Marcella braced herself against the wind, turning her shoulder into it while she snapped her fingers once more. The velocity of sheer gale force pulled at the skin on her face, ripping through the room at warp speed.
From somewhere distant, over Clyde’s shoulders Delaney heard someone call to the demon in a persecuted, nasally whine. “Clyyyyyyve! Clyve, what have you done, sweet baby boy? Oh, Clyve, you’re so naughty!”
That this fuckwit had ever been anyone’s baby had never even been a consideration for Delaney. Yet, the wind instantly ceased, the rats and their squeaking screams disappearing with merely an echo left in place.
Silence fell on the room—deafening in its suddenness.
Marcella whirled her hair out of her face, eyeballing the confused Clyve with disdain. “Tsk, tsk, Clyve. You’ve been a bad muchacho. But I brought someone with me who can teach you a lesson.”
A sturdy, dark silhouette shaped into a rotund woman with several chins. Long hair, the color of a silvery moon, draped down her back, swishing across her wide, thick shoulders when she shook her head. The housecoat she wore had large red and blue flowers on it, and in her chubby hand, she held a rolling pin.
A big, wooden rolling pin.
Her eyes held pity when she gazed upon her baby boy, sorrow and pity. “Oh, Clyve . . .” she murmured with a cluck of her tongue, wrinkling her nose.
Clyve blanched from his place on the bed, sagging into it and cowering with fear. “Ma?” he said, weak and watery with a tremble he couldn’t conceal.
“You’ve been so naughty, Clyve. Why are you so naughty? You promised you’d be good when I was gone, and look at you. Running rackets for the devil himself.” She crooked her pudgy finger at him in her direction. “Come here, Clyve.”
Clyve skittered back on the bed, fear and awe interchangeable in his beady eyes.
His mother moved closer, pity and sorrow turning to disappointment and anger. “I said, come here, Clyve. Now.”
When it didn’t appear as though Clyve was going to bend to his mother’s will, she leaned forward, snatching his ear and dragging him to her.
Clyve’s howl lingered long after their disappearance.
Delaney dropped from Clyde’s embrace, speechless, her eyes wide when she caught Marcella’s gaze.
“You know, sometimes, D, you just need to trust me,” she remarked with dry sarcasm.
“I thought you were a level one demon,” Clyde pondered more to himself than anyone else.
Marcella flapped a hand at them. “I am, but I’ve been practicing because whatever the frig’s going on with you and Delaney here made me think I might need to. It also helps to have a connection or two and to know a demon’s weakness. Clyve’s being snakes and his mother—not necessarily in that order. So I learned a thing or two—and don’t ask how, D. Just know there are ways around doing those things to poor innocents. So don’t go all moral and righteous on me. And now, you can thank me for saving your asses. Oh, and P.S., do you have any idea how freakin’ hard that snake thing was? Christ, Delaney—it took me four days just to conjure something that wasn’t cold and lifeless. If you only knew how many goldfish lives I’m responsible for. I’m exhausted here, guapa.”
Delaney lunged at Marcella, hugging her hard and giving her a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you. You’re the most awesome friend I’ve ever had. You’re like a demon queen. I’d be a puddle of shit without you. Now go home.”
Marcella disentangled herself from Delaney, then smoothed her clothing. “Stop already. And I’m not going home. If I kept doing what you keep telling me to do, you’d be french-fried right now, and we couldn’t take care of the biz at hand.”
“The business at hand?” Clyde asked, coming to put an arm around Delaney’s waist, rubbing her still frozen hands.
Marcella eyed him, her green eyes glittering with bits of suspicion. “Yes, lover. I admit, I didn’t believe you, Clyde Atwell. I’m sure Delaney told you I thought you were full of shit. All that innocence and light was a little hard to believe, but we’re good now after what I heard.”
Delaney crossed her arms over her chest. “Spill.”
“It ain’t good.”
“I don’t imagine it could be any worse than it already is.” Clyde’s comment was wry.
“You”—Marcella pointed a finger at him—“are having a really bad week. Crazy bad. And Vincent’s only part of the problem here.”
Clyde looked down at Delaney. “She knows about Vincent?”
“She knows of him.”
“Now I know all of him,” Marcella interrupted, “and believe me when I tell you, this info about him and Clyde was some seriously guarded shit. Three demon bar hot spots and a carefully placed threat to a green, just-fell-off-the-turnip-truck noob or so later, here I am.”