Hell Hath No Fury (Kelly & Umber - Book 2)

By Bill Blais

After the horrific events under the streets of New York City, Kelly McGinnis quit the team of demon hunters who had recruited her and did everything she could to put the experience behind her. Six months later, life is nearly normal, complete with bills, school for her children and hospital visits for her husband.

Dreams of Umber — the handsome and intriguing incubus she saved — continue to tease Kelly’s sleep, but it is only when far darker dreams — and worse — begin to infect her children, that Kelly discovers what happens if you stop hunting demons.

They start hunting you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Blais
• Release date: Apr 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476356785

Bill Blais

Bill Blais is a writer, web developer and perennial part-time college instructor. His novels include Witness (winner of the Next Generation Indie Book Award for Fantasy) and the first two books in the Kelly & Umber series. Bill graduated from Skidmore College before earning an MA in Medieval Studies from University College London. He lives in Maine with his wife and daughter.

Book preview

Hell Hath No Fury

A Kelly & Umber Novel (#2)

By Bill Blais

Hell Hath No Fury is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Bill Blais

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

http://www.billblais.com

Praise for No Good Deed

. . . no other novel like this out there, and it's easy to see that when you start reading . . . Watch out for Bill Blais everyone.

- XO Reads

I mean a mother fighting demons, not exactly a concept we're . . . used to seeing . . . in a supernatural fantasy [but] No Good Deed completely surprised me in the best way . . . Kelly has become one of my new favorite heroines!

- Open Book Society

We get a good dose of delicious intrigue and mystery . . . And of course, she also learns to shoot people. Win all around . . . Highly recommended to anyone looking to switch up their usual Urban Fantasy line-up.

- The Canary Review

. . . a powerful story of demons without and those within the human psyche . . . highly recommended for any who want a more literary and thoughtful read than is offered by the usual tale of magical encounters.

- The Midwest Book Review

What can I say? Kelly is awesome!!

- LovLivLifeReviews

Praise for Witness

Winner Indie Book Awards 2009, Fantasy Category

Heroic stories aren't supposed to be like this. And that's the crux, and the very wonderful thing, about this book . . . Humor in vast, laugh-out-loud doses . . . a good beginning to what I hope will become a favorite collection for many readers.

- BookFetish

One wrong move, and you're suddenly charged with saving a world not your own . . . exciting, original, and witty writing, sure to please fantasy fans.

- The Midwest Book Review

. . . reworks the usual fantasy tropes into a sharp, funny culture clash . . . a promising new series.

- Kirkus Discoveries

Also by Bill Blais

KELLY & UMBER

No Good Deed

Hell Hath No Fury

The Devil You Know (coming 2014)

ALL PROPHETS ARE LIARS

Witness

Pawn (coming 2015)

OTHER WORK

The Revisionist

Have Mech, Will Travel (coming 2014)

Visit www.billblais.com for more.

Acknowledgements

Again, I owe a deep (and still unpaid) debt to the close attention, honest reactions and constant support of my early readers. After No Good Deed, I couldn't stop thinking about what happens next, and your encouragement let me know I wasn't alone. Thank you.

As ever, Kate's peerless ninja proofing and editing skills have worked their steadfast magic upon the vagaries of my writing (except, perhaps, this sentence), for which I am deeply grateful. As usual, any remaining errors are the sole and especial property of yours truly.

Mary, you are my center and my universe.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 1

His hand on my side, bare skin on bare skin, is delicious torture, a gnawing, arousing hunger for him again. Each time, I am spent, and each time, I crave him again. His breath is warm on the back of my neck, and then his lips, the faintest touch of his hand sliding forward to my stomach and down --

Mmrmm, Shawn mumbles blearily.

My eyes snap open to our darkened bedroom. I'm sweating like I've just run a marathon and my muscles are like Jell-O, but when a final passionate shudder runs from my clamped legs through the rest of my body, the ecstasy is immediately smothered by a thick blanket of guilt.

