Luck of the Devil

by Cate Lawley

  CHAPTER TWO

  One near-miss accident and hasty recovery later and I was a tiny bit sorry that I’d told Michael my Big Secret while he was driving.

  Maybe not my wisest move, but it had been impossible not to. He’d been almost honest with me. His words were the closest anyone in his family had come to telling me about his family’s secret, and his sister was my best friend. BFF, super-tight, I was her maid-of-honor—that kind of best friend.

  Mischief-maker, ha! If that wasn’t code for leprechaun, then I’d set my car on fire—on purpose this time.

  I understood why Livy hadn’t told me. I was disappointed, but I understood seeing as how I had my own pile of bones in my family closet. But for Michael to mention it so casually, if a little obscurely… And semi-retired?

  Was someone tired of being naughty? I sneaked a glance at him.

  “So, uh, the devil’s daughter,” Michael said, rubbing his neck.

  And I couldn’t help a sigh. This was the part where he had to decide whether I was whackadoo or a part of the “in” crowd. I almost felt bad for him.

  “Maybe we should wait till we get to your cabin to talk about it. I’d hate to distress you and cause an accident.” I placed just the slightest emphasis on “distress.” No manly man liked to get called out on bad driving, and the poke was too good to pass up.

  He gave me a tight-jawed, narrow-eyed look. “The only thing that has distressed me this evening was seeing you carted off like so much luggage during my sister’s party. Who was that guy?”

  “Ah. Now see, that’s a problem. If I tell you who he is, the truth, no lies”—and I’d swear the tips of his ears were turning pink—“then you might cause an accident. What with you hanging up your mischief hat, that wouldn’t do at all.”

  He gripped the wheel tighter. “You know.”

  “I haven’t a clue what you mean.” I fluttered my lashes at him when he glanced my way. He looked furious, but that didn’t dissuade me. If anything, it had the opposite effect. I’d never seen Michael flustered. I smiled sweetly and asked, “What could I possibly know?”

  “If I wasn’t worried that bulldog posing as a human might actually be after us, I’d pull over and we could discuss this like actual adults. You’re acting like a toddler.”

  A “bulldog.” Now that was hardly fair. Don wasn’t actually all that bad looking. My objections to him had to do with what he was (a skirt-chasing demon with a reputation for vengeful violence) and who he knew (my dad, who’d made the marriage arrangements). That was putting aside the whole argument of not wanting to marry some random (in regard to my emotional attachment) demon because it was a good political alliance for my father. Or the fact that it wasn’t the middle ages.

  But it really wasn’t good for my emotional state to dwell. Suffice it to say, Don wasn’t my type, and I had no desire to marry into the family business.

  Objectively speaking, Don was a bit of a catch. Was Michael a teensy bit jealous… maybe? Nah. Those were my lady bits speaking up. My common sense said, don’t get your hopes up.

  Now, what was that about my being a toddler? Hm. “If I’m such a toddler, maybe you’d like to pull over and spank me.”

  That naughty thought had popped into my head and directly out of my mouth. What was it about Michael that made me do that?

  I could tell he was still mad, but his lips quirked. “You know spanking is very last century… for toddlers.”

  But then he didn’t say another word for miles. About the time I’d convinced myself that we’d ride the entire distance in silence, he spoke. “You could have said something. If you knew, you should have said something.” He sounded a little angry, but mostly disappointed. Like I’d let him down. “You have no idea how hard it is for my sister to trust people. When she finds out that you’ve kept who you are, what you are a secret,”—he sighed.—“she’s going to be upset.”

  Ah. I considered my words carefully. This wasn’t a chance at a cheap shot. This was about Livy, and she deserved better. “She’s my best friend. I didn’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to hurt her.”

  “Then how could you lie to her for so long?”

  I laughed but it was a nasty sound that reminded me of my father.

  Michael glanced at me and his nostrils flared with some emotion.

  “Okay, Michael, if we’re going to be truthful here, what exactly are you?”

