Rabbit Blood

Chapter 1 - The Key To Salvation

Leslie didn't recall much more than the moment of impact. A Friday morning, just after Christmas. Waiting outside a library building for someone, she grew impatient, crossing the road for a coffee and some banana bread. Suddenly, BAM! - struck by a 2019 Fiat 500L.

Shit, she thought, then bounced off the car hood, flew gracelessly and landed on the road. No memories of the pain, broken bones or the like. Only blackness. She guessed the car was going fast enough to turn her brain into oatmeal.

She woke up in Hell.

Nothing but the clothes on her back, the contents of her pockets, and a body that wasn't hers.

Hell.

The first night was the hardest. She ran through the streets in desperation, looking for someone who cared: someone who could tell her what she'd done to deserve this, and what to do next. But there were no answers. There were only tough-talking demons and imps. One of them tried to mug her - she hoped - and Leslie barely escaped.

Day Two was spent in various alleyways. She took her panic attacks and crying fits on the move, too scared to stay in one place. The body she occupied was around four foot ten - a foot shorter than before. It had fine, short fur; long floppy ears in place of her wavy hair; disproportionately strong legs, and a tail. She couldn't stand to look at the beast she'd become.

Then came five days of moving from place to place, trying to figure out a plan. She slept in restroom cubicles for single hours at a time, to reduce the risk of theft or mindless violence. The women, she quickly learned, could be as bad as the men, so she kept her distance. She raided dumpsters for food, hoping nobody would mind.

At the end of her first week, Leslie was exhausted, alienated, and in dire need of cash. She walked through Pentagram City, asking every business-owner if help was needed. Saturday, more than a week after her death, she scored a low-paying job, waitressing at Hades Bar and Grill. "Five bucks an hour," the manager said, flashing gold teeth, "take it or leave it."

"Listen," Leslie said, trying to hoist herself onto a bar-stool crafted for taller demons, "I'll take it, but five isn't enough. I don't have a place to live. This'll barely cover a crappy hotel room!"

He hooted with laughter. "Hotel! That's a good one. You just passing through?"

Some drunkard who was slumped over the bar said, "I mean, there is the one Miss Thing's running. The rehabilitation station."

"Five's the best I can do, Sugartits."

"Wait, wait," Leslie said, giving up on the stool. "There's a... what, hotel for rehabilitation?"

The barfly nodded. "Yeah, Lucifer's kid wants to get people into Heaven. But it's not free bed and board."

Her eyes widened at the possibility of going to Heaven. "Is it busy there? They taking new reservations?"

Now the man looked annoyed at her questioning. "Fuck, man, I dunno. Everyone thinks it's a stupid idea."

Sleepy from the drink, he crumpled over, as Leslie deliberated to the sounds of conversation and snooker. It'd be a shame to take a job in this dive bar if there was any chance of redemption. However, she would need money to check in.

"Five," she agreed, "and I get to sleep in the cellar."

o - o - o - o - o

It took Leslie three weeks to save what she needed. What a rough three weeks. Her waitressing job was thankless, worse than her original stint from college. The floor was sticky, the music shit and the patrons handsy. Leslie figured her backside was a lovely blackish-blue from constant pinching.