Matched With A Demon

by Ripley Proserpina

  When she finally peered up from the computer screen, it was dark outside, nearly midnight. The library closed at one, and she’d managed to work herself to the point of exhaustion. Mission accomplished.

  36

  Armaros

  “You’re mopey,” Delia told him between bites of noodles. She held her chopsticks in one hand, head tilted, mouth open to catch each strand. Slurping and sucking, broth splattered on her chin and Armaros leaned over to wipe it off.

  “I am not mopey. I’m quiet,” he answered. He was doing his best to be present and live in the moment. It wasn’t fair to Delia if he crawled into bed and pulled the covers over his head, or the Fallen equivalent: indiscriminately burning lesser demons to ash. She needed someone who was tuned in, a participant in her life.

  Her chopsticks fell into her soup with a plunk and she sighed, cupping her chin in her hand. Today they’d poofed to Chinatown in New York City. The streets were busy, and Delia’s face had shined as they window shopped and shop-shopped. Her blonde hair was pulled back, tucked into a bun and kept in place with black lacquered sticks dangling with jade beads. He bought her delicate black shoes decorated with a red rose on the toe, which she had to wear immediately. At her feet was a bag containing a good luck cat, a mandarin collared jacket, and box of tiny crocheted dolls.

  In Armaros's pocket was a box holding a pair of antique enamel earrings. Swirling blues and greens hung from delicate gold hooks. Sipping his tea, he slipped his hand into his pocket, searching for the tiny wooden box. It was stupid, he knew, to buy Lucia a gift he’d never give her. His fingers grazed another item in his pocket.

  Lucia’s necklace. The one he bought her in France. He’d found it on the stone floor of the monastery, the chain sliced and then soldered from Hanielle’s heated blade. He kept it with him now, and a hundred times a day he wrapped it around his finger, savoring the cool metal and knowing it had once rested against Lucia’s skin.

  Delia lifted an eyebrow, eyes dropping significantly to his pocket. “See? Mopey.”

  “You should talk,” he countered. “The T-shirt?”

  Sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms, Delia pretended to study the golden dragons painted on the walls of the restaurant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Recently, Armaros discovered she’d replaced her pillowcase with a T-shirt she'd stolen from Lucia reading, “Napoleon Born2Party.” In the morning, he would find her clutching the pillow like a stuffed animal, face buried against the soft cotton so worn, it was nearly threadbare.

  “You’re both mopey” came a now familiar voice. Hanielle pulled out a chair and sat next to Delia, leaning over and kissing the top of her head before flicking the beads on the end of one stick. “Nice.”

  Touching her hair, she smiled at the angel. “Thanks.”

  For some reason, Hanielle had been appearing each time he and Delia came to Earth. She kept them company, tagging along to wherever. It had gotten to the point where Armaros wondered if Hanielle’s purpose was now tied to Delia, like it had once been to Lucia.

  Looking over the angel’s head, he stared at the traffic out the window. Winter was over, and spring was fighting to make an appearance, which in New York, meant rain and wind with a random warm burst of sunshine. After dropping Delia back at their home, he would check on Lucia, make sure she was dressed for the weather.

  “I’ll be right back.” Interrupting his thoughts, Delia jumped out of her chair and pointed to the restroom sign behind them.

  As soon as she’d disappeared, Hanielle leaned forward. “Lucia’s not well.”

  Immediately, his back prickled and his fingers hooked into claws. “Take Dalia to Lucifer, I’m going.”

  “No, Armaros, wait!” Hanielle gripped his arm, her power blocking his and not allowing him to leave when he would have flashed to Lucia. “Something’s going on with her, but I don’t know what.”

  “Tell me.” He could barely form the words. His muscles had all clenched, his jaw so tight, it barely moved.

  “Twice, now, I’ve felt a tug. Her soul was in danger.”

  When he found whoever was threatening her, he’d smash them into dust. “Who?”

  “Lucia.”

