I'm back in the lift, heading for the lobby of the Empire State Building.

I've been given the two folders by one suit, and a bag containing some clothes by another. The Devil had escorted me to the lift, saying that time was not his own, that I would be met in the lobby and that much of what I needed to know I would find in the folders and in my own time.

I can't say he filled me with confidence.

I'm alone in the lift as it descends. I couldn't understand at first why I had been given the clothes, but when I take them out of the bag, I have to admit I'm impressed. I had come into Hell wearing my favourite baggy cargo pants that were artfully distressed, and a hoody that proclaimed I was a lifeguard at a beach I'd never even been to. My trainers had been on their last legs before I'd walked for two hours in the desert, and now the soles were hanging off. Inside the bag were some practical looking clothes and boots.

By the time the lift is halfway down to the lobby, I'm changed, and I spend the rest of the time admiring myself in the mirrored lift wall. Damn I look good. I know it's shallow of me to think of my image at a time like this, but, wow! The clothes the Devil gave me are close fitting but comfortable and allowed free movement. I don't know what the dark, matt coloured material is, but it feels tough and durable.  At least it isn't leather. That would have been too much of a cliché. In a pocket of the jacket I find a pair of Raybans. Nice. I have an urge to wear them and look at the effect in the mirror. My miss-matched eyes disappear behind reflective lenses.

I wasn't sure what I expected when I reached the lobby. I assumed there would be some means by which I could get back to earth and start my hunt for Charles Hathershaw. I'd assumed I would need to find my way out of the city and back into the desert somehow. But when the doors open, instead of seeing a deserted lobby, I'm met by one full of American tourists. When I step out of the lift, leaving the bag full of my old clothes inside, I realise that I am already back on real Earth and in New York proper.

OK. So... What to do now? I make my way out into the street and I'm in the act of going through the pockets of the jacket, looking for some instructions, or money – anything I can use to help get me started, when I realise I'm being watched. Across the street is a man standing by a large black car. He is dressed like me – dark clothes and shades, and he's smiling as he stares. When he see's I've noticed him, he waves, and begins walking across the road. He doesn't look – just walks through the traffic like it isn't there. Cars sweep past without slowing. My heart is in my mouth but he makes it across without incident. When he reaches me, he holds out his hand and we shake.

"Aveline Flower. My name's Grant Coalbright. I'm to take you to the airport and make sure you get safely on your way."

"Are you a... a.." I stutter, not knowing how I should approach my fellow unmortals.

"A demon, yeah. But don't worry, I'm really a nice guy. Here – these are yours."

Grant hands me a smart phone, a passport and a wallet that bulges with several hundred dollars. I stick them in a pocket thinking I'll check them closely later and consider my new friend. He's good looking, with dark hair and a wholesome, American college football star air about him. I imagine his teeth would glow in the dark.

"I was told you would be new to our world. I see they weren't joking. You should have seen the look on your face when I crossed the road."

"How did you do that?" I ask, realising that I am way, way behind the curve here.

"No time like the present to learn. All you have to do is know that nothing will happen to you. If you are what they say you are, it should be no problem for you. This is demon 101 so to speak. Just cross, and be sure of yourself. Don't worry," he said, laughing at the look on my face, "I'll go with you, make sure you're OK. And remember, you're already dead. What's the worst that can happen?"

The demon seemed quite amused by the whole situation. Together we step into the road. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I'd noticed in the lift that I'd begun to feel more... purposeful, and my confidence was growing fast. It wasn't a feeling of invincibility exactly, but I definitely felt more capable of achieving whatever I needed to do. I put that growing confidence to the test in the road. It was fun. I felt a tingle of something like power. I just knew that nothing would happen, and so nothing did. I could feel the presence of each driver as they approached, and without conscious thought I made them move if they needed to, and no-one noticed. Not the drivers, their passengers, the pedestrians on the side-walks or the two policemen who were studiously ignoring the fact that Grant's car was parked illegally. By the time I reach the other side, I can feel the presence of everyone close by, except for Grant, who is completely blind to me, seventh sense-wise.  

"Are all demons impossible to read? Or is that just you?" I ask, wanting to know as much as I could.

"That's right, as are you to me. And angels too, by the way. You know us by the fact you can only see us with your eyes. If you can't sense it, it's supernatural – that's the rule."

Grant opens the passenger door to his car for me. It's a huge old muscle car and the thing looks awesome – shiny and black, with lowered suspension and big wheels and it's about a mile long. Not exactly subtle.

Grant gets in and starts the engine, which rumbles massively and echos off the buildings around. He pulls out without looking and floors it, leaving a trail of smoke and two black lines behind, and keeps it floored through two red lights before making a left turn, sliding between a garbage truck and a bus with inches to spare. I'm smiling.

"Where are we going?" I ask, as Grant drives for two blocks on the wrong side of the road to pass slow moving traffic.

"Airport. You've a plane to catch, although it won't be ready to leave for a few hours yet." He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and taps one out, lighting it with his free hand. "You want one?" he asks.

