in restaurant on May 16th. When he hadn't contacted family by the 20th, his brother Craig filed a missing persons report. "He was having issues with work, and his love life. I still don't think he would have harmed himself."

On May 22, Gardner's Ford Escape was found in a turn-off leading to a local lake. Police are not commenting on whether or not they suspect foul play…

#

"Dear, do you have plans for the summer solstice?"

Jemma looked across her Scrabble tray at Alastor. "Hmm?" The question caught her off-guard, as the conversation had been amiable arguments about points the legitimacy of words. Though his tone was light and casual, he was serious. "I do, actually."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Renee's hosting a ritual. A memorial for Kirsten, really. I'm helping with it." Why now? a tiny part of her whined. I'm ahead! It was their fifth game, and though the stakes weren't as high as their first, she wanted to win. (The first, she'd jokingly suggested Strip Scrabble. Alastor agreed and wouldn't change his mind. The evening proved very fun but very humbling.)

"I see." Alastor shuffled around his tiles, then looked back at her. "Do you remember that little note I left you, months ago? The night I tucked you in after an exhaustive day at work?"

Suddenly the game wasn't so amiable. "Yeah…you said I owed you one."

"So I did. I'd like to call it in."

Polite phrasing, but it wasn't really a request, and they both knew it. Jemma's gut felt heavy as she asked, "What do you want?"

His eyes never left hers. "To summon my co-manager to your summer solstice excursion."

"…What?" She'd heard him, but the words he said didn't make any sense. "Your co-manager?"

"Of my hotel."

"Your…." There's many things in Hell. He'd told her that. "Who is he?"

"She, my dear. She has a grand goal, our Princess."

"Princess - Hell has royalty?"

"Oh, yes. You don't think Lucifer, of all beings, would go for democracy?" Alastor laughed. "Charlie is very curious about the living world – about you, especially. She wants to meet you. I can't think of a more appropriate time." He paused. "I'd consider it a favor in return…if you agreed."

Curious about me? "What have you been telling her?" She had another question, more pressing. "Why is the time appropriate?"

"The people, my dear. The more of them, the less attention Charlie will get."

"She'll stand out like a complete newbie."

"Are you saying 'newbies' never attend these events? I find that hard to believe."

"No, but…." You're not telling me everything. She wished he would, just once. "…it seems pretty damned risky. Pun not intended."

Alastor laughed. "Charlie is very well-behaved, my dear. She'll be the perfect guest. The risk – if there's any – is all mine."

Jemma tossed out her last throw. "Won't I need some kind of ritual, or…or sacrifice…" Her voice trailed off.

"None. Just repeat her name when I prompt you."

Too simple – far too simple. It couldn't be that easy to summon a member of demonic royalty. Could it? This demon business was Renee's thing, not hers. Jemma wanted to ask her about this. They were still feeling their way back to something resembling friendship, however…and when push came to shove, there was only one way to find out why having Charlie present mattered so much.

"Okay."

"Excellent. You won't regret it. My turn, I believe. Xylophone - how many points is that?"

#

The remainder of May flew by in a rush of phone calls, emails, and text messages from suppliers, several local women involved with the local VFW (Renee's caterers through her mother), covens, groves, solitaires, and local shops. More than once, Alastor had to coax her away from the laptop or phone to take care of their deal. If she didn't know better, Jemma would swear he was jealous. Contrarily, he was downright nosy about the details.

"You're ordering how many kegs of beer? With all the liquor and spirits besides?"

"As many as Renee told me. I'm just the help."

Alastor adjusted his monocle and peered over her shoulder at the laptop screen. "I certainly hope your chum has friends with the local constabulary. This could be a very – lively – occasion." He sounded pleased.

"I can't say yes, but I wouldn't say no. She's lived there a while now. This isn't the first big shebang she's hosted. She gets along with her neighbors, such as they are. Cops haven't been called yet."

"Mmm. Would you move that wheeled thingy down again? Thank you." A claw hovered over a whiskey listing. "I'd like a bottle of Chivas Regal, if you don't mind."

Jemma added it to the shopping cart. "Why not? Renee's paying for it."

"So she is, my dear. So she is. Now about these supposed snacks…pork rinds are simply gauche…"

Still, Alastor and the solstice project were good distractions.

Dennis was missing.

When she didn't see him at work, Jemma assumed he'd been told to avoid her. For her part in their fight, she'd been lectured, given an official written warning and two days leave without pay. Whatever meager headway she made back into the firm's social pecking order promptly disappeared. Through the grapevine she heard he'd not returned to work.

He quit? Good.

But then the next day someone left a newspaper in the main cafeteria, folded to an article. About Denniss.

And the next day the police called. They wanted to talk to her. Could they come by her place after work?

She told the nice officers the truth: their breakup, Dennis' move into her apartment complex, his stalking, the hang-up calls, the notes, their fight. No, she hadn't gone to see him. Yes, she could prove it: a weekend spent with Renee planning the solstice, including the local landscaper company hired to work on her acreage.

Did she know anyone who would want to harm Dennis? No, she didn't. He didn't have any enemies when they were together. No habits that could get him in trouble with unsavory types? Not to her knowledge, no.

The nice officers thanked her for her time and left. Jemma didn't sleep well that night.

Alastor didn't make an appearance, which she regretted. She could have used something to take her mind off the nice officers.

And the comfort. That there was someone wholeheartedly on her side about this mess was…reassuring.

May blossomed into June, with no further contact from the police. Dennis' disappearance faded into the background of firm gossip, thanks to senior partner's wife confronting him in the lobby with video proof of his philandering. If a hint of suspicion surfaced now and then, Jemma was able to ignore it.

She threw herself into the memorial's planning as much as Renee's constant updates permitted. The biggest one concerned the ritual.

"There's not going to be one."

"Oh?" Alastor craned his neck up and sideways at a disturbing angle to peer over his shoulder t Jemma's phone. Jemma sat cross-legged on the couch propped against Alastor, who had somehow found the idea of being used as an arm rest quaintly amusing. "Why's that?"

"Complaints from her caterers. All people her mother knows. They're not happy with the idea, even though they won't be there. Afraid they'll get devil-cooties or something." A snort of laughter from Alastor. "She can't afford to replace them on such notice, so…she's dropping it."

Alastor tugged the ribbon from her hair. "Never annoy the cook. Very wise of our Renee."

"Text says she'll do something before anyone gets there," Jemma went on. "Probably for the best. She gets to do exactly what she wants without worrying about stepping on a multitude of theological toes."

"You won't be joining her?"

"No. She didn't ask." Renee had always taken the coven and magic more seriously than Jemma. Renee had always believed and still did. Jemma didn't, not in the magic the coven had practiced, anyway: dealing with Alastor had shown her what true magic was. That difference in their beliefs was still a sore point – no, an obstacle – in trying to repair their friendship.

"Ah. And you're too polite to push where you're not wanted." Jemma raised a mental eyebrow. Alastor sounded…disappointed? She leaned to her left a little to set her phone on the coffee table and pick up her laptop. "So now I have to update the flyers on all the social media."

"Must you?"

"Sooner I do, the sooner I can check it off the to-do list." The notifications pinged on the laptop's task bar; Jemma clicked it. "Finally. Took your sweet time answering, Lindsay," she muttered.

"Lindsay?"

"My older sister," Jemma replied. "I want to borrow some things from her. Screened-in tent, for one."

"I see." Alastor produced a comb and began combing her hair. "I don't recall you mentioning your family before."

Something knotted in her chest. "We don't talk much anymore."

"Sisterly squabbles?"

"Politics."

"Ah. I have to admit, my dear, I find that a strange thing for those of fairer means to feud over. In my day, beaus, and clothes and who got to drive the car were the common spats. Is she your only sibling?"

The rhythmic combing relaxed Jemma somewhat; she laughed briefly. "Yeah, well, we are modern women. And no, she isn't. There's Jessica, then Lindsay, then me."

"Oho. The baby of the family. That explains some things."

Jemma craned her neck to look at him. "What do you mean by that?"

"Never mind, dear. I think you need a break. A distraction." The laptop vanished, reappeared on the coffee table. Just as suddenly Jemma was lying on top of Alastor, who was propped against the arm of the couch. He smiled at her, sending shivers up her spine that had nothing to do with fear.

"And what better distraction than me?"

#

Jemma paced the interior of the screened tent, checking the poles and edges of the floor. No loose tabs or bolts, no gaps. Renee had been snappish and sullen last night as she always was the night before one of her events, ready to explode at the slightest hint of a problem, but she had kept her word about setting up the tent. Jemma shook out the bedspread-turned-giant beach blanket, shuffling her sister Linday's cooler and her own beach bag out of the way, then dropped the over-stuffed cushions across it. She straightened, wincing at the early morning sunlight.

Voices caught her attention. Renee's backyard proper was separated from the rest of the property by a heavy-duty fence with a double-doored gate. Both doors were open and tied to the fence. Through them a string of women trickled in, carrying aluminum pans. Four teenage boys trundled behind, lugging two large coolers between them.

The catering crew. At least part of it. Some had been here earlier even than Jemma, setting up the four long tables and their canvas awnings in what was quaintly called the clearing. Two of the tables were already covered with pots and bowls and trays. This wasn't a dish-to-pass deal, but some people always did; hopefully there'd be room. The tantalizing scent of the whole pig turning on its spit filled the air with each shift of the wind. The camp stoves for the kids' spaghetti lunch stood near the last table. Across the clearing and as distant from the eating area as possible were the four porta-Johns. Kitty-corner but at the far end of the field was the sound system, complete with the little podium for announcements. The DJ wasn't here yet.

Not many people were. There were other rituals and celebrations today. Privately Jemma expected most people to show up after noon; Renee had specified her summer solstice party would last until midnight.

Jemma circled the tent again, adjusting cushions, leaning her purse against the beach bag. She was nervous. She thought she recognized the women, but she wasn't certain and she found herself suddenly shy. Renee was somewhere about. From her expression and attitude, her mood hadn't improved from last night yet. There wasn't anyone for her to talk to until more people showed up.

Or Alastor did.

That was the real issue. She had no idea when Alastor would appear to call in her favor. "When the time is right, dear" was his only reply when asked. Leaving Jemma with less-than-restful sleep. And what was she going to say to his co-manager, this Charlie? "Great to meet you, Your Highness, what's it like in Hell?"

She thought about taking a walk through the forest surrounding the clearing, the remainder of Renee's property. The informal paths formed by past gatherings had gained formality, thanks to woodchips and tree-arches secured with banners of Kirsten's favorite colors. She unzipped the tent, then zipped it closed, scooped up the beach bag and dropped cross-legged onto the bedspread. Later, when Alastor and Charlie were here. She'd take them on a tour.

She dug through the bag for a bottle of water and a granola bar. Her personal plans today included blowing her diet out of the water later on, but for now, she should at least make a pretense of being good. She positioned cushions behind her, out of the morning sun. A catnap would make her feel better.

"Still tired, dear? Or catching up on your beauty sleep?"

Jemma's eyes fluttered open. Alastor peered down at her, left hand behind his back and microphone in his right. She sat up. "A little of both," she admitted. Sunlight slanted across her legs; the shifting of leaves in the wind dappled shadows of the beach bag and cooler. The murmur of voices, ebbing and flowing like the tide. Beneath them was the faint but distinctly familiar drumming of Vasuki's Daughters. Normally that coven avoided most public rituals. Today was an exception. She shouldn't be surprised. Kirsten had done a lot of childcare for the local pagan community, even after their own coven fell apart, and couple of the Daughters were young enough to have been watched by "auntie Kirsty."

"I'm glad to see you." The words sprang to Jemma's lips all unbidden, surprising her. Even more surprising was that she meant them. Dubious reason for his presence or not.

