A low growl, menacing and distinct, sounded behind her. Her head whipped around in surprise as her dearly departed Rottweiler appeared from thin air. “Darwin. Finally, the voice of reason,” she said with a welcoming smile. “How are ya, pal?”
But he growled up at her again, his large jaw quivering. In life, Darwin hadn’t been very intimidating. In fact, the guard dog she’d hoped would defend her with a snarling, drooling intimidation factor to the nth degree was more likely to slather your face with his unbridled affection.
Confused, and knowing she couldn’t touch him, instinct still made her hold out her hand to him anyway, but Darwin snapped his deadly jaws with a sharp chomp and eyeballed the bedroom door. He blatantly ignored her hand, pushing his transparent, sleek, black bulk to the forefront of the pack, joining the rest of the clan as if he was still of this plane.
Her gasp of surprise was hard to conceal. “Noooo, not you, too!” she groaned. “Are you out of your gourd, Darwin? What kind of loyal companion are you? Even dead you’re still a candy-ass, huh? I’m not a little ashamed to tell you all, this—is—bullshit!”
The dogs’ scratching grew to a fevered pace, paws digging madly, their cries of desperation rising to a desperate pitch.
So there was nothing left to do with the little bastards.
With a cluck of her tongue so they’d hear her disgust, though clearly they cared little, she popped open the door.
In a massive collection of fur and riotous barking, they fled like they’d just been released from a puppy mill. She heard the customary “Oomph” from Clyde as she supposed they’d hurled themselves up and onto his stomach with the excitement once reserved for only her.
“You all suck!” she yelled out the door, slamming it with a satisfying thunk.
Clyde’s laughter trickled to her ears, amused and just a little neener, neener, neener thrown in to prove his “I’m not supposed to be in Hell” point.
Fine.
He’d find out what Hell was all about tomorrow in the morning when he had to keep all six dogs from eating each other’s poop.
eight
“Dellllaaaney?” someone singsonged her name while trailing a finger over the shell of her ear.
She waved a hand in the air to ward off whomever was ruining the bliss she’d finally found once she’d gotten over the epic betrayal her dogs had doled out last night. “Go away.”
“But I made tea. I’m not sure if all the stuff floating around in it is supposed to be floating because I don’t remember floaties when you make it, but it smells like the stuff you make. And it’s the effort that counts, right?”
Marcella. It was Marcella and she’d made tea.
Wait, she needed to run that past her demon-fried brain again. Marcella had made tea. Like, touched the stove. Omigod, that meant the world was coming to an end or her kitchen was torched. “It’s the thought that counts and you made tea? For me?” To hide her surprise would be a feat likened to the second coming.
“Who else would I make this stuff for?”
“You touched the stove? Oh, shit. I’m afraid to open my eyes. So which is it? Is my kitchen blackened Cajun style or did the world as we know it end last night?”
She clucked her tongue. “You’re such a pessimist. No, the world didn’t end, and yes, I touched the stove. Why can’t a BFF make tea for her BFF?”
Delaney pried her eyes open to find Marcella sitting beside her on the bed, her long legs crossed as she examined her fingernails, her glossy black hair sleeked back behind her ears. “Why would you?”
“Because I figured you needed it.”
Yeah. Yesterday had been a butt licker. She could definitely use some tea to soothe her weary soul. But Marcella had no idea yesterday had sucked big, fat hooters after she’d gone home. None. Marcella had no idea that Clyde had worn her to a frazzle until she’d finally given in and agreed to try to help him. She had no idea that Satan wanted to ruin her, and she wouldn’t if Delaney could keep her out of it. And as a final act of utter humiliation, Marcella had no idea her dogs had gone to the demon side, either. “Marcella?” She spoke her name with the greatest of hesitance.
“Sí, mi amiga?”
“Why do I need tea?”
“Well, after last night, I figure refreshment is in order. To replenish and all.”
“Replenish what?”
“Your strength.”
“For?”
She sighed, so obviously impatient from the roll of her eyes to the flick of her fingers on Delaney’s arm. “For another round, I suppose, and I say good for you. It’s about time you took charge of your life and your needs as a woman. Congratulations are in order. In fact, I think we should shop or something—maybe have a facial so you can maintain that healthy glow you have now.”
