Matched With A Demon

by Ripley Proserpina

  “You’re injuring her,” the man told her. His eyes were black, his voice choked between breaths.

  “Del…” What should she do? If she took her out of the circle, the man could hurt her, but she was in pain. “I didn’t know…”

  Though she spoke to herself, he answered, “Of course, you didn’t. You throw around your magic without thought. Humans are idiots.”

  “I’m not an idiot. You’re an idiot,” she muttered. What was wrong with her?

  They couldn’t remain within the circle. Even though she’d avoided the police, they were her one shot. Her phone was on the bed, and she touched it, emergency call. It went through and she heard someone answer. No matter what, someone would come. Hopefully, it would hinder whatever plans the man had.

  “I’m taking her out,” Lucia told him. “Do what you want to me, but if you hurt her, I’ll hurt you worse.”

  He growled at her, eyes back to blue as he stared at the phone. Apparently, his magic couldn’t work on technology in the salt circle. Ha. Suck it.

  “I have a child with me. I fear for her safety. There is a man threatening me. Please send help.” She hoped the police dispatcher heard her.

  Cursing under his breath, the man glared at her.

  “No…” Delia reached for her when it became clear what Lucia meant to do.

  Picking Delia up, she slid off the bed. As soon as they were outside the circle, the girl let out a sigh. Tear-filled eyes met hers, and Delia whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll try to remember.” Lucia reassured her with a smile, and snuggled her close.

  The pressure began in her head again and she glared at the man. “I hate you.”

  His answering smile was bitter but understanding. “You’re not the first.”

  “It’s okay,” Delia whispered before the pain was too much and she gave in.

  4

  Lucia

  Lucia awoke to incessant beeping and the heady scent of her mother’s perfume. The hospital room’s harsh overhead lights made her wince.

  “Ma?”

  “Jesus Christ, Lucia Maria, you’re going to kill me.”

  Turning her head to the worried voice, her mother’s soft round face, pale with worry stared back at her. No. Glared at her.

  “What happened?” IV lines attached to a bag on a pole tugged at her skin when she lifted her hand to her face.

  “You called the police. They found you at your apartment.”

  “Broke down your door.” Her father’s low baritone reverberated through the room. He came closer, placing a meaty hand on her mother’s shoulder.

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  He shrugged. “It’s fine, peanut. We can fix it.” His eyes were bleary, tired, and upset. Her father, a bear of a man with more heart than drive, looked like he’d been crying. What was wrong with her to make her dad cry?

  Lifting her head, she stared down at her body. Legs? Check. Hands? Check. She touched her face. Ears, eyes, nose, lips? Check, check, check, check. What had happened? Pushing aside the cobwebs, she focused on her day. She went to the library, studied texts in the Special Reserves section, missed the bus, walked home… Ouch.

  Right there. The alley. Her mind searched for what happened after reaching the alley, but her eyes throbbed. She pushed harder to remember, and a stab of pain made her wince.

  “Lucia!”

  Her eyes opened when her mother stuck a tissue beneath her nose. Jerking her head back, she saw the bloom of blood that had quickly soaked it. “Gross.” She grabbed it from her mom and put it back under her nose. “Ugh.”

  “Is the idiota awake?”

  “Hey, Zia.” Her voice came out nasally and muffled.

  “Hey, stupido. Great listening.” Her aunt flicked her fingers under her chin in Lucia’s direction and she rolled her eyes. The bed bounced as her aunt dropped a shopping bag at the foot of the bed.

  “What is that?”

  Knowing better than to expected chicken soup or a magazine, Lucia watched her aunt unload the paper bag. Out came olive oil, her nonna’s mixing bowl, and a spaghetti sauce jar filled with water.

  “You have the malocchio.” The evil eye? Come on.

  “Ma…”

  Her mother shrugged. “It can’t hurt.”

  “Dad.”

  He held up a hand. “I stay out of this.”

  “Zia,” she sighed. “Why do you think I have malocchio?”

  “What happened to you yesterday?” Zia Valeria asked, her black eyes flashing angrily. “Try to remember.”

