A Christmas Demon for Clara

by Chloe Alice Balkin

  Copyright © 2019 by Chloe Alice Balkin

  All rights reserved.

  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

  More From Chloe Alice Balkin

  About Chloe Alice Balkin

  Chapter 1

  Thanks to a demon who could time travel—and did so with an astonishing disregard for consequences—no one knew how the flatland known as the Carnage Pond of Hell had earned such a name.

  Until now.

  So many scourge had just been slaughtered that their blood had created a shallow lake on which their limbs floated. The minions who'd already been sent in to fish out valuables left little wakes behind them as they swam through the muck. Most of the Lords and Minor Lords who'd cut down the uprising were glowing with pride over solving the riddle of the Carnage Pond's nomenclature, but not Locke. Mostly, he was just hungry.

  He found a perch that wasn't too entrail spattered, pulled a block of chalk out of his pocket, and squatted down, drawing a small square on the rock. It shimmered when the lines connected, and Locke knocked on it to open a door—to his pantry. He plucked from it a pre-packaged, mass produced, fudge round cake. He threw the cellophane onto the pile of scourge corpses he'd made and bit into the filled chocolate fluff.

  Most demons got off on this whole torture-and-maim-and-decapitate shit. Druxel, for example, was literally glowing as he stomped through the battlefield, snapping bones under each fall of his heavy boots. For Locke, this weird little cake sandwich thing was his afterglow. The reward for a good day's slaughter.

  Druxel laughed loudly, his voice a crack of thunder. "Still eating that shit?" he yelled as he approached.

  Locke didn't take offense. Druxel's favorite meal was raw meat, the smellier the better. He wouldn't have any appreciation for a confection produced by a petite human named Debra. Hell, he'd probably eat Little Debbie. Druxel had lost his Earth privileges centuries ago for that sort of thing.

  Locke was careful to avoid losing his privileges. The candy in Hell sucked.

  "Good battle, commander," Locke said stiffly when Druxel finally waded through the carnage and got up on the rock with him.

  "You need to lighten up!" Druxel laughed as he clapped Locke on the back, no doubt leaving a bloody handprint on Locke's shoulder. He rolled it back and, yeah, it was sticky. "You fought well. You fought proudly. No demon should be proud in combat and reticent in victory."

  "I'm tired of Hell. I'm tired of defending a place I'd rather not be."

  Druxel peered at him, studying him for some secret. "Is there a human?"

  Locke returned the look. "There are…billions of humans?"

  "But one. Have you found your aionia on Earth?"

  This was Locke's turn to laugh. "Commander, you were the only one stupid enough to get mated. Besides, who would want a human to be their aionia forever? Their bodies are so squishy. You know they die by accident? Regularly? No way. I just like humans for their pastries."

  Druxel shook his head, his massive horns flinging blood everywhere. Ever since finding his aionia, Druxel had been fucknut crazy. Their squadron's other wrath demon, Killian, was busy shredding corpses, burning off his residual rage, and this fool Druxel was dopey-eyed thinking about his mate. Probably not even naked time thoughts.

  "You'll come around to taking a mate one day, my friend. In the meantime, my Ramellen found this for you."

  Druxel produced a piece of paper, nothing fancier than basic printer paper, folded and crumpled from its time in his pocket. Once it was unfolded, Locke saw it was a print-out of a Yelp listing. He took the paper from Druxel and scanned it, noting that Ramellen had highlighted one of the reviews printed.

  BEST LEMON BARS IN THE WHOLE WORLD I SWEAR TO GOD

  Locke didn't know who Maya S. was or if her opinions were sound, but if there was a single chance in all of Hell that these were the best lemon bars on all of Earth, Locke needed to go right now.

  "Isn't she amazing?" Druxel beamed.

  "I won't know until I try the lemon bars, will I?"

  "Not the baker! My Ramellen. How many females you think would remember how much their aionia's buddy loved lemon bars?"