Shawn shifts beside me, and I freeze, not even daring to breathe.

Don't wake up. Don't wake up. Don't wake up.

Of course, he doesn't; it takes more than a little cover-pulling to wake him up. Thank God.

In a moment, his breathing is steady again.

I lay rigidly still for several more moments, then slowly exhale, opening my mouth wide to avoid making a sound. A smaller wave of pleasure ripples through me, catching my breath again, then I slump back, embarrassed and infuriated.

This is the second time this week.

I slide out of bed and go to the bathroom. The floorboards are frigid under my overheated soles and I'm pretty sure if there was any light I'd be able to see my breath, which makes me think of Dad, strangely.

The thermostat in our house never got above 65 when I was a kid; turning up the heat meant putting on a sweater. Ice storms, blizzards, it didn't matter; Dad refused to budge. Normally I'm not that bad, but the price of oil's shooting through the roof again and even Shawn would notice extra money spent there.

In the bathroom, I clean myself up and then catch my reflection. I'm still flushed and there are shadows under my eyes. I look like hell.

Hell, as in capital 'H'.

As in Umber.

I lift up the side of my t-shirt and look in the mirror at the line of his scar. It's still there, a pale white ridge that I'm beginning to believe just isn't going to go away. It started itching again recently, with that loose-tooth ache, but it's been almost six months since . . .

I push the memories away, but I can't resist touching it and I immediately feel the rise of my blood and the urge to press harder. Snatches of the dream returns, his skin against mine, the press of his fingers there, the feel of --

I jerk my shirt down.

Stop it. This is crazy.

Soaking a washcloth under the cold tap, I press it against the heated scar. The icy dampness soothes the urges, calming my mind as much as my skin, and for a few moments I just breathe. I freshen the cloth twice more before finally putting the urges to rest.

It's hard saying which is worse, the guilt of these erotic dreams or the terror of the nightmares. At least I haven't had one of those in a couple months.

Enough. I put those thoughts back in their box away and go look in on the kids.

They're sleeping soundly; just a couple of normal kids in a normal family. I can't help but smile as I watch them. This was the right choice.

Back in our bedroom, Shawn hasn't moved. Seeing him, though, I get that same wet-blanket of guilt again, even though I know it's just a dream. Everybody has them. They may not talk about them, but they have them. I slide into bed beside him.

Besides, it's not as if I'd ever cheat on Shawn. I love him completely and we have a wonderful life. Well, except for his MS, the fact that we hardly see each other lately, and my lack of a full-time job.

It was touch and go for a while there at the end of the summer. I couldn't find a steady job anywhere; the supermarkets weren't even hiring baggers for the back-to-school season.

Shawn was able to pick up two evening courses at the community college, in addition to his three at the university, but that means he's skipping back and forth between campuses all week and grading most nights after the kids go to bed.

I did temp work all over the place until I finally got a job taking phone orders for L. L. Bean during the holiday season. That's really made all the difference, financially, but with Shawn's extra classes and me taking every shift I can get my hands on, we're still barely ships passing in the night, usually.

Jen and Mom have been lifesavers -- taking the kids whenever Shawn and I are both out or totally sapped -- but there's got to be an end somewhere. I still check the job boards and the hiring agencies daily, but the economy's still lousy, and Bean's still pays better than anyone else right now.

For a couple more weeks, anyway. Come January, the season ends, the phones dry up and the job disappears.

I glare up at the dark ceiling. If they'd only make up their minds on that professorship at the university for Shawn, everything would be fine. How can they not see how awesome he is and just give it to him?

He says this is just how it works in Higher Ed, but it boggles my mind. I've never seen any business go as slowly as those folks. They've been dragging this decision through committee after committee for almost six months and they still haven't decided. And it's supposed to be for the Spring semester, which is barely three weeks away.