  It was a challenge, one Lucia tried to meet. She pushed again against the wall in her mind that kept her from answering. She pushed past the discomfort as it morphed into pain, and then the pain when it became agony.

  Her mother’s voice screeched through her misery. “Lucia, stop!”

  As soon as she did, the hurt disappeared like it was never there. Her father’s face had gone white, and he turned, lunging for the trashcan and heaving.

  “What?” Her voice was garbled, and her face wet. Wiping away what she thought were tears, a flash of dark red startled her. She wiped her face again, staring at her hands in shock. “Mom?”

  Blood. Her hands were covered in blood so dark, it was nearly black.

  “Here.” Her aunt thrust a towel towards her hurriedly, swiping her face roughly. “That’s what I meant.”

  “It’s a bloody nose, Zia. Relax.”

  “Listen, Miss PhD-who-knows-everything. You are bleeding out your eyes. Your eyes. See your father vomiting into the trash over there? That’s because blood was pouring down your face like that girl—what was her name? The one at the prom.”

  “Carrie,” she whispered, accepting the towel. Her hands shook. Something was really wrong with her. A brain tumor, or a stroke. There was no other reason she’d be bleeding from her eyes.

  “Connie, help me,” her aunt demanded and filled the bowl with water, carefully dripping three drops of oil into the water. “Hand.” She grabbed Lucia’s hand before she could respond.

  Her mother, her father, who emerged grey-faced from behind the chair, and aunt made the sign of the cross.

  “Look,” her aunt whispered, gesturing to the water. Inside the bowl, the oil had separated and reformed. An almond shape collected in the center of the bowl and in its center, a dot. For all intents and purposes, an eye. “Start praying.”

  Her mother and father started immediately, “Father, this prayer is being said for Lucia Maria…”

  Inside Lucia’s head, a tightness formed. It was right behind her eyes, sharper than her earlier pain. More stabbing than bone crushing.

  Her aunt’s cool fingers touched her hand, making the cross on her palms. With each cross, she said a prayer. Without meaning to, Lucia tried to pull her hands back from her aunt, but Zia held firmly.

  Her body was no longer under her control, thrashing back and forth on the bed. Something welled inside her, curling away from her aunt’s touch. Lucia’s head slammed into the pillow as if she could stop her ears from hearing the prayer but it was no use. Eyes opening, her aunt’s thumb came closer to her face.

  “Don’t touch me!” The voice wasn’t her own, and her aunt jerked back before coming toward her with even more determination. “No!”

  It burned, but the pressure behind her eyes snapped, dissipating. She took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. Her body relaxed into the pillows and she smiled gratefully at her aunt.

  Until her memories hit her like a truck: the alley, Delia, the salt, the man.

  Throwing the covers off her body, she pulled the IV from her arm, wincing in discomfort. “Where are my clothes?” She looked around frantically. “Zia, I need you to scry. I’ve gotta find Delia.”

  “Get back in that bed, young lady!” her mother screeched.

  “Zia. Tell them what’s happening. I don’t have time.” She found a bag marked personal items and took it with her into the bathroom.

  Her aunt’s voice filtered thro
ugh the door, but she ignored it. Washing her face and neck, she hurriedly dressed.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” her father told her when she came out. He rarely put his foot down, but when he did he expected her to listen.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I can’t. Delia needs me.”

  “Who is Delia?” Zia Valeria asked. “The demon?”

  “She’s not a demon, Zia.” Scanning the room, she finally located her boots beneath a chair. Kneeling, she pulled them out and shoved her feet into them. “She’s a little girl.”

  “I told you, Lucia. She’s not a girl.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Zia. I love you. And I know you know more than me, but no matter what Delia is, she is young and frightened, and she needs me.”

  “She did this to you!” Zia argued.

  Sighing, she realized she hadn’t explained to her family what happened. She’d assumed Zia knew, and told her parents everything. “Listen. I found Delia in the alley. And no, she’s not human, but I don’t know that for sure. She needed my protection. Maybe I should have taken her to the police, but with the red eyes and the shark teeth, I was afraid what would happen.”

  “Shark teeth?” Her mother’s voice reached such a high pitch, Lucia was sure somewhere a dog howled.

