Saving Her

by B E Brouillard

  “Maybe she is fighting,” Alaric said gently, “maybe she’s fighting the only way she knows how.”

  Axel nodded, his face dark with his thoughts. “I know there’s more to her. More to her story. I think I know how to do this, I do. There’s something different about this one…something deeper. I’m so afraid that I’ll mess it up and make life worse for her. I couldn’t fix my mother. Maybe I can’t fix her either. What if I’m not what she needs? At least I can give her some heat in her dreams…isn’t that better than nothing?”

  Alaric shook his head. “You know the answer to that.”

  Axel sighed. “Yes, you’re right. I have to save her. I have to show her she can be strong.” He stood and rolled his shoulders. “I can do this!”

  “You have no option, your soul depends on it. And the Council will not be pleased if you fuck it up,” Alaric muttered darkly. “You can’t expect me to be around as backup forever, and at the rate you’re going, Lilith might change her mind about protecting you.

  Axel frowned and shot the other man a curious glance. Alaric had been here for longer than anyone he knew, why wouldn’t he be around as backup?

  And why would he say that Lilith was protecting him?

  Chapter 7

  The pair occupied a cramped red pleather cubicle beside a grimy window in the diner that Imentet assured Azazel was the designated meeting place.

  “Are you sure he said here,” Azazel grumbled as he wiped the sticky Formica surface with a cheap paper napkin, trying to remove the oil residue that had probably become part of the patina of the table.

  “I’m sure,” she replied coldly. “This is the place.”

  “It stinks,” Azazel responded, his face twisted into an expression of disgust. There was a bustle of activity around them. Cutlery clattered against crockery as people ate, stirred coffee, set tables. Muffled conversations rose and fell around them in discordant waves. From the back, the sizzle of the grill combined with the sound of dishes being washed and trolleys being wheeled to and fro. The smell he was referring to was the combination of grease and cooking and stale food and sweat. It was a popular spot in the middle of a blue-collar neighborhood that had been serving workers in the area for decades.

  “He likes it here,” she said, not elaborating. A darkness descended momentarily, as if a dark cloud had covered the sun outside the window. Demon though he was, Azazel gave a shudder as the doorbell jangled. And then time seemed to slow down. Both demons looked up and stared as a man walked through the door. He moved as if on wheels, gliding smoothly past the servers and the patrons who seemed to have slowed down to a pace that was one fraction beyond immobility. An unearthly red shimmer seemed to surround him, like fire contained in a film. The sounds around them had slowed too, like a soundtrack warped by overuse, noises blurring and warbling strangely.

  The air grew hot. And then cold. And then he was sitting in the booth beside Imentet, and everything around them resumed its regular pace as if nothing had ever happened. Except he was sitting there. His hand was on her thigh, and he stroked his fingers along the leather of her trousers seductively.

  “Master,” she whispered.

  “Hello, minion,” he replied. His voice was like hot chocolate, warm and silky smooth. It emerged from a mouth that could have been sculpted by Michelangelo, from a face of unbearable beauty. He turned black eyes towards Azazel, and he smiled.

  Azazel felt as if a nest of snakes had taken residence within him and were slithering under his skin. Twisting and knotting themselves into his soul. He would have gagged if he’d remembered how.

  “Take your order, sir?” a bright voice disrupted their moment. A sweet-faced girl was standing beside their table, pen poised over a small notepad.

  Lucifer tilted his head to look at her, his hand still on Imentet’s thigh, stroking, kneading, pinching.

  “Hello…Bella,” he glanced at her nametag and said in that smooth chocolate voice. Azazel knew it was a ruse. He knew the girl’s name. Knew everything about her. Knew about her boyfriend, Brad, who’d taken her virginity in his college dorm room. Knew about her dreams to get that little car and a place of her own. Knew about what she thought about when she touched herself at night.

  Bella dimpled prettily, and a flush tinted her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “Ummm…Your order, sir?” Her pen was still poised, tip trembling a little over the paper.

  “I’ll have a slice of you, pretty thing,” Lucifer replied without blinking. “A lovely piece of you, creaming on my cock.”

