All because of the demon.
The stupid, fucking, pain in the ass, nagging fishwifey, interfering, clingy demon.
“She’s gone?” Her back door slammed with a gust of October wind and a rush of sniffling, excited puppies.
She looked up at Clyde, his big hand encompassing six leashes, each dog dutifully sitting at attention. His short hair was wind-blown; his sharp cheeks had a healthy tint of color from the brisk autumn breeze. The dogs’ obedience only served to fuel the fire that lit her chapped ass. “Yeah. She’s gone, and you know what?”
“I’m not sure I want to know what, but what?”
“I’ve decided something.”
His eyes grew wary with caution. “Does this decision mean I should prepare myself for the dark and dreary promise of the planes again?”
“No. I’ve decided that today, you’re officially a stupidhead, and you’ve moved to the top of my stupidest stupidhead list. So go somewhere I’m not for the moment and just give me two whole minutes to myself.” She stomped off to her room to dress and simmer, leaving a surprised Clyde standing in her kitchen in her pink bathrobe.
Tears stung her eyes when she threw the bedroom door shut. Logically, it wasn’t really Clyde’s fault she’d had to send Marcella away, but the clench of her heart overruled common sense. If he’d just kept his supposed good intentions to himself . . .
You’d what, ghost lady? Be blindsided without ever knowing what hit you? That’s pretty bright. By all means, crack on the demon for giving you a heads-up. That makes all kinds of sense. If what he says is true, you’d be chicken fried without his input. Don’t shoot the messenger and all.
Okay, so she’d be stewed.
Knowing her enemy was definitely half the battle. Knowing there was an intended battle, better still. And that left Clyde all magnanimous and worthy of things she didn’t want to attribute to a guy she’d for sure thought was evil—lame evil, but evil all the same.
Now something had to be done to figure this out and there wasn’t time to diddle. The sooner she figured out what to do about Lucifer and his wish to see her in his palace of pain, the better off she’d be, and the quicker she’d be able to make amends with Marcella—who’d probably demand some begging and pleading and a shopping trip to Ferragamo.
If she hoped to make up what looked like a betrayal to Marcella, that meant dealing with Clyde.
Who needed to know where he stood with her.
She yanked an ankle-length, periwinkle blue skirt out of her dresser drawer and dug around for her favorite gold poet shirt with the long, flowing sleeves. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above her dresser, she gave herself a critical once-over. She was pale, and her lips had no color to them. Shoving on some of her gold bangle bracelets, she blew into the bathroom to find some blush and the peach lip gloss Marcella had bought her on one of her shopping sprees. It was all natural, with no harsh chemicals and no animal testing, she’d said proudly. Running her finger along the tube, Delaney smiled with the memory.
Her stomach clenched. Who would buy her stupid stuff she hardly ever used if not Marcella? Her fingers trembled as she applied the gloss to her lips, then swiped the blush across her cheekbones, adding mascara as a tribute to her friend.
Better. That was much better. Marcella was right about one thing, sprucing up made her feel more in control, if only on the outside. Dragging a brush through her hair, she grimaced. She had more than her fair share of curly locks, hanging to almost the middle of her back and a shade of auburn Marcella said you couldn’t get out of a bottle. It was unruly and almost impossible to tame with just a brush. She pulled it into a loose knot on top of her head, wrinkling her nose at the stray strands that refused to stay put.
“Delaney?” Clyde’s sharp knock at her bedroom door came with the realization that she had to deal with this, and deal with it now. Kamikaze style.
She strode to the door, peeking around the corner, but she said nothing.
“Is everything all right?”
Yeah. It was shiny. “No. But I have high hopes for the future.”
His blue eyes were rimmed with an emotion she might have labeled concern. Whether real or phony, it made her pause. “Can I ask what happened with you and Marcella and how I got labeled a stupidhead in the process?”
She pushed her way out the door and turned to face him, forcing herself to remember that Clyde was potentially a lost soul. Her job was to help lost souls—not call them names. Yet the dogs clung to his bare calves like he’d been dunked in brown gravy, and she found she still had to fight resentment for the intrusion he’d made in her closely guarded world. Which wasn’t fair to him. “I was pissed. I’m sorry I called you something so childish. It was rude. So now I’m apologizing—bet that’s a nice change of pace.”
