Delaney looked around, too—because he’d passed the suspicion baton on to her and she was beginning to feel pairs of invisible eyes on her that probably didn’t exist. “And why’s that?”
Clyde’s voice was low when he spoke again. “Okay, one more time for posterity: I don’t belong in Hell.” He held up a hand to stop her from interrupting him, thus revealing far more flesh than her almost reconstituted virginal eyeballs could take in all in one gander. “Before you say another word—no, I absolutely did not choose Hell as my eternal destination. I didn’t have a choice. Like I said, one minute I was in my lab, the next in a place that’s beyond Africa hot. And forget the idea that I led this shitty life you accused me of earlier. I’ve never raped, pillaged, plundered, cheated, or committed any of the deadly sins I’m sure you know by psalm and verse. I was a decent guy, if distracted by my work and sometimes forgetful that there were other people with feelings that occupied my space. I highly doubt being so absorbed in my work was how I ended up in Hell. Now I have a month back here on Earth to figure out how a decent guy ends up in Hell. That’s how long Lucifer gave hi—er, me to bring you to him. Now, if I’m completely honest here, I’ll admit I’m pretty bent out of shape. I have to tell you, it really doesn’t pay to have any morals at all in life if you’re only going to be screwed in death. If the life I led was what put me on the path to Hell, I expect the reigning pope to show up any minute in my ‘Demons Do It Better’ class.”
Delaney looked down at her slip-on shoes, waving a hand in the general direction of his southerly locales, her cheeks hot and pink with embarrassment. “Put that thing away.”
Clyde cleared his throat, slapping his hand back in place over his goodies. “Shit. My apologies.”
She heard him shift on the armoire, his skin sticking to the wood when he did. And now everything was situation normal all fucked up—which gave her a thought. One she couldn’t let go of. A little factoid that didn’t connect all of Clyde’s dots. His story was a good one, unusual and unique, but he could have made all of it up to string her along. Sort of a reverse psychology thing. Play nice, pretend you despise your horned leader, suck in the medium, then nail her balls to the wall for the coup of the century. Satan pats him on the back, and he earns another rung on Hell’s ladder.
Perfect, right?
But this had been nagging at her since last night when he’d been on her bed in her bathrobe, jacking up her Friday night.
Her dogs loved him.
To some that might seem really odd, or even weak, that she was toying with the idea that her dogs could determine good from pure evil. But animals, and even some children, had a keen sixth sense, and her dogs had literally mourned his leaving her bedroom not just last night, but this morning, too. She knew her babies like a mother knew her human offspring, and her babies knew a malevolent force when they saw one.
She hoped.
Another thought occurred to her, too. Her dogs also loved Marcella. Totally dug her. She didn’t love them back much because they were always tearing her nylons or chewing up her shoes, and even then, they still loved her. Had from their very first meeting when she’d called them some name, one that probably wasn’t full of warm squisheys, in Spanish. Marcella was definitely a demon. Not a demon that would hurt a fly without cause, but a demon nonetheless. If Marcella could be a peace-loving unwilling resident of Hell, why couldn’t Clyde?
Delaney grabbed an old throw she kept in the store due to the draftiness in the winter. She hurled it up to Clyde so he could cover his fun stuff just as she caught the glimpse of a woman standing in the corner by the rack of herbal oils. She froze in place, forgetting that she really should ask this errant demon what his supposed mission was about and how it involved her, because the familiar goose bumps rising on her arms while her chimes swayed with a shiver took precedence.
“Delaney?”
“Shhhhh,” she whispered up to Clyde. “Do you see her?”
“Her?”
“In the corner. The lady with the poofy dress and the thing on her head that looks like a doily.”
Clyde shifted to crane his neck. The moment he did, the woman began to fade, then her wavering form turned fuzzy like snow on a television set. Like when the picture faded in and out. Clyde stirred again, running a hand through his hair, and once more, the apparition crackled with static—almost in sync with his movements.
“Sit back up,” she ordered.
Clyde grunted, leaning back to his left and centering himself atop the armoire again. “Is it Aunt Gwyneth again?”
“No, definitely not, and if you don’t hold still I won’t be able to help her. Quit squirming.” Each time Clyde moved, the presence slipped in and out of vision, syncing with his every move. How utterly bizarre. “Stop moving!”
“Sorry, I had an itch.”