A Christmas Demon for Clara

by Chloe Alice Balkin

  She nearly laughed. Whether it was deliberate or not, his stern act was charming. It wouldn't get him lemon bars any sooner, but it would make the time he spent around her easier.

  He pushed the front door open, and any laughter was squelched by the fear of whether anyone would be waiting for her and a panic over how the lights were flickering as though transmitting Morse code.

  "Miss Jubilee! What has the fiend done to you?" Jonathan bellowed in that wispy but dramatic way of his when Locke crossed the threshold.

  "Oh, thank goodness!" Clara breathed out. She could let go of ghosts, but not all of them. If only Jonathan remained, she would be happy to have him by her side.

  She pushed at Locke, who set her down gently and kept an arm at her waist to keep weight off her ankle. She thought she should push him off, but her mind was spinning too much to care. "Please, Jonathan, how bad was it here? We just had a…a run in with an angel, a scary one, and—"

  "It's all right," Jonathan promised her. "I got word of the seraph showing up at the shop, but he never came here. He got Elena and Sam, but Laurel made it out. He didn't follow her, so we rounded everyone else up—and your sisters."

  Clara pushed ahead, Locke staying at her side, practically carrying her in the direction she dragged her leg. She made it through the parlor and the old smoking lounge—a prep area now for things they couldn't do as easily at the shop—and on into the kitchen.

  It was pandemonium in there, and Locke actually pulled her back before she assured him this was fine. These were her friends, at least two dozen of them. The ghosts all stared Locke down and several raged over Clara's ruined dress and injured ankle, but she calmed everyone down with a bright smile and a promise she'd come to no harm at the demon's hands, only her own high heel.

  Hazel and Eloise, who couldn't see the ghosts, walked through the group, directly through the ghosts who didn't get out of the way. They evaporated for a moment and reformed with coughs and pats down their bodies, as startled as if they were living beings.

  "What is going on?" Eloise snapped. "The ghosts are shorting the dang electrical system. And what is that thing doing in our house?"

  Locke leaned down and said, "Does your whole family know about demons?" between gritted teeth.

  Eloise stared him down as he let Clara's waist go to grab his own head as though he meant to hold his brains in his skull.

  "Eloise! He's our guest! Stop zapping him." Clara rubbed his back, unsure of how to help him. "I think he saved my life tonight. That seraph certainly seemed like he was going to kill me."

  Hazel's eyes widened. "You never said anything about seraphim before."

  "I've never had a seraph before. I didn't even know what he was until Locke told me. This is Locke, by the way."

  "What the devil was that?" he roared as Eloise's gaze dropped and he could straighten again.

  "That's me," Eloise said. "Clara sees ghosts. I hurt demons. Don't get any funny ideas of how she should thank you for the rescue. I heard you hassled her today."

  Clara beamed at her sister. She didn't think Locke had hassled her so much as been overly insistent, but she loved that Eloise had her back. "He's been a gentleman tonight for the most part. Be nice to him."

  They stared each other down, though, Eloise clearly threatening to hurt him again and Locke being the fighter who refused to show weakness. A bit dashing, albeit misplaced and hazardous. That little zap was the least of the damage Eloise could do.

  "Ellie," Clara said more gently. "This might be really bad, so I'd prefer you be friends for now."

  Eloise stared at him just a second more, pointing from her eyes to his to let him know she'd be watching him, before standing down.

  "And you?" Locke growled at Hazel as he looked her up and down. "I take it you have your own nightmare ability."

  "You be nice, too," Clara warned him, not wanting to upset Hazel. "It's rude to ask."

  Hazel rolled her eyes. "It's fine. I don't have anything."

  Locke eyed her skeptically, but it was the truth. For better or for worse, Hazel was just normal. Well, not necessarily normal, but no special powers. She talked like she was happy to not have anything, but Clara always worried she was secretly hurt by it. After all, Clara and Eloise were unique, and that was obviously what Hazel wanted for herself when she dyed her hair black and purple and covered herself in metal.

