“And you don’t see the connection here, Delaney?”
“Oh, I see it. I think the horned pitchfork-lover thought he could make me a loon by sending ghosts my way. When I finally realized I could communicate with them, I shoved it up his ass further by helping them cross. I did the lemonade thing.”
When Clyde smiled at her, despite how dire their situation was, despite how the terror of that night still had the ability to affect her, it made her insides turn to utter goo. “You’re a tough broad, Delaney Markham, but I think the connection goes deeper. I just don’t know how.”
His silence left her silent, too.
“And your mother? Did you ever find out why she’d never told you about Richard and Vincent?”
It still sounded crazy to her, and voicing it sounded like she really should be locked forever in a padded room with an “I love me” jacket. “You know demon magic exists—you made some when you went to your bank. Her memory, and the memory of anyone else even a little involved in their lives, was wiped clean. Richard stole Vincent and raised him for his own sick devices. He just didn’t plan on Vincent being such a fuck-up.”
“And I’m supposing Satan was happier than a cat eyeball deep in catnip to tell you that.”
When Satan had shown up and began revealing what they’d done to her mother—that they’d taken her child—Delaney had wanted to scratch his eyes out. “About as happy as I imagine the fucker gets.”
The breath Clyde exhaled was long. “So what exactly did you donate again?”
“His eyes, kidneys, heart, and other remaining parts to science.”
“His heart . . .”
“A heart I’m almost certain you have. The dates match. November 21, 1994, is the day Vincent died. We need to get a look at your files, Clyde.”
“It isn’t just that, Delaney. Vincent’s heart’s somehow connected to you and your seeing ghosts. I don’t know how, I don’t understand why, but Satan can’t send spirits who are seeking guidance—especially those who’re stuck in limbo—to freak you out. He has no control over waffling entities. That much I know. He can definitely throw a monkey wrench in your plans to cross them, and send in a minion to try and talk them into coming to the dark side. However, he only has control over those who’ve landed in Hell. Period. Not those who’re doing nothing more than questioning whether there really is an ‘other’ side.”
She was at a loss then. “Then what’s the connection? I didn’t have the ability to see ghosts until Vincent was dead for at least a few weeks.”
“I don’t know, but we need to find out. And I’m not going anywhere—in my body—out of my body—nowhere until we figure this out.”
Delaney leaned into him with a shaky sigh, their heads bent together. “This is what I wanted to avoid. At first, I didn’t trust you enough to tell you about Vincent. I figured you’d go back to Satan so you could have a good chuckle over how freaked out poor Delaney’s been all these years, and the hell I’d let that happen. I refused to give in to the fear. I decided to piss in his Wheaties by living my life—or semi-living it, if what you’ve labeled what I do is accurate. I was just really careful about who I let into my life. Because even if I wanted nothing more than to spite Satan, I didn’t want to do it at someone else’s expense. But then, I just wanted to keep you out of this thing Lucifer’s got with me because I don’t quite know if we’ve seen the extent of his wrath, but we might if he finds out you helped me and deceived him while you did it.”
Clyde kissed the top of her head. “Now it all makes a bit more sense. That’s why you sent Marcella away. If she heard no evil, she couldn’t speak it.”
“Exactly. She has no idea about Vincent. Well, not entirely. She did come to tell me she’d heard something about him the other night. I figured if I could keep my mouth shut long enough for her to grill me and leave, this would be over before she finds anything else out. If Satan knew she was my one and only friend, he’d try to hurt her—because he does have the power to do that. I don’t want anyone hurt when he makes his next move. We’ll have enough trouble if he ever gets wind of the fact that you duped him.”
“Trouble has a shitload of different meanings, don’tcha think, Clyde?” a surly voice asked from the dark interior of the bathroom.
Both their heads popped up in surprise.
“Uh, bad guy?” she asked, so not wanting to hear the answer.
“Yep.”
“How bad?”
“Scale of one to ten?”
“Sure.”
“Twelve.”
Hoo, shit.
nineteen