Alastor laughed. "Of course you are! You picked an excellent spot." He took in their surroundings. "So this is your sister's screened-in tent. Very impressive. I would have liked one in my younger days." His gaze shifted past her into the open field, expression thoughtful. "It's an hour or so until noon, and there's already a steady flow of people." He held out his hand; surprised, Jemma took it, and he helped her to her feet.

"Eager to repay your favor, my dear?"

Jemma nodded. Her stomach felt tight, and her mouth dry as a desert.

"Good, good. I thought perhaps closer to…but this will do just fine." He gestured gracefully. "Whenever you're ready."

Jemma took a breath and said the name he had given her days before.

"Charlie Morningstar."

She expected some indication of the summoning's success: a flash of light, smoke and brimstone, the sunlight dimming. Instead the princess of Hell was just – there.

The first thing Jemma noticed were her eyes: red pupils, pale yellow sclera, wide with open astonishment. The second was an overwhelming, incongruent sense of dread and darkness she radiated, stronger than Alastor's, strong enough to make Jemma take a step back.

But not strong enough to hide the fact the princess wasn't alone.

Four figures clustered around her like a litter of kittens. One actually was a cat, winged with a top hat, pants and bow tie, a furry's wet dream. A white-and-pink furred, mutli-armed spindly and somehow furry man in nothing but a hot pink miniskirt towered over him. He reminded Jemma of a spider. At Charlie's right hand was a grey-skinned, white-haired woman wearing office clothes. The last was a short – she'd barely reach Jemma's breastbone - woman who looked like she stepped out of a production of Grease in a white sweater and pink poodle skirt that matched her pinkish hair. Her smiling face was dominated by a single, oversized orange eye.

"Oh…wow!" Charlie spun in place, delighted. "This is incredible!"

I was supposed to only bring you. The thought was a tiny, distant whisper in Jemma's mind. She wasn't sure how to respond. She had to respond. Didn't she? "Ummm…."

"Charlotte, darling," Alastor cut in, his voice mild and friendly and terrifying. "What are they doing here? I thought this was our little secret."

Charlie blushed, an alarming sight somehow against her red eyes and rosy cheeks. "Well, it was…and then Vaggie found out at the last minute somehow…."

"You told me after I saw your to-do list," the grey-skinned woman said.

"So we talked about it—"

"That shouting match the whole hotel heard?" The spidery man snickered. "We weren't gonna let you traipse about the livin' with just Smiles and his arm candy."

"—and then I decided everyone else who wanted should come along, too, and…." She spread her arms in an optimistic gesture. "Here we are!"

Her arms dropped to her sides. "That's okay, isn't it?"

"You should send them back," Alastor said quietly. He was still smiling. Jemma wished there was someplace she could hide. Like a bomb shelter.

"I'm sorry, Alastor, but I – I thought it would help. You know, with redemption." Her shoulders slumped. "You're right. Everyone, get ready –"

"No!" the other demons burst out in unison, even Vaggie, who appeared taken aback at her own objection. "Why? We're here already, ain't we?" The spider plucked a cigarette out of the air and took a pull. "If your boss wants us here, what's your beef?" He cast Jemma an appraising look. "Besides the obvious."

"My dear effeminate fellow, my 'beef' is none of you were part of the deal!" The shadows in the tent deepened.

"Oh, Alastor, can't we stay?" The one-eyed tiny woman clasped her hands and peered up at Alastor pleadingly. "For just a little while?"

"I think we're attracting attention," the cat said. He drank from a bottle that, like the spider's cigarette, appeared out of nowhere.

Charlie's gaze shot over Jemma's head. "I think Husk's right. People are looking over here. I can give us all human disguises, Al – and I'll make it up to you."

Alastor cocked his head. "Well, then. If you insist. I suppose I can go along with this change in plans." His smile turned gracious. The tent's shadows returned to normal.

"Fantastic! Get ready, everyone!"

And with that, Jemma's tent was occupied by very ordinary humans.

Mostly ordinary. Only Charlie was dressed in modern everyday – if a bit formal – clothes. Vaggie, on the other hand, looked like a cross between a goth raver and a middle manager. The cat now resembled a forty-ish construction worker. The tiny demon was right out of the casting call for the original West Side Story. The spider wore a pale blue tank top with hot pink short-shorts. Alastor would have fit right in with a Depression-era movie studio's concept of a radio broadcaster, right down to the white shirt and suspenders.

"Will this do? Jemma?" Charlie asked anxiously. "We'll blend in, won't we?"

Vaggie – the grey woman – snorted. "Maybe on a movie set."

"You… well, maybe not for the weather," Jemma said. "It's supposed to get hot." Taken individually, they didn't look too eccentric. But all together? This Vaggie had it on the nose. "Still, it's a pagan holiday. I don't think anyone will care." She hoped.

Charlie turned to Alastor with a smile. "See? It'll be fine! I can make sure every demon here has a disguise. We'll have fun and enjoy ourselves. And – everyone swears not to cause problems. Right?"

Had there been a flash of shadows, the hint of horns on Charlie's head? Jemma couldn't say for sure. It might have been heat distortion.

The others agreed with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Charlie beamed. "Good!"

"I think you can all go, then," Alastor said. "I'd like to speak with Charlie and Jemma." He glanced at Vaggie. "Alone."

Vaggie's eyes narrowed; then she shrugged. "Fine." She unzipped the tent and slipped outside. The three other demons followed.

Charlie watched them merge with the crowd of people milling about. "So…" she turned to Alastor, smiling and rocked on her heels. "What did you want to talk about, Al?"

"My dear, I'm sure you understand this entire situation is very irregular." He glanced in her direction and for a moment Jemma thought he was going to ask her to leave as well. Instead he went on, "There could be trouble for the Hotel if it's found out. Not to mention you personally. I can think of at least one who would object, can't you?"

A flurry of emotions crossed Charlie's face. At last she folded her arms and looked determined. "As my dad keeps saying, I'm an adult now. I can make my own decisions. It was my choice to ask you to have your signatory invite me, and my choice to let Vaggie and the rest come, too. It's my responsibility, Al, not yours."

Her dad, Jemma thought. When she mentioned him, she's talking about Lucifer. The fucking Devil! The concept was surreal; she couldn't quite believe it.

"As long as we're clear on that, Princess." He sounded a touch worried still, but Jemma had the impression that underneath he was pleased. Alastor smiled at her, then Charlie, then back at her.

"So! Shall we see what entertainment this summer solstice celebration has to offer?"

#

Angel had been excited and nervous to return to the living world, despite his outward nonchalance. He braced himself against a wave of grief and resentment and joy. Instead, what dominated his thoughts was one simple thing:

No one was wearing hats.

Oh, there were guys wearing baseball caps – even women wearing them – and visors. And some women had floppy straw hats. But no fedoras or flat caps or bowlers for the gents, not cloches or sailor hats or half hats for the ladies. Definitely no veils. What threw him off his stride wasn't the music or the clothes or the slang, but the lack of headgear. Angel didn't usually wear hats in Hell, and he knew fashions change, but still…

Though truth to tell, the rest of the clothes were unusual, too. Shorts were shorter. Jeans fancier. Shirts barely worthy of the name, some of them. Loose-necked, short-sleeved, sleeveless that looked more like an undershirt. Fabrics were different. Shinier, somehow. And the colors. Angel realized, dimly, he'd expected everything to be variations of Hell's fashion sense, not the living world. Well, that was stupid of you, Anthony.

He got a couple curious looks at his hot pants, but that was it. One chick – she reminded him a little of Molly – bounced up and complimented him on the shade of pink before whirling away like a dervish, a bottle of something in her hand.

Young. Everyone here was so young! Didn't help there were actual kids running around, quite a few of them. Suddenly he felt old.

He scanned the crowd, looking for the source of the girl's refreshment. Tables with food, metal pans covered with heavy foil and tubs of snacks. Large bowls with spoons. Cans of soft drinks. Husk casually pouring half a fifth of whisky into a giant red cup. Arackniss, making his way through the crowd.

Arackniss?

Angel stared at a dark-haired man, a touch above average height, in a black suit. He didn't look exactly like his brother – in fact, he couldn't remember exactly how his brother looked alive – but he knew it was Arackniss. As he stared, his brother's shape flickered, thinned and he could faintly see the short spider demon's true form.

What the fuck…?

Why was Arackniss here? And how?

Angel stepped forward, then stopped. Arackniss disappeared behind a knot of people in Bermuda shorts and flowered shirts, then reappeared farther away. Angel padded over to Husk. "Hey," he said in a low voice. "You won't believe this, but my brother's here."

Husk grunted.

"There. See?" Angel hefted a bottle of something called Mike's Hard Lemonade and tipped it toward Arackniss."

Husk's eyes shifted from his cup to the direction indicated. "Yeah. It is. So?"

"Shouldn't we tell someone? Charlie?"

"Why?" Husk countered. "What's she gonna do, send him back to Hell? After she told the Voice we wouldn't make trouble? Making someone poof-disappear only works on a stage."

"But Arackniss can't travel to the living world. Some other demon musta brought him."

"Again, so? Not our problem, not our business. Don't borrow trouble." Husk drank deeply from his cup. "Don't look now, but you got an admirer," he said, nodding to his left. Angel look.

Cute little blond. Could have just stepped out of a Hitler Youth recruitment poster except for the ruby-red mesh T-shirt and ragged denim shorts.

The scion of the master race caught Angel's eye and grinned. "Merry meet," he called out.

"Eh, you're right," Angel said to Husk. "I'm gonna see if this guy's meat really is happy." He waggled his empty hand in farewell and sashayed away.

#

Arackniss knew he was dead.

He remembered dying, remembered awakening (the only word that came close to the actual experience) in Hell, remembered meeting his father and brother and how quickly the patterns of his life settled on him like an old coat. Remembered meeting Pentious and Montgomery. There'd been no miraculous resurrection, no second chance.

So why was he back among the living?

Pentious had brought him and Montgomery here, wherever "here" was. Not a city. It looked like someone's backyard with a chunk of forest added on. People milling about, dressed in a mix of summer clothes and beachwear married with burlesque. Most of them seemed to know each other, by the greetings. None of them were armed. The three of them got curious looks and questioning gestures, all of which stopped as soon as Pentious was greeted by his "girls."

Pent's girls – that was another thing. Thirteen women from late teens to late thirties looking like they were extras from a Bollywood blockbuster, except for a few – the youngest ones – in shorts and shirts that somehow resembled school uniforms. All of them fussing over Pent: hugs, air kisses, pressing of cheeks. They treated him with respect bordering on reverence under the jokes and banter. Pent accepted it all as his due. Gone was the somewhat bombastic schemer; in his place was a confident, relaxed lord of the manor.

If the "sir" fits…. And Pent looked the part. Black hair tied at the nape of his neck, reaching barely past his shoulder blades. He wore a variation of a Victorian gentleman's fitted suit, complete with vest, white shirt and cravat. His skin was an even brown and his eyes were a clear gray.

He was – handsome.

How did he do this? What do I look like? Arackniss wondered. The thought evoked a rush of pain. There was no way Pent could know how he'd looked when alive.

"Pent," he said. Pent stood a little ways off, talking animatedly with the oldest of the women. "Pent…"

Pentious turned his head toward Arackniss. "Pardon me, Isabelle, my guest needs me."

The woman smiled and nodded. "We'll finish setting up." She retreated to the rest of the "girls" milling about a mound of tent poles, blankets, cushions and camp chairs.

Pent stepped away, Arackniss on his heels. "Niss? What's wrong?"

He had to say something. Pentious was expecting an answer. Instead of any of his questions he said, "Penny… I can hear them breathing!"

"Well, of course, laddie. They're alive, yeah?"

Arackniss spun around. "I know that, Monty!" he hissed. "It's just…disturbing."

