Belial stared at Satan, sick with horror. Not Dara. Not in Hell. He turned to the Enemy. “She didn’t really wind up here?”
The Enemy’s face, impassive as always, gave nothing away.
“She chose to come here,” Satan said. “She was in Hell, by her own choice, when she died. Where did you think she’d wind up?” He tapped his cheek. “Ordinarily, she’d be assigned to Ring Two, with the other mortals who love unwisely, but I think she deserves something special, don’t you?”
Belial lunged for Satan’s throat. Satan’s jaw dropped at the unprecedented attack, but he recovered. With a flick of his fingers, he sent Belial flying backward across the ring and impaled him on a stalagmite.
Belial stared at the cavernous ceiling, a spit of limestone protruding from his chest. The pain was excruciating, but he made no attempt to free himself. There was but one being in the universe who could save Dara. Belial laced his fingers and bowed his head to his chest.
“Father,” he prayed, “please, bring her back.”
The demons in the room yelped.
“How dare you pray to the Enemy inside my walls?” Satan kicked Belial in the ribs. He sank deeper onto the stalagmite and the pain increased tenfold.
“Father of light, father of love, father of mercy, hear my prayer.”
“Stop,” Satan shouted. “I command you to stop.”
Pain from Satan’s snare meshed with the pain of the stalagmite, washing over Belial in hellish waves, but he refused to be distracted. “Father who delights in his children, who delights in giving his children wonderful gifts, give your daughter the gift of life.”
Throughout the ring, demons squealed like pigs bound for slaughter.
“No more, demon,” Satan screamed.
Thrall invaded Belial’s fingers, his toes, but he pressed it back. “Father, forgive my sins.” Tears streamed from his closed eyes and choked his voice, but he kept praying. “Forgive me for my arrogance and my ambition, which led me out of your light. Forgive me for the souls I’ve harmed since I came below. Punish me however you will—leave me speared on this spike for all eternity; throw me in the Lake of Fire—but give Dara back her life and make her whole again.” He would pray without ceasing, forever if necessary.
“Father, save your daughter. Please. Please.” He had killed her. Belial had done this. Him. Not Satan, but him. He sobbed, broken. If he could, he would have crawled across the floor on his belly and thrown himself at the Father’s feet. A soft hand touched his elbow.
“You know, for someone who boasts about his demon grace, you’re kind of clumsy.”
His eyes flew open. Dara stood beside him. She took his hands in hers and, bracing her foot against the stalagmite, tugged until he pulled free. She winced when she saw the gaping wound in his chest, but already the edges knitted and the healing began.
He dropped to his knees, pulling her down beside him. “Thank you, Lord, for your providence. Please watch over us as we make our way to the surface and protect us from the forces of evil.”
“I thought you were the forces of evil,” she said.
“I’ve changed sides.”
Her eyebrows lifted almost to her hairline. “When did that happen?”
He bowed his head in shame. “While you were dead.”
She put her hand under his chin and lifted it till he had no choice but to look her in the eye. “If we’re going to have a relationship, you’ll have to give up poker with the boys. They’re a bad influence.”
The broadest smile he’d ever worn split his face. “Yes, ma’am.”
Behind him, God said, “You know, I like how this turned out. Let’s do it again.”
Satan made a sound like he was choking on his tongue.
“Let’s get out of here.” Belial fought laughter, though his cheeks were still wet with tears. They headed for the door.
“One more thing,” said Satan.
Belial turned, prepared to turn prayer warrior again if necessary.
“The agreement was you’d return to Earth as an ordinary human.” Satan flicked his fingers.
Pain wrenched through Belial’s body as though half of him was being torn away. He staggered and then blinked against the burning in his eyes from the sulfurous air. Zeus and Loki looked larger than he remembered. Satan, with whom he’d worked for ten thousand years, was an unfamiliar and terrifying figure. Then his eyes settled on the chair where God had been sitting. It was empty.
He supposed that was the way it ever was. The creatures most beloved by God knew him the least.
“Do you think he planned this?” Dara asked as she climbed into the Lamborghini.
Belial knew what she was asking: had God foreseen this outcome from the beginning? Had all the hell they’d been through been part of a larger plan to free his demon soul? He thought about his final poker hand. The odds against drawing a straight flush in the last round were phenomenal. Phenomenal, but not impossible.
“I don’t know.” He closed her door. “No one ever knows.”
He circled the car, sulfurous air burning his throat and eyes. How had he survived here all these centuries? Because he was a demon, a supernatural being with an endless life. Now he was merely human, subject to all the weaknesses that flesh was heir to. In another forty or fifty years, he would wither and die. He got in the car and took her hand.
“Everything up there is still a mess,” he said. “You’re still suspended from the clinic, the DA still wants our asses, and we’re both broke.”
“On the other hand, we’ll be able to make love with no one listening in.”
A feeling of contentment like he’d never experienced, as angel or demon, filled him. He leaned across the console to kiss her.
“Sounds like a fair trade,” he said.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading The Demon Always Wins.
I know that your spare time is limited, and I’m honored that you chose to spend it with Dara and Belial.
I’d love it if you would leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook, and your blog or website. Word of mouth is also good—please tell your family, friends and fellow readers.
Book 2 of my Touched by a Demon series will be coming out in January, 2019. The Demon’s in the Details will have some familiar faces, and some new ones, too!
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Jeanne Oates Estridge
Acknowledgments
I’ve been writing for a very long time, so this is going to be a very long list. My thanks to:
Joe Downing and Mark Thaman, who have been at my side since we formed our writer’s group in 2002. And to Teri Piatt, who joined us soon after.
Nicole Amsler, whose brilliant example and delicate criticisms led me to ask more of myself, to take more chances and to write better prose, and to the rest of the Cool Kids I met at the Midwest Writers’ Workshop—Casey Alexander, April Gerard, Mary Mascari, Katie Spina and Julie Lawson Timmer.
Jenny Crusie and the Romance Writing Program at McDaniel College. The knowledge I gained from their program was life-changing, as was the writing group I formed with my classmates, the fabulous Eight Ladies Writing: Michille Caples, Justine Covington, Elizabeth Eldridge , Nancy Yeager, Kat Kaiser, Kay Keppler, Micki Haller Yamada and Jilly Wood.
Alexa Rowan, who came up with the title.
Karen Dale Harris, whose brilliant editing turned this story from a hodgepodge of dangling plot threads and inconsistent world-building into a real book.
Mary Buckham, whose writing craft books and plotting weekends were both instructional a
nd inspirational.
Pauline Pruden Persing, who listened to me plot and replot this book every Saturday morning for years as we hiked in the woods and identified wildflowers.
Gina Slaughter, wonderful neighbor, beta reader extraordinaire and the kind of cheerleader every author should have to keep her going when things get tough.
And, last but by no means least, my sister, Lelane Oates, who read at least three different versions of this book (and three really awful books that came before the McDaniel program) and never once said, “Maybe you should think about a different hobby.”
The Demon Always Wins: Touched by a Demon, Book 1 Page 34