Marcella went for the jugular with her brand of steely determination. “Will he or will he not leave you when whatever he’s here to do is terminado—er, finished?”
Delaney averted her eyes. “Yes.” And if she could only express how rank that was. If she could only put her head on Marcella’s shoulder and just have a good cry. If she could only figure out why Clyde’s leaving was turning into a big deal . . .
“So how am I not right, chica? Please, commence with the explanations.” Her face was smug. Smug and really, really pissed.
She had no defense against the stark truth. The coyote ugly truth, so she went for a different tact. “Didn’t I tell you to go away and not come back until I told you to?”
“Sí,” Marcella said with a jut of her chin. “But this is me not listening to you. So go on, ghost whisperer gone over the edge, tell me how not right I am.”
Tears, from frustration, from the reality of this situation, from anger because her friend was spot-on, from fear for her friend’s safety, began to threaten. “Marcella, you have to go. Please.”
“Nope. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to and I’m absolutely not leaving here until I have an answer.”
“I’ll get the salt.” Her lower lip trembled as her resolve weakened.
And Marcella pounced all over her resolve, rising up over the back of the chair and thrusting her neck out. “Oh, the fuck you will. Ju arrre mariquita—a big-ass sissy. Ju—you hate demon expulsion and the mess it leaves, so save the threats. Now tell me what’s going on and tell me now before my fiery temper makes me do something hasty. I want to know why you’re sleeping with Clyde, and the reason better be good or I’ll put a spell on him that makes his winkie shrivel up and fall off!”
“I can’t.” She looked down at the floor at her purple-painted toes.
“Oookay, then maybe you can tell me why you’re all the rage in Hell these days? Your name’s been tossed around more than a whore in a frat house.”
Fuck. Now she was angry that Marcella just didn’t know when to stop. “Marcella, I can’t tell you anything. I can’t. I won’t. Go home. Go shop. Go do something far away from me.”
“Aha! That’s fear I hear in your voice. Fear for me—which explains everything. It’s not like I can’t find out if I want to, Delaney—so you might as well knock the bottom out of it. Now. Because I’m not going away until I have some inkling as to why you’re boffing the big boy. That bad big boy. The very bad big boy. I want to believe there’s some logical explanation for it—but I’m having a really hard time putting it all together. So you do it for me.”
Guilt infiltrated her morality, spreading like Ebola. “I wasn’t. Boffing him, I mean. Not until tonight, and that’s all you need to know.”
“You’re going to make me use plan B, aren’t you?”
“What’s plan B?”
Her smile became suddenly playful. “That’s where I duct-tape you to a chair and dangle red meat in your face while I mainline icky preservatives into your veins to make you talk. I may not be a very good demon, but I can totally take you.”
Delaney burst out laughing, quivering with partial relief. “If I could tell you and know it wouldn’t put you right in Lucifer’s line of fire, I would.”
“So threatening me with monstrous acts of salt hurling was to protect me?”
“Yes.”
“And fuck Lucifer. Like that asshole’s stopped me so far.”
Delaney waved a warning finger under Marcella’s nose. “That’s only because he’s chosen not to stop you, Marcella. You might be one kick-ass broad, but you’re no match for Satan. You know it and I know it. Let’s not pretend anything different. Don’t go talking shit because you’re angry. If you weren’t already dead, I’d say your temper would be the death of you.”
Understanding spread over her beautiful face. “So you’re worried about trouble with the pitchfork lover. You never have been before—what’s the deal now?”
“Yes, I’m worried, and stop asking me questions.”
“No. Then what’s the sleeping with the enemy about?”
“He’s not the enemy.”
That stopped Marcella cold. She shook her glossy black head. “Come again?”
“He’s not the enemy, Marcella. That’s all I can tell you. The less you know the better off you’ll be.”
“And you’re sure he’s not the enemy, how? Divine intervention?”
Her fist tightened at her abdomen. “Gut instinct.”
“Oh. Good. Your gut tells you he’s not a bad guy, but he comes from Hell and he’s a demon. Good instincts, D. Remember when your gut instincts told you Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt were soul mates?”
“He’s not supposed to be a demon, Marcella.” That she was jumping to Clyde’s defense was so transparent. She felt like she was telling her mother he’d only been convicted of one little felony—it wasn’t like he’d committed homicide.
Her look screamed scathing. “Yeah, me neither, but whaddya know—I am.”