Delaney grabbed her friend’s wrist. “What in all of hell are you talking about?”
Marcella curled her hand around Delaney’s and entwined their fingers, giving her a catlike smile. “Dunking the demon, sweetie.”
Delaney rolled her head on the pillow. “Dunking the demon . . .”
“Slamming the succubus, hooking up with the hellhound, boffing the—”
Delaney put a hand to Marcella’s mouth. Everything was instantly clear. Not only because of what Marcella was implying, but because her words dredged up those forbidden, naughty thoughts she’d had last night about the demon. But she figured protesting was a necessity because Marcella’d probably seen Clyde on the couch. “He’s not a succubus, and if he were any bus at all, he’d be an incubus. You know, a man-demon. And I did not either dunk, slam, or boff. Not a single, solitary thrust of my anything. The demon slept on the couch.”
Marcella’s lips pursed in obvious doubt, taking Delaney’s hand back in hers. “Then I have a question.”
“Go.”
“Why is he in your bed in your pink Friday night, eyeball-bleeding fashion faux pas?”
Delaney bolted to an upright position, pushing away the hair stuck in her mouth, her eyes widening when she found not only Clyde beside her, but her dogs, all crammed up against him, snoring peacefully. Her mouth fell open, yet no words came out. His chest rose and fell in slumber, revealing a bit of patchy hair through the fabric of her bathrobe while one hand curled possessively around dog number one’s overly rounded belly.
Marcella smiled her sly, sensual brand of grin. “Oh, D. You don’t have to be coy with me. I say hoorah to getting a freak on. The only thing I’m a teensy bit worried about is what your boss upstairs might have to say about this little meeting of the bump and grind. Oh, and I have another question—whenever you’re ready to stop pretending you’re all horrified and when you close your mouth, that is. I can smell your morning breath from here.” She wrinkled her pert nose in distaste.
Delaney let her eyes stray back to Clyde. In her bed. Like he’d always been there.
In her bathrobe.
With her fucking dogs.
Blasphemers.
Marcella waited, and when she garnered no answer from Delaney, she plowed onward. “Seeing as you’re all stupefied, gnaw on this. You said we couldn’t keep the demon. You were adamant. I was okay with that. Actually, after thought, while I was having a pedi and a vanilla latte, I supported it one million percent. But what I wonder is this. Why is it that you get to keep him and I can’t? You called me a tart for even suggesting it. And doesn’t this mean you’ve broken a commandment? Isn’t there one about sleeping with the enemy?”
Clyde’s eyes had popped open, and so had his ever informative mouth. “I think that’s your neighbor’s wife.”
Marcella crossed her arms over her tight red T-shirt, shooting Clyde an icy look. “Right. Neighbor’s wife, Satan’s spawn—technicalities. Whatever. I just want to clear this up so I know what we’re in for. So again, Delaney, while I’m all for you finding your inner hootch and letting her run rampant, madre santa—could you have picked a worse candidate? Isn’t he the bad guy? Or has something happened to change our
minds about the dorky demon? Because while I applaud your freak being satisfied, I worry for your soul. So please—puh-lleease—tell me what gives here. Did you do some crazy herb last night and tie one on? Are there pharmaceuticals involved I’m unaware of? Wait . . . did he force you to do this? Now if that’s the case, then Clyde”—she shot him a glacial stare—“I have to tell you—it ees on. See thees shoe?” Marcella pulled off her black shoe with the red, pointy heel and waved it at him. “I’ll shove thees so far up jour ass, jou’ll blow stiletto chunks for a week! Comprende?”
Hoo boy. When Marcella’s accent slipped—it meant she was cranked.
Delaney propped a hand between the pair, the only thing she seemed capable of doing at this point. She looked from Marcella to Clyde, mute. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to offer an explanation, and she knew it better be a good one, she just couldn’t remember any words.
Clyde pulled himself to an upright position, disturbing the dogs who’d nestled closer to his side. His eyes took them both in, as serious as any impending heart attack. “I think this demon thing is way out of control. Last night, Delaney agreed I could stay here to figure out what’s going on. I was on that little couch last night when I went to bed. I swear to you, I have no idea how I ended up in your bed.”
