A Christmas Demon for Clara

by Chloe Alice Balkin

  And this little cobbler thing. Just one. No, two. It made more sense to make ten than eleven.

  He stood there in the dark contemplating how he felt about all of this sugar. It helped him forget all his bumps and bruises, plus the ache in both his leg and his skull, but a twinge of something less pleasant hit him in the chest. Guilt. He dwelled on that for some time before deciding that the solution was obvious: throwing another twenty in the register. Maybe more. Clara's sweets were worth far more than the time it took him to bring them to his sisters.

  He wiped any lingering crumbs off his mouth and pushed the door open to find Hazel standing at a work bench laid out with various components of chocolate making, although she looked like she'd paused to greet Locke. She had her head cocked to the side, her messy, purple streaked buns flopping over, and she peered at him through heavily-lined eye lashes. "What were you doing in there?" she asked with some hesitation.

  "I portal," he said, feeling very stupid as the words came out. There was something about Hazel that left him unsettled. "I can make portals."

  "Yes, I know. If I didn't know, I'd be freaking out about my sister right now, wouldn't I?"

  Locke scratched the back of his head. With his body in its more human form, the remnants of his injuries were less obvious, but he found several bumps and a bald patch back there. "I figured the storeroom was better in case any of your employees was back here."

  "We have ghosts constantly throwing fits—and shit off the walls—when they tweak to anything. Everyone knows what's up here, or they'd be driven mad in a week. I meant what were you doing in the storeroom?"

  Locke narrowed his eyes to study her better, see if he could figure out what she was getting at, if she'd be pissed he ate all those macarons. "Just…thinking? Here, Clara sent all this for the shop. And she's given me this list of things to bring back."

  Hazel took the list, scanned it, and stuffed it in her pocket. "Eloise is working up front. Give her the goods while I get this list together. You'll have to go to the house for some of it."

  He nodded and headed toward the swinging doors to the cafe.

  "Hey, demon," Hazel called out. "You banging my sister?"

  Locke stumbled over his feet, still awkward from the mend, but caught himself before he dropped everything. "I am not," he said firmly. He didn't want to give anything away beyond the bare truth of the matter.

  "Let's keep it that way. She's not into that sort of thing."

  "Don't I know it," Locke mumbled as he pushed through the doors, but he still had faith in himself. He was going to get his taste of Clara.

  It took him half a day to gather the supplies. Hazel couldn't find some stuff, or there wasn't a good way to transport it, or she needed it, too. He couldn't finish the list at the Gothic nightmare house, either. There wasn't a whole lot in town by way of bakery supplies, so he ended up taking a side trip to New York City. He was fairly sure, as he hunted through a warehouse with a salesperson for the exact model airbrush they had at the shop, that Clara had sent him on a journey to keep him out of her hair as long as possible.

  The Jubilee sisters also insisted he bring home a tree for Clara, specifically a Christmas one, but they didn't have an extra or any spare ornaments. That was another hour wasted in a chain craft store, deliberating over ornaments and arguing with the salesperson who refused to let him pay full price for the eight-foot, pre-lit tree.

  Locke was prepared for the scents of baked goods to permeate through his home when he arrived, all the way up to his suite where he deposited the suitcase Eloise had packed for Clara. There was something different in the house, though, an odor he couldn't immediately identify but knew well, something Hell-born but not belonging in the house.

  He followed the scent down the wall, sniffing at each door to see if something had gotten in and nested in one of the closed-off rooms, but the odor was definitely further down. He made it all the way to the stairs before he froze at the sight in the foyer.

  Clara, looking just as pretty as she had when he'd come home that morning, although he hadn't gotten a chance to appreciate it when his eyes kept blacking out on him. She had her back turned to him now, but there was a delightfully nostalgic elegance about her backside as she leaned close enough to the door that her skirt poofed out behind her, giving him a view of shapely legs made longer by the illusion of both the heels she wore and the way she reached up to hang a wreath on the door.

