“Hah!” he barked, making her jump with the sharpness of it. “I believe that particular skill is a level-six ability. I haven’t made it past level one—as you clearly saw after that woman with the accent attacked me from behind, wrestled me to the ground, and duct-taped me to your radiator. I’m just now learning how to disappear. I don’t like using anything that even remotely has to do with these demonic powers I’ve been given, but it gave me an advantage I needed today. I’d be a liar if I didn’t say it helped in a pinch, but it was no cakewalk getting in and out of that bank—naked—even if it was closed.”
Touché. Or not . . . she was having a hard time believing he wasn’t just playing poor widdle weak demon to fool her.
“So now we’re even,” he concluded with a satisfied nod of his head.
“No. We’re nothing. I don’t want your money. I do want you to get out of my house—my store. I only aid spirits who need help crossing over. You’ve officially crossed, and there ain’t no comin’ back from where you landed. That means I can’t help you and I’m not interested in why you showed up here.” Though that might not totally be the truth. She was a little curious after his admission that he was sent here to torment her. But demons loved to play games, and that was probably the case with this one. To waste time playing with them, asking questions, was fruitless and would only heighten a demon’s lust for the sheer joy of toying with a mortal.
Now his patience was running thin. She could see it in the hardening of his eyes, and the pulse at his right temple. “Then don’t take the money. Give it to the poor. Buy dogs one through six a helluva steak. In my mind, my debt to you is paid, and honoring a debt is important to me—no matter how skewed and misinterpreted by a medium the debt is.”
“Very civic, with just the right touch of Boy Scout. Now get out.” She’d deal with the temptation of coveting thy demon’s eight hundred smackers later.
He remained where he was with a posture that dared her to get her prism. “Nope. I’m not leaving until you listen, and if I have to, I’ll use one of my demon skills to make you. I won’t like it, but I’ll do it if the end result is we get this cleared up.”
He. Did. Not. “Pop off, demon. I know you didn’t just threaten me.”
Clyde narrowed his gaze.
She sighed, when he didn’t move a muscle, letting her irritation bleed through the long exhale of it. “Are you gonna make me get the prism again?”
His game face changed a hair. Not nearly as determined as it was a minute ago. “Please don’t.”
Delaney mentally took the metaphoric reins back. “It got rid of you the first time. Wasn’t that you who got all girlie about a little piece of glass? You back for more, hero?”
“If your eyes burning holes in their sockets is girlie, then just call me girl. You had an unfair advantage—a weapon I knew absolutely nothing about. But I’m learning . . .” He let his words drift off, then gave her a smug grin.
Delaney’s snort ripped through the silence between them. “Puulease. You know damned well what’s damaging to a demon. Don’t they give you classes on it in Hell? Isn’t that, like, Demon 101?”
Clyde’s lips thinned, his cheekbones becoming sharper, more defined, giving him a whole new appeal. “As I said, I’ve avoided as much participation in anything demonic as I could.”
Her arms crossed over her chest; her stance grew defensive. “Really? That sounds like a very convenient answer. Like maybe something I want to hear to pacify me until you wail me when I’m not looking?” She cocked a suspicious eyebrow at him.
His wide chest heaved in a ragged sigh. Aw, look. The poor demon was fed up. Wah-wah. “That’s why I was sent here, Delaney. I’ve been trying to tell you that since you accused me of bilking you out of eight hundred bucks. My original assignment was supposed to be some sort of punishment for my refusal to be a team player—if I don’t do what I’m supposed to, my eternity will be spent in the pit.”
The pit? What the frig was the pit? Marcella’d never mentioned a pit . . . “The pit?”
His nod was curt. “All your worst fears come true—for eternity.”
God, that would totally suck. For her, that would mean they’d take Ghost Whisperer off the air or something . . . how heinous.
As she pondered the potential for a Friday night disaster, Clyde finally asked, “Aren’t you even a little curious as to why Satan himself would send someone to terrorize you? That’s a pretty strong message he’s sending, if you ask me.”