  Locke had never thought of Druxel as his buddy, but he nodded anyway. Slowly. Speculatively. Druxel was a wrath demon, after all. Better to nod than stir his anger.

  "I can't wait to tell her how happy you are about this."

  "Am I?"

  "You're acting all grim about it, but I can tell you're excited."

  Locke snorted. "Too bad Ramellen can't tell when you're excited."

  Druxel punched him so hard in the gut ribs snapped. Just a little sex joke, and Druxel was storming off in a huff, likely to Ramellen so he could look at her with gooey eyes as she dragged him around by the nose hairs.

  As the ribs knitted back together, Locke drew a square big enough for him to stand on and read the address to the best lemon bars in the whole world, according to one Yelp reviewer. The bakery, Sweet Memories by Jubilee, was located in White River, New York. Locke couldn't even be sure if this was in the densely packed southeast corner of the state or the miles and miles of farm and mountain that took up the rest of the state. Hopefully, it was Long Island, where there were enough bakeries for Maya S. to sample a variety of lemon bars. If this was some small-town shop, Locke was about to be seriously disappointed.

  You better not let me down, Jubilee, Locke thought as he stepped into the chalk box and plummeted into White River, New York.

  The trapdoor took Locke to an alley between two squat, brick buildings, right behind a dumpster. His portals were good like that, never opening in front of humans, always masking his most demonic qualities. Peachy, pale skin, the smallest of fangs, no horns.

  A deep breath brought disappointment in the form of crisp, clean air only lightly muddied by the dumpster. Definitely not New York City.

  He made a door to his closet, changed into respectable business attire that wasn't splattered with scourge blood, and walked out of the alley to a quaint, snow-dusted main street. Across the way was a town square complete with a playground and a dog park, plus a spread of at least twenty carolers. The platform they sang on was adorned with silver bells, larger-than-life candy canes, and at least ten feet of Christmas tree. Every inch of the park was decorated for the upcoming holiday, and that included most of the people strolling by.

  Those sweaters were hate crimes against fashion.

  Locke shivered and popped the collar on his wool overcoat, protecting himself from the white stuff drifting down from the sky, and joined in with the midday bustle on the thoroughfare. At least he wasn't too far from his destination, he noted when he saw the sign for the shop on the block facing him. The storefront of the shop was as festively accented as the rest of the square, but he was willing to ignore that; that was business.

  He did his best to exchange greetings with the overly polite townspeople until he saw
the flitter of purple light across the street, in the park. He tried to ignore it, writing it off as an unfortunate decoration, but it was heading in the same direction as him. He stepped out of the traffic and into the street to get another look.

  There, moving at a slow, clunky pace, was a cherub wisp. A lesser angel cloaked. It could have been there to do anything, but its color and erratic pattern made Locke think it was on a combat mission with an unwieldy weapon. Most didn't turn purple unless they'd had a rough go of it, and most cherubim tasks involved making clouds, counting butterflies, giving wings to angels when bells rang. Stupid shit.

  Not this asshole. That little fleck of purple glitter was on a mission that looked like it was going to mess up Locke's plans for the day.

  Locke didn't have any fancy cloaking ability. He blended, and that was the best Hell could do for demons. But he blended well enough that when he sprinted across the road and a driver had to slam on his brakes, Locke pulled off an apology by lifting his hands in the air, and the driver sighed but shooed him on. Once he was in the park, there was enough coverage from the evergreens and Christmas displays that no one noticed him drawing a square on a brick wall and producing from it a lasso and a long, honed blade that shone as though coated in liquid.

  No one noticed him flicking his lasso at the wisp, either, and he'd already dragged it back into an alcove the restrooms were tucked away in before the cherub decloaked.

  The fat crapmuffin tumbled to the pavement as it struggled with the lasso, its glittery wings useless when actual physics were involved. The wings weren't made out of anything at all, just sparkles and spice and all the gross shit angels thought were nice. Lasso was made of rope, and the rope was wrapped around Locke's arm.