  It took a moment for her words to register, filter past the anger fogging his brain and the urge to drop everything and take her into his arms. A thousand times a day, he wanted to give in. He watched her: studying, teaching, grading, and he thought, how bad would it be if I took her with me. She’d be safe. I could keep her safe, couldn’t I?

  And then he’d remember the bruises on her body, and her voice ruined by the desert. If he kept her, she’d constantly be in danger. Demons and Fallen would stalk her, not to mention the Warrior angels he’d piss off. He couldn’t risk her.

  Right now, Heaven and Hell were at an impasse. He and Delia were ignored. Lucifer had given Delia his protection, which meant, for all intents and purposes, she was one of Lucifer’s. The angels stayed away, and the others feared the original Fallen too much to test him.

  Lucia should have been living a normal, human life, and from what Armaros saw, she was. What could have changed in the hours since he’d last lurked?

  Reading his confusion, Hanielle sought to clarify. “She seems well enough, doesn’t she?” She didn’t continue until he nodded. “She looks fine, but I’m intercepting thoughts, desires. Once this winter, I felt it. The urge to be nothing, and then it was gone. Then again, weeks later. But today it happened early, and then not long ago.”

  “I saw her this morning,” he breathed, tapping his fingers on the table and turning around to watch the restrooms. Delia had been gone a long time. Shit.

  Pushing his chair back so quickly, it tumbled to the ground, he rushed to the bathroom and pounded on the door. She was gone, he knew before his hand touched the wood.

  “She went to Lucia?”

  “Yes. She’s tuned in, even when you think she’s not listening…” The angel probably scared the crap out of her. Delia missed Lucia as much as Armaros. She may have understood why they couldn’t be with Lucia, but she didn’t like it.

  “Let’s go—” Hanielle stopped short, canting her head as if listening to something he couldn’t hear. Her brow creased, jaw tightening. Whatever she heard, she didn’t like. “I can’t go with you.”

  “Why not?”

  Angrily she shook her head, watching Armaros throw bills on the table and then grabbed his arm to flash them out of the restaurant. They appeared in a park not far away, beneath the bronze statue of Sen Yet-sen. The rain poured, but rather than block it, he let it saturate him, soaking his hair and jacket. He didn’t feel the cold, it didn’t bother him. But he wanted it to, he wanted to be as uncomfortable in this form as he was inside it.

  “I can’t go because her soul isn’t in danger right this minute. You know I’m as bound by commands as you once were.”

  “Are you saying the Creator won't let you?”

  Hanielle opened her mouth but stopped. “I can’t tell you,” she ground out. “But go. You need to go.”

  Without another word, he found the path leading to Delia and Lucia and followed it. After her explanation, he expected Lucia to look worn, haggard.

  She didn’t.

  Her eyes were tired, but her skin was bright. It was grey, but warmer. Green buds dotted the trees. In some places, daffodils had pushed their way through the dirt. Lucia sat on what must’ve been her favorite bench. He found her here often. It was halfway between the history department and the library, set a little bit away from the paved path.

  Like him, Delia stayed hidden, shielding her presence from Lucia, but sitting close enough she could reach out and touch her. Staring at her intently, the girl didn’t turn her attention to him.

  Her deep red eyes flashed, a burst of power flowing out of her. The nearby tree exploded into a shower of waxy green leaves, tossing the branches against each other. Cautiously, he approached, sitting on Lucia’s other side.


  “She seems fine.” Delia studied her. “I don’t feel hopelessness. She hasn’t given up.”

  Lucia turned the page of the book she was reading, oblivious to what Delia' had done, sipping the tea in her hand and wincing.

  “Lucia, Lucia, let down your hair!”

  “Not this guy,” Delia muttered. “Have you met him yet?”

  Ignoring the comment, which gave away she’d been watching Lucia also, he nodded. “I have.”

  “What’s up, Aaron?” Lucia asked, putting her tea on the ground and digging through her bag. “I have the exams here. Kids did well with your test. Really well, actually.”

  “Think they were cheating?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No. I think they studied and they like the material. You got a nice little bell curve.”