Monty shrugged, his shirt rippling with the play of his muscles. If Pent was English gentry, Montgomery Python was the epitome of handsome country boy, from his short, wavy brown hair and plaid work shirt to faded jeans and scuffed work boots. "You get used to it."

Arackniss stared. "You've done – this – before?"

Monty shook his head. "No, but I wish I had. Never knew you Americans were so friendly!" A gaggle of women walked by, openly ogling Monty. One wolf-whistled; the others followed suit. Monty grinned. "So very, very friendly."

"Yes, well, do be careful, Monty," Pent said. "Mortals are fragile."

A painfully loud, shrill whistle sliced through the air like lightning, then another. Arackniss turned. A platform draped with crimson fabric and decorated with cut-outs of suns had a podium. A tall, black-haired woman in cut-off jeans and a Metallica t-shirt stood there, microphone in hand.

"Eyes here, everyone!"

The crowd turned, conversations ending, more swiftly than Arackniss expected. Pent's girls stopped their work on the tent. "Noon on the dot," one said. "No Pagan Standard Time for Renee." Her partner in hammering tent pegs nodded.

The black-haired woman – Renee- raised the mic. "Welcome, welcome, welcome, one and all. Today is the summer solstice, the longest day of the year - the turning point when we inch, day by day, toward winter. This celebration I decided to kick it old school. Songwood Stream Grove is hosting games – races, hammer toss, caber tossing, among others. I understand there's a poker table, so if you want to see if Luck's really a lady, you'll have your shot."

"Huh." Monty had moved next to Arackniss. He wore the intent expression that indicated he was thinking deeply. "It's like the funeral games for Tailte."

"Who?" Arackniss asked.

"Lugh Longhand's foster-mother. From an Irish myth…" Someone shushed them. Monty hunched down and whispered to him, "I'll tell you later."

"Davros is spinning the turntable for most of our music –" A quick drum-riff from the soundstage and a short mustached man in a feathered cap bowed. "—but I understand there's talk of a drum circle or two. Everyone, be warned : Vasuki's Daughters are in the house."

Renee flourished her mic in the direction of Pent and his girls. Isabelle and her compatriots shouted, "Damn straight!" among cheers and foot-stomping.

"Hey, is the pool open?" someone called out.

"Yes, it is," Renee said, "but you all know the rule…" She looked expectantly out at the crowd; they answered in unison.

"STAY OUT OF MR. BONDROFF'S ROSES!"

More laughter and cheers. Renee whistled again and it subsided.

"There's food, courtesy of the women of the local VFW and McKinley's Livestock, and we have a special spaghetti lunch for the kids. Yes, it's my sauce. Plenty of liquid social lubrication, and Miss Eddie's Edibles generously donated some of her best. Any hint of illegal substances will result in ejection from the grounds, a police report and one motherfucker of a curse on your head." Renee was grinning as she said the last, but Arackniss had the feeling she was completely serious. The nervous titters around him only reinforced that feeling.

"And of course, we'll light the bonfire at sunset.

"But this isn't just a summer solstice celebration. It's a memorial for someone we lost earlier this year, far, far too early. Kirsten Russell was one of my best friends. More, she was a helpful, generous member of our community. Some of you asked why there wasn't a ritual for her. Folks, today is the ritual – everything you do here, you do in honor of Kirsten."

"Satan," Monty breathed. "It really is like Teilte's funeral games!"

"There's a memorial set here beside the stage." Renee pointed at a small, low – altar was the only word Arackniss could use. On the gold fabric stood a large photograph: a girl in her late teens wearing a cowgirl outfit and leaning against a horse's saddle. "If you want to make a personal remembrance, feel free to do so. Kirsten, though, loved nothing more than a bang-up party. Enjoying yourselves is the best religious experience you can have. I won't say it in French, because Kirsten failed French -

"Let the good times roll!"

A roar from the crowd: cheers, shouting, applause…and tears. Arackniss turned around. The youngest of Pent's girls – Vasuki's Daughters – the ones in the schoolgirl uniforms, were crying. The tallest scrubbed her face and ran over to the DJ, the others tagging along behind her.

As Arackniss watched, the DJ nodded and fiddled with his sound equipment. The crying Daughters ran over to Kirsten's memorial, the youngest of them grabbing the hands of two children as peppy techno music boomed from the speakers. Immediately they were joined by the rest of the children. Then they all began dancing – hopping, hands at their heads like rabbit ears.

"We wonder are you ready to join us now?

Hands in the air, we will show you how…"

He shouldn't have been surprised to see adults join in, but he was. Even some men joined in.

"Pent," Arackniss asked in a low voice, "did you know that girl?"

Pentious studied the photograph. "I knew of her," he replied. "She watched the children at many of the gatherings in these parts. Those members of my coven among that number."

Had he heard what he thought he'd heard?

"Your..what?"

"Coven."

"Like …witches?" Monty's eyes were huge.

"Yes, Monty, like witches. You needn't fear any danger from them. They worship me."

"They what?"

Pentious straightened his cravat. "I am an avatar of Vasuki, the second of the Naga Kings and god of snakes. I'm also their Black Man. I may not be His Majesty, but I am a more than passing substitute, if I do say so myself."

Arackniss stared at him. He's not kidding. Pent was as matter-of-fact as if he were correcting blueprints.

Monty turned in place, studying the Daughters putting the finishing touches on the tent. "So this is a sabbat or something?"

"Or something, Montgomery. There's business I've been needing to take care of, and this was an opportune time."

But he didn't go into detail about those things. Pent found it hard to keep secrets – part of the reason so many of his plans failed. Except today was different. "But how did they get you here? And why did you bring us?"

"A simple summoning perfected over the decades if you must know," Pent snapped, frowning. Arackniss realized the belligerence in his tone belatedly. "I included you and Monty because I thought you would enjoy it." He folded his arms. "Perhaps I was wrong, and I should send you back."

"No! No, Penny, we're fine. Niss is fine. He's just a little flustered, that's all." Monty gripped Arackniss' shoulder. "Let's get a drink in you, boyo. Calm you down."

Pent waved them off with a smile. "Good idea. Take your time, I can square away the most pressing business with my girls. Oh, and do try the seven-layer salad. Isabelle made it, I recognize the bowl with the yellow roses."

Arackniss' mind raced as Monty steered him toward the tables. What was Pent up to? A double-cross was out of the question. And why did he think Arackniss and Monty would enjoy it? This was wrong. All wrong. They should be in Hell with the other sinners. Every instinct screamed that.

Monty whistled. "Look at all this. Quite the spread." He peered over the collection of liquor. "Holy Mother of God, Niss! Tullimore Dew!" He held up an old-fashioned crock with a spout.

"You like it?"

"No, I prefer me Jamison, I just haven't seen any in – well, years." He set the crock down, brightening as he chose another bottle. "Here's my Jamie-boy!" He opened it, hesitated, chose a clear plastic shot glass and poured. "Manners, eh?" he said, and downed it.

"Excellent choice, dude!" someone walking by called out. Monty grinned at the man and refilled his shot, scrutinizing the other offerings. The peppy dance music ended, segued into some other peppy dance song. "Huh. Never knew an orchard could be angry. What's this?" He laughed, hefting a bottle bearing the label of a frog with a raised middle finger. "Bad frog indeed! And look at all the wee bottles!"

Niss turned his head, letting Monty chatter on about the miniature liquor selection. Something else caught his attention. The scent of spaghetti sauce. Really good spaghetti sauce.

He tracked it like a bloodhound to its source: a camp stove with two pots, one of boiling water, the other of the sauce. Bubbles broke its surface. Arackniss felt his mouth water. He could smell garlic, oregano, onions, peppers, meat of some kind…pepperoni? Next to the stove was a card table, with ladles, pasta boxes, knives and paper towels. Beneath the table was a bag of paper bowls and a tray of plastic silverware.

"Kids have to be off the property by one 'o' clock. Come back after then and see if any's left."

Arackniss turned; a man in paisley capri pants, a Star Wars (classic, no "A New Hope" logo) and apron with the motto Kissin' don't last, cookin' do grinned at him. "Renee makes up two batches of sauce, one with mushrooms – Pennsylvania Dutchman, not magic – one, without. I don't know where she gets the pepperoni, she won't tell me."

The cook rambled on, only pausing when a trio of women approached bearing trays of garlic bread. "Hot pans, hot pans!" the first called out; the cook hastily cleared a space on the card table. Trays deposited, the women grabbed knives and began expertly carving up the loaves. They each hurried off with a piece, one of them muttering about blowing her keto.

"Take a slice, man. Homemade, even the garlic topping. Penumbra won't tell me that, either. She cheats by making the dough up days before and freezing it, but it works. Obviously a spell." He didn't sound like he was joking.

Niss picked up the closest slice, bit into it.

The crunch of the crust, the buttery taste of the garlic…it wasn't like anything he'd tasted in Hell.

It was real.

He stared at the bread in his hand. Everything here was real. Pent's worshippers, their human disguises, the party-ritual itself. He knew magic existed in Hell, knew sinners and hellborn possessed powers. Those things weren't supposed to be here. With the living. They weren't supposed to be here.

All at once he wanted to take cover, but where and with what? Pent didn't want to leave. He'd have to find a way to convince him. Somehow.

Crack!

The cook had opened up a box of spaghetti noodles.

And broken them.

Arackniss' vision went red. Very calmly he reached out for the man's throat.

"Hey! Hey, now, Nissy, none of that now!"

"Niss? Fuck, what are you doin'?! I'm sorry, pal, my brother doesn't like that sound, it reminds him of the war –"

Someone – Monty – had him by the elbows. Someone else – Anthony – was slinging a song-and-dance to the panic-stricken cook.

"Let me go! Let me go! It's a fucking CRIME to do that to pasta!"

His voice, he realized.

"Let's get you some place to cool down." Monty pivoted him away from the and frog-marched him through frowning, curious observers. "Remember what this is? No fighting." A low chuckle. "Didn't know so wee a lad could kick so hard."

"I'm not a lad," Arackniss snapped. They paused at another table, Monty deftly filling a plate. Niss considered bolting, then vetoed the idea. They had attracted enough attention. Monty passed the plate to him, slinging an arm around his waist as they continued walking.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see," was all Monty said.

"Monty,"Arackniss said, "my brother is here!"

"So I saw."

"But why?"

"I dunno. We'll ask him later, yeah?"

Arackniss fell into sullen silence. They moved through the crowd to the south, where attendees were fewer in number and wooden logs surrounded a pit dug into the ground. A few men were chopping the logs up.

"Hey, there! Need an extra pair of arms?"

The log-choppers looked at them. "Always," the apparent leader replied.

Monty grinned. "I've got a pair for you right here." He patted Arackniss' shoulder. "Just let him get a bit o' food in him first." He lowered his voice. "Just pretend the wood's that cook, yeah?"

"What are you going to be doing?"

"There's a caber-tossing contest in a wee bit." He flexed his arms, twisted at his waist. "I'll be warming up for that." He paused in mid-twist, looking over his shoulder. Arackniss followed his gaze. The same women who had wolf-whistled at Monty stood a few yards away, watching them. Monty straightened. "Orrrr maybe I'll do a wee bit of socializin'."

Arackniss rolled his eyes. Still, Monty's suggestion was a good one. He shoveled some of the green stuff ("The seven-layer-salad," Monty explained helpfully) in his mouth, swallowed, handed the plate off to the snake demon and moved to pick up an axe.

#

Like all battle plans, Jemma's guided tour fell apart at first contact with the enemy, and the enemy was Charlie herself. She pivoted and spun in place and darted in different directions, and asked about questions about everything. She did not go unnoticed.

"New vlogger-blogger," Jemma said glibly when she first introduced Charlie to Gwydion. "And crew," she added, with a nod to a somewhat frantic Vaggie and an openly amused Alastor.

