The Hidden Demon

by Monica La Porta

  She turned to face the window, and when she looked back at him, there was a smile tugging at her lips. “I know.” She extended her arm to the side, indicating the end of the hallway. “If the pasta hasn’t turned into glue, there could be something ready to eat.”

  He followed her through her apartment. The place was eclectic and messy, colorful and inviting. “Do you collect plates?” Every wall was dotted with hundreds of decorative plates. Materials, décor, colors none matched. She had placed them without a thought for pattern.

  She paused before a cluster of ceramic plates. Some of them were oblong with marine landscapes. One was a rectangle with an abstract pattern. “I do. Everywhere I go, I buy one to remind me of that place. I’m afraid, with time, I’ll forget about the little things that make life bearable.”

  “I collect mementos too.” He touched the plate with the abstract pattern and realized he didn’t want to collect a memory of an object where Ophelia was concerned.

  “I hear it’s quite common among paranormals. You know, immortality and all that.”

  “I didn’t know.” Peter didn’t want to enter in details about his collection of intangible items and doubted other people had his same hobby.

  “Well, it kind of makes sense, doesn’t it?” She passed a living room that seemed too tidy compared to the rest of the house he had seen so far, and entered a kitchen.

  He breathed in the aroma of freshly baked tomato sauce and walked behind her to the stove where a red pot stood uncovered. “Smells good.”

  She peered down at the content of the pot. “It’s ruined.” She took the pot by the handles.

  Peter saw the big, industrial-looking tin trashcan she was moving toward, and raised one hand to stop her. “I can’t linger and I’m sure that’s more than fine. No need to cook anything else.”

  “But—” She gave the trashcan another look.

  “It’s fine.”

  She reluctantly placed the pot back on the stove, then pointed at the kitchen table. “Pass me the bowls.”

  “I’m sorry I disrupted your lunch.” Peter stacked the two bowls and turned toward her.

  “Not a big deal. Don’t worry.” She took one bowl, unstacking it without even brushing his glove, filled it to the rim with pasta, and made a face. “It’s not acceptable to serve this to a guest.” She shook her head. “Pasta should be al dente. This is anything but.”

  They exchanged plates. “Ophelia?”

  She stopped in the middle of filling the second bowl and looked at him.

  “I’m sure it’s good.” He smiled at her and sat at the table, where he took the fork and started eating. “I know you won’t believe me, but it is good.”

  They ate in silence. His mind was far away from that table, back in the morgue where he would attempt yet another reading. He didn’t need any food. He only needed enough sun to get back on his feet, but didn’t want to offend Ophelia, who was bent on taking care of him. When their meal was finished, Ophelia took their plates, dumped them in the sink, then told him to follow her to her terrace.

  “It’s small, but it’s secluded and you can rest on the chaise lounge as long as you want.” She opened the French doors at the end of a narrow corridor. Her collection of plates had crowded those segments of the house as well.

  As he stepped outside, he couldn’t help but smile. All the broken pottery had found its final home on the outside walls bordering the terrace on two sides. The sun was shielded by a thick blanket of clouds at the moment, but the place was lit by its own light.

  “I love Antoni Gaudí’s architecture, but I would’ve never left Rome to relocate in Barcelona. So, I did the next best thing. I recreated his municipal garden in my house,” she explained as he passed his hand over the round belly of a teapot emerging from the mosaic of misfit china.

  “I like it.” He looked around and discovered that, on the concrete base, she had embedded glasses and cups that served as baths for the birds. The terrace itself was no more than twice the size of her kitchen, small but big enough to contain a wooden patio set with a red umbrella, and the chaise lounge she had mentioned. Terracotta vases filled with succulents took most of the floor space. A narrow path took them from the French doors to the table and chairs.

  “I bought the apartment for this terrace. I didn’t care that much for the attic, but when I saw this”—she slowly spun on her heels—“I had to have it.”