  "Let go!" the creature grunted as it pushed at the lasso, but the rope was also made of burrs that snagged onto themselves and into flesh. For all the cherub's pulling and prodding, all he'd accomplished was leaking a good bit of iridescent angel blood.

  That had Locke smiling. Not much outside of drowning himself in confections did that, but who could hate on angel bloodshed? "I wouldn't let you go if you paid me. Where are you going in such a hurry?"

  The cherub looked up at him with beady gold eyes. "I'll tell you nothing, demon."

  Locke shrugged. "I'm not your enemy." The cherub said nothing to that, so Locke admitted, "I don't care enough about you to be your enemy. You're a bug. A flea. A parasite on a flea. But if you have a good reason to be out here, I won't squash you." It was honest to a point; Locke could conceive of the notion that one day a cherub would give him a valid reason not to kill it. Would today be that day?

  Doubtful.

  Especially once the cherub lifted its fat, squashy arm and pointed right at Sweet Memories by Jubilee. "Abomination! Must kill!"

  Locke followed the line the cherub drew, not just to the shop but to the woman standing there. Despite the chilly air and slippery streets, she stood there in heels and a knee-length dress, white lace puffed up by a slightly longer blue petticoat. She wore a short winter coat and had opted for ear muffs instead of a hat, mindful of the pigtails that cascaded over her shoulders in silver curls tipped in cobalt.

  Locke suspected that the cherub pointed not at the shop but at her, and the woman, burdened by a stack of boxes and waiting for someone to open the door, was Jubilee. An abomination, apparently, with extremely nice legs.

  Locke didn't consider himself to be a gentleman, but he was a demon who would do anything to get what he wanted, even if it involved manners. He ran the cherub through with his Styx-dipped blade, watching to make sure the thing evaporated back to heaven before tucking the blade and lasso back in storage. All he had to do was dash across the street to help the woman into her shop and he'd surely score himself double lemon bars.

  But by the time he turned back to the shop, she'd already been let in.

  Chapter 2

  Clara never expected any of her patrons to help her, but they always did anyway. She rewarded them today, giving the table of older gentlemen all a free cookie and espresso for helping her carry in the boxes of supplies left over from the Winter Wonderful Gala set-up. It had been silly for her to go in through the front, but she'd already gotten word of a scuffle between her sisters, and that made the back door even more challenging.

  "How long have they left you unattended?" she laughed when she noticed there wasn't even an employee standing at the well-tinseled counter.

  "Aww, Miss Jubilee, you know how those two cats of yours fight," Roger said with a wink. The man was old enough to be her grandfather but had always been a bit saucy with her. "Your Kaydee is in the back breaking them up."

  "She's a good girl you got there," Bill said, and Clara swore the waggle of his eyebrows had a meaning behind it, but she couldn't figure out what.

  She scanned the tables to see if anyone was eying the counter, waiting for help, but all was well. Busy, now that schools were closed for the Christmas break and college kids were coming back, but Sweet Memories by Jubilee never attracted a rowdy crowd. Clara collected her boxes and plowed into the back to assess the damage.

  Kaydee had a spatula in one hand, a whisk in the other, and on opposite ends of the utensils were Hazel and Eloise. Hazel had tufts of black-and-purple hair sticking out in all crazy directions, and the laces in her black leather skirt were half pulled from their grommets. She was grinning and crouching, ready to attack. Eloise had a bright blonde wisp of hair loose from her otherwise tidy coif, a splotch of flour on the ruffle of her yellow chiffon top, and tears streaming down her cheeks.

  "Miss Jubilee!" Kaydee said with a bright, happy smile. "I was protecting the kitchen! Can I take your coat for you?" She set down the utensils, the appearance of Clara seeming to calm down whatever had the shop in such an uproar that Jonathan had been sent to the banquet hall to retrieve her.

