Delaney bit her tongue to keep from refuting her friend’s statements. On impulse, she grabbed Marcella’s hand, squeezing it. “Just stay out of it. Please. Don’t ask questions. Don’t go fishing for information from demons in bars. Satan barely knows you exist, but if he finds out we hang, you’re toast, seeing as I’m in his sights these days. Please, just trust me.”
Marcella squeezed back, letting Delaney know everything between them was okay. “Right. Oh, and I’ll expect apologies and shopping when all’s said and done for the trauma you’ve caused me this past week. You’d better line up some séances soon or you won’t have the kind of cash I’ll need to cover my trauma. Later, chica.” She waved a finger before disappearing into the dark of Delaney’s living room.
On a shaky release of breath, Delaney sat in the chair Marcella’d vacated. Christ on a cracker—this clearly wasn’t going to go away. First Clyde and his water cooler confessions, now Marcella and rumblings of demonic glee at her downfall.
Waiting for the blow—wondering what she was in store for—was like watching toxic ketchup drip.
Marcella was wrong on so many counts, she’d lost count. Her assumption that Delaney’d been connected to the supernatural all her life was wrong. She hadn’t been born with the gift—she’d acquired it.
After Vincent.
Hands, big and all encompassing, lay with flat palms on her shoulders. “So how’d it go?”
“Well, I still have curtains and I don’t think I learned any new cusswords in Spanish—so not too shabby, I guess,” she joked, though she didn’t lift her head. She let Clyde’s soothing hands melt into her, reveling in the calm they attempted to bring.
“So here’s my question. What is it that you’re not telling me about this beef Lucifer has with you? There’s more. I want to know what.”
“Just because you got into my knickers doesn’t mean you’re entitled to know everything, demon.” The effort to keep her voice even and light was monumental. Clyde had to leave and do it before he found anything else out about her torrid past with Satan. If she could get him gone before Lucifer found out Clyde had switched assignments, she’d breathe so much easier. If he got wind of the fact that Clyde wasn’t doing as ordered, and he came calling, Christ only knew what would happen to not just her, but Clyde’s soul.
“Remember when I told you, you were funny?”
“Yep.”
“It would seem that’s not always the case. Stop making light and tell me what’s going on.”
The more concern he showed, the more Delaney believed Clyde was totally capable of sticking around in his noble efforts to help her, and she refused to jeopardize his crossing. “I don’t know, and right now, I’m too tired to care.”
“You do know, and before you ship me off, I’ll find out.”
If the gods were kind, he’d ship off long before he had the chance to find anything out. If the gods were kinder still, they’d make his exit as painless as possible for her. “I got nuthin’, Clyde Atwell. What we do have to do is investigate your death. Today. It’s almost five thirty and I’ll never get back to sleep now. So go find your brainiac tools and meet me back here in the kitchen so we can call Tia.”
Clyde’s hands gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze before he left her alone in the kitchen.
Alone to ponder Lucifer’s next move and batten down the hatches.
Now, to find something to batten with.
fourteen
By late afternoon, they were no closer to finding out what had happened to Clyde than they were to finding the exact location of the Bermuda Triangle. Tia’s cell phone number had apparently been disconnected, Clyde couldn’t remember exactly where her brother lived, and he was unlisted. The North Dakota newspapers had not a single obituary listed for a Clyde Atwell in the last three months, and absolutely no mention of a police investigation involving his accident.
They sat together at her kitchen table with her laptop popped open, heads pressed together deep in thought. The dogs scattered at their feet sighed contentedly on occasion, stirring if Clyde made like he might move out of their direct line of vision.
Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hand, Delaney asked, “How about a neighbor? Did you have a neighbor you were friendly with who might be able to tell us what the frig’s going on? Because this makes no sense, Clyde. It’s like you never existed.”
Clyde rolled his head from side to side, massaging the muscles of his neck with the palm of his hand. “I didn’t talk to my neighbors much.”
Delaney slapped her palm against her thigh. “How silly of me to think you might have actually been sociable. So backyard barbecues and block parties weren’t your thing?”
“Nope.”
“A friend? Got any? Even just one? Maybe someone you worked out with? You didn’t get that Body by Jake from sitting on your ass all day.”