  "Well," Clara said after a long, somewhat awkward pause, "thank you so much for your help tonight, Locke. Will I see you tomorrow?"

  "You'll see me tonight," he said with a quirk to his lips.

  "I'm home now. The ghosts have said no one's been by here. I appreciate your help, but you don't need to stay."

  "I do," he insisted.

  Clara looked to her sisters for help, but Eloise and Hazel seemed to be in agreement with the demon. "Well, alright. I suppose I can set up a guest room for you. We haven't had company in ages, so you'll have to give me a few minutes to air one out."

  "No need."

  Clara was horrified he might be implying he'd sleep on a sofa, but then he made it even worse with, "I have no idea what this angel can do. You might already be dead before I know he's here. I'm sleeping in your room."

  This time Clara looked to her ghosts for guidance, but most of them shrugged or shook their heads. Few knew about seraphim; after all, that monster reaped any ghost he came across.

  The hold Locke maintained on her waist slid ever so slightly, his fingertips fanning out and massaging her hip through the sheer lace and satin of her ruined dress, and the sensation was…nice. Relaxing. Hypnotizing. Enough to make her think it would be nice, after all, to have him in her room in case she woke up scared in the middle of the night.

  She sighed dramatically to prove she wasn't completely thrilled by the idea of a man, even if he was a demon, sharing her room before saying, "Well, if you insist."

  He leaned down a little too close, enough that her sisters exchanged glances, and said, "I do."

  Chapter 6

  When Locke had first walked through the door and onto the lawn, he'd assumed he was walking onto the set of an Addam's Family Christmas. The Gothic revival monstrosity had at least half a dozen gables and two round turrets, each topped with ten-foot finials. The facade was dreary gray brick that had gone mossy over the years. The windows were long enough to exaggerate its height.

  In every single window—easily fifty of them—was a giant, red ribbon. Miles of light and garland. The yard was a sea of light-up nativity camels, asses, and sheep, no actual baby Jesus or wise men or…midwives? Locke wasn't sure who all was in a nativity, but none of them attended this one. Just an army of barnyard animals.

  Oh, and a Tyrannosaurus Rex. A gigantic inflatable one in the middle of a squadron of goats.

  Inside was no better, a horror-comedy set decorated for a holiday special. The ghosts did nothing to lessen that.

  Also, her sisters. It had never come up, but despite the dye jobs and their differing shapes, they were obviously triplets. That had supernatural written all over them. He’d keep an eye on the athletic looking one in the prim, pastel attire. If she could go around zapping demon brains. Locke would bet his entire pantry she could do more than that.

  And Hazel? The scrawny Hot Topic reject? No way she didn't have some special power. Locke didn't think Clara was lying to him. Hazel was lying to everyone. This was much easier in Hell, where most demons—including Locke—had serious difficulties lying.

  His night vision was a bit better than Clara's, but she didn't seem to have any fear going up the creaky flight of stairs to her bedroom without lighting. Proof this truly was her house, but man, it did not fit her.

  "Hold up," he whispered when she reached the door at the top of the stairs.

  She looked back, her big eyes wide with concern, light glittering off the pale green irises. "Do you hear something?"

  He nudged past her, tucking her safely behind him, and drew a box
on the door. Once he had both a weapon and a decent shield protecting them, he swung the door open slowly.

  "What…the hell," he breathed out.

  He hadn't heard anything, but he'd felt a strange vibration accompanied by a whoosh of air. A window left open, but it was the dead of winter and the old house was drafty enough. Between the sisters and the ghosts, who could handle little tasks as long as they were mostly of the pushing variety, someone surely would have closed the window. Someone must have just broken into Clara’s room.

  Nope. Another inflatable yard monstrosity.

  "Is someone in there?" Clara whispered.

  "Why is that in your room?" Locke whispered back.

  Clara peeked around the shield and burst into sweet peals of laughter. "That's my Christmas unicorn!"