  He looked at the cityscape in front of them. The Mattatoio was just on the other side of the road. “Don’t you get annoyed by the constant noise?”

  “I love it.”

  As she spoke, he could see her dancing all night long at the rhythm of music, and he liked the image.

  “Sun’s not that bright, but the clouds will open soon. Lie on the chaise and I’ll go brew some espresso.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He did as ordered and lowered his tired body over the inviting red cushion. The chaise was oriented toward the parapet and he had a prime seat to the breathtaking sight that was the Eternal City. With a loud sigh, he brought one arm under his head and crossed his legs. As usual, furniture that wasn’t custom made for him was always short and narrow, but the chaise’s mattress was comfortable and he started relaxing. Since the sky was still cloudy, he should have doffed his clothes to obtain maximum effect from the heliotherapy, but it wouldn’t be proper.

  “You stay there.” Ophelia’s voice came from somewhere behind and sounded strained.

  He angled his head toward the house, but she had disappeared inside already. He couldn’t help but reflect on how familiar the whole situation felt to him. His house was destroyed. His life was destroyed. Yet, on that terrace, in that moment suspended in time, it felt right to be waiting for Ophelia to come back to him. And when she did several minutes later, he rejoiced at hearing her heels hitting the worn tiles.

  “Feeling any better?” She laid a tray on the table.

  The smell of the hot espresso reached his nostrils. “Recharging takes some time, especially when the sun is covered, but I’m getting there.”

  She lowered a coffee cup. “Back at the hospital, I noticed you took longer than… my friends to be functional.”

  “Thanks.” He took the small cup and waited for her to fill hers. “Have you also noticed I’m way bigger and taller than all your friends combined?” He rearranged himself on the chaise and reclined on his side, one hand supporting his head, the other bringing the cup to his lips.

  She let out a chuckle. “That’s my demon.”

  “Am I?” His eyes locked on hers, he put the empty cup back on its saucer, then down on the floor and pushed it under the chaise.

  She squared her shoulders, finished her coffee, then focused back on him. “You are the only demon I know.” She frowned. “Now that I think about it, there aren’t lots of demons in Rome—”

  “Then let me educate you on my demonic nature. The bigger you are the longer it takes for a body to absorb nutrients and recover from an injury.” He rested his free hand on his side.

  She gave him a good look, her eyes roaming lazily up and down his body. “Are you slow in everything you do then?”

  He couldn’t help but laugh out loud. All the tension that had been building up since the day before, gone. He moved to his back, one arm over his face, legs bent, and he kept laughing until he felt it in his abdominals.

  “I’m glad I’m such a source of amusement to you.”

  He peeped from under his hand and saw she had her head tilted and a smug smile illuminated her whole face. “Thank you. I needed it.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He smiled back at her. “I like what we have.”

  She bit her lower lip, then sighed. “I do too.”

  He heard the emphasis she put on the “I” and felt a small tug at his heart. “Would it be enough to you?”

  “Friends with lots of teasing and no benefits?”

  “You make it sound so dreary.”

  “I would’ve gone for
hard.”

  “Excruciatingly so.”

  Her eyes went to his jeans.

  He laughed again. “You are too easy.”

  “Careful with the insults, demon.” She slowly crossed her legs, putting on a show for him.

  He had the briefest of glances of her inner thighs and black lace fabric, and raised his hands in the air. “You win.”

  “Always.” She studied him for a long moment. Her expression changed before his eyes. One moment she was smiling, the next she was serious, hurt passing through her eyes as she shook her head. “It isn’t enough for me.”

  He pushed himself up. “Do you think it’s enough for me?” He tried to reorganize his thoughts. “I could barely think straight and I drove to you.” He shut his eyes, then breathed in and out and stood, swaying as he towered over her. “I must go. Thanks for your hospitality.”

  She shot up too. “Don’t be daft. You can’t even stand.”