  The man, Aaron, took the tests and tucked them beneath his arm without a cursory glance. “Good, good.” To Armaros’s displeasure, he continued to stand there, staring at her. “How are you doing?”

  “Fine.” Zipping her bag, she stood and started back to the library. “We have a date with Special Collections, remember? You needed slides for Wednesday’s class.”

  “Can’t you go without me?”

  Armaros’s chest burned. Was this why she was so tired? Was she doing her work and his? A surge of power left him, manifesting as a strong wind. It shoved against Aaron, causing him to take a step back.

  “I guess I can,” she answered, unfazed by the strange weather. “But I’m not taking it to your office. You want it, come and get it.”

  “Fine, fine. How about I bring you coffee?”

  “I’m off coffee, remember?”

  “Right,” he droned. “Herbal with honey.”

  “Yes, please,” she answered. “I should have everything done in a few hours.”

  “Great!” Reaching down, he handed her the tea she’d placed on the ground. “I really appreciate it.”

  “I know.” She waved him off.

  Armaros and Delia had both stood when she did, standing close to her, watching her face. The moment before he left, Armaros caught Aaron glancing toward the place where Delia stood. It was so fast it could have been a muscle twitch, except that it was so focused and honed.

  Delia followed Lucia as she walked to the library, but he paused. Something about Aaron set him off, raising alarms. Why had he never felt this concern before?

  Armaros hated him. Hated watching him ask Lucia out on dates, or stare at her. To realize he’d missed something, missed a crucial sign that Aaron wasn’t what he claimed to be, was a bitter pill to swallow.

  Aaron walked toward the history department, and he followed. Delia glanced at him and nodded before hurrying to catch up with Lucia. Moving fast, the man dodged speed walking students. The building loomed ahead of them, red brick, long rectangular windows, twelve panes over twelve panes. To Armaros’s surprise, he bypassed the building, beelining for the white chapel on one edge of the quad.

  Armaros didn’t even think about it. Aaron went into the church and he tried to follow.

  And stopped.

  A wall, invisible but harder than diamond, stood between him and the man disappearing through the large wooden doors. Hallowed ground. There was no way for a Fallen to follow. The way was barred to Armaros and anything like him.

  Aaron had no trouble entering the church, which meant he wasn’t a demon. He was only a man, albeit a man who irritated and pissed off Armaros.

  Something about Aaron bothered him, but Armaros could at least conclude he wasn’t after Lucia’s soul. The conclusion did nothing, however, to alleviate his growing worry.

  37

  Lucia

  Lucia dropped the slide viewer to the table and rubbed her eyes. Aaron wanted a number of photographs of Rome for his Western Civilizations class, and he wanted the ones taken by a long-dead professor. Special Collections took pride in their preservation of materials, but these slides were not high on the list of things needing to be digitized. As a result, and the fact that they’d already loaned the slide projector to another professor, Lucia had no choice but to view each individual slide through a small device, not unlike a monocle crossed with a telescope. It was hell on her eyes, and a growing, throbbing pulse behind each one warned her of an oncoming migraine.

  Stretching her neck from side to side alleviated some of her stiffness, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. She had a checklist of slides she needed to find, and three slide files full to get through. Sighing, she inserted the next and brought it to her eye. The Colosseum. Again. Aaron wanted a view of the Vomitorium, passages that led outside. It would get a laugh, and he would get to use the word “spew.” After more than a month working with him, Lucia recognized a win/win when she saw it.

  “This is taking forever!” she groaned, dropping her head on the table. Why did she say she’d do this on her own?

  Was this her life from now on? Staring at slides from the 1950s? Some of which were so blurry, or had a thumb covering the one object of interest—Jesus. Did no one weed out the duds? This was the problem with Ivy Leagues; everything was saved in case one day, however far off and however unlikely, it could be useful.

  Taking a deep breath, she added another slide, discarding it and then adding another. If she gave herself even a second, she found herself swamped by feelings of doubt and self-pity. Her hand trembled, fumbling with the slide, and she fought the desire to wallow.