"No, thank you. It's bad for your health."

Grant gives me a look and smiles. "Tell you what. Why don't we go get a drink and we can discuss this whole being a demon thing?"

"You're forgetting I'm only half demon. So far I've had only one side of the story."

"Can't help you there, I'm afraid. You do drink, don't you?" he asks.

"Yes." This much is true – I have drunk before, but only been drunk once. That was enough for me. I wonder what the attraction is for a demon. "Tell me about the whole demon-being-able-to-deceive-human thing. How does it work?"

Grant's smile widens further and he gives me a raised-eyebrows look. "What bit do you want to know? The make people think you're someone else thing, or the change people's thoughts thing?"

"Both."

"OK," he laughs. "Well, you know about self image, right? How you think you look to someone else?" I nod my head in agreement. "All you have to do is change that self image. Think of yourself as being a different person. What people around you will see is what you want them to see. It gets harder the more ambitious the change though. You can change your clothes, height, skin colour, even your sex. Takes practice, and you will need to use it sooner or later, trust me."

"Right. And the other thing? Changing people's thoughts?"

"Well, it's not changing their thoughts exactly, more like planting a thought into their head. You have to be close – like you and me close for it to work. And have eye contact."  Grant flicks his cigarette butt out the window and taps out another. By this time we've crossed through a tunnel under the East River and are blasting along the Long Island Expressway at ninety. I'm aware there's a strange wailing sound and turn around to see a police car, lights flashing, coming up behind.

"Do you know we're being chased?" I ask.

"Yeah, he's been there for the last mile or two, trying to catch up. Hey! I'll demonstrate the deception thing, it'll be cool." Grant coasts onto the shoulder, and sits waiting for the policeman with a confident smile on his face. The officer steps out of his cruiser and saunters up to the window, all grim faced and officious looking.

"'Scuse me sir, would you mind showing me your licence?"

"Sure, officer," says Grant, giving me a smile and handing the policeman a piece of blank paper from the sun visor. The policeman looks at it for a second, then ducks down to look at Grant. His face registers surprise.

"I'm sorry Sir, I-  I didn't know it was you!" The officer lowers his voice and asks confidentially, "How come you ain't with any secret service guys, don't they always travel with you Sir?"

"Well, officer," drawls Grant, "I normally do, but today I'm just taking my lady friend here back to the airport. Been a busy day at the UN, you know?" Grant gives the officer a wink, and the policeman smiles.

"Well, Sir, I won't say anything. I voted for you, last election! Would you mind, Sir, if I had your autograph?"

"Why, sure officer! Here you go." Grant signed the piece of blank paper with an imaginary pen, and smiled at me again as the policeman walked back to his cruiser.

"He thought you were the President of the United States?"

"Yep." The muscle car starts with a loud rasp of exhaust and we blast back onto the freeway, quickly back up to a hundred miles an hour and weaving through traffic.

"Won't he come after us again?" I ask, thinking we were hardly being inconspicuous.

"Nah," smiles Grant. "Besides, when he gets back in his car, he'll have forgotten how to drive for the next thirty minutes. Won't even be able to start it! Now, about that drink..."

Grants pulls off the highway at the next junction and heads off into Queens. It's not long before we're driving through an area of less salubrious quality, with strip joints and betting shops interspersed with pawn brokers and gun sellers.

We pull into a parking lot next to a row of bars with a somewhat dubious look about them. A neon sign in the window of the nearest proclaims it to be 'Jake's Place'. The windows have wire grating permanently fixed over them and the sidewalk outside is stained and sticky-looking. "This looks perfect," says Grant, getting out of the car. "Here's your chance to try your self-image change." Grant looks at the bar, then back at me and smiles wider. "Here's what I suggest..."

A few minutes later, I follow Grant inside. We get stares as we enter, and I can tell from the emotions and vibes being given off that we definitely do not fit in here. The first man I walk past confirms that my chosen self-image is working. I can read the thoughts going through his mind like they were being broadcast on a loud speaker, even without the leer he gives me.

The image I held was what I thought of as 'librarian'. Straight hair, Buddy Holly glasses with clip-on shades to hide the eyes, plain brown dress down to just above the knee, but fitting closely enough to show off the curves of my body. Black shoes and white socks pulled up high. I looked innocent and vulnerable – not the kind of person who walks into an all day bar where the inmates have spent several hours drinking beer.

Grant looks the same to me as he did before, but he has told me he would look to humans like he'd stepped out of an exclusive tennis club – white trousers, shoes and t-shirt, with a lemon sweater draped over his shoulders, the arms tied loosely over his chest. Gold watch and man-perfume. Ultra-cheesy.

Grant looks like he's enjoying this. He takes a place at the bar and orders us both a drink as I sit primly on a bar stool next to him. I find that I'm enjoying this too, in a wicked, tricksy sort of way. There is a part of me however – the angel part, I'm sure – that is looking on with disapproval, shaking her head and tutting. I choose to ignore it for now. Since meeting Mr Coalbright, I've been feeling more than a little devilish, frankly.