  “Careful with the insults, werewolf.” But he wasn’t restored and the gray sky didn’t promise anything good. Still, he stayed his legs and straightened his back.

  She rolled her eyes. “Are we done with the macho act?” She waited for him to acknowledge her.

  He bit back the retort he had ready, and instead slightly lowered his head.

  “Good. I’ll give you a ride to the morgue.” She strolled past him, almost brushing his chest.

  To him it felt like a caress and it scared him. Things were progressing too fast already and he worried the moment would come when he couldn’t bear to be in the same room with her without hurting with longing.

  Chapter Eight

  Ophelia’s patience with Peter was at its final thread. She needed to release all the energy shooting through her body like humming electricity. That night, she would have to hit a club and find a partner. Any would do. Any should do. She was done being picky and irrational. She needed what she needed and Peter couldn’t provide for her. The first willing shifter she met was game. She only had to call Malina. Yet, she would not make that phone call. She knew it and it enraged her.

  She stopped mid-step, pivoted on her heels, and almost bumped into his chest. “It’s only sex.” Maybe if she had him, she would finally understand what was going on between them. Her wolf decided to intervene and almost made her show her throat to him again. Cold sweat ran over her back. That would have been too embarrassing. She looked up.

  If he had understood what was going on between her and her wolf, he didn’t show it. “It’s always only sex to me. I don’t want that with you.” His eyes darkened and he licked his lower lip.

  That simple gesture had the power to disorient Ophelia. Dizziness overcame her, as she fell into a spiral, but caught herself before she would crash into him. He hadn’t touched her and she was on fire, craving him. And in the throes of her lust-induced spell, she made a startling realization. She had never experienced this irrational longing before in her life. No man had ever driven her to such level of distress. It felt like dark magik.

  “You must be part-warlock.” She shook her head as he gave her a puzzled look. “It’s the only explanation.”

  “Okay—?”

  “Let’s go, before I commit demonicide.”

  “Didn’t know the word even existed.”

  “I’m about to introduce it in the vocabulary.” She turned and walked down the hallway. She paused a moment to grab her helmet and the bike’s keys, then exited her apartment before she would do something she would certainly regret. Like throwing herself at him one more time. She didn’t take the elevator. Just the idea of having to share such a confined space with him was enough to make her sweat again. “I’m made of flesh.”

  “What did you say?”

  She swore and ran down the stairs two at a time to get as much distance from him as she could. Given the length of his legs, she never stood a chance. He was behind her the whole time. She exited the building, heading straight toward the garage, but stopped when she heard his curse and saw him standing in the middle of the street, staring at the mural depicting them on the opposite building’s wall.

  “I saw the picture of it, but I didn’t think it was that large,” he said.

  “Yep.” Somehow, looking at the crude rendition of the two of them engaging in a sexual act was way worse with him standing by her side. She could take the sight and shrug it off by herself, but his presence made her feel ashamed.

  He made a fist. “I’m going to kill the SOB who did this.”

  Ophelia felt rage coming off him in waves and one glance at his eyes confirmed they were fiery red. She brought both hands to her chest and tilted her head. “For me? Thank you.” She blinked several times and made puppy eyes at him. “My very own demon in shining armor.”

  “Ophelia.” He shook his head, but looked calmer.

  Meanwhile, cars passed on either side of them and honked for them to move. She crossed the road and entered the garage, exchanged a few words with the keeper, and walked straight to her black Ninja. Her baby. She took the spare helmet from the hidden compartment. Then she looked up at him and without a word extended her arm to offer him both the helmet and the keys.

  He eyed her suspiciously. “Are you sure?”

  She wasn’t. It had been a spur of the moment decision and had surprised her as well. “Riding her alleviates my tension.”

  “Okay, you must stop saying things like that.” He smiled and reached for the keys and the helmet. “Is it a ploy to fondle me?”