I close my eyes and take a slow breath, unclenching my jaw. Count your blessings, Kelly. Plenty of folks have it worse. You've got a roof over your head, food in the fridge and a loving family. Shawn's MS seems to be staying put for the time being and the kids are great, if a little crazy with Christmas just around the corner.

I breathe in and turn to watch Shawn sleep; my husband and best friend.

His slow, steady breaths ground me as they always do, bringing me back to where I belong.

We're going to be fine.

Chapter 2

Look, the man snaps in my ear, I don't care about your apologies, okay? What I care about is the fact that I can't get my wife the things she wants for Christmas because you idiots didn't order enough stock of even a single damned thing I've asked for. Do you think that's acceptable somehow? Do you?

I smile at the computer monitor, trying to kill it with fake kindness. I certainly appreciate how you feel, Mr. Hutchins.

That much is true, anyway. I mean, we do have the linen pants he wants, even in the Moss Green, but every other thing he's asked for is on back-order for at least three weeks.

We had a team meeting about this, back when the calls started to spike. Nobody expected much this Christmas, what with the economy still mostly in the tank, so the big wigs scaled back forecasts and warehouse stock. Now, though, it seems credit cards are cool again and people are buying. Or trying to.

Really, Mr. Hutchins sneers. Well, excuse me if I don't believe that you do appreciate how I feel. If you did, you'd be trying a little harder to find a way to fill my order, rather than feed me some patronizing line. Now what are you going to do about this situation?

Okay, it's one thing to be angry, but it's a whole different ball game to take it out on the messenger, especially when you've left it to the week before Christmas to do your shopping.

I can put you through to one of my supervisors, if you wish. Sandy will tell him the exact same thing, but at least I won't have to listen to it.

Can he get me these clothes?

I don't believe she can, I reply, emphasizing the gender. Why do men still assume bosses are male? The items --

He huffs noisily. Then what will talking to another useless drone do for me?

We at L. L. Bean are committed to customer satisfaction, sir. I keep the acid out of my voice as I recite from the Seasonal Employee Training Book, partly because know it will only enrage this guy further and partly because I just know this will be the one the managers randomly record for 'quality assurance'. Sometimes customers prefer to speak to --

You know what? Forget it. You've wasted enough of my time already, so you can just tell your boss that you just lost them another customer. I'm sure Land's End will be happy to fill our orders from now on, so you can take our name off all your lists.

Sir --

And if we get so much as another catalogue or email or phone call from you folks, I'll sue. Is that clear?

I give him my cheeriest phone smile and perkiest voice. I can certainly do that for you, Mr. Hutchins. Does this also mean you wish to cancel the order for the Washed Linen --

Yes, goddamit! Cancel everything!

Very good, I continue brightly. Is there anything else I can help you with today, Mr. Hutchins?

Are you stupid? Then the phone goes dead.

And you have a great holiday, too. I tap the 'Away' button on my phone to get me out of the queue and slide my headset down around my neck.

That sounded fun, Ruth-Anne says, settling back into the station next to me. She's in her late sixties -- photos of her twelve grandchildren get set up at each station she works at -- but get her going and she can make a teenager blush, which always cracks me up.

I'm not used to day-folks, I say with a shake of my head. That's the third one in an hour and a half and it's not even noon yet.

She nods knowingly. She's carrying a paper plate with two donuts and a small pile of Munchkins. She pulls a second plate from under the first, putting the coconut-crusted chocolate donut on it before handing it to me with a wink. Thought you could use something sweet after all that sour.

I smile and take the plate. I know I shouldn't, not after the two slices of banana bread and cream cheese I had earlier, and then the peanut butter cookies, but Ruth-Anne knows I love the coconut-crusted. Besides, I wasn't exaggerating; the whole day's been like this.

Thanks.

Don't mention it, she waves at the Munchkins, and those are for sharing.

I smile and bite into the donut. There's something sublimely perfect about the combination of toasted coconut, chocolate, and, of course, sugar.

So night-folks are better? Ruth-Anne asks, popping a honey-glazed Munchkin into her mouth.

