Driving home in a stolen car—breaking speed limits, mounting a curb or two, and rear-ending a car at a light and then zooming off—a part of him kind of hoped the cops would stop him just so he could vent. Resisting arrest sounded like just the thing he needed right about now.

Alas, the cops let him fly like an Antichrist out of Hell, and he made it home in record time.

Alone.

Because Isobel didn’t want him.

Bitch.

No, not a bitch. Even angry with her, he couldn’t hate her. Who could blame her for not wanting a bum who only had aspirations of grandeur and underwear with holes?

For now.

She’ll wish she was nicer when I finally do come into my power. Even if, at times, he doubted his fate.

How he wished he could have found a way to get her to like him now. As he was.

Just a man and woman who met in a cemetery and bonded over dead people.

He’d thought for sure when they’d run into each other at the library that fate had finally decided to give him a break. A day that had started with such promise ended up stinking like a pile of dog shit left in the sun.

The whole sequence of events baffled him.

From kissing to dumped.

No wonder he turned to alcohol once he got home. At least it didn’t reject him. As to the handful of ’shrooms he swallowed, the beer acting as a chaser, it acted as the dinner he’d skipped.

Chris was on his sixth—possibly seventh—beer, ignoring the imaginary spiders crawling on his arms, when the knock came at the door.

“Fuck off.” He might have slurred a bit.

“You get better results when you fuck on,” a sultry female voice replied. “Now don’t be so grouchy and let me in. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

Usually promising words, but Chris didn’t find himself in the mood. He also found it kind of suspicious. Even somewhat wasted, he knew women didn’t just show up out of the blue promising sex. Chances were it was the ’shrooms talking, but given the choice between swatting the critters crawling over his body and fending off an imaginary woman who wanted his body…

Easy choice. “Who sent you?” he shouted, still not motivated enough to get out of his chair. The pit of pink alligators in front of it helped keep his ass planted.

“Who says anyone sent me? Can’t a horny girl visiting a cemetery expect a good time from the groundskeeper?”

The words slid over him, teasing with sensual promise, wrapping around him and making him forget why that didn’t seem plausible. Sure, it happened. Hadn’t he watched a movie—with lots of nudity and sex—about a girl recently risen from the dead who needed semen to stay alive instead of blood?

A blowjob didn’t sound half bad right then. He would have preferred if Isobel were the one knocking, but Isobel didn’t want him, and he was drunk, not to mention irritated enough that he didn’t care who sucked him off.

Leaping over the alligator pit, wobbling on one foot as he hopped across the backs of the turtles, he stumbled his way to the two doors and made a jab at the handle, hoping it didn’t bite him.

The knob turned without taking off any of his fingers, and he opened the door. A buxom blonde stood framed in the archway, her hair almost white and bouffant, teased into a halo around her head.

Being a man, his gaze didn’t long admire her fine features, especially given that her cleavage in the crop top—the shadowy valley between two large breasts—drew the eye. Her mini skirt had probably begun its purpose in life as a headband and only barely covered her girly bits. She stood in heels at least six-inches high and stiletto-thin at the tips. Impressive.

His gaze moved upward and stopped at her face. Lips the color of cotton candy pursed into a full smile, and blue eyes sparkled.

“Well, aren’t you a handsome fellow.”

Yeah, he was. Pity Isobel didn’t appreciate it.

“Mind if I come in?” she asked, and yet she didn’t wait for a reply, pushing her way into his home.

He let her. Seemed easier than arguing.

“Watch out for the pink gators,” he offered, being a good host before hopping his way back to his seat. He collapsed in his chair and regarded her. Noted her hourglass shape and the skin showing…lots of exposed skin.

I think I’m too drunk. Had to be because she stirred nothing in him.

Not the slightest twitch.

Then again, was he really surprised? He’d been off his panty-dropping game since he met Isobel.

Isobel. Isobel. Isobel. He repeated the name three more times and wished she didn’t plague him like a curse. Did they have a cream to cure him of his affliction? Or was that only for genital warts?

“So, tell me about yourself,” the blonde said, making no effort to hide the fact that she checked out his place.