  He shifted in his seat, then checked his mirrors. “You know.”

  “Say it.” But he didn’t, and my anger climbed. I could feel my face flushing. “You have no right to judge me, when you can’t even say it out loud.” Still he was silent, so I pulled out a little bit of my dad’s nastiness. Quietly, I said, “I can make you.”

  He whipped over to the shoulder and threw the car into park. “What did you say?”

  “I can make you.” I repeated it, but my anger was slipping away. It never lasted, because—thank goodness—I was only half my father’s child.

  He stewed for a few seconds. Then a few more.

  Michael Kelly was turning out to be a much more thoughtful and much less impulsive man than I expected. So very different from my dad.

  Eventually, he said, “I’m sorry. That‘s between you and my sister. I know you’ve been a good friend to her.” He turned to find me gaping, I’m sure in an unattractive fashion. To which he responded by flashing me his charming, easy smile. “Now it’s your turn.”

  I looked at him, confused.

  “It’s your turn to apologize.”

  “Oh. Right.” The words tumbled out. “I’m sorry.” And I was.

  “See, not so hard.”

  He had no idea.

  “You know I wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t…” Great. Now it was my turn to fidget. I huffed out a breath then quickly said, “I wouldn’t fiddle with your free will.”

  “I know.” He didn’t think about it, didn’t have to consider. He knew I wouldn’t do that terrible thing.

  He discovers I’m the devil’s kid, and he doesn’t for a second think I’d step past the line that stood between right and so very wrong.

  He put his blinker on, put the car into drive, and carefully merged back onto the road. Like we hadn’t just had words. Like everything was fine. Like I was a totally normal person.

  And he’d apologized.

  I’d apologized.

  Tears burned at the back of my throat. I might cry.

  I hated my temper. Hated it so much, because sometimes it felt like it was bigger than me. It reminded me that I was my father’s child. Oh, and then there were the fires. If I got really mad, I started fires. Accidentally, but that didn’t make it any better when someone’s car burned up (mine) or someone’s library book turned into a charred mess (my junior high bestie’s) or someone’s carport caught fire (my mom’s).

  So I avoided things that made me angry.

  Livy and I didn’t argue. Not in a weird avoidance kind of a way. Just because Livy was Livy. I loved her. She was like an amazing fruit pie: only a little sweet and completely genuine, never syrupy and overdone. She was easy to love, easy to get along with, easy to concede to.

  But Michael wasn’t like Livy. He was a little like my dad. Not his temper, obviously, but some parts of his personality. The assertive, confident, self-assured aspects. Those people were harder for me.

  Over time, I’d learned to hide away the anger, bury it, and then there were no burnt up library books between friends. Avoid conflict, and then there was no awkward homeowners insurance claims for mysterious carport fires between family.

  I’d learned not to be swallowed up by the anger. I’d learned to swallow it instead.

  But with Michael, I’d let my freak flag fly, gotten a little angry, and apologized. That was new.

  Michael deserved more than an apology. Ugh. We were going to talk about feelings.

  “At first, I didn’t know, you know, what she was.” I clenched my hands in my lap.

  Michael quirked an eyebrow
at me, then with a twitch of his lips, he said, “That she and her whole family, myself included, were leprechauns?”

  I chuckled, but I’d swear those ridiculous tears were still close—because that admission was better than an apology. He really did know how to push my buttons, just all the good ones instead of the bad. I smiled back at him. “Exactly. By the time I figured it out, I’d already considered what my situation might mean for her. She tells me she’s a leprechaun, I say, oh, gee, no worries, I’m half demon—”

  “Half?”

  “Hm? Yes, half. My mother isn’t. She’s lovely.” He nodded, as if half or whole, it was all the same, just another piece of information, so I continued. “And then I tell her, by the way, I’m engaged to a prince of hell, but I’m hiding from him, and then bam! She’s tangled up in the mess that is my life.”

  Michael cleared his throat. “Don is a prince of hell?”

  “Abaddon. He’s the one with the locusts and the floods.”