I shrug. Maybe they're just more tired. Not as much energy to get angry.

Her eyes roll. Not day-folks; no, ma'am. She makes a twisting motion with her hands and her pleasant, jowly face screws up intensely. Sometimes I just want to wring their obnoxious little necks until their eyes pop out.

I smirk as I chew.

I'm serious, she says, taking another Munchkin. It's a tragedy what happens to folks when they forget they're talking to a human being. Everybody blames the Internet nowadays, but that's a load of shit.

I almost choke mid-swallow.

Her finger wags in the air. It's the parents' fault, is what it is, pure and simple. No-one ever had a bad word to say about my kids, and you know why? Because I raised them, not the television, or these computers. She looks up behind me and smiles warmly. Good morning, Timothy.

Mrs. Dennesy, Tim says behind me.

I swivel around. Our team's co-supervisor looks all of seventeen, smiling down at me with that fake grin they must teach courses on in MBA schools, the one supposedly intended to instill a sense of goodwill and teamwork between the smiler and the victim, but which only serves to forecast criticism and browbeating.

Hey, Kelly, he says brightly, leaning one arm on the half-wall separating me from the next station.

Hi, Tim. I keep my voice easy, guessing that Mr. Hutchins had a change of heart about wanting to complain to a supervisor. Whatever.

How's it going today? Smile in full force. Everything okay?

I shrug, not interested in playing the game. People are still angry at all the backorders and taking it out on us. About normal, I guess. How about you?

He pauses for a fraction of a second, trying to gauge whether I'm being sarcastic or not, and I feel a pang of regret. What was that about shooting the messenger? He's not a bad kid -- man; he's twenty-four, despite the baby face -- he's just doing his job.

Oh, great thanks. He says, a little off balance. Well, actually, I just got a flag that you initiated a full cancellation on an account. Everything okay?

The customer requested it, I say evenly. He was upset about the back-orders and demanded the cancellation.

Tim nods, looking more relaxed. Yeah, I played it back. He was a real ass. He winks knowingly at me. You handled it pretty well.

Thanks.

He nods. No problem. Just wanted to make sure you were fine. He turns slightly, as if to go, then pauses. Just one thing, though.

Cue the reprimand. Yeah?

Yeah. It's not an absolutely huge deal, but next time a customer requests an account cancellation like that, make sure you put it through to one of us first, okay? The smile again. Not that this Hutchins person sounded like he was in a mood to talk, of course, but you never know. He winks again, but the earlier believability is gone. It'll give us supervisors something to do, though, right?

Does he even hear how that sounds?

I make a vaguely agreeing sound and reach up to my headset. I'm feeling equal parts frustration at this boy for telling me the right way to do my job and anger at myself because he's right and I knew better.

He pats the half-wall. Great. Keep up the good work. He nods to Ruth Anne briefly. Mrs. Dennesy.

Timothy, Ruth-Anne says, stopping him in mid-turn. You know what I was remembering the other day? I was remembering when I used to babysit you and some of the other kids in the neighborhood after school.

Tim nods and ducks his head slightly. Of course.

Ruth-Anne grins. Well, I was remembering how you used to chase that little black-haired girl with all those lovely freckles, and I realized I couldn't remember her name. Do you remember?

A vague pink comes to Tim's cheeks, but this time his smile is more awkward and more genuine. Beth, he says immediately, glancing at the floor. Beth Mason.

Ruth-Anne smiles beatifically. Yes, of course. Oh, she was a handful, wasn't she? She turns to me, shaking her head in amusement. I think all the boys chased that girl at one time or another. Why she even-- Oh, she says, looking back at Tim. Sorry about that Timothy. Talking out of school.

He shrugs meekly. No, that's fine, Mrs. Dennesy. It's fine.

Ruth-Anne waves dismissively at him. For the last time, Timothy, call me Ruth-Anne.