  “Excuse me?” she answered, startled. “I…uh…I’m…”

  “I said a slice of the cherry pie, darling. And a coffee with cream,” he went on as if he’d never said anything else. Bella continued to stare at him. The impeccable cut of his clearly expensive suit, the $100 haircut, the glint of gold Rolex on his wrist. She must surely have been mistaken.

  “I…yes, of course, sir,” she murmured, writing on the pad hurriedly before looking up at the other two. Imentet was squirming. Beneath the table, Lucifer had moved his hand to her crotch and had cupped his hand over her mound, kneading her flesh. She shook her head, soundlessly.

  “A glass of water,” Azazel said. He had no intention of drinking it. He couldn’t believe they’d been summoned to this place for a meeting with the Prince of Darkness.

  “I love it here,” said Lucifer, as if reading his thoughts. Of course, he was reading his thoughts. “It’s a favorite…hunting ground.” He winked and smiled, and Azazel knew he hadn’t used the term lightly. A flash of insight told him of the history of the place. The generations it had stood here, feeding and watering its patrons. The girls who had served them over the years. Simple girls with simple dreams. Girls who sometimes didn’t arrive for work…and who would bother asking why? Waiting tables at a greasy diner was hardly a lifelong career dream. They’d probably ditched the job.

  If they happened to be discovered in dumpsters or sewers, battered, unrecognizable but for dental records, who would assume that the well-dressed stranger asking for coffee and pie may have been responsible?

  Satan smiled.

  Azazel shrank back and felt his mind shut down.

  “So, Azazellll,” the man drew the word out sinuously, “tell me…how are our plans going? Unfolding as expected?” Those flat, black eyes met his, locked with them. Azazel was transfixed. He shot a glance to Imentet, who’d dropped her head back against the booth, mouth gaping. Lucifer’s hand had worked open the zip of her pants, and he’d slid his fingers beneath the tight leather. Azazel saw her jerk and spasm as Lucifer worked her; thighs spread, hands flat on the table. She curled her fingers, and he flinched as her nails raked the surface, bit fine grooves into the Formica.

  “Yes, Lord,” Azazel responded. “Very well. Very well indeed!” The urge to please this man was overwhelming. In part, because he knew his destiny was attached to the outcome. And also because he was scared shitless.

  “I’m so very glad to…hear it…” Lucifer punctuated his words with sharp thrusts of his fingers. Imentet gave small squeals in response. “Tell me what you have accomplished.”

  “Lord, we have identified a soul and are working to convert him to…our side,” said Azazel, cringing as he saw the man’s expression darken. Imentet gave a sharp cry.

  “And you think this is an accomplishment…why?” asked Lucifer. Though his face showed no expression, Imentet appeared to be suspended from her seat. The sounds torn from her throat could have been agony or ecstasy or both. “He is a spirit in Purgatory. His soul is almost damned already. Converting him to ‘our side’, as you put it, should barely be an effort. You’re supposed to be showing me that you are fit to rule at my side. I expect to see considerably more from you.” The hot chocolate tone had changed to pure ice. Sharp and ragged. Azazel gulped.

  “Umm…Sir?” a voice interrupted. Crockery clattered as Bella deposited Satan’s coffee and cherry pie on the table. “Is she…Is the ma’am okayay?” Her voice was hesitan
t, torn between concern and breaching propriety.

  “She’s absolutely fine, sweet thing,” Lucifer assured her, rich, smooth tones swirling back in place. Imentet had slumped over the table and was jerking spasmodically. “A little too much to drink earlier, perhaps.” He smiled and winked at the young server, and she returned the smile, still unsure. Lucifer lifted his free hand and stroked his fingertips down her upper arm. The skin there prickled, raised into gooseflesh, and Azazel saw her nipples pucker and harden beneath the crisp, yellow cotton of her uniform. She gave a small start, her lips parting, looking like a deer torn between bolting and putting its head down to graze.