  "Why is it in your room?" Locke repeated more forcefully. "Those things are for outdoors. And your yard is a train wreck anyway."

  Clara shoved past him and through the room. With the shock of the ear-muffed and scarfed unicorn out of the way, Locke was able to look beyond at her room, immaculate and well-organized but decorated to the teeth for a toddler ice princess. The pale blue vanity was even a foot lower than it should have been in order to accommodate a small human. And although the bed's mattress was a good size, the frame was a four poster complete with a canopy and drapes in silver and lavender.

  A small, round kitchen table was set up with tea service for three.

  "That's why the unicorn is in here," she said as she ducked into a closet. "We had a bit of a war, my sisters and I, a few years back. Well, not me so much. I backed down once they disagreed with me. They couldn't decide on how to do the front yard, so it became that…train wreck, as you call it. I think it's rather charming though, the dinosaur tending his flock."

  Clara was batnuts crazy. She was also hot as Hell and had the sort of figure Locke would happily bury himself in all day. He could squeeze her everywhere he liked to squeeze, and she probably wouldn't balk at snack breaks in between, or in the middle of, some romps in the sheets. He had no qualms about saying, "I suppose charming's a way to describe it," even though it was a terrible word to describe it.

  He found plenty of places to stash weapons so he wouldn't have to rely on his chalk. He tucked a sword under a stack of creepy dolls, some shuriken in the drawer of the vanity, a bit of Styxian water in the china tea pot. There were nightstands on both sides of the bed, and he drew up some knives to tuck into both those drawers, but mostly he was inspecting their contents.

  Books. Notepads with pens attached to them. Flashlights. Candy. Nothing of any interest at all except the candy, and that wasn't the kind of interesting he was looking for. A good thing, he decided. If her sex life was on the dull side, she'd be all that much more impressed by what he could do.

  "Is everything alright in there?" he called when he heard Clara grunting.

  "I'm fine!" Her voice was muffled, though, slightly winded. "It's only, my zipper's stuck. It's—oh, what point is it anyway? The dress is ruined. I'll just rip it off."

  "Well, let me help," Lock offered, not sure if he was about to work out a stuck zipper or tear the gown in half. Either worked for him. He pushed his way into the dark closet and found Clara with the lace over her face, the gown bunched up at her waist, her backside turned to him, flaunting the most appealing view of her thick thighs and wide rear, covered in cotton panties trimmed with white lace.

  He could take her like this, pull down those panties and push her against the wall, get her out of that dress so he could hold her breasts properly, leave her breathless and begging for more. It wouldn't be the first time he'd done such a thing. But then she spun around, and she looked so damn sad with her arms tangled up over her head, a sapphire smashing into her cheek, that he knew this wasn't the time.

  "Come here," he murmured, pulling the mesh back down and spinning her around to fix the zipper. "It'll only take me a moment. I don't want to damage the cloth."

  "It's ruined anyway. I can't believe I fell in the mud like that."

  "We'll have it dry cleaned," he promised instead of pointing out that angel brain matter would be harder to get out than the mud. There were demons able to handle this sort of stain, though. All it took was the right kind of magic. "I like this dress."

  Her cheeks pinked in the light filtering in from the room, and she smoothed the dress down bashfully—only to realize how high it had ridden up. Her cheeks darkened considerably then, and her heartbeat sped up. "Oh, look at me. I really am a mess. I have it from here."

  "I've helped you this far," Locke murmured, his voice dropping into a bit of a purr. "I may as well see the job done."

  He did so delicately, sensing from how she flinched at his touch that she needed to be warmed up like a skittish horse. She'd been putty in the dance hall, bending to his every dip and sway, but here, in the dark, she was timid.

  Locke liked that. He had a feeling Clara would be a mound of whipped cream on ginger cake for him, a soft and delicate but rich sweetness with a spicy core.

  He eased the dress up over her head, letting his hands linger here and there, nowhere too personal. Her shoulders, her arms, the nape of her neck, warming her to his touch until her breathing settled into a gentle flow matching his own. One hand ended up on the small of her back, his middle finger tracing circles on her spine, and he heard the faintest moan from her, a weak rumble of pleasure.