  “Oh, I know which one he is.” Michael’s face had assumed a grim cast.

  “Oh, Michael, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have involved you in my messy life.”

  He scowled at me then turned off the highway. “You’d rather have been carted away by a linebacker lookalike who doesn’t seem to think much of women? A guy that rumor says keeps a harem down in hell?”

  “Ah, you do know who Abaddon is.”

  “You can’t marry him.”

  “I’ve been hiding out for a while now. Out of sight and out of mind, as they say. Since I don’t actually want to marry him, it seemed like a good idea.” I ignored Michael’s snort. “I check in with Dad a few times a year. I just make sure that Abaddon is far from hell when I do it.” I frowned at Michael. Who was he to judge? He didn’t know all the facts. “It wasn’t like he was in any hurry to get married, what with his harem of women.”

  “Uh-huh. Except something changed.”

  “Yeah, something changed.”

  “Do you want to tell me why you’re engaged to a man you don’t want to marry?”

  Sinking lower in my seat, I mumbled, “Not really.”

  I wasn’t about to tell Michael I’d dreaded the argument that denying my father would have precipitated. That I was worried Dad’s dynastic plans were more important than any feelings he had for me, and terrified that denying the engagement would give me ample proof of his disappointing priorities. That we’d been topside in a park picnicking and there had been trees—so many trees—and I’d been worried about starting the next national newsworthy brushfire.

  So while I hadn’t said “yes,” I also hadn’t said “no.”

  “Okay. So break it off.”

  “You’ve lost your mind.” I stared at him. “Abaddon, Prince of Darkness and Destruction. The name basically says it all.”

  Michael glanced at me with just a touch of pity in his eyes. “I’m not the crazy person in this car. If you’re so frightened of what your fiancé will do over a broken engagement, then perhaps that’s all the more reason not to end up as the man’s wife.”

  A shiver crawled up my spine. Wife. I’d been thinking in terms of a long engagement and a wedding that would never happen. Being someone’s wife was terrifying. I glanced at Michael to find his expression had morphed to concern—for me, over my stupid, partially self-inflicted engagement woes.

  Maybe being someone like Michael’s wife wouldn’t be quite so terrifying.

  Then I chuckled. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t ready to get married. Not to Abaddon, not to someone like Michael, not to Prince Charming himself (should the man exist).

  “Glad you can laugh.

  “Oh, I better laugh. If I don’t laugh, you might have to mop up me and my tsunami of tears, before your leather seats are ruined.”

  His worried look vanished and he smiled again. “I have a hanky.” After a minute or two, he asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “Run, hide.” I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  He shrugged. “Marry someone else.”

  Silence followed—because that was insane. I’d already decided I wasn’t ready for that step. Marriage was scary. And even if it weren’t, who would this mystery man be? I wasn’t dating, for one. And then there was the other thing, the fact that he’d have to be mentally incompetent to marry me while I was engaged to a prince of hell.

  Michael sighed. “Look. Present it as a fait accompli, then there’s not much Abaddon can do. After that, well,” He grinned. “you’ll have to rely upon some charm and some luck to smooth things over.”

  I laughed. I mean, I laughed. Hurt my sides, almost throw-up laughter. I wiped the dampness from my eyes. It was simply insanity. There were so many problems with his plan, so many. Why mention the list of challenges when there was one, insurmountable hurdle? “Who exactly is going to piss off the devil, Abaddon, and about half of hell to marry me?”

  “I will.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  It’s a good thing I hadn’t been driving, because we would have crashed. Definitely run off the road, maybe into a tree, possibly hit a deer, certainly smashed his car. Chances were good.

  But he was driving, and we arrived at his little country cabin—with one additional stop—without injury. I expected him to say he was just kidding, or it was too dangerous, or he couldn’t disappoint his family, or—I don’t know, one of a hundred different excuses.

  But he didn’t.

  He didn’t say anything else about it, and other than saying he was a crazy person and clearly not attached to his head, neither did I.