  A wreath made out of snapweed and bristleberries.

  He flew down the stairs, grabbing her with one arm as he opened the door and pitched the wreath out with the other. All while still holding shopping bags in both hands.

  "Oww!" Clara whined, rubbing her head. "What did you just hit me with?"

  He let her rub the bump out while he dropped the bags and inspected her arms, legs, and chest for welts. Everything was good, but he brushed her dress off roughly for good measure. Sure enough, his hands came away with several sharp burrs stuck in them.

  "You're going to ruin the dress with those!"

  "They're from the damn berries on that wreath!" he fired right back. "And thank fuck you didn't touch any snapweed sap. It makes your skin rot off."

  Her wide eyes went enormous, and then she was inspecting herself, too, but Locke grabbed her hands before she could touch the dress. He kept her wrists together as he dragged her back up the stairs and down the hall. "Where in Hell did you find that shit?"

  "Right outside." She attempted to gesture, but her bound hands made the gesture vague and floppy.

  "I told you to stay in the house!" he roared.

  Clara cowered back, fighting his grip. "Please let me go," she whimpered.

  Locke tightened his hold and pulled her through his room and into the bathroom, using the distraction of navigating her as an excuse to not speak until he'd calmed down. Everything out there, from the fire to the plants to the water, could kill her, but yelling at her again wasn't going to help. "Clara," he said as gently as he could. "It is extremely dangerous here. You could have died. Those plants could have killed you. The burrs will slice through your skin. And that's just the beginning. That is Hell."

  "I know it's Hell." Her petulant pout was too cute to be irritating, which was lucky for her because Locke was on an extremely tight string.

  "Then you know not to go outside again?"

  She frowned and stared down at their hands too seriously, as though she was trying to burn his grip off of her. She was only human, though, with a little something extra tossed in to make her see ghosts, and that skill got her nowhere here. The ghosts were in plain sight in the river she absolutely could not go near. "You're still hurting me."

  "You're still scaring me! You scare me when you go out there. If you die, I'm sure Eloise will kill me." He got close enough to the shower to hit the buttons to make water spray from all six shower heads and fiddled with the temperature. He wanted to get her clean, but he didn't want to scald her with his usual shower temp. "Now lift your hands up and turn so I can unzip your dress."

  She shook her hands out once her wrists were released but ignored his request. "I can undress myself."

  "Not without flipping that dress over your head, and if there's a burr on that skirt, it's going to get you in the eye."

  She scowled but followed his directions. "Don't make a habit of undressing me," she said firmly, so Locke didn't press his luck this time when he slid his hands under the skirt to keep it from touching her. He kept his hands off her skin as he folded the skirt over itself to keep any of the nasty bits tucked away, only brushing his knuckles against her as he lifted it over her rear and along the sides of her back as he pushed it over her head.

  "There we are," he said, laying the dress on the rarely used vanity, out of the way of the shower and the towels. He turned back to removed her lingerie, but she had her arms crossed over her chest and was looking meaningfully at the door.

  "Well? I haven't gotten anything on my u
nderwear. Go on."

  "I was going to scrub you, check for sap burns."

  "In the shower? Absolutely not. If I have any holes in my skin, I will let you know."

  There was no point in arguing further, not once he lined himself up properly to the mirrors so that he could see her front and back. No welts, only creamy skin hugging lush curves. "Fine. I'll go see that dinner is made. Eloise packed a bag for you."

  Chapter 11

  Clara had herself all pepped up to give Locke a bit of a lecture when she went down for dinner. Yes, she'd made a mistake, but he didn't need to handle it the way he had, and this was already difficult for her without getting yelled at. As she headed down the stairs, though, she heard Locke lecturing his servants.

  It was hours after he'd left before she'd found out there was a second one, Fattooth.

  "I can't be here the whole time," he said sternly. "I can't watch her every second. I have places to be, and she won't like me hovering over her."