"First job?" Gwydion asked, taking in the latter pair with an appraising glance. He shifted a huge bouquet of red roses from one arm to the other.

"Hers." Alastor's smile widened. Vaggie produced a cell phone from her shirt pocket and looped it around her wrist.

"Ah, the enthusiasm of the newbie. Good luck, try to enjoy yourself."

Charlie beamed. "I will!"

She watched Gwydion amble off toward the stage, standing still for once. "He seems nice."

He seems guilty. Renee's comment from their metropark meeting sprang to Jemma's mind. "He liked Kirsten," she said.

"Who's Kirsten?"

Before Jemma could answer, a sharp, loud whistle cut the air. Charlie remained respectfully silent through Renee's welcoming speech; when she looked again at Jemma, her ebullience was somewhat dimmed.

"I'm sorry about your friend."

Jemma nodded and looked down, blinking away tears. Her head snapped up at the opening notes of Caramelldansen. The song Kirsten had taught all the kids she'd watched during rituals and gatherings. Including the Vasuki's Daughters now performing it with some of the attending children.

She was supposed to be playing host to Charlie. Alastor might not like it if she abdicated that role.

Fuck it. Alastor's favor could wait a few minutes. Today was for Kirsten. "'Scuse me,"Jemma said, and ran to join the dance.

A few minutes later she ran back, the moment of grief purged. Charlie put her hand on Jemma's shoulder. "Feel better?" she asked.

"Yeah. I do." There was only Charlie and Vaggie, she noticed suddenly. "Where's Alastor?"

"He said he was going to check out the 'radio station'." Charlie air-quoted the last two words. "Said we should have fun and he'll catch up with us later."

"Oh." Whether this was a good thing or a bad thing, Jemma couldn't tell. Nothing she could do about it now. "What did you want to do?"

"I think we should get something to eat before it's all picked over," Vaggie said. "See what's going on afterwards."

"I like that idea!" Charlie squeezed Vaggie's hand. "And everything smells so good!" She strode off in the direction of the tables, Vaggie on her heels, Jemma bringing up the rear.

The Princess of Hell rapidly filled a heavy-duty Chinette plate with a tablespoon or piece of everything in reach. In between exclamations of how good everything looked, she asked questions. Questions whose answers she barely registered before asking another. "It's for my vlog!"

"What vlog did you say you had?" a confused man in a Spongebob Squarepants mumu wanted to know.

"Pentagram City," Vaggie cut in. "Very new, just started."

"Today is our first material!" Charlie beamed.

The man blinked. "Oh. Well, guess you could do worse than here. Remember to ask people for permission if they're doing anything." He nodded and moved on to the next table.

"I didn't think about that," Charlie said. "Jemma, will I get in trouble?"

"Doesn't matter, hon," Vaggie murmured in an undertone. "We're not really doing a vlog, remember?"

Charlie laughed self-consciously. "Right! But you know, if it could help the Hotel…"

Vaggie sighed and shook her head. "Later. Let me get to those samosas, would you?"

Charlie laughed again, much lighter sound, and made a show of scooting over to give Vaggie room.

She took more dibs and dabs, continuing to ask questions. There was something about the Princess of Hell that Jemma, discreetly observing as she filled her own plate, couldn't put her finger on. Then, as they moved away from the table for a space to sit down, she understood.

As she'd noticed immediately, Charlie possessed the same dark, disturbing aura as Alastor, but stronger. However, at the same time, there was a lightness about her that attracted people. Throughout their meal she addressed passersby and got them to talk. Vaggie took a few photos from her phone – which Jemma had to keep from staring at – and made a few notes while Charlie tried to comprehend the difference between Celtic and Norse reconstructionism, the Wheel of the Year, and what peace-bonded meant.

"This is so confusing," Charlie sighed as a couple Thelemites walked away.

"—looks just like Patrick Swayze –" Someone's voice cut suddenly through the hubbub.

"Mmhm. Not quite what would help the Hotel," Vaggie said.

"Probably not," Jemma added. "Um…what does the Hotel need help with?"

Charlie and Vaggie looked at her, nonplussed. "Alastor didn't tell you?" Charlie asked.

"No…"

"Of course he didn't," Vaggie muttered.

Charlie's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "Well, you see –"

The yearly extermination, Charlie's idea that demons could be redeemed, the Happy Hotel as her project for that redemption. The explanation came out in fits and starts, interrupted by commentary from Vaggie and other attendees stopping to greet Jemma.

"Something's going on," Vaggie said after another impromptu walk-up by Renee's old ceremonial magic crowd. "I hear Angel shouting."

"Oh, no," Charlie groaned. "We better go see."

Once again Jemma brought up the rear, as Charlie made way like a very determined playground supervisor. "Hey, guys," she called out as she approached the camp stove. "What's up?"

Whatever had caused the commotion was seemingly resolved. "Oh, nothin'," Angel said. "Just some dickhead wanting to take cuts ahead of the kids." He stirred the pot of sauce and smiled at Charlie.

"Angel, language!" Vaggie said, tilting her head at the crowd of children, none of them over ten, waiting for their spaghetti.

"Eh…oops. Don't repeat me, okay, kids?"

Vaggie groaned.

Husk reached up behind a seven-year-old's ear and produced a silver dollar. "Look what I found. Who else has money in their hair?"

A chorus of "Me, me!" and Husk was busy pulling more coins, jumping jacks and toy soldiers from his now-captive audience.

Almost captive audience. A girl of about four watched Angel solemnly, nursing a Ring Pop. "The man who yelled was a little spider."

"Oh. Really?" Angel said.

She nodded, brown eyes wide. "You a big spider."

"I am, eh? What about Husk here."

"Kitty-cat."

"Um…Angel…" Charlie began.

"And her?" Thumb-jerk at Vaggie.

"Butterfly."

"And her." Charlie.

"Horny lady." Suddenly shy, she ducked her head.

"Good thing no one pays attention to kids," Angel said in an undertone.

Charlie looked startled. "They don't?"

"Not about this kind of thing."

"Oh."

Wrapped up in Husk's impromptu magic show, the other kids didn't seem to notice. A face painter dressed in the most normal seeming clothes who introduced herself as Joyce provided another distraction. Jemma, Vaggie and Charlie watched Angel dish out paper bowls of spaghetti and slices of garlic bread, and the face painting for a while, Jemma answering Charlie's calmer questions the best she could.

All of them got their faces painted. "My free advertising," Joyce laughed. "Every adult after you will have to pay!"

Parents were starting to collect their offspring before Charlie looked up from her note-taking and smiled. "So! How about that guided tour?"

#

A ritual for Kirsten. He hadn't considered that.

Alastor wandered through the throng, nursing his Chivas Regal despite deploring the plastic tumbler. A prudent decision, but lacking style.

Much like the situation with the ritual.

In his defense, he had never asked what the solstice religious agenda would include. And Jemma had never volunteered. Perhaps she hadn't known; she had said Renee would do whatever she wanted-even keeping it secret.

Moreover, Jemma never mentioned Kirsten since the funeral. Any grief was kept private, not for his eyes.

Which suited Alastor just fine.

But here, now, that was a complication potentially. He didn't know Renee's limits to magic, how subtle they would be. No match for him, of course. But given the circumstances of his task, and the wildcard natures of Charlie and Jemma, he had to be careful. No reason to give Renee ammunition.

His goal was in sight. No need to rush.

His meandering path brough him eventually to where he told Charlie he was going: the disc jockey's studio. Alastor stood at the edge of the platform, adjusting his hearing so the drivel currently booming from the speakers was all but muted and spoke.

"Hello, my good man!"

The DJ grinned and nodded, pressing a couple buttons. "Hello. What can I do you for?"

"I was admiring your little radio station here. Quite the setup."

Another nod and mouthed thanks. The drivel ended, more drivel did not take its place. The DJ parked his hat on his head. "Years of acquisition, it's all mine."

"Would you mind if I took a look?" Just enough influence to ensure the response he wanted.

"Not at all."

Alastor stepped onto the platform. The boards - -there were two – did and did not resemble the ones he'd used in life. No matter the new-fangled technology, some things never changed. He was pleased to see there were no TV screens. Davros shared his stage only with a small drum set.

"You can do sound effects?" he asked.

"Of course. Not much call for them today, likely."

Alastor rubbed his chin. "Do you take requests?"

"I do what I can. A lot of the playlist today is Kirsten's favorites."

Alastor rattled off song titles. Davros' brows dipped as he took notes. "Could it be possible to do that last as a karaoke?"

The human laughed. "If you do it soon enough so I can still get some food!"

"Deal, my good man." Alastor held out his hand. They shook. Alastor's smile widened. "See you soon."

He walked off, sipping his Chivas. A risk, his last request, but the humans would be so intoxicated they'd miss the subtlety.

"—swear he had two dicks—"

Or exhausted from debauchery. Alastor sneered.

Jemma was off with Charlie and Vaggie, Niffty chased various men, Husk cleaned up at the poker table. Off in the distance someone had put up a volleyball net and a game was in progress. He strolled over to watch.

People injured themselves in such entertaining way playing sports.

#

Parents were not the only ones to take their leave by one 'o' clock. Some, having paid their respects to Kirsten and possibly having other plans for the day left as well. Their absence didn't thin the celebration numbers, as people arrived to take their place. It was going to be a long day, after all.

But there was another reason for the crowd's consistent size. Other beings were arriving, too – inhuman ones.

The first still huddled in the strange wooden building, though she had left the summoning circle. She was confused and frightened. She had been pushing her child's carriage in a better part of Imp City, then she had been here. Not any Ring of Hell.

Only a few minutes later he was joined by another of her kind, then a third. The second appeared as confused as she felt and stayed crouched in the center of the circle. The third landed on top of him.

"Oh, not this shit again," he grumbled after disentangling himself.

"You – you know what –"

"Yeah. Bunch of stupid humans calling us up to ask about the Goetia and other stuff, including some bozo named Alastor. Happened to me twice already. Last time made me late for my shift at Ozzie's."

"Hey!" the imp woman exclaimed. "You look human!"

"I what?" A quick glance down. "I do. So do both of you."

"But…how? We don't have Asmodean crystals. And how do we get back?"

"Got me. These summonings don't last very long. Try willing yourself back."

The woman closed her eyes.

Nothing happened.

"That usually works," muttered the third.

"Great! Hope I don't lose my job – where are you going?" demanded the second imp.

The Lust Ring demon jerked a thumb at the door. "Out there. No answers in here."

The other two followed on his heels, not wanting to be left alone in this strange place.

#

"All this belongs to Renee?"

Jemma nodded, pausing to push aside a tree branch that had slipped free of its tieback. "Mhm."

Charlie paused, as she had so many times, simply looking round. "So many trees…and with leaves…."

"For now, anyway," Vaggie said. "They die in the fall."

"But they grow back in the spring." What prompted her reply to the white-haired demon Jemma couldn't pinpoint. But the feeling Vaggie was waiting to spring a trap of some kind – corner her, embarrass her, something – wouldn't go away.

It didn't help that she had the impression Charlie wanted something from her, too. At first, she seemed charmed by the acreage: the paths, the glades, the worship circles. She'd waved to the people they came across in them, hurrying past when they encountered the occasional couple or moresomes engaged in private (more or less) celebrations sans clothing. Gradually, however, an air of expectancy – of things unsaid – grew.

This was a bad idea. It was one thing to play host to the Princess of Hell in the middle of a crowd of people, another thing entirely one-on-one. Or two-on-one.

Van Halen's Dancing in the Streets drifted on the breeze, along with the murmur of voices.

"Spank me, daddy, spank me!"

Jemma burst into helpless laughter. Vaggie and Charlie stared at her. Then Charlie, red-faced, slowly began to laugh as well. Vaggie rolled her eyes.