“What happened with Marcella?”
She rolled her lower lip to keep it from trembling. “What do you think happened after she found you in my bed?”
He threw up both hands, palms forward. “I’ll say it again, Delaney. I swear I have no idea how I ended up there. I was on the couch last night, with a pile of dogs and I think your ghost dog, Darwin. When I woke up, it was in your bed. I don’t remember getting up. I don’t even remember falling asleep.”
Delaney rolled her head, deciding they had bigger issues to tackle. “I say we just forget that. Nothing’s made much sense since you showed up. Regardless, Marcella seems to think I’ve been swayed to the dark side by your charms, and that freaked her out.”
Clyde smiled.
Which made her bristle. “That’s funny how?”
“If you knew me in life, you’d find the idea of me swaying anything—no less a woman—is about as likely as two right angles in a triangle.”
“I sucked in math.”
“I didn’t.”
“Go fig. Anyway, Marcella thinks we—”
“Dunked, slammed, hooked up, wonked.”
“All of the above, yes, and I didn’t confirm or deny.”
“Because?”
“Because I can’t let her get involved in this. If she knew Satan was out for my blood, she’d do something impetuous and stupid— like hunt his ass and offer to throw down. She’s got a temper to rival an erupting volcano, and when she’s angry, there’s no thinking about anything but taking care of shit and paying for it later.”
Clyde’s eyebrows rose. “I’d have never guessed.”
“So I sent her away and told her not to come back until I said so. I had to. She’s not on Lucifer’s most popular list, if you know what I mean. I can’t take the chance she’d be involved in this hard-on he has for me.”
“So you argued because of my presence here.”
“Basically, and it’s not your fault, and I’m trying to get a grip on that as we speak. If what you say is true, you did me a favor by telling me about this Clyve. But she left without a fight, and that’s not like Marcella. Not even a little. Which means I cut her deep. We’ve been friends a long time. In fact, she’s probably one of my closest friends, because she gets my gift, ya know?”
His silence ticked by, the wheels in his head visibly turning. “I have a question.”
Her remark was dry. “What a revelation.”
“What is Satan’s hard-on for you about? Is it because you talk people out of choosing Hell as their final destination? Because you cross people over and that pisses him off?”
Shit. Here came another big, fat lie. She’d been a real commandment breaker as of late. Hopefully, in the end, the theory of greater good would outweigh the falsehoods she’d been slinging like breakfast hash. “I don’t know,” she lied, her answer evasive. If she kept it simple, fed him as little information as possible, she just might be able to keep him from finding out too much on the off chance he was a lying sack of shit.
His eyes met hers from behind his square-framed glasses. There was definite doubt in them. Doubt and possibly suspicion. He cracked his knuckles before he spoke. “I’ve never been a great judge of character, Delaney, and maybe that’s because I haven’t spent a lot of time with many people because of my work, but I think you’re full of shit.”
She averted her eyes in case mind reading was on his list of rapidly growing demonic powers. “You can think whatever you like. Whatever Lucifer wants is between him and me, and clearly, he’s not sharing his motivations. So here’s the deal. Seeing as you can’t seem to resist my unbelievable charisma, you can stay here for however long you have to figure out whatever you need to figure out. Go on about your business, keep up the pretense you’re doing what you were sent here to do. If I can help, I’ll give it my best medium’s shot. So ride ’em, cowboy.”
Clyde shook his head, the dark chestnut of it catching the light of her overhead fixture in gleaming chunks. “Well done. I still don’t believe you. There’s something going on here that you’re not telling me, and I get it—believe me. You don’t trust me yet and if I were you, I wouldn’t trust me either. That’s just playing smart, but I don’t want to see you hurt any more than I want to end up back in Hell when this stint is over. This isn’t just about me.”
Damn him and his sense of honor—all noble and moral. It did things to her insides she didn’t much fancy—especially if he was lying to her. “Well, seeing as we don’t know what Satan’s whacked about, let’s just focus on you for now. First things first. You need clothes. You can’t go running around in my pink bathrobe if we hope to find out what happened to you the day you died.”
He leaned an elbow on her countertop. “I think I might like myself a whole lot better if I at least had something that wasn’t so pink. You were right, it’s really the wrong shade for me,” he joked.