Yes, she was curious. No. Yes. No. Delaney shook her head as though that might clear up her misgivings. She refused to delve into this any further. If Satan wanted her, he’d just have to get his spineless ass in gear and come get her himself. She wasn’t indulging, or for that matter divulging anything to, this Clyde.
Before she had the chance to voice her rather ballsy thoughts, Mrs. Ramirez appeared at the store door, pressing her round face to the glass and motioning for Delaney to open the door.
“Who’s that?” Clyde asked from on high.
“Crap. Mrs. Ramirez. She comes to help me in the store sometimes and she loves to play with the dogs. She cannot see you or there’ll be no keeping you under wraps. Disappear or something, would you?”
Clyde cringed, attempting to make his body smaller. “Do you have any idea what it took for me to do that the last time? I nearly burst a blood vessel.”
Mrs. Ramirez pounded on the door, shaking the handle. “Ju open de door, Mees Delaney. Ees locked.”
Delaney looked up at Clyde with a ragged sigh, hoping Mrs. Ramirez couldn’t see with great distance into the depth of the store. “Can’t you squeeze really hard or something? She can’t find you here or the whole block will know about it.”
Delaney went to the door, popping the top lock and sticking just her nose out. She faked a sneeze in the general direction of Mrs. Ramirez’s cherubic face. “I’m sick, Mrs. Ramirez. I’ve got it covered today. You go home.”
Her black eyes pierced Delaney’s with sympathy. “Oh, ju seeck. I come een an’ make ju soup, jes?”
“Jes, I mean, no. I don’t want you to catch it. Go home and come back next week. I’m sure I’ll be better then.”
Her brow furrowed with deep lines. She planted chubby hands on her stout body while the wind whipped her salt-and-pepper hair from its tight bun at the back of her head. “No. I come een an’ take care of de store an’ de babies. Ju go to bed.”
Delaney shot another fake sneeze at her and followed up with the best hacking cough she could summon. “I’m going to leave the store closed today, Mrs. Ramirez. Promise. Hurry up and go home before you catch something.” She sniffled for good measure.
“Ju sure?”
She nodded at her friend who was more like a grandmother. “Jes . . . er, yes. Thanks, Mrs. R. Give Alonzo a big hug for me, okay?”
Mrs. Ramirez ran a finger along Delaney’s nose, then turned to stroll away from the store, her luggage-sized purse swinging from her elbow.
Relief escaped her lungs in a whoosh of air.
“She gone?”
Now back to Clyde. “Yes, she’s gone. Okay, so I have a question.”
“Fire,” he said, stretching his legs back out, defining every last sexy muscle in them.
“If your mission is to capture me and get me to Hell, why would Lucifer send a noob who hasn’t learned his demon ass from his fire-breathing elbow? Dude, that’s just insane. Especially when you’re dealing with someone who knows the spirit world like I do, not to mention the talent for bullshit you demons are so gifted with.”
Now Clyde snorted, long and loud, making the notion of his ability to capture her seem even more preposterous. He shrugged his shoulders indifferently, but his eyes left her face and stared down at his toes. “If you know the spirit world, then you know sometimes it has no rhyme or reason. And Satan doesn’t need a reason to do anything. He does as he pleases.”
“So he sent you here with absolutely no backup? No heavy hit ters to help yo
u out?” This made no sense.
“None of that matters now. That’s why I need you to listen. Satan sent me on a mission I have no intention of completing.” He looked around as if someone—someone they couldn’t see—might hear them.
Delaney looked around, too—because he’d passed the suspicion baton on to her and she was beginning to feel pairs of invisible eyes on her that probably didn’t exist. “And why’s that?”