  "That's alright," she said as she worked down the buttons of her double-breasted pea coat and took it off. She hung it on her hook, placed her ear muffs over them, and shook any remaining snow off her skirt. "Okay, now what is going on—?"

  She was cut off by the chime letting her know the front door had opened.

  "I'll go get that," Kaydee offered, but Clara shooed her back to the ovens. Clara warned all her apprentices that breaking up Hazel and Eloise's squabbles was part of the job, but she'd rather her apprentices learn the craft. The sisters had already quieted down to pouting glares, and Clara was ready for some time up front with the customers. They were a lot easier to please.

  Maybe what she really wanted was ten seconds completely alone, just to know what it was like, but at least at the counter she could blend into the background.

  She passed through the swinging doors and back into the shop to find a newcomer there, a tall, sour looking man with dark, messy hair and professionally stylish, well-tailored coat and slacks. He was handsome and robust, but he looked so very grim Clara couldn't help but want to make him smile. "Yes, hello! Is this your first time in Sweet Memories?"

  The man was scanning the case, his eyes bouncing through row after row of baked goods and candies. He wasn't perusing, he was looking for something specific.

  "Sir? Can I help you find something?"

  The man looked up at her, piercing her with an intense glare that nearly obscured the deep plum hue of his irises.

  Clara's breath caught in her throat but only for a moment before she reminded herself that all customers were welcome here, and she wasn't about to kick one out because he gave her a fright. Old Jonathan did join her side, ever the loyal guardian, crossing his arms over his chest and lifting himself enough to look down on the man across from them.

  The man's eyes darted between the two of them several times before focusing back down on the pastry cases. "Lemon bar," he said gruffly. "Where are your lemon bars?"

  Clara didn't let her frown linger. "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't have any. Can I interest you in—?"

  He fished a sheet of pap
er out of his pocket and slammed it down onto the counter. "This says you have lemon bars."

  Clara glanced down at the sheet. "Oh, what a kind thing to say!" She tapped the time stamp on it. "But, see, this was written in June."

  The man nodded. "Yes. I want one of these lemon bars."

  "My apologies, but I don't carry lemon bars in the winter, only in the summer. Right now, I have pumpkin bars and butter bars."

  "But I want lemon," the man insisted. "If you don't have any, you'll have to bake me some. Now."

  Jonathan leaned closer to Clara. "Want me to toss this guy?"

  Locke snorted. "Like you could. You couldn't even touch me. Why don't you run off somewhere and scare some children or whatever it is you do? Is your type still into rattling chains in the middle of the night?"

  Jonathan's cheeks mottled an angry red. "How dare you, sir?"

  Clara tapped her hands on the counter rapidly to get everyone's attention. "Sir, I understand you're frustrated about this, considering how far you traveled, but I can’t make lemon bars today. I have neither the supplies nor the time a week before Christmas. Please, I'm positive something here will be to your liking. How about a lemon raspberry scone? Or a lemon muffin drizzled in glaze? They're absolutely—"

  The man slammed his hands on the counter, straddling hers, his thumbs brushing against her pinkies. A ripple of energy passed through them as their eyes met yet again, but this time there was a lazy, casual energy about him, like he was warming up to her finally and would take the selection she offered him.

  Instead, he said, "No, I only want lemon bars. Make the time. If this review is right, I'll make it well worth the effort."

  "Is that a bribe?" Clara asked as she fought the urge to move her hands away. This was her counter, after all. "I don't really care about the money, sir, and I'd much rather keep my customers happy than cater to someone new because he bribed me. I apologize."

  The man sighed as though his world was crumbling beneath him. Odd, when he didn't look at all like a man who would be broken up about sweets. He was broad across the shoulders, slenderer at the waist, like he spent most of his time working out. Definitely not her usual clientele. And he was thinking way too hard about the situation before he said, "I'll be your customer, too. If you want to keep your customers happy, and I'm your customer, you need to make me happy by making me lemon bars. It's the only thing that will make me happy."