  Ignoring her, she went on. “I took her home, got your message about salt, used it, and then this guy, who definitely wasn’t human, showed up. I tried to fight him, but I couldn’t, and the salt hurt Delia. So, now, here we are. I need to find her, Zia. Help me.”

  Her aunt’s clenched fists dug into her ample hips and she stared Lucia down angrily. Her black eyes flashed, but after a moment of glaring, she threw her hands in the air. “Fine.”

  Forcefully, she grabbed the bowl and walked to the tiny bathroom, muttering in Italian the entire time while Lucia’s parents looked on in dismay.

  “Lucia…” her mother began.

  “I know, Ma. But she found me on purpose.”

  Her mother’s face softened, but a glance from her father had her tensing again. “This is your fault! You wanted her to go to college. Now she’s twenty-seven with no husband, and wants to find a demon baby!”

  “My fault?”

  Zia entered the room again, the bowl filled with water. Digging through her paper bag, she found a holy candle and lit it. Her eyes closed, her lips moving, as she began to pray in Latin until, “Lucia. Picture the child in your mind, and ask your question.”

  Closing her eyes, she imagined Delia’s pointed chin and bow mouth. She heard the girl’s high voice and felt her cold small hand in hers. Where is she? Where can I find her?

  Her aunt’s voice, when she spoke, sounded strange and far-off. “West. Pauper’s Cemetery.”

  Shapes, none of which held any meaning to Lucia, formed in the water as her aunt tipped the candle, allowing the wax to drip into the bowl.

  “I’m coming with you,” her father said.

  “No,” Zia answered. Her eyes opened, focusing slowly on the room around her. She smiled at Lucia. “Lucia has to do this on her own. She’ll be fine.”

  “My daughter is preparing to leave the hospital without seeing a doctor. I just helped you perform an exorcism. You can’t be serious, Valeria.”

  “Al. I promise you. Lucia will be fine.” Grabbing her coat from a nearby chair, Zia thrust it toward her. “It is cold, though. Wear your coat. We’ll take care of the doctors. Get going.”

  “Thank you.” She kissed Valeria’s soft cheek before hugging her mother and father. He kissed her firmly, his scruff scratching her face.

  “Be careful.”

  “I will, Dad.”

  “Here.” Zia took her rosary from her pocket and thrust it into her hand, curling her fingers around it. “Wear it beneath your clothes. Don’t take it off right away. Good luck.”

  “Thanks, Zia.” Giving her one more kiss, Lucia hurried from the room and the hospital. It was almost dawn, the sky lightening to a dark blue with the moon still visible. The taxi stand was empty, but she easily found a cab. “Pauper’s Cemetery on Hamilton and Broad, please,” she directed, her heart starting to thump in her chest. I’m coming, Delia. Sit tight.

  5

  Armaros

  Ouch.

  Armaros didn’t let the little monster see, but her teeth fucking hurt. He had claw marks raking his arm and needle pricks along his hands where she’d bitten him.

  Like any kid who didn’t get what she wanted, she was throwing a temper tantrum. The demon part of her added an interesting twist. Lightning zapped him twice, and once she’d managed to send him back to hell. It’d taken him a while to return. Whenever he showed his face there, he drew a crowd. Inundated with news and requests, it took him hours to get back to earth, and when he did, he had to find the demon-spawn since she was missing. Eventually, he found her, hovering at the ceiling above the bathtub. He had to respect her creativity. Now, they stood facing each other across his living room.

  Stifling a smile quickly, he fixed a glare on her when she continued to yell, “I want to go back, now!”

  “Until I figure out what you are and what you can do, we’re staying here,” he replied calmly. The calmer he was, the angrier it made her, and he found himself delighted to see what would come out. His answer made her eyes darken and the entire room began to tremble. Cracks appeared in the ceiling and showered dust on his head. He brushed the chunks from his hair, frowning when pieces stuck in his hair gel.

  Demon-spawn laughed and something nipped his finger. His hair hissed at him and this time, he couldn’t contain himself. When a snake peered at him, its tongue tasting the air, he chuckled. “Nice one.”

