His whole face relaxed, the small lines around his mouth easing. “Jesus. That took long enough. If you’ll just look at this with some logic—”
Delaney scowled. “There is no logic to this. If I’ve learned nothing else since this ghost chat gig happened, I’ve learned there is no rhyme or reason to the spiritual world. If what you say is true and you can’t keep yourself from ending up back here, I’d have to wonder if Lucifer didn’t put some kind of binding magic to this assignment, so that you’d have no choice but to stay glued to my side. Or, if you’re telling the truth, so that Clyve would stay glued to my side like a thorn in my ass. But I’m too tired to care right now, and I’m too tired to explain binding. So you can sleep on the couch for tonight, and tomorrow I’ll try to figure this out. But by no means is this, in any way, shape, or form, me conceding total belief in you or your cockamamie story. I reserve the right to take it back and nail you, balls to the wall, with my prism if I have even the remotest hint you’re full of shit. Got that? You win the first round for wearing me to a frazzle—so take my bathrobe and just let me get some sleep. No arguments, no discussions. Deal?”
He clamped his delish lips closed for a moment, but no sooner had he done that than he opened them back up again. “Will I fit on the couch? It’s pretty small.”
“Will you find a couch, small or not, on that plane you keep ending up on?”
“Point.”
“But remember, I’m keeping my prism under my pillow and a box of salt under the covers. Don’t frig with the medium. Now, good night, Clyde.”
He rose from the bed, moving with caution around the side of it to avoid stubbing another toe. His face held a thousand unanswered questions, but for the first time since she’d met him, he appeared to find his shutoff valve. “Good night, Delaney.” Clyde turned on his heel, the width of his pink back disappearing out of her bedroom door when he pulled it closed behind him.
Dogs one through six sniffed the air, noting Clyde’s departure, and then the pitiful whine began. A whirring sort of hum peppered with the occasional yip.
They defected off the end of the bed, jumping like lemmings at the edge of a cliff, and headed straight for the door Clyde had just exited.
Dog number three, not known for her social skills, scratched beneath the gap of the door. Dog number six, using the one good front paw he had, joined her. “Heeeyyyy!” she whispered on a hush, kneeling down alongside her faithless pack, all lumped on top of one another in a ball of fur and whimpers. “You’re shitting me, you bunch of traitors. Is he the one who feeds you? Is he the one who cleans your puke up after you’ve snarfed down one of those damned rawhide bones like you’re rabid? Most importantly, did he save your asses from the guillotine? You’d all be kaput if not for me. I can’t even believe this is happening. What if he is a demon? Then where will ya be? Do you suppose old Clyde there is going to change your diaper?” she asked her BeDazzled canine. Her gaze turned to dog number three. “And if you think you have phobias now, miss, hah! Just you wait until Lucifer makes you his lapdog.”
A low growl, menacing and distinct, sounded behind her. Her head whipped around in surprise as her dearly departed Rottweiler appeared from thin air. “Darwin. Finally, the voice of reason,” she said with a welcoming smile. “How are ya, pal?”
But he growled up at her again, his large jaw quivering. In life, Darwin hadn’t been very intimidating. In fact, the guard dog she’d hoped would defend her with a snarling, drooling intimidation factor to the nth degree was more likely to slather your face with his unbridled affection.
Confused, and knowing she couldn’t touch him, instinct still made her hold out her hand to him anyway, but Darwin snapped his deadly jaws with a sharp chomp and eyeballed the bedroom door. He blatantly ignored her hand, pushing his transparent, sleek, black bulk to the forefront of the pack, joining the rest of the clan as if he was still of this plane.
Her gasp of surprise was hard to conceal. “Noooo, not you, too!” she groaned. “Are you out of your gourd, Darwin? What kind of loyal companion are you? Even dead you’re still a candy-ass, huh? I’m not a little ashamed to tell you all, this—is—bullshit!”
The dogs’ scratching grew to a fevered pace, paws digging madly, their cries of desperation rising to a desperate pitch.
So there was nothing left to do with the little bastards.
With a cluck of her tongue so they’d hear her disgust, though clearly they cared little, she popped open the door.
In a massive collection of fur and riotous barking, they fled like they’d just been released from a puppy mill. She heard the customary “Oomph” from Clyde as she supposed they’d hurled themselves up and onto his stomach with the excitement once reserved for only her.