“I’d rather not. You didn’t mention when you asked to come in that small talk would be involved.” The more she talked, the more she reminded him that a strange woman invaded his space. I want my duckie. And not the odd red one with horns he’d spotted swimming in his sink.

She tilted her head to the side, and her lips pursed into a pout. “Don’t you want to know who I am?”

“No. That would require effort and a fuck, and I’m all out of those today.”

“Aren’t you a grumpy pants.”

No, he was a guy rapidly losing his buzz and realizing there was something off about the woman in his house. For all her talk about being here to give him a good time, she appeared more predatory than seductive. “Who are you, and why are you really here?” Because talking to a figment of his imagination wasn’t crazy at all.

“I told you. Hot monkey sex.”

“Try again.”

“The truth?” Her candy-pink lips pursed. “Very well. Word is out that you’re styling yourself as the Antichrist.”

“Who told you that?” he barked. Sure, he’d never kept it a secret, but he’d also never bandied it about. He had enemies that might be looking for him—and a demonic mother wanting to reunite.

The fact that the woman even mentioned it just lent more credence to the whole hallucination theory. What surprised him, though, was how real she seemed compared to the other things he easily ignored, such as the ghost of his mom, Clarice, putting a finger to her lips, shushing him.

“Does it matter who mentioned it? I’m here to ask if it’s true. Are you the Antichrist? Is your daddy Lucifer?”

No use denying it. “Yup. What of it?”

“It’s a very bold claim.” She trailed a nail across his counter, brave considering the germs probably amassed on its unclean surface.

“It’s the truth.” As far as he knew.

She winced. “You might not want to use that word.”

“I’ll use whatever damned word I like, and if you have a problem with it, then too fucking bad.” Why couldn’t he have a nice imaginary time while high? Even wasted, people wanted to taunt him.

She waggled a finger at him. “Testy, testy. You definitely have the temper of a man who thinks he’s greater than he is. But let’s see how much of your greatness is real and what’s false.” She drew close to him and straddled his lap.

Usually, this kind of position led to fun things.

Usually being the key word.

He still didn’t feel a thing. My dick is broken. He blamed Isobel.

Determined to give it a fair shot, he tried to lose himself in the shadowy cleft peeking from her shirt. His mind wandered and wondered if she was one of those women who kept her phone and spare cash in there. After all, she didn’t carry a purse. Despite his curiosity, he didn’t motorboat her cleavage to find out.

Besides, did he really want to wake up and realize he was blowing raspberries on his pillow again?

“While I love a good ogling as much as the next girl, I need your eyes here for a minute.” She cupped his cheeks and brought his gaze in line with her full lips. Lips the right color for dick sucking. The right plumpness, too.

Still not even a twitch.

He needed another beer.

“You asked me earlier who I was,” she purred, leaning close. Her perfume stung his nose. Someone liked to cake it on. “Ask me again.”

“That was before. When I gave a shit. The feeling has passed.” As had his mood. “So leave. Vamoose. Go away and find some other hallucinating schmuck to annoy.” Leave him alone to drink his beer and wallow in his misery because Isobel didn’t want him.

She rejected me. The words would cease to exist when he came into power.

“I can’t leave just yet. We’re not done. Why don’t we start over, handsome. My name is Bambi.”

At that, a snort escaped him. “Let me guess. You’re a stripper.”

“As a matter of fact, I am. A featured stripper, who travels across the country. I’m also a porn star. Maybe you’ve seen me in action?”

Maybe. But, then again, he paid more attention to the fucking than faces. “Nope.”

“Well, I’ll have you know I’ve won numerous awards for my skills. Would you like me to show you why?” She leaned back and licked her lips.

He almost yawned.

She frowned. “Don’t you want to kiss me?”

“Do you want honesty? Which, I will admit, isn’t something I’m fond of. No. You’re a little overdone for my taste.” Despite his blue balls, she just didn’t tempt.

A frown knit her brow. “Dammit. No one mentioned you were gay.” She removed herself from his lap.

“I am not gay. I like women plenty. Just not you.”

