“Yeahhhh, I’ll get right on that,” he taunted with glee.
Marcella’s eyes captured hers for the smallest second—her lips moved soundlessly, repetitively, compelling her to read the message she was trying to send. The only thing Delaney was clear about was that she had to stall until she could figure it out. What better way than to poke at him? “Clyde’s soul isn’t yours to take, you freeloading asshole!”
Satan chuckled, thick and resonant. “Says you, princess. Besides, who’d stop me?”
Yeah. That presented a pickle. Truly, it was too bad these powers she’d been given didn’t include the gift of screaming fireballs and the ability to produce, like, locusts.
He turned his attention to the soul in question. “And you”—he pointed at Clyde, who appeared incapable of anything more than remaining frozen in place—“are in for some really deep shit. Though I will say, I admire your craftiness, Clyde Atwell. Job well done; deceiving the entire filing department was brilliance. The only trouble is, you just didn’t do it for the right reasons. If you’d just paid attention in class and taken to heart the whole ‘evil is your ruler’ message, I’d have personally planned your interdepart ment celebration for induction to level two. We’d have had cake and ice cream and all the frills.” Satan let go of a mockingly forlorn breath of air. “Sadly, now I have to drag your sorry ass back and throw you in the pit. I hate doing that. There’s always screaming and loads of whining. A real yawn.” He made an expression of supreme distaste.
Out of nowhere, Marcella hissed, “Delaney—get away from there. Get out of here now!” Clyde had begun to stir, pushing her forward again. Her face grew red from the effort it took to keep him at bay.
“You!” Lucifer roared, stabbing a finger in Marcella’s general direction. “Shut the bloody fuck up, hot pants. You’re next,” he threatened, letting his fingers take the shape of long, thorny claws.
Delaney couldn’t think, she only knew she had to stall the motherfucker while she tried to read the message Marcella was sending with her eyes, now nearly coal black, burning for Delaney to read the meaning in them. “Uh, question, O Horned One?”
He grinned again, innocent and boyish. “What’s that, Gan dhi?”
“Do you always wear that color? It’s so wrong for you. It says nothing about who you really are. I mean, you being the supreme-ness of evil, well, I guess I just thought you’d have a better grasp on the best color to convey that. Black is so trite and overdone, don’t you think? I’d so go red if I were you.”
Satan threw his head back and laughed. When he tilted it upward once more, he popped his lips. “Clyde’s right, Delaney. You’re a fucking riot. Now move. As in now.”
Delaney winced. “Wait! Just one more question, I mean, it isn’t every day you meet the devil, right? If I passed up the chance to ask you a couple of questions, I’d never forgive myself . . . I have a million, but I promise to limit them to just a couple if it’s not too much trou—”
“Ask!”
Ohhhhhh, if the twist of his mousy face was any indication, patience was wearing thin, and she still didn’t understand Marcella’s signals. “Um, who does your hair?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he narrowed his gaze, focusing on a prone Clyde.
“Wait!” she yelped, pulling the hospital bed toward her. “I swear, just one more thing, and I just know you’re going to want to give me an answer because it’s all about your maniacal genius. Honest. Why did you assign someone to—to—” Shit, she’d fumbled.
His eyebrow rose to a pointy arch. “To make you go all emo?” He drew a finger over his wrist with a lascivious wink of his red eye.
Delaney waged a battle with her flaring temper and the bile rising in her throat. “Yeah. That.”
“Because you took something from me. On the off chance you didn’t notice, I’m a horrible team player.”