  Clara light-footed down the stairs and into the front hall, where she discovered a new Christmas tree, lit but undecorated. She was thinking what the tree needed was lots of brushed silver ornaments with just a bit of rose gold and ice blue for color, and when she walked past the tree, she saw several bags of metallic ornaments. Maybe she didn't need to lecture Locke on—

  "I need you two to be my eyes and ears. Let me know what she's doing. And I need you to keep her safe. No more going outside, and no more bringing anything outside in. Fuck all knows what would have happened if you'd tried to bring in a damn tree. We'd have to burn the whole house down."

  She heard Ratmouth and Fattooth agree to it, but she wasn't agreeing. "If you want to know what I'm doing, you can ask me like an adult," she informed him as she walked in, refusing to let him charm her with his warm smile.

  Or his silly little horn nub, already sprouting from the stump of the old horn.

  "Clara, I'm only looking out for your safety," he said as pleasantly as a compliment. "I was having a private conversation with my minions, but I can repeat it all if you have doubts."

  She crossed her arms. "You're asking them to spy on me."

  "I'm asking them to take care of you. Anything they bring back to me will only be to tend you better. Now come, sit. Dinner is ready."

  She let her eyes wander to the table, where a feast big enough for four was laid out. Light salads of summer greens sat in front of two seats at one corner, and at arm's length between them were three platters covered with metal domes.

  She allowed him to take her hand—gently this time—and lead her to the seat at the head of the table. He even pulled the chair out for her and tucked it back in under her. Ratmouth poured them each a glass of white wine before he and Fattooth scuttled off through the kitchen.

  "This looks very nice," she said politely, "but too fancy for me."

  "Never. You're my guest, and my guests eat well." He flashed her that playful grin of his, a peek at sharp fangs and a push at the dimples, a glitter in his eyes.

  "Who's your cook? Is it Ratmouth or Fattooth? They both seemed lost in the kitchen."

  "Ah, that's because they're only allowed in the kitchen to clean it. I do all the cooking here—and before you think otherwise, I cook for them as well. Everyone eats like kings here."

  Incredible how easily he could make her feel guilty and soothe her irritation at the same time.

  "Go on, try the salad," he urged, legitimately excited about it.

  She wasn't someone wowed by a salad usually, but when she bit into it and let the flavors sink in, she moaned softly. "Oh, my goodness, this is delicious. How is that so good?"

  "Secret ingredient," he said with a wink, but at her suddenly wide eyes amended it to, "but it's from Earth. There's nothing in this house that is Hell-based. I don't have the pallet for it."

  "That seems inconvenient, since you live here."

  "Not at all. I've always had my doors."

  "But most people…or demons, I guess…they do eat the food here? What is the food here?"

  Locke swallowed the large bite of salad he was chewing through and dabbed his lips with his napkin. The way he stared at her as he did so made her flush slightly. She quickly averted her eyes to her own plate.

  "Other demons, mostly. Not much in the way of plants—salad is right out of the question. Possibly why I enjoy it so much. There are creatures here which are different from my kind or my servants' kind, which are equivalent to animals, I suppose."

  "But…not?"

  "I'm fairly sure you would call them monsters."

  I'd call you a monster, she thought, although truly, she didn't think he was. Very different from her or any other human, and certainly capable of monstrous things, but not a monster. "And what do they eat?"

  "Mostly each other, as well, although some of them eat the plants you saw today—and will never touch again, ever, right?"

  Clara nodded, feeling more sheepish about it the more she thought about it. She was beginning to see that it was the same anger Eloise got when Clara did foolish things on Earth. She didn't mean to, but she had a habit of putting herself in dangerous situations.

  "That's good. I'd be very cross if you harmed yourself. May I serve you dinner?"

  She brightened up at that. "Yes, that's kind of you."

  He only nodded and stood, lifting the lids off the dishes to reveal plates of salmon, herbed potatoes, and grilled broccoli. Simple but beautifully executed, just like his home. Were other demons like this? Eloise had never mentioned fancy homes or dignified meals, but she was limited to the sights of demons she'd met before. Perhaps there were whole neighborhoods of demons living this way.