Just go with the flow, girl.

"Whisky?" I say, looking questioningly at Grant who's holding out a bottle towards me.

"The only drink for the likes of you and me. Tell me, do you feel hungry?"

I think about it for a second, then shake my head. "No, now you come to mention it. Not at all."

"That's because you don't need to eat. You're dead, see? No need for food. But you can still drink. And the only drink worth having when you're dead, is whisky."

"Why? Can it still get you drunk?" I ask.

"Not in the way you think it means. Go on - have some."

I sip the tumbler while Grant downs his in one. I've never been a fan of spirits before, but this tastes really good. In a few seconds I've finished the glass and Grant pours me another.

After three more glasses I begin to feel a glow in my stomach. It's a good feeling, and I can also feel my lingering doubts and concerns ebbing away. I'm conscious of a man sat next to me, who's been staring and edging closer all the time. His desire and imagination are working overtime, I can tell, and he is getting to the point of making an indiscretion. He leans closer and says in a beery breath, "Hey, lady. You look like you need a real fella to show you a good time. Ditch the dweeb here and I'll treat you right – they got rooms here you can rent by the hour." I ignore him, but this only serves to irritate and he stands up over me, swaying slightly. In a loud voice he says, "Hey! You hear me, lady?  Only one reason you come in a place like this, dressed like that. You must be wantin' a real man."

He's laughing and looking at his mates who are sharing the fun and urging him on. I turn my head slowly and pull down my shades getting eye contact and giving him the full unsettling effect of my miss-matched eyes, while projecting a feeling of imminent mortal danger straight into his all too easily receptive mind. He falls backward over his chair and scampers out of the bar, whimpering, followed by the puzzled stares of his friends.

"That's more like it!" exclaims Grant, chuckling into his tenth glass. Another bottle of whiskey has appeared on the bar. I help myself to a glassful. My seventh. The bartender is giving us odd looks now. "This is good stuff," enthuses Grant, holding up his glass. "I tell you what, I feel like doing something amazing right now. Do you feel it?"

To be honest, I was feeling on edge, like I had someplace I had to go and things to do, but in a good way, like I was a spring coiled tight and ready to be unleashed. I felt like running, or climbing a building. Grant was expounding about something but I wasn't really listening. My heart was thumping and my breathing coming faster, which was kind of odd, being dead and all. If I didn't do something energetic soon, I was going to burst. Grant was saying something to me, but he was having to repeat it louder over the noise of motorbikes that were pulling into the parking lot outside the bar.

"What?" I ask, trying to concentrate over the noise and commotion going on inside me and outside.

"I said, do you feel it? The need to do something epic? I do! Let's do it, the both of us, let's go out and cut loose! That's what the whisky does – it's the demon energy drink with added fizz. I know! Let's... let's go and have a FIGHT!

"WHAT!?" I yelp.

"Outside, now! You'll see! It's perfect! Come on!"

And with that, Grant pulls me across the bar and pushes me outside, into a parking lot full of roaring Harley Davidsons.

Hells Angels. Big, beefy guys with attitudes and aggression to match.

"Hey! Pussies! Want to try your luck?" It was Grant, yelling at the massed bikers, who turned and stared at us and started shouting obscenities back. Grant was smiling a huge smile, like he was having the time of his life. I was trembling – but not with fear.

With anticipation.

We were being surrounded by bikers, Oh yes, this would be fun. Out of the corner of his mouth, Grant says, "Here's your opportunity to try out some skills. Just try not to kill any of them, OK? It'll take too much explaining."

I knew I could handle it. I just knew.

One of the bikers behind me makes a grab for my backside. Before he could touch, I shoot out my hand and grab his wrist, not needing to look behind to know where I'd find it. "Don't even think it," I tell him.

And so it starts.

Less than two minutes later, it's over.

Thirty bikers lie on the floor, groaning and whimpering. When it got to the last last ten guys, Grant didn't even bother to take part, sauntering over to his car and leaning on the bonnet, just watching and grinning and laughing every now and again.

I was like some kind of street fight guru on fast forward. Everything had slowed right down, except for me, so I'd had plenty of time to see what was coming and to counter it, then attack, and like the road crossing and the image thing, I'd just knew what to do. The poor chaps had no chance. And, boy, could I punch hard! I had to really try to hold myself back in order not to kill one of them. When it was over, I'd lost my librarian self-image, but as everyone else in a two block radius had run away when the fight started, no-one would notice the change. Sirens blared in the distance.

I inspected my hands and elbows – no marks there – and I wasn't aware of any injuries on my body. I'm pretty sure nobody actually got close enough to even touch me.

Grant laughs again and claps. "Very good, Aveline. That was fun. But we better shoot – plane leaves in thirty minutes and we can't waste time explaining this to the cops."

We get back in his Charger and squeal out of the parking lot, clipping a row of motorbikes and knocking them down like dominos as we leave.