Clyde’s voice was low when he spoke again. “Okay, one more time for posterity: I don’t belong in Hell.” He held up a hand to stop her from interrupting him, thus revealing far more flesh than her almost reconstituted virginal eyeballs could take in all in one gander. “Before you say another word—no, I absolutely did not choose Hell as my eternal destination. I didn’t have a choice. Like I said, one minute I was in my lab, the next in a place that’s beyond Africa hot. And forget the idea that I led this shitty life you accused me of earlier. I’ve never raped, pillaged, plundered, cheated, or committed any of the deadly sins I’m sure you know by psalm and verse. I was a decent guy, if distracted by my work and sometimes forgetful that there were other people with feelings that occupied my space. I highly doubt being so absorbed in my work was how I ended up in Hell. Now I have a month back here on Earth to figure out how a decent guy ends up in Hell. That’s how long Lucifer gave hi—er, me to bring you to him. Now, if I’m completely honest here, I’ll admit I’m pretty bent out of shape. I have to tell you, it really doesn’t pay to have any morals at all in life if you’re only going to be screwed in death. If the life I led was what put me on the path to Hell, I expect the reigning pope to show up any minute in my ‘Demons Do It Better’ class.”
Delaney looked down at her slip-on shoes, waving a hand in the general direction of his southerly locales, her cheeks hot and pink with embarrassment. “Put that thing away.”
Clyde cleared his throat, slapping his hand back in place over his goodies. “Shit. My apologies.”
She heard him shift on the armoire, his skin sticking to the wood when he did. And now everything was situation normal all fucked up—which gave her a thought. One she couldn’t let go of. A little factoid that didn’t connect all of Clyde’s dots. His story was a good one, unusual and unique, but he could have made all of it up to string her along. Sort of a reverse psychology thing. Play nice, pretend you despise your horned leader, suck in the medium, then nail her balls to the wall for the coup of the century. Satan pats him on the back, and he earns another rung on Hell’s ladder.
Perfect, right?
But this had been nagging at her since last night when he’d been on her bed in her bathrobe, jacking up her Friday night.
Her dogs loved him.
To some that might seem really odd, or even weak, that she was toying with the idea that her dogs could determine good from pure evil. But animals, and even some children, had a keen sixth sense, and her dogs had literally mourned his leaving her bedroom not just last night, but this morning, too. She knew her babies like a mother knew her human offspring, and her babies knew a malevolent force when they saw one.
She hoped.
Another thought occurred to her, too. Her dogs also loved Marcella. Totally dug her. She didn’t love them back much because they were always tearing her nylons or chewing up her shoes, and even then, they still loved her. Had from their very first meeting when she’d called them some name, one that probably wasn’t full of warm squisheys, in Spanish. Marcella was definitely a demon. Not a demon that would hurt a fly without cause, but a demon nonetheless. If Marcella could be a peace-loving unwilling resident of Hell, why couldn’t Clyde?
Delaney grabbed an old throw she kept in the store due to the draftiness in the winter. She hurled it up to Clyde so he could cover his fun stuff just as she caught the glimpse of a woman standing in the corner by the rack of herbal oils. She froze in place, forgetting that she really should ask this errant demon what his supposed mission was about and how it involved her, because the familiar goose bumps rising on her arms while her chimes swayed with a shiver took precedence.
“Delaney?”
“Shhhhh,” she whispered up to Clyde. “Do you see her?”
“Her?”
“In the corner. The lady with the poofy dress and the thing on her head that looks like a doily.”
Clyde shifted to crane his neck. The moment he did, the woman began to fade, then her wavering form turned fuzzy like snow on a television set. Like when the picture faded in and out. Clyde stirred again, running a hand through his hair, and once more, the apparition crackled with static—almost in sync with his movements.
“Sit back up,” she ordered.
Clyde grunted, leaning back to his left and centering himself atop the armoire again. “Is it Aunt Gwyneth again?”
“No, definitely not, and if you don’t hold still I won’t be able to help her. Quit squirming.” Each time Clyde moved, the presence slipped in and out of vision, syncing with his every move. How utterly bizarre. “Stop moving!”
“Sorry, I had an itch.”
Delaney moved closer to the woman, squinting her eyes to bring her into focus. “Clyde,” she threatened, “if you breathe the wrong way, I’ll hack your limbs off.”
Moving with cautious steps, she approached the woman. Whoever she was, sucked to be her in that drab dress, wearing a doily on her head. Clearly she was from another century. Though the outfit didn’t ring any history bells with Delaney. The woman’s lips were moving, but the words rang with only the slightest whisper. Delaney leaned in as far as she could to try to catch what she seemed so desperate to say, watching her lips move as she did. “DasKomadasKomadasKoma,” she said, her face filled with a sense of urgency.