  She did her best to eat as much as she could, not wanting to offend Locke, but she had to push her plate away early even as Locke took his third helping. He was a big man, but surely there was magic afoot here. He was in excellent shape, but he was mumbling about dessert as he made that last plate. "I wish I'd made a dessert for us, but I was scared I'd embarrass myself after all the amazing sweets you made today."

  She laughed. "Did you sample the macarons?"

  "Why do you ask?" he said, and she swore she caught a defensive note in his voice.

  "Only that you said they were amazing, so I was curious."

  "They looked amazing," he amended. "And after what I had yesterday, I have no doubts of how good they tasted."

  There was that look again, that flare of intensity that made her dance in her seat. It was his tone, too, the drawl in the words. "Locke, are you—?" she started, only to shut her mouth when she caught how off her own voice was. Husky. She cleared her throat and said, "Why do you keep looking at me that way?"

  "I'm just thinking about how good all your sweets must be." There was flutter in Clara's stomach, a ping at what he must be talking about, only she was wrong. She must have been, because he then said, "Perhaps tomorrow night, you'll make your lemon bars."

  A little jab, whether he intended it to be or not. He was flirting with her, and she kept getting snagged up in it, but it was only a game to him. She was one more female for the servants to avoid, and she'd be cast out the moment she made the bars.

  She placed her napkin on her plate and said, "I think I'd like to go to bed now. Good night, Locke."

  "Clara, wait—"

  "Good night, Locke."

  Clock, Clara wrote on the list of supplies she needed Locke to pick up from Earth. Specifically, she wanted a clock from her house or at least her time zone. It could have been mid-afternoon in New York for all she knew when she'd woken up before dawn in Hell.

  When she'd woken up next to Locke.

  She hadn't woken up when he'd gotten into bed, and he'd slept under a separate set of blankets, but he was only a couple inches from her, on his side, his head tilted as though he'd stared at her for some time before he'd fallen asleep. His hand was on her arm, oddly comforting to Clara.

  And she couldn't afford
to feel that way, not ever and definitely not now. The number of pears she had to poach for a banquet this evening was astronomical.

  "Ratmouth?" she called when she saw that the biggest pots Locke had, a set of cauldrons, had been stored out of her reach above the fridge. "Ratmouth, I hate to wake you, but I need your help."

  The little demon came scurrying out from a door barely better than a dog door. Something to vent about later, she supposed. She needed those pots.

  "Yes, mum!" he said, his voice pushing at chipper but oddly strained.

  "Oh, I am sorry I woke you. You can go back to sleep once you point me to a ladder."

  "Nay, mum, I'm awake. What you want me to get?"

  "I'll get them! They look very heavy. The cauldrons above the refrigerator."

  He shooed her away and did his stretching thing. "No worries. You'll be wanting the burn pit lit, too."

  She eyed the fireplace warily. Something there gave her the heeby-jeebies, perhaps just the open flue bringing in a draft, but it was enough to shoo her away from it. "I'll be fine with the range."

  "Won't get hot enough. Fattooth, come fire up the pit for the missus!"

  Clara sighed and headed to the pantry. She passed by Fattooth, only to turn right back around when she realized Fattooth had a bandage looped from her chin to the top of her head. "Are you alright?"

  "I'll be good by tomorrow," Fattooth promised. "And Ratmouth will help me through the day." She gave Clara a reassuring smile, but the moment her lips separated, Clara saw that her tooth, the large one that was her namesake, was even larger than usual.

  "What happened there? Is something wrong with your tooth?"

  She shrugged as she gathered the supplies to get the fire pit going. "Just an infection. It'll go away in a day or two."

  Clara took the supplies from her. "You need to go rest. See a doctor if that's a thing you can do here. I'll take care of this."

  "Too much to do, I'm afraid."

  Clara put her foot down. "I will do it. Make a list."