  Her hair, too. He twined his fingers in the silver cascade of curls, loving that it remained soft despite the various potions the hairdresser must have used on it.

  He didn't step away from her once the dress was off. He knew instinctively that if he stopped touching her, she'd shrink away from him. He hooked the dress onto a hanger with one hand, figuring she'd fuss if he dropped it on the ground.

  "Locke?" she whispered as his hand roamed up her spine, slipping under the clasp of her strapless bra but not fiddling with it. He would savor that unveiling, the bounty of her chest, when they were back in the light. For now, he slid it back down as he stepped up to her, letting his body press up to her arm.

  He kissed her neck just behind her ear.

  She did not recoil.

  "You smell delicious," he rumbled. "Like pralines and cinnamon."

  "That would be the sticky buns," she said with a flush, her voice distant. Good. She was still his Clara, still unsure of herself here, but she stayed her ground.

  "I like your buns." He thought he could get away with being just that tiny bit crass, and he pushed further to show her what he was referring to with a squeeze of her cotton-covered rear.

  She gasped, finally snapping to attention, staring him down as she leaned away, but she did not step away. What she thought she should do and what she wanted to do were two different things.

  "Locke, you can't…I won't…I don't think of you that way."

  He didn't like liars, had always gone out of his way to punish them, but she was only lying to herself. "You do. You did at the ball. Remember pointing at how your friends leaned into each other the way you leaned into me?"

  "I didn't mean that. I was only getting close so they wouldn't hear me."

  "The way your cheeks brighten at my touch, the way your pupils dilate."

  "I have very big eyes," she declared, but her voice betrayed her—as did her body again. It only took another touch for her eyelids to flutter.

  "You do, and your sisters. But only your pupils dilated. I'm pretty sure Eloise's eyes were trying to kill me."

  Clara chuckled, and that was enough of a distraction for Locke to bring his lips to hers.

  She melted into him.

  She tasted as sweet as she smelled, but far more decadent, like strawberries rimming a flute of champagne.

  He pulled her waist to his, bowing her along her body, and her arms went around him for balance.

  And to touch. To explore. He wanted her touching him everywhere, but his lips and his back were enough. />
  His tongue. He flicked it across her lips, and she parted for him, allowing him access. Even in this act, she was timid but exploratory, holding back as she stroked her tongue alongside his.

  He would savor her for a good, long time. He would spend this entire night in her embrace, driving her to the brink of unconsciousness with his attentiveness, only to revive her. She'd claimed she had no time to make his lemon bars tomorrow; now he was going to make sure she'd be too exhausted to make anything—and then after several nights of this, she'd give in and make his lemon bars.

  He'd have everything he wanted from her. He'd be sated and move on, as was his demon nature, but he'd make sure she was as sated. She would happily make those lemon bars for him. Naked.

  While he was licking her up.

  Yes, that was a good plan.

  She twisted away, severing the kiss, but her body was still tangled with his. "Ghost," she whispered, her voice barely more than a weak breath.

  "Yeah, they're all over the house."

  He tried to bring her lips back to him, but she shook her head. "Right behind you."

  Chapter 7

  Locke's hands were so incredibly warm on Clara's back. His lips softer than she would have ever imagined. The way he leaned over her, his body crowding her until she was forced to bend? She didn't mind that one bit.

  It had been a long time since she'd had a man surround her like this, but the outcome was always the same.

  "In the dolls," she told Locke. "Some of them like it better than just floating around."

  The ghosts were barely visible, no fault on Locke's account for missing them before. Uneven skin tones, eyes that followed far better than the unpossessed dolls, fluffs of clothing where it shouldn't have been.

  "Are they always there?"

  Clara nodded and lowered her head to his chest so she wouldn't feel those ghosts' eyes on her. They were always on her.

  "Tell them to scram and leave us to our privacy."