Marcella licked her full lips, her eyes hard pinpoints of glittering green light. Her laugh, deep and throaty, was totally tinged with her skepticism. “I know exactly how you ended up here, Clyde.” She swept her hand along the bed like she was a Price Is Right girl showing off a brand-new refrigerator. “We’re demons, we sometimes have needs,” she drawled, throwing him a team spirit look. “But if you used some kind of demon magic to coerce my friend into—into whatever happened here—”
“No,” Delaney finally managed.
Marcella puffed her cheeks out, her patience evaporating in a flash. “Yes, darling. Oh, I think, yes. And I’ll say it again—booyah for you. And now that we’ve dispensed with the ‘you go, girl’ pats on the back, what—the—hell—were—you—thinking?” she screeched.
Clyde leaned in to her ear, making her heart race stupidly when his lips momentarily brushed her flesh. “Are all your friends this dramatic? You’re all so loud and always threatening anything that moves. It’s a little jarring this early in the morning.”
Marcella’s breathing hissed from her nostrils in angry puffs.
Delaney leaned back in to Clyde, working to ignore the warm wall his chest made, and finally found her voice. For his sake, and the sake of a pending fireball war her bedspread would never survive, it was a good thing she was able to pony up. “Clyde?”
“Yes?”
“If I were you, I’d put a sock in it, and let me do the talking.”
Thankfully, he heeded her warning. “Shutting up,” he replied, plumping a pillow behind him and latching his fingers together behind his head.
Turning back to Marcella, Delaney put a hand on her shoulder, giving her a firm shove away from Clyde. “Sit back down, Buffy—”
Clyde stuck his face between the two women. “Not Buffy. Technically, she was a vampire slayer. I’m not sure if she was ever involved with demons. In fact, I don’t know if there’s been a commercial demon slayer—”
“Did I tell you to put a sock in it?” Delaney asked.
“You did.”
“Then heed my warning, especially where the feisty, scarier-than-she-looks demon is concerned. Think buttloads of duct tape.”
Clyde leaned back once more against the pillows, letting his mouth turn into a thin line of silence.
“Now, Marcella, listen to me. No, we absolutely did not—not—”
“Have intercourse,” Clyde finished for her, looking too pleased that he’d helped her out.
Intercourse? How interesting. How institutional. How rather trip-to-the-gynecologist’s-like. Who said intercourse anymore? She gave Clyde another warning glance to clamp it. “What he said. Nothing happened. Nothing. Swear it on my poor, dead granny Glenda. As to why he’s in my bed, you got me. Now relax, Marcella. Everything’s fine.”
Now Marcella’s mouth fell open. “That’s all you have to say?”
Delaney nodded, pushing back the covers and grabbing her discarded sweater from last night. Less was always way more around Clyde. “For now, yep,” she said over her shoulder as she went to gather leashes to take the dogs out.
Both Clyde and Marcella were right behind her. “How about I do that?” Clyde offered. “You and your friend can talk.” He took the leashes from her hand, stooping to hook them on various collars while Marcella simmered.
The moment he went out the back door, Marcella hooked her thumbs in the loops of her hip-hugging black jeans and moved in on her. Delaney acknowledged the fear in her friend’s eyes, mingled with her outrage. “What have you done, Delaney? Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Jesus! You slept with a demon! If I sleep with a demon, it’s all good because I am a demon. Horns, scales, ugly shit. You? Not—a—demon! Remember? You know, that whole crossing over into the infernal light I haven’t even had a glimpse of? Remember that place? The one with wings and halos and puppy dogs’ tails or something. Have you lost your faculties? You’re a good guy, and good guys don’t do demons! What in the bloody fuck is going on?”
Delaney winced. Marcella was roaring—seething. That meant explanations better happen or she’d levitate. She’d lose her focus about halfway and crash to the ground, maybe break a high heel or something. With Marcella, that meant war.
If she told Marcella anything about why Clyde was here, it meant Marcella would have information she could eventually be hurt for. Possibly tortured for, and that left Delaney’s gut twisting and churning in absolute fear. What Clyde had told her last night left her afraid for everyone closely involved with her. So what to do, what do to? Stall. Think. Fast. “No, Marcella. I didn’t sleep with a demon.”