  He parked, and I got a fair look at the place, as good as I could in the full moon darkness. It was a cabin, just as he’d said, but I hadn’t envisioned it as quite so small. On the up side, the driveway had been pretty long, maybe a quarter mile, and the nearest neighbor was likely a mile or two down the road if the lights I’d seen had been any indication. So it was a very private, very small cabin. The better to be quietly murdered in our sleep.

  “We’re not going to be murdered in our sleep,” Michael said before he opened the door.

  “Did I say that out loud?”

  He gave me an exasperated look. “You did. How did you manage to keep the devil’s daughter tidbit under your hat for so long? You don’t seem to have a good handle on what comes out of your mouth.”

  It wasn’t usually a problem. Not that I could say that, because then I’d have to fess up to Michael being the cause. He made me nervous. He always had. But only in a girl-has-crush kind of way. I didn’t have actual feelings for him…because that would be weird, him being a leprechaun and my bestie’s brother.

  He grabbed my shopping bag out of the car—thank goodness for Target one-stop shopping—and looked at me expectantly. “That was a real question.”

  “You make me nervous.” Holy hell, I just said that out loud. Accidentally-on-purpose aloud, not oops-that-slipped out aloud. Excessive honesty must be another symptom of the illness that was my lust-crush. Time to retreat. I grabbed the bag from his hand and headed for the door.

  To arrive and realize it was locked. I touched my finger to the lock.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Michael’s voice in my ear made me flinch first, melt second.

  Sneaky, quiet, sneaky leprechaun.

  “You said sneaky twice.” He was close enough that the rumble of his voice in my ear made my ovaries purr.

  No, not good. I touched my finger to the lock, sending a quick unbinding pulse of magic to the lock.

  “Ow!” I yanked my hand back. “It bit me!”

  Michael just chuckled, then nudged me to the side so he could unlock the door with a proper key. “I warned you. Also, for future reference, the harder you try, the harder it bites.”

  Good to know, because I’d just given the lock a little nudge. Shaking my hand—like that helped—I said, “Your sister can’t do very good wards or protections.”

  He swung the door open for me. “Oh, how do you know? She’d hardly
have shared what she can and can’t do with her best friend, the one who doesn’t know about magic, would she?”

  With my shopping bag clutched in my good hand and my other hand throbbing in time to my increasingly rapid pulse, I sashayed into the place like I owned it. And made it about four feet. “Whoa.”

  Michael shut the door behind him. “Ah, is that a good whoa or a bad whoa?”

  “It’s a ‘this place is tiny and has one bed’ whoa.” But then I looked again. It was all exposed log walls and rustic charm. Looking at him, so he’d know I meant it, I said, “It’s really nice. Thank you for doing this.”

  “You thank me for letting you crash in my one-room shack but you don’t answer my proposal of marriage. You’re a strange girl, Smith.”

  “This is not a shack.” I frowned at him. I could tell he loved this place; that easy charm of his was practically seeping from the logs. For the place to soak up that much of his personality and his magic, he had to spend some serious time here and really love the place.

  He rolled his eyes. “Okay. We’ll just avoid the fact that the Prince of Darkness and Destruction—who has enough women to create his own harem—is chasing you down with an eye to a forced marriage, and that something very odd is going on between you and your dad if he’s supporting Abaddon, the Don Juan of Hell, as your future spouse. We’ll skip over all that. You’re absolutely right. It’s not a shack. I love this place.”

  “You really have heard all about Don.” I sized up his bed. Big enough for two—actually three or four, if that’s the direction Michael liked to lean—but no, this wasn’t a love shack. “By the way, Don hates that name.”

  “The sofa makes a reasonable bed.” He gestured to the couch. “Of course he hates it. It’s tongue in cheek. The guy’s a chauvinist and a player, not exactly every woman’s dream lover.”

  Focus on the non-personal stuff. Sofa…what was that about the sofa? Michael was well over six feet. No way that would work. “Oh, I’ll take the couch.”