  A smile broke over the girl’s face before she tamped it down and frowned. “I want to go back.”

  “Where’s my sister?”

  Her face blanked. “I don’t even know who your sister is.” She was lying.

  “What did the human call you? Delia? You know we can sense a lie. We are the first and best liars. Don’t try to fool me.”

  Stomping her foot, her pale face turned bright red. “I want to go back. I picked her. You can’t keep her from me.”

  Armaros knew possession demons. They obsessed over their humans. He wondered if that was the source of her anger. “You want her soul?”

  Rolling her eyes, she scoffed, “No.” She crossed her arms. “You don’t know anything.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Examining the room, Delia eventually decided on the couch, throwing herself dramatically onto the cushions. He’d taken her to his penthouse, a wide-open space that overlooked the harbor. Every exterior wall was glass. In this place, Armaros was reminded of what it felt like to belong in the clouds. No matter that the building abutted a cemetery, it was home.

  “My dad left. Told me I had to find someone safe. Fallen or human, he said it didn’t matter. I would be able to tell if they were the right one. She is right.” The girl’s face fell, leaving her so young-looking, he felt a pang of guilt.

  Wait. “Dad?”

  Fallen were masters, they created demons. Some might even call him Father, but none called him Dad.

  “You are an idiot.” Turning her body away from him, she repeated herself under her breath, this time in Italian, “Idiota.”

  “Who is your creator?”

  “My creator?” Slowly, she stood barely coming to his chin. “You’re boring, and I’m leaving.” She scrunched up her face and nearly knocked him on his ass with a surge of power. Only millennia of honing his reflexes kept her with him.

  “Stay.”

  Rolling her eyes, she did it again, and he realized, whatever burst she used earlier was nothing compared to her potential. In less time than it took to blink, she disappeared. All traces of her were gone, as if she never even existed. Shit! He wondered for a moment why she argued with him for so long if she could have left at any time. But there was no logic in demon behavior; he was foolish to look for it. Reluctantly, he again found himself respecting the little wr
etch.

  For all her savvy, though, she had given him all the clues he needed to find her. She was headed back to the human, someone who was much easier to find, and much closer than he expected, too. Willing his body to her, he hoped she was prepared for a surprise.

  Appearing out of thin air was easy, and it was Armaros’s preferred method of greeting. It left humans, Fallen, and demons off-kilter. If he was honest, he also enjoyed their confusion and fear.

  He had only himself to blame, then, for Lucia’s actions when he materialized in front of her as she walked toward his building. Briefly, he considered how she’d found him and bypassed his block on her memories. Around her, he could smell blood and pain, so, whatever she’d done to get here, it’d hurt. Once upon a time, he would have regretted it, but now, it was a necessity he steeled himself against.

  He shimmered into existence and she struck. Astonishment was the only excuse he had for not stopping her as she threw her body at him, tackling him to the ground. She was five-feet-tall, maybe, but fast. Speed gave her weight that any other time he could have countered. Together, they fell backward.

  Tucking her knees snugly against his hips, her fists pummeled him. “Where. Is. She?”

  Each word was punctuated with a punch. It didn’t hurt, but hell, if it didn’t make him hard. Her blue eyes flashed and her body twisted, her entire weight behind a punch she telegraphed a mile away.

  Instead of intercepting it, he let it fall. If he’d been human, she would have rung his bell. “She’s not here.”

  “Bullshit, asshole. Tell me where she is.” Shifting, her knee caught him in the balls. Again. Son of a bitch, this girl was a firecracker.

  Waving a hand, he slowed time, giving himself a chance to really study her. She wasn’t pretty. Long nose, full lips, olive skin, and from the swearing, probably Italian. Damn, was that last swear in Latin? Her features were a mash-up of cultures and ethnicities. Purely American, but somehow ancient. He’d seen her profile on coins in Rome, on busts in Athens. A small brown freckle dotted below her left eye, and when he stared closely, he saw it was a perfect crescent shape. Without thought, he lifted a hand to touch it, and she knocked him aside, black curls flying around her head. He allowed time to return to normal.