  “You got me.” She waited for Peter to sit on the saddle and place his long, muscular legs to either side. “I don’t know if I’ll manage to keep my hands to myself.” With a laugh that sounded strained even to her ears, she mounted her bike, and for the first time ever, she wasn’t in control of it. Despite her bravado, she found it difficult to be so close to him and not lean against his back and circle his waist. As soon as he turned on the engine and let the bike slowly out of the stall, she realized her spur-of-the-moment decision had been a mistake. Not because she couldn’t handle a ride without holding onto something. She rode handless for fun. Her sense of balance was perfect thanks to her wolf reflexes. No, the problem was that she wanted to lean on him and breathe in his scent.

  “Ready?” He was at the garage’s exit.

  “Born ready.” She grabbed the handle at her back and tried not to tighten her legs against his thighs. Her wolf rejoiced as the wind hit her face. Ophelia cursed under her breath. She had never been so uncomfortable her whole life. On top of everything else, Peter smelled too good. He also knew how to drive a bike, which made her curse even more. Besides the no-touching madness, the man was perfect.

  He zigzagged lazily between cars and hit several yellow lights, and fifteen minutes later they were parking at the garage by the Promenade.

  She jumped off the bike the moment he turned off the engine.

  “Was the ride to your satisfaction?” He had a smug grin plastered on his handsome face.

  Her wolf purred. Seriously, her wolf purred like a big cat. And he heard her.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Nothing a good old night out can’t cure—”

  Two things happened at once. Her wolf let out a painful howl and Peter made a face as if she had hit him in the groin. Mad at both her wolf and Peter, she stepped back and pointed a finger at him. “You don’t get to act as if you have a right to look hurt. You won’t touch me and I can’t stand it any longer without physical contact.”

  His eyes became a mesmerizing shade of azure. “You’re right.”

  For a moment, it seemed as if he would step toward her, and her mind, running way ahead, projected an image of their intertwined bodies. Then he let out a breath alongside a curse, and she chastised herself for still hoping.

  Having run out of clever comebacks, she headed toward the morgue and picked up her cell phone to call Malina. “Tonight. Club Red.” Their phone conversations were always to the point.

  Malina made a sound that resemble
d a yawn despite being late afternoon. “What time should I pick you up?”

  Her wolf whined, but Ophelia smiled at the phone. “For dinner. My treat. See you in two hours.”

  She hung up and kept walking. Peter was a step behind her. She didn’t have to turn to know his eyes were blazing some interesting shade of red. The path before him was lit bright crimson, like a river of flowing blood. She refused to analyze why she felt an ache deep inside and shushed her wolf when she tried to make her apologize to Peter.

  When Guglielmo saw them entering the antechamber to the morgue, he looked up in surprise. “What are you doing here?” Before either Ophelia or Peter could say anything, he turned to lock the door. “If you’re working on a new case, the body hasn’t arrived yet, and I’m closing for the day.”

  Peter raised one hand. “Wait, can we take a last look at the remains of the couple?”

  “It won’t take but a minute. I promise.” Ophelia smiled at the man. It usually worked.

  “I’m sorry, but you’re too late.”

  “Late?” Peter stepped forward, his head angled toward the glass looking into the morgue.

  “Yes. The remains were moved to a different location. You just missed them.”

  “Who gave the order?”

  “The Holy Council. The archangel called and told me his people were coming.”

  “Arariel called you?” Ophelia asked.

  “Well, not the man himself, but his secretary.” Guglielmo sounded pleased nonetheless.

  “Do you know where they took the couple?” She noticed Peter was growing restless, but concentrated on what the caretaker was saying.

  “He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. It’s not my place to question the archangel’s orders, is it?”

  Peter thanked Guglielmo, and by the time she had exchanged a few pleasantries with the man, Peter was already out. Ophelia retraced her steps but only caught up with him when she left the hospital’s grounds altogether. He was pacing by the riverbank. The Styx’s waters had never looked that dark and they gave Ophelia a bad vibe.