Her giggle popped from her lips like a cork from a champagne bottle. “I have to go to my brother’s for lunch today, anyway. We always have lunch together on Sunday at his place. You’re about the same size give or take a couple of inches in height. I’ll see what I can dig up. While I do that, you can puppy-sit.” Maybe her resentment would dull if dog number three spent an hour licking the air for no reason other than she was anxious about absolutely nothing or if dog number four had to have his BeDazzled ass changed a time or one hundred. She’d feel much better if they weren’t so well behaved around him—the sting of their utter compliance with Clyde just might find some relief.
Delaney went in search of her purse, digging around for some singles for the bus. He held out her coat for her to slip her arms into, leaving her with a residual temptation to lean back into the strength of his solidness.
Before she headed out to the storefront, she gave him one last glance. “And Clyde?”
“Yeah?”
“If you’re fucking with me—if I find out you’re full of shit about this assignment business—I promise you, I’ll fuck you up. And when I’m done, I’ll sic Marcella on you. You do not want the Puerto Rican all fired up, heading in your general direction. It’s heinous.”
His stubbled jaw lifted, but without defiance. “I still have the duct tape scars to prove it. I get it. Completely.”
“So long as we understand each other.” She rubbed each dog’s head with a quick token of her love. “You guys behave, though I’m sure the demon Clyde here’ll have no trouble with you bunch of traitors. You seem to listen to him far better than you ever have me. I’ll see you later.” She waved over her shoulder, making her way to the store’s front door.
A glance at her watch told her she’d better hurry if she was going to catch the twelve fifteen. The cool air helped to clear her head, the crunch of fallen leaves under her feet forcing her to focus on the rich colors of her favorite season.
The bus screamed to a halt just as she hit the corner. Today it was mostly empty, she noted, making her way to the back of the bus, and she was grateful. As much as she enjoyed chatting with the regulars like Mr. Epperstein, she just wasn’t up to barium enema horror stories today. A sigh of relief escaped from deep within her chest when she settled in her seat, resting her forehead against the window. The tension of booting her best friend out and the harried pressure of the last two days eased just a little. Peace. Quiet. All good things. Important things. Rejuvenating your spirit things.
She could use some of that today.
What could the devil possibly plan for her demise when he found out Clyde wasn’t Clyve? There was no winning her over to the dark side. She’d cut him off at the pass once, she’d fucking do it again. And again and for as many times as she had breath left in her lungs.
Delaney sucked in another cleansing gust of air through her nose and caught the faint scent of a now familiar aftershave.
“You forgot your scarf.”
For the love of all things shiny. “You know, if I wasn’t so tired, I’d give you the look.”
“Roxette. As in, ‘you’ve got the look.’ From the album
Look Sharp
. Nineteen eighty-eight or eighty-nine.”
She lifted her head, glancing to her left at Clyde in all his bath-robed fantasticness, sitting in the parallel seat as though riding the bus in a woman’s bathrobe was an everyday occurrence. “Well, I don’t think anyone could deny you’ve definitely got ‘the look,’ ” she muttered under her breath, slumping down in the seat.
Clyde ran his burly hands over his jaw, slumping with her as though he could hide his brick shithouse-robed pinkness. There was no hiding his bulk. “Again. Awkward.”
She snorted. “I’ll say. So what happened and how did you end up glued to my ass again? What is it about you and the ‘stay-put’ theory that I keep missing the mark on?”
Clyde’s expression was sharp. “If I had the answer to that, don’t you suppose I’d stop doing it? This defies every law of physics I’ve ever studied. But then, so does Hell.”
“And you’ve defied it in a pink bathrobe. Score.”
“On public transportation, no less.”
She pulled her purse tighter to her chest to fight a chuckle, then sobered. What was wrong with her? This wasn’t funny. Him popping up in her shower unannounced—not funny. Him seeing her naked in her shower—not laughing. “Okay, how about you explain what happens when you leap from place to place like you’re that guy from that show
Quantum
something.”
“
Quantum Leap
. Scott Bakula, 1989. And he leaped from body to body. That’s not what I’m doing. I’m just following you around like we’re Siamese twins.” His snort held disgust.