The rebuke didn’t please her at all, but rather than look angry, she appeared pensive. “So if I said I wanted to suck your dick, you’d say…”

Before he could control himself, his nose wrinkled. “Ugh. No.” And the repugnance wasn’t just because this Bambi person wasn’t Isobel. Something else about her struck him as…wrong. Even more wrong than the fact that he’d completely imagined her. He couldn’t explain it better than that.

“Well, this is a fascinating turn of events.”

“Not really. I’m not even thirty and wondering if I need some pills.” He glared down at his crotch. Why oh why did it betray him? ’Shrooms or not, he expected it to work on demand.

“I think I should properly introduce myself. I am Bambi Josephine Silverdust.”

“And?”

“If you really are the Antichrist, then that makes me your sister.”

At that, he chuckled. “Sure you are. Because Lucifer has a daughter. You know, Isobel tried to convince me of that bullshit, too. I didn’t believe her, and I certainly don’t believe you. I’m not that gullible.” If the Devil did exist, then Chris doubted he was popping out girls left and right. Prophecy said the Devil would have a son—Me. A son who was meant for great things.

Eventually.

“Actually, Lucifer has many daughters. Father gets around quite a bit. He is Hell’s biggest whore, bigger even than me. Although I keep trying to beat his record. It doesn’t help that Nefertiti keeps trouncing me with her epic orgies. That woman has a harem to rival a sultan.”

Most of that went right over his head, but he did pick up on one thing. “So your dad is seeding bastards left and right. That’s his problem.” Did the guy not know how to use a condom? What idiot kept having sex and impregnating women? “It must cost him a fortune in child support. But I don’t know what that has to do with me.”

Bambi laughed. “Oh no, our father never takes responsibility. The word is anathema to him. The most he does is recognize our existence. With only a few exceptions, he is a rather hands-off kind of dad. Only Muriel ever really got the full parenting experience. Poor lamb.”

“And who is Muriel?”

“My sister. Yours too if you are who you say you are. I still have my doubts about your origins.”

Despite knowing none of this could be real, he crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “You have doubts? I have plenty, honey…about you. Why should I believe you’re anything more than a blatantly obvious stripper who probably moonlights as an escort?”

“Best escort in the biz several years running. You should see my trophy room.”

“Have a padded room, too?” He arched a brow.

“Actually, I do. Some men really get off on the kinkier things.” She winked.

“I’m surprised no one has choked you before now for talking too much.”

She winked. “I’ve been gagged plenty. And they usually thank me after.”

“Is this before or after they throw money at you?”

A chuckle left her. “Your acerbic sense of humor is rather familiar. Tell me, do you lie, cheat, and steal, too?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Sleep around?”

“All the time.” Or least he used to until he met Isobel and ruined a good thing.

“Bite the heads off small animals and drink their blood?”

“Fuck no.”

“Dance naked around a bonfire in the moonlight?”

“Again, no, but get me drunk enough, and I will streak naked through the cemetery.” Keeping a straight face when answering the door to the cops who told him they’d received reports of a naked ghoul howling and running through the yards, scaring nearby residents, didn’t prove easy. Just like their remarks that the man running wasn’t well endowed annoyed. It had been cold that night.

“Do you bear the numbers of the Devil on your body?”

“If you mean a tattoo of six-six-six, then the answer would be no.” Something that always bothered him. All the movies claimed the Antichrist would have those digits imprinted on his body. He’d even gone so far once as to shave himself bald and used mirrors to peek. Those same mirrors gave him views of his body that no man should ever see.

“Are you sure you don’t have any type of strange marking on your body? Perhaps a mole or a scar? A birthmark?”

“I have one of those. But it’s not a number or anything. Just a squiggle on my ass. Want to see?” Before she could reply, he stood from the chair, turned, and dropped his pants. He waggled his butt and displayed his odd birthmark. He’d had a girlfriend draw it for him, but couldn’t figure out how to get Google to search a picture. To those looking, it appeared as three squiggles—χιϛ.

“May I touch?” She leaned forward without waiting for a reply and pressed it. Her fingers were warm, and the nails sharp when she scraped it.

“What are you doing?”

She leaned back. “Just checking to see if it’s real.”

Too much of this seemed unreal. Was this Bambi person actually here?