  For ten slides in a row, she discovered a partial view of the Trevi Fountain, a significant portion of which was covered by a thumb. Each subsequent slide increased her anxiety. Why was this bothering her so much?

  Because you’re a peon, and you’ll never do anything important again.

  Angrily, she shoved a slide into the viewer, only to come eye-ball-to—slide—with another thumb.

  “Dammit!”

  “Lucia?” The Special Collections librarian touched her shoulder. “Maybe you need a break? These are very important slides, and need to be handled with the utmost care.” His voice was quiet, soothing; the flush on his cheeks gave away his embarrassment and when she glanced over his shoulder, the other librarians stared at her in worry. Apparently, he’d drawn the short straw.

  “I’m sorry, Vinnie.” Standing, she stretched her arms over her head.

  “It was the thumbs, wasn’t it? It gets everyone,” he said sympathetically.

  “It didn’t help,” she answered pushing her arms through the sleeves of her sweater. “I’m going to need them again later. Now that I know what I’m getting into, I can psyche myself up. If Aaron Fisher shows up, let him know I took a break. I’ll get him his slides tonight.”

  She stuffed the last of her books into her backpack and slid her arms through the straps. After one last guilt-filled wave to Vinnie, she rushed through the library doors.

  In the time since she’d left her favorite bench, the sun had come out. Soon, she was sweating her way across campus. Stopping, she removed her backpack and held it between her knees while she stripped off her sweater.

  She wanted to go home. The singing birds and bright green grass did nothing to tempt her to linger. Hurrying, she passed the history department and the dorms at the edge of campus. Here, the buildings were residential—narrow houses side-by-side with tiny postage stamp yards separated by chain link fences. Some houses had early spring gardens: daffodils and crocuses, Mayflowers and jack-in-the-pulpit. Her neighbor had potted plants lining their deck, a risky move according to her mother who never put out plants before Memorial Day. Any time before that, she claimed, and there was the chance of a killing frost.

  The gate slammed behind her, rusty hinges creaking and banging noisily, metal against metal. She hadn’t reached the front door before her mother met her.

  “What are you doing home?” Staring at Lucia through narrowed eyes, she examined her daughter from head to toe.

  “I have a headache, and I’m tired. I’m taking a break,” she answered, sliding past her and into t
he hallway to drop her bag on the floor. Pausing for a moment, Lucia considered the kitchen for food, or her bedroom. Bedroom won out. Her head pounded, the bright sunlight having done nothing to lessen her tension, and she needed a nap.

  “A break?” Her mother followed her, her feet treading lightly on the steps. “You don’t take breaks. You never take breaks. Let me feel your forehead. Turn around.”

  Giving in without argument, she did as her mother asked. Her hand was soft and cool against her skin and Lucia closed her eyes.

  “You’re not warm,” she murmured. “But it doesn’t mean you don’t feel good. Change out of your school clothes and lie down. I’ll bring you some Tylenol.”

  Leaning over, she kissed her mother’s cheek and then wrapped her arms around her waist. Rarely did she need a hug, but right now she did, and her mother’s scent, so familiar, comforted her. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Hesitantly, she hugged Lucia back, squeezing. “Go to bed, Lucia Maria. Under the covers.”

  Without another word, she did as her mom asked—pulling on pajama pants and the soft T-shirt she wore to bed, and crawled onto the mattress. She’d tugged the comforter up to her chin when the door open and her mother, Tylenol and water in hand, came inside.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she watched Lucia swallow the water and pills. After taking the glass from her, Mom fixed the comforter and pushed Lucia’s hair out of her face. “Are you okay, Lucia?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to lie, to assure her yes, everything was fine and dandy.

  But it wasn’t.

  She was tired and sad, and each day felt like a battle. Thoughts she’d never considered cropped up when her mind wasn’t occupied. She was in a cycle of exhaustion and hopelessness, each emotion made worse by the other. Working herself to the bone to stave off memories, which led to her fatigue, which made it harder to work, and on and on.

  “I’m tired,” she whispered and to her horror, tears welled up in her eyes. Wiping them on the comforter embarrassed, she stopped talking.