Jemma sank down onto the grass. "I think I need a break," she said. Charlie promptly sat down next to her, Vaggie at her other side.

"Sounds good to me!" Charlie smiled and clasped her knee. "Jemma, do you mind if I ask you some questions. Some, um, personal questions?"

Jemma's stomach tightened. Here it was. "What do you want to know?"

"How did you and Alastor meet?"

Her voice caught in her throat. She made the effort and managed, "I – we – why do you want to know?"

Faint surprise crossed Charlie's face. "Well – he talks about you, and he really doesn't do that. With other people, I mean. He asked my advice in getting you a gift."

"He what?" Vaggie interjected.

Charlie went on. "Did you like the necklace?"

"What necklace? Charlie –"

Vaggie might not have been there. Charlie's attention was focused on Jemma.

"Yes." She teetered on the edge of a cliff, reaching blindly for a guardrail. "I wear it when I want to feel –" Special. "—formal. I'll answer your question if you answer mine."

Charlie smiled that lovely smile. "Cool beans."

"What's Hell like?" All her curiosity summed up in one sentence.

"It's like earth, only worse," Vaggie said.

"Come on, Vaggie, it's not that bad –"

"I mean, it has stores and things?" Jemma's question sounded stupid to her own ears, and the look Vaggie gave her only intensified the feeling.

"Yes! And movie studios and night clubs and theme parks and –"

"And crime and drugs and genocidal turf wars," Vaggie finished, folding her arms.

Charlie's smile turned fixed. "That answers your question, right? My turn!"

Jemma drew her knees to her chest. The truth or a lie? "We met at a Halloween party." Technically true, as far as it went….

"He was a guest?" Charlie sounded confused and helpful.

"Not exactly…" Could the Princess of Hell really be this naïve? Jemma didn't like where this was going. Time to stall again. "Why does it matter?"

Again that slightly embarrassed look. "It doesn't, really…but he seems to like you…and I thought maybe you could help with…."

Vaggie groaned. "Charlie, he can't be redeemed. He doesn't want it. Besides, he called her 'business', remember? She's just another deal to him."

Something inside Jemma broke. She jumped to her feet, hands clenched into fists. "You know," she said tightly, "one thing I really fucking hate is people talking about me in front of me like I'm not even there. So I'll leave you two alone to have at it."

"Jemma –"

"Jemma, wait!"

Jemma didn't wait. She strode off, then broke into a run, back toward the clearing.

It didn't matter. She had known this all along, hadn't she? Vaggie had only confirmed it. Just a deal. Her self-deluding hopes and private fantasies were just that, and as permanent as morning mist.

But she hadn't expected it to hurt.

She slowed down to brush at her eyes, then stopped. People would think she was crying for Kirsten again. Guilt and grief rose up to claw at her conscience. Suddenly she wanted to do just that: forget Alastor, forget Charlie, forget the other demons, and just mourn her dead friend.

Dance and get drunk, not necessarily in that order. Kirsten would approve.

She started running again. There might be edibles left, and a bottle of Jägermeister was calling her name.

#

"Whoa, man, that was fantastic!"

"Were you practicing?"

"How could he – no one knew were having caber-tossing!"

Monty let praise and speculation wash over him with aplomb, basking in his win. The caber-toss itself had been absurdly easy; he could have done it one-handed. What had been difficult was holding back. A display of his full strength would have been a Very Bad Thing in front of mortals. Even he recognized that.

Besides, it wasn't as if he needed all his strength. Even the most fit participant looked like they skipped leg day, and sometimes arm day as well. Barely a six-pack to be seen.

Mortals are fragile, Penny had said. Monty believed it. His first tumbles with his admirers had brought the warning home. Whatever Pent had done to make them look human continued even while stark naked. Another reminder.

"So when's the next game?" he asked the apparent master of ceremonies.

"Half an hour," was the reply. "Hundred-yard dash, then hammer-toss, arm wrestling –"

"You're sure to get the pick of the prizes, man," interrupted a fellow contestant.

Monty perked up. "Prizes?"

The MC pointed to a woman sitting on the grass just beyond the painted starting line, a strongbox in front of her. "We had them on display in our tent. Guess you missed it, I don't remember seeing you there. Arianrhod, show our winner what he could get!"

Arianrhod drew her hand along the top of the strongbox like a salesgirl showing off a product, then opened it. Monty peered inside.

A knife—a very nice knife, with its sheath next to it, a silver triskelion inset on the sheath's latch. A pair of claddah rings, one obviously meant for a man, the other a woman.

"Had to cover all the bases," the MC said.

And an armband.

Gold, done in Celtic knotwork, with a clasp to latch it around one's upper arm. Blue and green gems winked from the center of each knot.

Monty's eyes grew wide. He wasn't a jewelry man, but he wanted this.

"Whoever wins the most games gets their pick," said the MC.

"Well. Guess I better stick around then, yeah?"

Monty thought a little wistfully of the women he met earlier and their promise to catch up with him. He thought of the men, and all the other attendees he hadn't gotten to know, in all meanings of the word. Then he glanced down again at the armband and heaved a little sigh.

With luck, he could still make time to enjoy American friendliness after he won.

#

"Hey, dude, we're hitting Bondroff's pool. Come with."

Niss turned from the stacks of logs arranged around the firepit to the woodcutting crew's putative foreman. "I don't have a suit," he said flatly.

"Don't need one."

He should find Monty. Or return to Pent's tent. But he was drenched in his own sweat, and he stank. They all stank. He shrugged. "Lead the way."

The trooped further south, skirting the woods, to a fancier, heavier gate. The foreman pushed it open.

A few minutes later Arackniss gingerly dog-paddled in the shallow end of an absolutely huge pool. Whatever Pent had done to make them look human didn't require his clothes. A good thing.

Shouting, laughing, rough-housing attendees filled the deep end. Someone was either trying to drown or giving an underwater blowjob. Beyond the pool an array of trellises marked the forbidden roses.

Arackniss dunked his head, scrubbing at his hair. He felt better, but he wasn't going to join the humans in their reindeer games. He vaulted onto the side of the pool, dried off with a towel left on the ground, then scooped up his clothes. He adjusted his hat, tossed his jacket over his shoulder and went back to Pentious' tent.

Some of his 'girls' were leaving as he arrived, done up their Bollywood best and carrying drums and flutes. Five were still inside, the youngest; and, he had to admit, the prettiest. Pent was on his camp chair. Smoke wafted thinly from an iron kettle, carrying a spicy, musky incense. Cushions took up most of the tent floor.

"Feeling better, Nissy?" Pentious asked.

"Yeah. Went for a swim." Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the girls pull down an inner shade on the wall behind the snake demon, then move on to the others. Not a bad idea, that. The sun shone right on them. "Did you get – uh – your business done?"

"Yes, I did." Pent clasped his hands. "Unfortunately, one of my girls is leaving us. Her employer is transferring her. Which saddens me. Dawn always made the most picturesque decorated cookies."

The thrum of drums and the high, sweet skirling of flutes echoed throughout the tent. "So the rest of my girls have decided to cheer me up."

The honey-blonde in the harem Jasmine outfit slid behind Pentious and undid his cravat. Another – a brunette in a sheer sari – knelt to remove his boots."

"I…see. I can go –"

"Oh, no, Nissy, please stay. You're so tense! I think you could use some cheering up, too."

The remaining three girls surrounded Arackniss. "Let's see what you look like without this!" The redhead in the miniskirt and beaded bodice tweaked off his hat.

"And this!" Another grabbed at his shirt and started expertly undoing his buttons.

"You can't dance in a jacket, silly," giggled a little butter-blonde who caught at his hands. "Show us your moves!"

Dance. Just a dance. That's all. Pent twirled and twined with his two partners. Niss tried to reproduce his steps, and eventually gave up, letting the girls take the lead. They spun him one to another, with pinches and strokes. The music grew louder. The incense hung heavy on the air.

The redhead tripped him, and the other two pushed him onto the cushions.

Hands pulled his shirt off him, unbuckled his belt. Soft lips trailed down his face.

"I—wait—you're so young –"

"Not that young." The redhead dropped her top on him, revealing a lack of tan lines. Niss' mouth went dry. When was the last time he'd seen a real woman's breast? His body remembered for him. His cock stiffened in his trousers. The honey-blonde giggled again. "That looks uncomfortable. Let me help," she said and pulled down his pants.

I could stop this. Throw the girls off him, leave. But did he want to?

"My girls like you, Nissy." Pent, shirtless, leaned over him. "They want you to have a good time." His tongue licked a path down Arackniss' stomach to his crotch. "So do I."

Arackniss groaned. His cock stood ramrod straight. "You win, Penny."

The girls laughed, their hands and mouths busy exploring him, finding where and how he liked to be touched while Pent's tongue worked its own magic. The butter-blonde stripped out of her schoolgirl uniform, and Arackniss' last coherent thought was that Elvis' fetish for plain white underwear finally made sense.

#

Husk felt as good as he ever did.

He wasn't sure what prompted him to accept Charlie's invitation back to the land of the living. The whole thing was pointless. They'd return to Hell, back to where they began. Charlie's goal of redemption stuck in place.

He had almost refused. The embers of long-dead curiosity, maybe, had him agree.

So here he was, standing sentry at the liquor table.

It hadn't been a bad day. Just different. Nothing had irritated him. Not even the impromptu magic show. And he'd won easily at the poker table. He barely needed to cheat. He cheated anyway, just to keep his hand in.

He eyed the display of bottles. Many were empty or had only a swallow or two left. There were a few mostly full. He took count, debating which one to claim.

"Slim pickings, eh?"

The question-observation came from his left side. A blonde woman in a pink tank top and new denim capris smiled at him. "Bunch of thirsty people today."

Husk grunted.

"They tore through the food, too. I was helping stack the empty pans." She chose a bottle and emptied it into a Solo cup. "If there's anything left of the pig by tomorrow, I'll be surprised."

"Hungry people, too."

"Yes, I guess so." She glanced around. "A good turnout, good tribute to Kirsten. Renee can call this a success."

Husk said nothing. He grabbed a random bottle and drank.

"You did the magic show, didn't you? That'll be the talk of the kids for weeks."

"Yeah."

"Kids…I wasn't expecting so many." She chuckled. "Makes me feel like I'm turning into an elder of the community."

Husk could hear the air-quotes.

The woman nursed her cup, then abruptly drained it and set it down. She turned to Husk. "So. Want to fuck?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

#

Noon came and went, and afternoon began its slow saunter toward sunset. With each passing hour, the number of imps grew. After their initial shock, they took in their situation.

Slowly, tentatively, they left the woodworking shop and its summoning circle. They took in the unnatural blue sky, the painfully brilliant sun, the foreign landscape, and the sounds of celebration. Their human disguises. And gradually, they realized who was not present.

No humans rattling off questions to be answered. No higher-ranking demons. No sign of Hell's natural hazards. No supervisors, managers or other personnel from their low-status, low-paying work.

In short, no one to tell them what to do.

They could blend in with the humans and do as they did: eat, drink, have sex, goof off. Why else had they been given disguises – something none of them possessed – in the first place? As far as the imps were concerned, they had a golden ticket to have a good time.

And they went at it.

But they were not unobserved.

#

In life and afterlife, Alastor cultivated patience. Plans had to be gone over with a fine-toothed comb for flaws; prey had to be chosen and stalked. Today was no different.

The best, most perfect outcome was that the meeting of Charlie and his signatory would dissolve the mystical blockage in the portal like sugar in the rain. That didn't happen. He hadn't expected it to. This required effort from him, obviously. The perfect timing and a delicate touch.