  “My sister had a liquid lunch with some business associates, Bella,” Azazel broke in, allowing an engaging grin to warm his face. “We’re hoping to give her a bit of time to recover before getting her back home to her family.” He didn’t often put on the charm – it didn’t suit his temperament – but he’d started his journey as an incubus, just as the others had. Certain things came naturally to him. She met his eyes and licked her lips. He knew his guise was appealing to her. Dark and brooding, softened with appropriately placed smile lines and even a dimple. He’d crafted this face with care. Bella relaxed and nodded, seeming appeased.

  “Mmmmm,” Imentet moaned. She raised her head and aimed glazed eyes over at the waitress, who interpreted this as a good sign and left their table. Lucifer’s wrist snapped, and Imentet gave a small scream, clutching at the table again.

  “My lord,” Azazel hurried to regain footing in the conversation, “we have a greater plan than this. The soul we’ve chosen is young, easily managed. And ripe for the picking. With a little encouragement, we believe we can not only guarantee that he’ll earn a place in Hell, but that he’ll take others with him.”

  “Oh, really?” Lucifer’s attention appeared to be piqued. “And how will you do this?”

  “By granting his darkest wish,” Azazel answered, his lips curling into an evil smile. Lucifer extracted his hand from Imentet’s pants. She slumped over as if dead. Raising his fingers to his lips, he licked them lewdly, as if sucking off grease from a particularly tasty piece of fried chicken.

  “Now, that sounds extremely interesting. Keep me updated.” With that, he rose from the table and left the diner. Moments later, a second ring of the doorbell marked Bella’s exit as she trailed behind him.

  ◆◆◆

  After waking from her unsettling dream, Desirée dragged herself through the day and then did the same the next. She and Jules had reached a strange, dull impasse, making stilted conversation when necessary but generally avoiding each other and the topic that hung over their relationship like a black cloud. She grew accustomed to a constant, nagging headache that stretched like a tight band over her eyes. It was all she could do to shower and climb into bed at the end of each day. Meals were rarely more than a slice of toast; at night, she washed it down with wine.

  By Thursday, she felt like one of the walking dead. She woke with that same headache and sat on the edge of the bed, contemplating a cup of coffee to shake the fog away. The thought left her belly roiling with nausea that reminded her of yet another evening of wine and not much else. Jules had gone out and not returned until the early hours of the morning. She turned and looked at him now, wondering what she’d ever seen in the man. Sure, he was attractive, tall, well-built. But there was a meanness about him that overrode his appearance. She couldn’t imagine his face without a sneer of contempt. As if to support her growing disgust, he snorted in his sleep and rolled over, scratching himself beneath the covers. In sleep, the slackness of his features gave a hint of what he’d look like as an older man, and she shuddered. In her mind’s eye, she remembered a different face with clean, beautiful features and turquoise eyes that made her weak at the knees. She shook her head and quickly left the room, as if Jules might be able to pick up on her thoughts.

  “Maybe he should,” she muttered bitterly. Deep in her heart, she knew that it was time to make a decision about her life.

  ◆◆◆

  Desirée wandered through the small office block, flipping on the switch of the office network server and turning on the printer. The sense of déjà vu was overwhelming since the night of her dream…she had yet to shake the images out of her head.

  ‘Maybe that’s why I can’t get my mind right,’ she thought to herself, sighing. She had clearer memories of the man in her dream than of her own love-life with Jules – their weekly fumblings were invariably alcohol-fueled and seldom satisfying. She shuddered and pushed those thoughts out of her mind too.

  In her office, she flicked on the lights and flipped open her laptop. The top was dotted with yellow post-it notes from Mr. Brixton, who often had bursts of inspiration after she’d left for the day. She smiled as she read through them. Reminders to contact parents, run statements for the next financial meeting, create an invitation for the upcoming school open day. She slid her chair out from under her desk, studiously dismissing the vivid images of herself draped over it.

  ‘Pull yourself together, Desirée, it was just a freaky dream.’ As if to punctuate her thoughts, a final post-it note dropped loose, and she smiled.