No. She couldn’t be. Look at her. Strippers did not just wander into cemeteries and act like PIs when talking about the Antichrist.

Still, it seemed rude to ignore her. He yanked his pants up as he replied, “It’s real, and, as you can see, not a triple six.”

“Because it’s in Aramaic. The ancient language of those who talked to the angels.”

“You mean it says something?” He frowned over his shoulder at his ass. “Or are you fucking with me?” He turned a suspicious glare on her. He didn’t remember any of the cult ever making that correlation, but then again, they were morons more interested in the orgy sex aspect than the mystical parts.

Bambi eyed him, and he realized that, while she might appear as an overdone tart and come on strong, behind her blue eyeshadow and thick mascara hid a keen mind and knowledge.

“Are you real?”

“What do you mean? Don’t I look real?”

“No. But then again, what do I know? I’ve seen lots of shit lately that isn’t supposed to exist.”

“Why do you think you’re Lucifer’s son?” she asked.

“It’s what my mother told me.”

“Who is your mother?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “The woman I thought was my mother apparently lied to me, and now I can’t get any answers because she’s dead. Some weird thing killed her. Then I asked this fortuneteller I knew, but that didn’t end well either. Every time I try to find out who I really am, people die. So keep asking. But don’t blame me if it happens to you, too.”

“I’d like to see someone try. How did they die?”

He grimaced. “Not pleasantly.”

“Tell me, can you do anything?”

“I can do a lot of things.” A familiar leer pulled at his lips.

Bambi shook her head at him as if scolding a naughty boy. “Not bedroom tricks. I mean magic ones. Can you move objects with your mind? Or suck the life force of someone while having sex?”

“Uh, no.”

“Do you feel more powerful after you orgasm?”

His grin widened. “Who doesn’t?”

“Any unexplained weird things such as nullifying magic around you? Muriel can do that. Pisses off the mortal witches and warlocks, but it doesn’t work against demonic or innate magic. Only the spell version by mortals.”

Sounded like a cool thing to be able to do. Alas… “No, I don’t think I have that ability.”

“How about talking to animals?” He shook his head. “Walking on water? That show-off Jesus used to do that until God made him stop. Something about being humble. Which is totally—”

“—overrated.”

They stared at each other as they both said it at the same time.

“Start fires with your mind?” she asked.

Chris shook his head.

“Mind control?”

Another negative.

“Raising the dead?”

At that, he froze. “What makes you say that? Has the video from the museum gone viral already?” That might explain why this woman had appeared on his doorstep out of nowhere. Or was this just his mind still playing tricks?

“What video? Don’t bother telling me. I’ll Google it later. So you’ve seen the dead rise?”

“Yes. A few days ago in the cemetery and earlier today at the museum.”

“Father will want to hear of this.”

“Ah, yes, dear old dad, Lucifer. How is the horny devil?”

“Annoyed that rumors of an Antichrist interrupted his golf game. Wait until we interrupt it again by paying him a visit.”

“What do you mean visit? You mean he’s here? Nearby?”

“Of course not. He’s in Hell, where he belongs. The place doesn’t run itself, you know. Shall we pay him a visit?”

But Bambi didn’t point to the door leading out from his cottage. Rather, her hand sketched some strange symbols in the air, symbols that glowed before merging to form a strangely blurry spot.

“What is that?”

“A portal to Hell, of course. How do you feel about meeting the man you’ve been claiming is your father?”

Actually entering another dimension and confronting the demon who may or may not have created him?

Fuck that. Let the bastard come to him. He still had beers left in his fridge.

Perhaps that was why he didn’t feel any remorse when he shoved the blonde bimbo through the slit in time and space, swept it aside with a hand, not surprised when it disappeared, and hit the kitchen to grab another brew.

He also eyed the mushrooms on the counter. Good batch, apparently. The hallucinogenic factor was high. They’d fetch a good price from his clients.

Because no way had he just been visited by Lucifer’s daughter. He might be high and drunk, but he wasn’t stupid.

Portals to Hell did not exist.

But if Hell doesn’t exist, then what does that make me?

He had another beer in hopes of finding the answer.