Not long after he left the DJ's station he detected a weakening, a softening almost. Slight – not enough for him to accomplish his task – but there. Encouraged, he tried throughout the day as he wandered Renee's property. His perambulation not only gave him an excuse for his presence but allowed him to rubber-neck at an array of human follies. Infidelities, embezzlements, grudges, thefts great and small, cruelties, self-delusions: all served up to him, a smorgasbord tastier than that on the tables.

Amusement segued into speculation. What if he could snare these mortals as he had Jemma and her friends? He made another promenade of the clearing, picking out likely targets.

It was while doing so he noticed the imps.

Their presence surprised him. Surely no one had been foolish enough to perform a summoning – not today.

Then he remembered what Lucifer said about the summoning of imps, and the problem of the portal itself.

He reached for it. Loosening, yes, but not to the point he could dismiss it.

Suddenly he thought of a clogged pipe, and what happened to the backed-up sink when the pipe cleared.

Alastor's smile widened. Suppose summonings had taken place, and the portal's recalcitrant nature made it a mystical clogged pipe? As the 'clog' dissolved, all those summonings could be completed….

…and very entertaining.

The imps were enjoying themselves. A food fight here, spraying random attendees with the garden hose there. Eating. Drinking, Copulating. Not causing too much trouble. Yet.

He fulfilled his side of the deal with the DJ, using the opportunity to study the imps. Some disappeared, but more wandered in from the direction of the workshop. Few of the humans took notice of them, except when accosted or interrupted in their own activities.

Though there was an exception.

The DJ returned. Alastor headed for the poor mortal confronting a pair of imps.

"You…" The man swallowed visibly. "You're not – you're from –"

"Out of town," Alastor cut in smoothly.

The taller of the demon pair shot him an irritated look. "Actually, we're from Hell."

"Really?" A dreadlocked man in a D.A.R.E. t-shirt paused, overhearing. He blinked redshot eyes owlishly. "All the way from Hell? Whoa. That's one fucker of a downstate road trip, man. 'Specially with all the construction."

"Er…yeah. Wouldn't believe the traffic!" the shorter imp said.

"Quite the tribute to the dear departed," murmured Alastor. The imps hastily agreed, attempting to look solemn.

Alastor smiled at the first mortal, who blanched, and walked away, looking forward to the rest of the day's entertainment. He wondered how Renee was dealing with her unexpected guests.

#

The lock on the acreage gate was broken. A Super Soaker war rampaged across the backyard and beyond. The bunson burners-things used to keep the food warm kept going out. Someone dug a soccer ball out of the garage and a game was underway, with two cleared tables as goals. The opposing team removed a piece of clothing after each score. The nearest neighbors called twice to complain about the music, the last time ranting about playing the Carpenters right after Slipknot. Everywhere Renee looked, people took Prince's words to heart and partied like it was 1999.

Kirsten would be pleased.

Only one fly in the ointment: she didn't know some of them.

To be expected, she supposed. The information went up on Facebook and Instagram, and no matter how private the local groups or settings, word got out. All the way upstate to Hell, it seems.

Renee ducked her head a final time under the shower head, turned off the tap, and stepped out to try off. Property owner's privilege: she used the indoor facilities.

At the moment, she wasn't worried about the strangers. A good fuck had cleared her head and improved her mood. Humming, she grabbed her phone and went to her room for fresh clothes.

Her phone played a jaunty note. Text notification.

Annoyed, she scooped up her phone. Who would be texting her today?

She read it, annoyance bleeding into disbelief.

"Shit. Shit!"

She stormed out of the house, thoughts chasing each other on what she had to do, and the little time she had to do them.

"Kore!" Renee shouted, spotting one of Moloch's crowd wandering about. She trotted over.

"Hey, Renee. What's up?"

"Have you seen Gwydion?"

"Think I saw him by the pig. Why?"

"Thanks." Renee broke into a run.

Kore was right. Gwydion hung out with a few of his cronies, beers in hand.

"Gwydion, I need to talk to you. In private."

The cronies wolf-whistled. Gwydion shot them a look, then turned back to Renee. "Lead on."

Back toward the house offered the best privacy and the least amount of noise. Renee halted just outside the back doors.

"Work texted me," she said tersely. "They're sending me to the European plants. Like, on Monday."

"Holy shit, that's short notice –"

"Tell me about it. I need you to watch my house."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Three months."

"Three – Renee, I can't. All right, maybe I can get the mail, stay over a night or two, make sure nothing's broken, that kind of thing. But my mom's still in rehab for her hip, and I'm helping my dad remodel the house. And I got volunteered to train the new hires at the pharmacy."

"Fuck." Renee ran a hand through her hair.

"Maybe Kore or Moloch or even Jemma –"

"Jemma." Renee seized on that suggestion like a drowning man at a rope. "Know where she is?"

"Not lately. I can look, ask around –"

"Do it, please. Would you team up with her to watch the house?"

"I guess."

"Thanks." She hugged him, permitting him to hug her back. "I'll try to track her down, too."

It took longer than Renee hoped. She dragged Jemma away a knot of people around a keg, still holding a plastic cup.

"Renee, what do you want?" Jemma asked with perfect, careful diction.

"Oh, Christ," Gwydion said. He'd rejoined Renee for the search. "The way she's talking, she's really wasted. She won't even remember a damn word."

"I am right here, you know," Jemma retorted. She blatantly turned her back on him. She drank, eying Renee over the rim of the cup.

"Well, what is it?"

"I'm being sent to Europe for the summer. I need you and Gwydion to help keep an eye on the house for me."

Jemma frowned. "This is a long way to drive every day."

"You can stay here – both of you can, flip a coin for it, I don't care. Just don't treat my house like a rental."

"But if I stay here, I still have to pay my rent –"

"I'll pay your rent. Half your rent," Renee amended. "Spend half of your time at the house.

Her former friend brightened. "Okay! This is how much it is." She stood on her toes and whispered in Renee's ear like she passed on the codes for the nuclear football. Renee nodded; it was still cheaper than trying to hire a bonded house-sitter at the last minute.

"Done."

"Yaaay!" Jemma draped her arms round Renee's neck, or tried to. "My cup is empty," she announced. "Have to go. Byeeee!" She sauntered off.

"God, I hope she remembers." Jemma should remember. It involved money.

Gwydion held up his phone. "Recorded."

"You're a life-saver, my man."

"I know." He scratched his nose. "You didn't offer to pay my rent."

"You live at home. You don't pay rent."

"Point."

The late afternoon breeze picked up. For the first time since her work text – for the last few hours, actually – the music registered to Renee.

Someone was singing.

"So Senator, so Janitor

So long for a while…"

"Oh, fuck this shit," she muttered and stalked off for the stage.

"Hey, Davros! Lose the karaoke noise and let's get some real music!"

#

"I won, Penny," Montgomery Python said excitedly. "Nearly everything! Only loss was the foot race." He chuckled, embarrassed. "Not used to running after all this time."

"I'm glad for you, Monty." Pent dodged a thrown liquor bottle and continued walking. "And glad you've been enjoying yourself."

"Oh, yeah! Where's Arackniss?"

"Sleeping. He's exhausted, I'm afraid."

"Too much excitement? He's a little old for naps."

"Too many of my girls. They were quite taken with him."

Monty laughed and nudged him in the ribs. "Made him enjoy himself, did you? Sneaky, Penny, sneaky."

Pentious waved his hand. "It was for his own good." Monty chuckled again.

They continued their impromptu stroll, Monty detailing his victories and Pentious the attentive audience, making their way across the acreage.

They reached the tables. "Not much left," Pent said."

"No…" Monty looked back at the pig roaster. "Maybe there's…hey. What's that? It wasn't here before." He pointed at a large barrel at the end of the most barren table.

"Let's see."

The barrel had a lid. Monty pried it off.

Inside, heavily packed in ice, was fish. Fresh fish.

"Penny," Monty said. "D'you know how long it's been since I had real fish."

"Not as long as I."

They stared into the barrel. Glanced around. No other attendees within sight or earshot.

"We shouldn't," Pent said on a surge of virtue.

"Yeah…" Monty agreed, wistful.

"Well…maybe just one…"

"Um, Penny?" Monty asked a while later. "The barrel's empty. Think anyone will notice?"

Pent slammed the lid back down. "Notice what?"

#

Jemma's head hurt.

The drink-and-drug induced mental haze was fading. Sounds were too loud all of a sudden, the sunlight too bright. Her stomach wasn't happy with her, her mouth was full of sand. She felt ragged and prickly.

She found her tent, retrieved a bottled water and drank half of it. She wet a corner of the beach-bedspread and scrubbed her face. She couldn't claim she felt human again, but it was a little better.

She nursed the rest of the bottle, thoughts wrapped in cotton. She remembered…what did she remember?

Renee asking her to watch her house. The soccer game, and pulling her shirt and shorts back on after. Charlie and Vaggie…

She hadn't thought of Charlie and Vaggie in hours. Or the others.

Including Alastor.

Guilt and anger stabbed at her then, for reasons she didn't understand. They didn't look for me. He didn't. "Too many people," she muttered. "Too much noise." She wanted quiet.

No chance of that here. Maybe in the woods. There were spots she liked that couldn't accommodate more than a single person, two if they were very friendly.

She exited the tent, zipped it up three times to make sure the teeth locked, and set out for the acreage.

She sidestepped propositions, questions and other interruptions by simply ignoring them. The sun's brightness dimmed as soon as she entered the proper footpath. One irritation gone.

Sound was still an issue. Laughter, chants, moans and groans surrounded her, even if their makers went unseen. Jemma gritted her teeth and picked up her pace. The spot she wanted wasn't too far.

"Oh, fuck me," Jemma said in disgust a few minutes later. Her own private Idaho had been discovered and used for a party. By someone or someones who never learned to put litter in its place. She toed an empty Jack Daniels bottle, hiding it among the used condoms, and kept walking.

She collapsed inside a clearing with oak trees playing sentinel to patchy grass. At least she couldn't hear anyone else. She drew her knees to her chest and folded her arms around them. "I wish you were here, Alastor. I have to tell you something. Somethings."

Alastor didn't appear.

Sighing, she closed her eyes. She'd rest, for just a little bit.

Nifty was not only chasing men, but catching them. Husk was back at the poker table with new pigeons to pluck. Imps had found the pig's head and were taking turns wearing it, the better to traumatized the human attendees.

Only one person remained for him to check in on: Jemma.

He hoped she hadn't gotten into another regrettable soccer game. Pure luck that he'd spotted her in the first one, when only her outer clothing had been forfeit. Fortunately an argument over goals led to the game's end. He had lost track of Jemma after that, caught up in his own amusements.

Now, then. Where was she?

Ah, there.

Alastor peered down at his sleeping signatory. "Dear, that doesn't look like a very comfortable position."

She jerked awake, raising her head. "Oh," she muttered, confused. "You're right. Ow."

"May I offer a blanket?" He conjured one under her.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." He sat down. Jemma promptly leaned against him. He decided to allow it. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Some. Earlier. Not now. Think I'm going to have a hangover."

Alastor laughed. "Hair of the dog that bit you, darling?"

"Maybe later. There was something I wanted to tell you…" Her voice trailed off and she frowned. "Right, right. 'M staying at Renee's this summer. Watching the house for her while she's away. Me and Gwydion. So, you'll have to show up there."

"I'm sure I can find my way." He would have to find out who this Gwydion was, and what his part of this house watching actually included. "If you have a …housemate in this Gwydion, I can keep up this disguise. Though seeing my living self in mirrors will take getting used to."

Jemma stared at him wide-eyed. "You mean…this is really what you looked like?"

"Charlie may have created the original, but I adapted it. I've never forgotten my au naturelle appearance."

"Alastor," Jemma said wonderingly, "you were hot."