  “Smile, Jesus loves you,” it read. Not an overtly religious man, Alan Brixton was, nevertheless, a devout Christian. While his managerial skills could have earned him top dollar in a corporate environment, he’d chosen a job at the little school so he could make a difference in his community. Many of the young students were ‘special’ cases. Some orphaned, some sent to the school by the State after being removed from difficult circumstances. Others were children of divorce whose parents had opted to settle them into the boarding house rather than deal with the hassle of custody battles. No matter how unsettled their backgrounds, it never took long for the girls to find a routine in this place that allowed them to feel safe.

  Desirée knew the feeling well. Her own childhood had been marred by frequent upheaval and the acrimony of parents who hated each other. It was only after her father had passed away that her mother’s bitterness began to subside. Yet even now, the woman maintained an edge of brittle sarcasm that kept Desirée on her toes.

  “Oh heck, I should call her,” Desirée thought out loud as she thought about her mother. She tried every week to make contact with Marlene. A familial duty that seldom left her feeling good about herself. She reached for the phone now and dialed the familiar number. It answered on the third ring.

  “Hello, Mom,” she spoke into the receiver.

  “Hello? This is Marlene Wright. To whom am I speaking?” the voice on the other end responded.

  Desirée rolled her eyes. This was the standard response to every call her mother answered. The fact that she was Marlene’s only daughter didn’t seem to have given a hint of her identity.

  “It’s me, Mom, Desirée,” she responded.

  “Desirée! What a pleasant surprise,” her mother answered. “Is everything okay? It’s an awfully early time of day to be calling.”

  “It’s 7.30am, Mom. I’m at work. It’s still a bit quiet here, so I thought I’d give you a call to see how you’re doing.”

  “Well, I’ll be better after my first cup of coffee. But it’s lovely to hear your voice, of course,” her mother said dryly. “How’s Jules? Have you planned the wedding yet?”

  Desirée sighed. This topic came up during every conversation, and she’d yet to provide a satisfactory answer. “No, mom, things are…a bit tricky.” She heard a huff on the other end of the phone and knew her mother was making ‘that face’. The one which told her that nothing she could ever say or do would meet with her approval.

  “Well, you know you’re getting along, dear. Thirty isn’t too far off now…and if you’re planning on starting a family…”

  Desirée sighed as she decided to broach the subject of her growing unhappiness. “Mom, I’ve been giving this relationship a lot of thought. Jules and I…well, we... I’m not sure that I—”

  “Desirée, don’t go
making rash decisions,” Marlene interrupted her abruptly. “I realize you’ve always had aspirations towards better things but as I’ve warned you a thousand times, it’s not as if you have a lot of options, dear. There’s no such thing as the perfect man, and you’re certainly not going to find anyone much better than Jules. Whatever your problems are, I’m sure you can learn to live with them. Some girls need to learn to take what they can get…”

  Her mother’s voice trailed off meaningfully, and then she changed tack abruptly. “But you’re a big girl, and you know all that. So, would you believe, I heard from Ben last night?” Desirée’s brother was her mother’s favorite subject, and her tone had taken on an excited edge. “He’s just landed a wonderful project, and he’s coming up to visit.”

  Desirée let her mother rattle on about her brother, adding sounds of approval at appropriate moments. There was no point in trying to interrupt, and she found her mind wandering as the older woman spoke.

  “…so, I said, of course! And I was sure you’d be thrilled too. What do you think, Dee-Dee? Desirée?” Her mother was still chatting animatedly. Desirée jerked herself back to reality.

  “Umm, yes…yes of course, Mom, sounds great,” she stammered. She had no idea what Marlene had just said but suspected she didn’t have too much say in whatever plans were being made. Best to simply agree and find out what she’d gotten herself into later. Her mother continued to speak for several more minutes until Desirée noted the time and rang off. Her colleagues would be arriving at any moment, and she wanted to be ready to start her day.

  It was almost impossible to focus at work that day. The headache, combined with the churning in her gut made it hard to concentrate on even the simplest task.

  “Everything okay, dear?” Alan Brixton asked a little after lunchtime. She’d bought a sandwich from the school cafeteria, and it was lying untouched on a plate on her desk. Out of its cellophane wrapping, the bread had begun to grow stale and dry. She looked up, smiled wanly at him.