Marcella scoffed at her. “Okay, so you didn’t sleep. I imagine if I were in the same bed with Clyde, I wouldn’t be asleep either.”
She had to be very careful here. “You know exactly what I mean, Marcella. There was absolutely no hanky-panky. None. I’ll say it again. I don’t know how he ended up in my bed. I swear it on my secret stash of valerian root.”
Marcella’s stance eased a little. “Then what’s going on?”
Delaney blew out a breath, her stomach a tight ball of tension with what she was about to do. “Okay, I just need you to trust me here. We’ve been friends a long time, right?”
Her eyes narrowed in rightful suspicion. “Don’t play the friend card with me, Delaney Markham. Yes, we’ve been friends for a long time and in that time you’ve never done anything this dangerous or this stupid. Something’s up—I wanna know what.”
Her friend knew her well. “Answer the question. Have we or haven’t we?”
Marcella’s agitation grew in her terse reply. “We have.”
“Then I want you to remember that when I ask you to leave and not come back until I tell you to.”
She hardened, not just in her posture but in the tight fists that clenched at her sides. “The. Hell.”
Delaney kept her face unreadable, or at least she hoped that was the case. “Don’t give me that infamously stubborn, mouthy bullshit you pull like I’m Kellen. Go home. Trust that I can look out for myself, and I know what I’m doing, and that I wouldn’t ask you to leave unless I absolutely had to.”
“Nope.”
Damn her. “Do you remember when I once told you to keep our friendship on the down low? Like don’t go broadcasting our long lunches and flea market sprees? Remember, I made you swear to try and keep your mouth shut about it?”
“Yeah, and I didn’t make you tell me why. I thought maybe it was because it’d look bad for you in the spirit world if the ghosts knew you were BFFs with a demon. Now I’m convinced that’s not what it was.”
And now for the big guns. The guns she never thought she’d use on someone who’d been one of the best friends she’
d ever had. Dead or not. There wasn’t much they hadn’t shared in ten years, and within a matter of moments she’d create a gulf of distance between them that she might never be able to bridge once all was said and done. But if that long-ago threat from Satan still stood, if he’d taken the time and effort to send someone in to whip her like so much cream, it meant he was looking into her life. When he looked, he’d find Marcella. “Marcella. This is me not kidding with you. Go home or I will use the salt. I don’t want to, but I will.” May the forces that be forgive her for even thinking it.
Marcella’s mouth fell back open, her beautiful face openly showing her hurt. “You wouldn’t . . . You’ve never . . . Not even when we first met . . .” Her words stumbled, then failed her.
Delaney steeled herself for Marcella’s verbal outburst—the one she’d have once she caught her breath. Braced herself for the look of angry, hurt outrage Marcella was so gifted at. “I would.” Amazingly, the stutter in her voice she expected to hear didn’t make an appearance.
Yet her longtime friend surprised her, making her final statement a twisting knife in an open wound to Delaney’s gut. “I’m going to say one last thing to you, and then I’ll go, and I promise to never darken your doorstep with my stubborn, mouthy bad-ass self again. You’re the only friend I’ve had in almost seventy-five years as a demon. That’s a long time to be friendless, and I know it’s nothing less than I deserve for doing what I did when I bit the dust. I’ve always known that someday you’d go on to a much better place, and I’d still be here doomed for all eternity. But I made my peace with that because it’s the price I’ll always pay for shun ning Satan, and it’s my own goddamned fault. I would have sa vored our friendship long after you kicked the bucket—I guess I’ll just be doing it much sooner than I’d planned.”
Marcella turned her slender back on Delaney, disappearing into her stunned silence with a gentle fade to black.
She was left in her small kitchen with the wind sucked right out of her, and even knowing she’d done the right thing, the one thing that just might keep Marcella out of trouble, it didn’t make it hurt less. In fact, it hurt far more because Marcella’d left without a screaming match. She’d left defeated, and that was far worse than the spar of some heated words. It smacked of finality and that was something Delaney couldn’t bear.
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