Delaney’s head shot up, her eyes pinning Clyde and his oh so logical, all about the rational self. Souls didn’t just up and leave bodies before their bodies were good and dead. And Clyde wasn’t dead. “Then how are you here—with me?” she yelled, in anger—in outrage—that yet again, the fucking devil would win. He’d win Clyde. He’d managed to steal her from him as indirectly as he’d killed Gary, and that made her so infuriated she wanted to break things—hurt something so she wouldn’t hurt.
Marcella cleared her throat, brushing wispy strands of Delaney’s hair from her face. “I told you. I don’t know how Clyde’s soul broke free from his body, sweetie. I don’t know how in breaking free, that landed him in Hell. I do know he shouldn’t be there, and I’ve spread the word far and wide that he’s been unjustly placed. I’m hoping someone will come and fix that. I don’t even know where his body is, but we have to find it so he can be free, and we have to do it before Satan gets wind of what he’s done. If Clyde doesn’t cross, and no one’s there to stop it, his soul’s fair game.” Marcella averted her gaze to meet Clyde’s. “You did a good thing by switching those assignments, Clyde. I know it didn’t start out the way it’s ended up—you needed to figure out how you ended up in Hell, and the only way to do that was a pass here to this plane, but you were also looking out for Delaney, indirectly at first, I know . . .” Marcella shook her head. “Anyway, that’s admirable, considering the shit you’d get if you got caught.”
Clyde’s expression turned to concrete. “I don’t care about the shit, and I’m not leaving until I know Delaney’s safe. Lucifer wanted her trashed, belittled, humiliated. That won’t happen while I’m still here, even if it’s only in spirit.”
Marcella was quick to shoot him down. “Your gig’s up, Clyde. Think of Clyve finding you two. You don’t suppose a suck-ass like that didn’t tell Satan what you two were up to for brownie points, do you? You’d be foolish to believe that. Lucifer knows about what you did, and you can bet your fine, sculpted bippy, he’ll come collect you. You have to go, and you have to do it before Satan comes calling.”
“Let him call,” Clyde dared, his shoulders squaring off.
“It’ll be okay. I promise. I have friends, some who sympathize with my plight,” Marcella replied. “They’ll help Delaney. She’ll be okay. You have my word. Nothing will hurt her—no one will hurt her. Swear it, but you can’t go on free-falling, Clyde. If anyone knows that, Delaney does. Your soul needs to find peace, and we need to do that before Satan decides he wants to play. You have to cross.”
Clyde nodded his head with resolution—unbearable acceptance written all over his face. “So we have to pull my plug.”
Marcella’s nod of agreement was silent—foreboding—but definitely a confirmation.
And if his heart—Vincent’s former heart—stopped beating, that meant so did Clyde.
twenty
“So you like the demon?”
Delaney wasn’t sure when she’d begun to breathe again, but she must have been capable of it if she could spit out, “He’s not a demon , Marcella. Or he’s not supposed to be, anyway,” and be able to pull it off with such defensive venom in her voice.
Marcella held her palms up like two white flags in a gesture of acquiescence. “Easy there, honey. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
But Delaney teetered between hysteria and fear, with a healthy dose of fury to keep her warm. She was at a loss for words, but at the same time, full of a jumble of angry, hateful thoughts she wanted to scream while she threw around the toiletries the hotel offered. Instead, she fought for clarity. In that clarity, one thing was sure—Marcella couldn’t get in any deeper. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of this. I swear to God, I never thought doing what I did all those years ago would come to this. But you can’t be involved, Marcella. You need to go. You’re already in deep with all of your poking around, any further and you’re in way over your head, and the devil’ll want payback. You don’t want him coming after you with revenge on his mind. You do see where that got me, don’t you?”
But Marcella was staunch, shaking her dark head. “Nope—not going, and forget the apologies. What I really want to know is this—and I’m only asking because it has to be asked. When the time comes, will you be able to cross Clyde over? Can you say good-bye?”
No.
No.
No.
No.
But alas . . . “I don’t have a choice. It’s what I do.”
“No, you don’t have a choice. I wish I could change that, Delaney. I don’t have the power to do it, but if I did, I would.” Marcella had always been about getting to the point, and Delaney admired that in their relationship—in Marcella. Yet tonight, she didn’t want harsh realisms. She didn’t need to hear what would happen next out loud. She wanted “Poor baby,” and forbidden food filled with artificial dyes, or ice cream like Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, a Butterfinger—hell, a whole pound of sugar she could suck on and wash down with a six-pack of Pepsi. She wanted something that would ease this inconsolable ache.
And then it hit her.
In the gut.