He laughs a little too loudly and straightens up. Oh, I don't think so, Mrs. Dennesy. Thanks all the same. He pats my half-wall again and coughs slightly. Okay, well, I'll get out of your hair, then.

Ruth-Anne chuckles as he disappears around a corner. He's a good boy. Gets a stick up him sometimes, if you know what I mean, but he's not really bad. Just needs a little reminding from time to time. He gets that from his mother, unfortunately.

She finishes her Munchkin and rolls her eyes at me. Back to the mines. She un-clicks her 'Away' button and faces her monitor. Thanks for calling L. L. Bean . . .

Chapter 3

They were looking for a couple folks to stay extra, but it's just not my day. I feel a little guilty about refusing the extra money, but by the time three o'clock rolls around, I'm ready to wring a few necks, myself. People are screaming about everything from back-orders to color changes to why we don't carry their favorite style anymore.

How should I know? Some of us can't even get jobs and you're complaining because you can't blow your money on a whole new wardrobe?

My wedding ring snags on the inside of my parka as I shove my arm in and it tears the lining. My first impulse is to shred the whole damn thing, but I put a lid on it and take a slow breath. Another day done, another bit toward the mortgage.

It's been a little tight playing catch-up since the boiler blew up on us Thanksgiving morning -- yeah, that was fun -- but the flu's going around the call center and I've picked up hours the rest of the week, plus two double shifts for the weekend. Sunday's the last chance for anyone desperate enough to try and order overnight in time for Christmas; FedEx won't actually guarantee anything after Saturday, but that doesn't stop folks from trying.

I do have Monday off, though, to take the kids shopping. Of course, that'll be two days before Christmas and it'll be us and every other procrastinating shopper on the planet. I sigh as I pull up my jacket, mindful of my ring, and shoulder my purse.

Ruth-Anne touches my arm as I turn. Let me check, she says into her headset. One moment. She clicks her mute button and hands me a red and green envelope.

Ruth-Anne, I say, suddenly guilty. It never even occurred to me to get anything for her.

Hush. She shakes her head. I've got an empty house and plenty of time. You're here almost as often as the supervisors and you've got that family to take care of. I remember what that's like. She gives me an empathetic look. Anyway, it's nothing special, just a card, but you're a good egg, Kelly. She smiles. Have yourself a great Christmas.

What can I say to that? Thanks, Ruth-Anne. I smile. You, too.

She nods happily and turns back to her screen, tapping her mute button again. Yes, she says behind me as I leave. We do have the Canvas Driver Shirt in stock. What size are you looking for?

My nerves go right back on edge, but I keep walking. Am I the only one with back-order problems? I know it's not true and it's totally irrational, but it's still annoying. I really need to get out of here. I should've stayed in bed.

That thought hits me as I reach the front doors and my cheeks and neck flush immediately. I didn't mean it that way, of course, but as soon as I thought it, I remembered him, clear as a bell, and then the idea of spending a whole day in bed with him swept over me before I could stop it.

What is wrong with me?

Pushing through the door, I step out into the blustery afternoon. I leave my jacket open and my hat off as I stand on the sidewalk in front of the call center. A squall of wind blows the morning snow in circles through the parking lot under a grey sky. My skin tightens immediately from the chill, but the goose-bumps of cold at least chase my heated thoughts away. I suck in a great big breath of icy wind.

Starting to cool off some.

John, a prematurely retired lobsterman, smiles at me as he comes in for his shift. He's not wearing a coat or gloves, and he hardly bats an eye at the wind. Suspenders hold his hunter's plaid shirt over his rounding belly, and with his dungarees and his beat up Red Sox ball-cap, he's the archetypal Mainer, right down to the Down-Easter accent.

Starting to, I smile back, taking another brisk breath and reveling in the elements. Have a good one, John.

Ayuh, he nods, swiping his card at the door.

When I reach the minivan, I start the engine and grab the ice scraper, but my scar begins to itch even as I reach across the windshield. I rub it automatically, but the back of my neck prickles with a