"Yes, I kn—"

Her mouth closed on his, her arms wrapping around his neck. Though not for long. Somehow Jemma had turned into an octopus – her hands were at his suspenders, his, chest his belt. And all the while the morals of his long-ago youth insisted it wasn't proper, he was the man, he should be in charge. Jemma had never taken the lead in sex, not since his rejection last winter. She'd surprised him. Again

Perhaps it was the lack of a recent transaction, perhaps the hedonistic atmosphere, but to his chagrin, Alastor felt a growing response. He hesitated, then told his younger self to get bent.

He rolled Jemma onto her back, tossing aside belt and suspenders. Then tugged her shirt over her head and yanked down her shorts and underwear in a single smooth pull before discarding his own pants. A distant voice pointed out he could magic their clothes away. He ignored it. This was more satisfying. More fun.

Jemma took him in hand, and he groaned into her neck, his own hands on her breasts. He moved down and raised her hips. Heady with the scent of her, he slid inside her velvety warmth and let the feel of her carry him away.

"I have something else to say to you."

Alastor continued to sleep. Jemma shrugged into her top, watching him as she had since she first woke up. They had both fallen asleep after their…transaction. That's all it was, as far as Alastor was concerned. But for her?

Her mind's-eye kept slipping his demonic face over his current one.

"I should wait until you're awake, but this way is easier."

Demon or living man, his appearance changed nothing. She was tired of hiding from the truth she had confronted so briefly at Ostara, tired of the futile effort to protect herself.

"I'm in love with you, Alastor."

Where my pussy goes, my heart will follow.

And it had.

She might not be able to admit it to him, but she could admit it to herself. Their year and a day would end in a matter of months. Plenty of time to … what? Enjoy it while it lasted? Prepare for the end? She didn't know. Relief that the deal would be over did even battle with misery at the knowledge she wouldn't see him again.

Fuck my life.

She couldn't even blame him for it.

Maybe she should take Scarlett O'Hara's advice and worry about that tomorrow.

She kissed him, finished dressing, and left.

Well. This was an expected turn of events.

Alastor folded his hands behind his head. He had never thought Jemma's side of this demon lover deal would entangle her heart. Other body parts, yes. But her heart? Ridiculous girl. So young.

The question was, what – if anything – should he do about it?

He lacked experience in courtship, if that was indeed a part of his part in this hellish comedy of errors. No doubt he could pull it off splendidly if he wanted to. But did he want to? Would he be risking further complications in his own role?

What was in it for him?

The answer was obvious. What attracted him to Jemma and her circle of friends in the first place: entertainment. Experiencing something new. And the opportunity to bring the potential deals spotted earlier in the day to fruition. Their contract gave him a ready-made excuse, since this endeavor would naturally require more time in the living world. Thanks to his self-disguise, he could go incognito without attracting mortal attention. And avoid earning Lucifer's ire.

Alastor stood, magically dressed, and dismissed the blanket. Time to put on his thinking cap about playing suitor.

#

Stolas, Prince of the Ars Goetia, glared at his surroundings. He had finally been making headway on his studies of constellations when without warning, he was abruptly…here.

No place he'd been before – a workshop of some sort, distinctly human. The Seal of Solomon carved in the floor beneath his feet underlined that.

"Have I been summoned?" (Years living with his wife Stella gave rise to a habit of occasionally talking to himself; it was one way to ensure an intelligent conversation.) He couldn't remember this happening before.

He studied the Seal more closely. Shouldn't there be his sigil as well? Yes. Sort of. His sigil wasn't visible, but an echo of it remained.

Someone knew their business.

There was also a portal to Hell, centered on the Seal, open and yet not at the same time.

Curiosity jostling with anger, he stepped out of the Seal, opened the workshop door…

…and into a bright, sunny late afternoon.

"Oh, for Satan's sake," Stolas said in disgust. "If I'm going to be whistled up for astronomy lessons, could it at least happen at night?"

Then he noticed something very odd.

No one was waiting for him. At all.

He glanced around, confused. There was a house. A section of greenery – grass? – attached to it. And… noise.

Beyond, a gate stood open. Quite a lot of people gathered past it, and the noise was coming from them.

Curiosity beat anger into submission. After another quick glance to make sure no one was watching (judging by the lack of screams, his arrival went unnoticed), Stolas put on his human disguise.

He might as well investigate. This would be a conversation piece with Blitzo on the next full moon. He put on his best smile and most congenial aura and joined the crowd.

Some sort of celebration was taking place, he deduced after a few minutes. It appeared a cross between one of Stella's parties, though with far less hostility and back-stabbing, and the nightclub Ozzie's. He helped himself to a plate of (unfortunately cooked) food, a plastic cup of something alcoholic, and set out for some discreet people-watching.

Swiftly he realized three things: there were a large number of imps disguised as humans present, Charlotte Morningstar was here as well, and the reason for his summoning wasn't astronomy.

The imps gave him a wide berth, and he returned the favor. They weren't his business, and even if that was the case, without his grimoire his powers were limited. Same with the Princess; she didn't throw her weight around, but it was still better not to intrude on the third most powerful being in Hell.

The summoning, however, nagged at him like Stella at her worst.

Stolas scowled and followed the summoning's mystical draw. It led him through the throngs of humans, past another gate fence, beyond a very large pool jammed with people. Someone actually commented on his appearance...in both meanings of the word.

"Oh, wow, a giant owl." A very intoxicated man in a D.A.R.E. t-shirt swayed on the edge of the pool, peering at Stolas. "Hey, Mr. Owl! How many licks does it take to get to the center–"

"Young man," Stolas said kindly, "please don't finish that question. Turning you into stone would kill the vibe." He smiled and pushed the human into the pool and continued on, to finally to a row of trellises.

"Roses." Stolas shook his head and planted his hands on his hips. All differing colors, they weren't the best or biggest blooms. Doubtless he was meant to play plant doctor. "Let's see what I can do for you, hmm?"

#

Sunset was a little over two hours away. Renee set her phone's alarm for thirty minutes to. She'd announce the impending bonfire then, using Davros' mic. Plenty of time for everyone to make their way to the fire pit. And to add kindling and lighter fluid. It didn't matter that the smallest flames at sunset would count as a classic summer solstice bonfire, people wanted to see it.

Not her first rodeo, this.

She double-checked the phone case was strapped to her waist. She would have preferred to leave both ringer and vibration off, but there'd already been more texts from work, details about her flight. Which had changed. Twice. She hoped the next one would be notice the trip was called off entirely.

She played the good host and mingled, working her way to Kirsten's altar, asking how folks were doing. Snatches of random conversations came and went.

"Iswear he looks just like Swayze from Roadhouse –"

" A B, A B, this is your standard pagan chant…"

"—can't believe we made it! I wonder how many rules we broke?"

That last got Renee's attention. She paused and stretched casually, an excuse to spot out the rulebreakers.

Easy to find, especially today. Five teenagers in classic goth mode. Not common anymore, with fashion leaning toward bright and neon colors. On a closer look, they were older than she thought; late teens, the sole exception a brown-haired girl wearing a black beanie hat.

One way of standing out in a crowd.

Should she confront them? The rules they'd broken weren't hers…yet.

Pass the word around, this bunch was hands-off and to be watched.

She greeted them with a friendly "Merry meet" as she continued walking, received amused and condescending "hello" and "well met" in turn. Their accents were British Isles, mostly English. Tourists. Yay.

Goddamn social media. Her next solstice shindig was going to be private.

#

"Well, now! Don't you look better, hmm?"

Stolas beamed at the trellises, pleased with his work. Every single one bore healthy, hearty roses. He'd even arranged for a rather lovely hybrid. Whoever summoned him should be quite happy.

And content. Stolas didn't want this to be a recurring situation. He wondered about the etiquette of leaving a note saying as much at the Seal of Solomon, perhaps, when he decided to leave. Lucifer knew he had no desire to spend the day with Stella haunting the house….

"—just a bunch of stupid flowers."

Stolas' head snapped around until he looked over his own back. He couldn't see the speaker, but he knew regardless it was a demon, and not an imp.

Another Goetia.

"Flowers are okay," a young female voice said. "At least these don't have to be fed."

Octavia…here?

He strode off in the direction of the voices.

"Lots of roses – dad?" Octavia rounded the row of trellises and stared at him, four more members of the Ars Goetia family behind her. Friends of hers, if he remembered right. All of them in human disguises. Including Octavia.

"Yes, Dad." He folded his arms. "A word with you, if you don't mind?" He glared at the others. "In private."

The foursome quickly found something fascinating several yards off to investigate.

Stolas marched up to his daughter. "What in Lucifer's name are you doing here, young lady! You're not old enough to travel to the living realm, let alone learn those spells!"

"Oh, dad, it's just a party," Octavia replied in a sulky voice. "Looks like we missed all the good stuff."

"That is not the point, Via! If your friends brought you here knowing you're not of age, they're a bad influence on you! And if they're found out, you would still get in trouble!"

"Mum would've let me come. She trusts me."

Stolas grit his teeth. This was going to be a difficult conversation.

#

The official announcement of the winters of the summer solstice games happened shortly before the lighting of the bonfire. Pentious and Arackniss accompanied Monty, cheering the loudest. Monty strutted back to them, taking in congratulations, backslaps and inquiries if he'd be free later on the way.

"What do you think, Penny?" Monty flexed and rotated his arm, showing off his armband.

"That's certainly lovely work, Montgomery."

"It is," Arackniss agreed. "A shame you can't keep it."

Monty blinked. "What do you mean, I can't keep it?"

"You can't take it back to Hell. That's real gold. Real gems. A small fortune and a big target."

"They're welcome to try to steal it!"

"Monty, you can't – it's proof we were here!"

"Oh, so you can have your fancy-shmancy car, but I can't have my armband." Monty looked stubborn. "It's mine, I won it fair and square and I'm keeping it!"

"My car isn't the point. Plausible deniability is!"

"Plausawhatsit now?"

Arackniss resisted the urge to smack his forehead. "Monty. I'm not sure we were ever supposed to be here –"

"But Penny brought us. Didn't you, Pen?"

"Yes. But was it legal?"

"Well…not exactly. But I've never gotten caught."

"Hey, Monty!" The MC slapped the snake demon on the back as he walked past. "Don't miss the bonfire!"

"Yeah, sure, I'll be there." He turned to Arackniss. "See? It'll be fine!"

Arackniss groaned and this time he did smack his forehead.

#

"Five minutes to the bonfire, folks," Renee said into the mic. "I'm heading that way myself. Last warning!"

The pit was stacked tent-like with the logs and kindling, three feet tall and nearly three times as wide. At each side of the pit someone was ready with handmade torches. The scent of lighter fluid lingered on the air. Buckets of sand were spaced around the perimeter.

At two minutes before sunset, the torches were lit. The last stragglers wandered in as the ten-second countdown began.

"..five…four…three…two…ONE!"

The torch holders flung their torches into the pyre.

Flames – orange and red and yellow – shot up into the sky. Dozens of feet into the sky. The crowd roared, cheered and whistled. Now this was a bonfire, a good sign honoring Kirsten.

#

"I haven't done anything fun in ages," Octavia complained. "When I'm with her, mum never wants to do what I want to do. It's all boring parties and art shows. She won't even take me to the taxidermy store and other places I like when we go shopping."

Somewhere along the way, the argument with Via morphed into a venting session about her life in general. Stolas was aware of her friends just lurking within hearing range. Embarrassment for his daughter and at the public airing of family dirty laundry gripped him.

"My little owlet, I know things haven't been easy for you, but I think we should discuss this somewhere –"

The sensation of a roll of distant thunder through the ether that encompassed angelic and demonic forces brought him up short. And, as in the physical world, lightning struck on its heels.

At its metaphysical Ground Zero: this solstice celebration.

Blinding Stolas' awareness of other demons, of heavenly influences – of everything – for the longest heartbeat of his life.

"Dad," Octavia asked in a small voice, "what was that?"