Was that German? Oh, fuck. What did she know in German? “Uh, Volkswagen. Oh! Sauerkraut and Wiener schnitzel—oh, oh! And knockwurst. And, uh . . . Der Kommissar!” she shouted as though they were playing charades.
“Falco, 1981, After the Fire, 1983.”
She tilted an ear up at Clyde. “Who? Never mind, demon—shut it. I’m working here.”
“DasKomadasKomadasKoma,” the woman repeated with fierce insistence, extending a hand toward Delaney as though summoning her.
Pinching her temples, Delaney gave them a hard squeeze. “Aww, crap, lady. You are foreign. That so sucks. You know, as a medium, I’ve given a lot of thought to taking some foreign language courses. I’ve had a visit or two from a group of Dutchmen, and once, even some gondola driver from Italy. But I just can’t seem to find the time, ya know? Shit. If you tell me how to spell it, I can go look it up online.” Which was probably ridiculous to ask because the woman wouldn’t understand her any more than she understood the woman. But the image began to fade before Delaney could turn to retrieve her laptop.
Her shoulders slumped. “Damn. She’s gone.”
“And this would be my fault, too, I suppose,” Clyde stated dryly.
Delaney rolled her eyes at him. “No, Clyde, though whatever mojo you have going on is screwing up mine. Did you catch a glimpse of her? Do you know if she was speaking German?”
“Foreign languages were one thing I didn’t tap in my lifetime. And how do you get used to something like that? People just showing up out of nowhere?”
“You mean like you?”
His blue eyes colored with amusement, and he conceded. “Touche.”
“Are you sure you didn’t see her?”
“You did tell me not to move. I listened. And I definitely couldn’t hear her because I was concentrating on not moving.” His tone held a glint of accusation.
Delaney scratched her head, deciding she’d just have to hope the woman came back. “That’s right, I did. Okay. Forget the lady with the sucky dress and doily hat for now. We have other business to attend to. So I have a thought.”
Clyde pulled the throw around his shoulders, letting the ends fall to his lap. “Which is . . . ?”
She backed away, setting her butt on the edge of the stool she kept behind t
he counter. “Why the fuck do you suppose I’d believe anything—anything—you tell me about your story? You know firsthand that demons are liars. You said that yourself. How do I know you’re not yanking my crank, making me think you’re all jacked up by some mistake so you can hoodwink me and drag me back to Hell with you? Maybe you’re just playing the ‘I don’t belong in Hell, poor me’ story to court me into believing you. So I want an answer. And I warn you—your answer better be really, really solid, or I’m getting the prism and the salt.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Maybe you’re lying?”
“Maybe.”
Her face went slack with disbelief. “That’s all you have to offer?”
Clyde’s lightly bronzed shoulders hitched upward, allowing the blanket to fall to his biceps. “Yep. That’s it. As you said, demons are all liars. I won’t even bother to try and deny the truth of that statement. Yes, I could be lying to you. Yes, I could be trying to pull the wool over your eyes with a song and dance. I’ve tried to explain my situation to you under some abominable circumstances, like the potential loss of my eyesight and the peeling of my skin by way of pillars of salt, but you refused to listen. It’s like beating my head against a brick wall with you. The more I say, the deeper I dig myself. So yeah, that’s all I have to say. But there’s just one more thing.”
Delaney made an arc with her hand. “Please. Do share.”
Clyde’s glance was evasive at first, but then he appeared to gather some steam. His shoulders pulled back, and his eyes held a hard determination she hadn’t seen before this. “I have no intention of leaving this plane without figuring out why I ended up in Hell, Delaney. I have limited time and limited resources. I don’t want to do it, but I will if I have to.”
Her head cocked to the left. “Will what?”
Clyde hopped down from the armoire, his feet slapping the bare floor hard. He caught a toe on the rug, pitching forward for a moment before stumbling to right himself.
She fought the urge to mock and point at the bad-ass, mofo demon all frontin’ like he was some gangsta on a killing spree.
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