"I don't know," Stolas answered grimly. He gestured and tore open a portal to Hell. "But you are going home. Now."

#

"Whoa," said the bleary-eyed man in the D.A.R.E. t-shirt to his partner. "Did, like, the earth just move?"

"Ohh, yes," sighed Niffty.

#

This Renee chick's garage was disgustingly organized.

Curiosity and a current lack of appealing men led Angel Dust to jimmy the lock on a side door (the main door's lock was electric and too much hassle) and sneak in. Tools and more tools, a push lawn mower, a riding tractor. Folding chairs. A portable fire pit.

A crate with his name on it, full of dildos, anal beads and other sex toys.

"What the fuck?" He scratched his head. "This shit disappeared months ago. How'd it get here?

"Huh. Guess I owe Niffty an apology."

#

"Not going to the bonfire?" Husk wanted to be sure this game was going to be finished.

"Nah. Seen one, seen them all. 'Sides, I'm gonna win my money back."

Husk drained his cup. "Sure you are."

#

The argument was going in circles, giving Pentious a headcache.

Neither Arackniss nor Montgomery were listening to him, no matter what he said. Or to each other, really. Pent suspected at this point they argued just as an excuse for make-up sex.

Not that there was anything wrong with that.

"—and I'm not –" Monty blinked.

"Uh, Niss, Penny? Did you feel that?"

"Feel what?" Niss demanded.

"Yes," Pent said slowly. "I did. Like someone walked over my grave. Only worse."

"How can it be worse? We're already dead."

Pentious ignored Arackniss' sarcasm. "Yes, well, I think we should start packing for the return home."

#

While everyone else cheered and applauded the lighting of the bonfire, Jemma simply stared at nothing, her fifth-and-a-half sense screaming with the force of a thousand fire alarms.

Something had happened the moment the kindling caught fire. Something huge, and powerful, and focused right here. Not just on the fire, but the woods, the acreage – all of Renee's property. She had no idea what and wasn't sure she wanted to know. Maybe Charlie or Alastor could explain it.

She wasn't sure she wanted to find out.

Slowly, like moving in a dream, Jemma slipped through the crowd and away from the fire pit.

#

"Charlie," Vaggie whispered urgently, the amorous mood flicked off like a switch, "do you know what that was?"

"No." Charlie's eyes were huge. She grabbed about for her clothes. "We better find the others – just in case."

No argument there. What had happened was unlike anything Vaggie'd experienced in Hell. Apparently the same went for Charlie. Charlie was older than anyone at the Hotel, which meant even Alastor wouldn't have an answer.

Alastor.

Vaggie hissed, yanking on her shirt. He must be involved, somehow. She had been suspicious of his kind offer to introduce his signatory to Charlie. She hadn't been able to convince Charlie the Radio Demon had ulterior motives…then.

Now might be a different story.

#

Call it a hunch or a lucky guess, but for some reason Alastor lingered at the back of the crowd for the bonfire lighting, instead of pursuing another possible deal as he'd planned.

The sheer power that shook the supernatural world was beyond his expectations. His portal could easily be closed now…when he wanted to. Right now, the reaction of the imps and the very, very few sensitive mortals present had his attention. The imps looked like children caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Confusion and vague dismay showed briefly among the mortals before they surrendered again to the euphoria of the moment.

Except for his signatory, who sidled through the other attendees, her eyes huge in the cliché deer-in-the-headlights expression.

His wonderful, extraordinarily entertaining, downright delightful signatory. He moved to intercept her.

"Jemma." He said her name like a caress. "How are you, dear?"

"Alastor." She staggered a little; he caught her, and she slid her arm around his waist. He allowed it. "There was something…"

"I know, darling. It's nothing for you to worry about." He toyed with leading her off for another assignation. He was suddenly in the mood for one.

"All right," she said faintly.

Was she still drunk? No. Mystical shell-shock, then.

He kept them there for several minutes, content to let Jemma regain her bearings. That very annoying Caramel Dansen song was playing again. The imps had taken to leaping over the bonfire – now a staid two feet in height - indifferent now to anything but their own pleasure. Some of the humans imitated them. So far, without immolating themselves, to Alastor's disappointment.

"Alastor!" Charlie dashed up to him, Vaggie and Angel Dust on her heels. "Are you okay?"

"Perfectly fine, my dear."

"Oh. That's good." Charlie glanced around as if taking in her surroundings for the first time. Her eyes grew wide. "Where did all these imps come from? Where's Husk and Niffty?"

"I'm sure I don't know." An answer to both questions.

"I'm sure you do." Vaggie glared at him. "I'm sure as well you're involved."

The self-proclaimed defender of the Hotel, ruining his fun and making trouble for him. Stall, stall, stall. "Dear, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Hah! Try again, shitlord – why were you so eager to get Charlie to meet her?" Vaggie jabbed a finger at Jemma.

"Charlie expressed an interest in her many times. She even helped suggest a gift."

"Then why did you try to keep their meeting a secret?"

"Alastor," Charlie said before he could answer. "There isn't another reason for me being here today. Right?"

"A little matter of personal business."

"I knew it!"

"Vaggie, calm down!" Charlie's attention swung from him to Jemma and back. "What kind of personal business?"

In his time managing the Hotel, Alastor had learned when to yield to Charlie's ideals. And moods. This was one of them. "Just a loose end that needed to be taken care of. I'd planned to do so at the stroke of midnight, but…" His smile broadened. "I can now, if you prefer."

"Yes," Charlie said firmly. "I think you should."

"Charlotte? Your Highness?" A slender man strode up to them. Who wasn't a man at all but a member of the Ars Goetia.

"Uh…yes? Stolas?" Charlie asked, bewildered. "What are you doing here?"

"It seems I was summoned. There's a Seal of Solomon in the workshop, a portal still open –"

"Portal?" Charlie whipped around to Alastor. "Did you know about this?"

Fuck. "Maybe."

Charlie took a deep breath. "Alastor," she said, very calmly. "I really believe you should close that portal. Now."

"Of course, my dear."

Stolas, the arrogant prick, fixed him with an unfriendly stare. "This is highly irregular. Sinners are not supposed to be able to travel to the living realm. And – she knows what we are?" He looked from him to Jemma and then Charlie in disbelief.

"Yeah…but it's okay!"

"I greatly doubt that," Stolas muttered. "And my daughter was here –"

The high-pitched wail of police car sirens and the blat-blat of fire trucks cut him off.

"Oh, shit," said Jemma.

Police rounded the house. One raised a bullhorn. "All right, people, we've had noise complaints and at least two fire complaints. Party's over."

Groans, hisses, mutterings.

Suddenly an imp shouted, "Fuck the police!"

The other imps followed suit, some humans joining in.

"FUCK THE POLICE! FUCK THE POLICE! FUCK THE POLICE!"

Then the pig's head sailed through the air at the policeman with the bullhorn.

Jemma, Alastor thought as the situation devolved into total chaos, thank you.

#

"What the hell?"

The human across from Husk stared past him. He wasn't falling from that ploy. "Stay and play or scram," he grunted.

"Cops," came the reply. "And a fire truck."

"Cops? Fuck, man, I can't get busted again!"

Husk picked up the panicking kid's 40 ouncer and drank. "Don't be dumb and nothing will happen."

"FUCK THE POLICE! FUCK THE POLICE! FUCK THE POLICE!"

"Or maybe you should get the hell out of Dodge," Husk amended.

With varying rates of speed and agility, the panicking kid and his fellow humans abandoned the poker table.

Along with their money.

Husk finished the 40 ouncer, pocketed the stacks of bills and coins, then started rifled through the wallets left behind. He was on the third when someone behind him said, "Raise your hands where we can see them and turn around, mister."

#

The fire department was failing to put out the bonfire. The buckets of sand didn't work. Alastor wondered if they'd attempt dragging their truck's hoses through the rampaging mob.

Police chased imps to no avail. They slithered and bounced and jumped and sprang handstands away from their pursuers. A live-action Keystone Kops, as it were. The humans weren't so lucky. Renee was nowhere in sight. A pity. He would have liked to see how she handled the situation.

Their little group was completely ignored. Perhaps the presence of very powerful demons kept the authorities at bay. Or perhaps because they stood perfectly still and kept quiet. Vaggie clung to Charlie's shoulder, looking nearly as shocked as Jemma. Stolas resembled a rubbernecker at a ten-car pileup with fatalities: horrified but unable to look away.

This was his cue, Alastor decided, to start to close the portal.

Niffty ran up to him, skirt grass-stained and blouse mis-buttoned. "Alastor! Husk's been arrested!"

"What?" Charlie cried. "I'll talk to them!"

"Charlie, you can't – if they arrest you, too – " Jemma grabbed Charlie's hands. "They'll know something's going on. You don't have fingerprints!"

"I can't leave him here!"

"I'll get him," Jemma said.

"How?"

"I can't explain. Just trust me. The rest of you just go!"

#

"Stay here until the coppers leave and things quiet down, yeah?" Monty whispered. They – the three of them – watched the quasi-riot from the putative safety of Pentious' tent.

"Sounds like a plan," Arackniss replied.

"I agree." Pentious fiddled with his ascot. "We're not dashing about like those other pathetic fools. We're completely innocuous –"

His eyes went wide. All of them.

Isabelle had informed him months ago of a portal on this property. A portal that was the anchor for a variation of the spell his coven used to bring them here… and send them back to Hell.

The portal was closing.

The portal was closing.

The portal was closing.

Pentious shredded the tent flaps with his claws and bolted.

"Snakes, women and children first!"

#

Nothing would go wrong, as long as she did exactly what her overloaded fifth-and-a-half sense dictated.

Jemma left the others and fetched her purse from her tent. Then she went to Renee's house. No one stopped her. She might have been invisible. She opened the back door and closed it. She walked through the kitchen and down the hallway to Renee's office. She found the emergency stash money, hidden in an envelope taped to the underside of the bottom right-hand desk drawer. She withdrew the ten $100 bills, retaped the envelope in place, counted to fifty-seven, then exited the back door again. She walked around to the front of the house.

A Willis police car blocked all the other cars inside the driveway. Husk sat in the back seat. As she approached, the radio squawked calls for back-up from Belleville, disbelieving shouts about fleeing people disappearing in mid-stride, and a request for chemical fire suppressant.

Jemma glided up to the police car's driver side window, turning her Inner Dumb Blonde up to eleven.

"Hello," she said. "I'm not sure how this works. Is this enough money for my grandpa's bail?"

The officer looked at the bills Jemma held up, then at his partner.

His partner got out and opened Husk's door.

"Yes, miss, it is." The officer in the driver's seat snatched the money from Jemma's hand. "Have a good night."

"And we think you should take your grandpa home." His partner hopped back in the patrol car.

Jemma nodded and headed for her own car. Good thing she'd parked out front and not in the driveway. Husk followed her.

"Get in," she told him, unlocking the passenger door.

He did.

She buckled up, started the car and pulled away toward. At the speed limit.

They'd passed two houses when Husk cleared his throat. Jemma glanced at him. He smiled at her. The expression seemed painful, as if he wasn't used to smiling.

"Thanks, Voice," he said.

"Voice?" she repeated.

"Yeah. I –"

He was gone, and Alastor was in his place.

"Darling, that was wonderful. Simply magnificent. Thank you so, so much."

"You're welcome. Um. What happened…"

"To Husk? He's back with the others at the Hotel."

"Alastor, are you in trouble? With Charlie?" She couldn't tell, and that worried her.

"Nothing to worry about, my dear! We've had these little misunderstandings before."

"Oh." She glanced at him sidelong. He could have snapped up Husk anytime, it seemed. He didn't have to swap places. "Because if you were…you could sleep over."

"What a gracious offer! I accept." He traced her collarbone. "Although sleeping wasn't exactly what I had in mind…."

55