Delaney was powerless to move at the sight of the body attached to the voice. Clyde, however, stood up, taking the blanket with him and motioning to Delaney to put on the T-shirt he handed her. He tucked the blanket around his lean waist.
The demon hopped on the edge of the bed with a wink, walking his dirty fingers along the bed toward Delaney’s leg with a cackle. “So what’re ya doin’ with my woman? You been stickin’ it to her?”
Clyde was quicker than she’d ever have given him credit for. His hand snaked out, grabbing the demon’s fingers and wrenching them with a rough jerk. “Get—the—fuck—away—from—her—or I’ll kill you,” he growled low and deep.
The demon’s hand exploded out of Clyde’s, roughly yanking his arm away, but his voice was sweeter than melted chocolate. “Aw, Clyde. Clyde, Clyde, Clyde. Play nice now, man. You had your shot at her, and I promise ya, I won’t tell that whack Lucifer what you did, switching our assignments like that, if you let me give it to her. Just once. You can watch if you want.” His pockmarked face stretched into a leering grin, revealing blackened teeth.
Clyde dragged him to his feet, the muscles in his upper arms bulging when he shoved the demon up against the nearest wall, eliciting a harsh huff from him. “I said, get the fuck away from her, Clyve.”
Delaney scrambled to the floor, her eyes never leaving Clyde’s back, strained from his grip on the key to this whole mess falling apart.
They’d been made.
The infamous Clyve Atwell had apparently found them—which meant Lucifer wouldn’t be far behind.
The demon threw his head back and laughed until she could almost see he had no tonsils. “Or what, Clyde? You sorry piece of shit. You can’t take me with your level one skills. Shoulda paid better attention in class, man,” he taunted up into Clyde’s face, breaking the hold he had on him with a swift shove to Clyde’s chest. His dirty white T-shirt tore when Clyde lost his grip on him.
“Oh, you two—what is it about trouble and it always finding you when you’re half naked?” yet another voice cooed.
And it had a slight accent to it.
It sang in Delaney’s ears like a symphony of sweet violins.
Marcella.
Delaney’s knees felt weak with relief, then weaker with terror. Marcella didn’t stand a chance against this scum. Her protective nature kicked into high gear. “Marcella,” she hissed, sending her a message with her eyes, begging her to stop. “Go shop, would you? Go home! Go do something other than get mixed up in this,” she ordered.
Marcella sighed with obvious exasperation and it was directed at Delaney. “Have you no faith, mi amiga? Ju—” She paused, clenching her jaw to ward off the accent that she couldn’t always hide in times of stress. “You’re always so negative.”
Inching closer to Marcella, and keeping an eye on an immobilized-by-surprise Clyve, Delaney pointed to her chest. “Me? Hell-loooooo,” she whispered near her friend’s ear, “who’s the one who uses duct tape—duct tape, I remind you—to capture demons? Are you fucking crazy showing up here? He’ll obliterate you! That means no more Pier 1. No more throw pillows. Get it?”
Crossing her arms over her chest, Marcella stuck her tongue out at Delaney. “Negative, negative, negative,” she whisper-taunted back.
Her finger flew up under Marcella’s nose. “You do that one more time and I’ll snatch it out of your head—got that, demona tor?”
“And I’ll roast animal fat with your happy sticks, ghost transmitter.”
“They’re not happy sticks—they’re smudge sticks, smart-ass.”
“They look like rolled weed, and if you don’t back off and let me do my thing, D, I’m going to singe your eyebrows.” She clamped a warning hand on Delaney’s shoulder, squeezing it hard, imploring her with her eyes to clamp it. There was a message in those green orbs—Delaney just couldn’t figure out what the fuck it was. Marcella rolled her shoulders, letting go of Delaney and sashaying over to the demon, swishing her perfect ass in her friend’s direction.
Marcella cocked her head at him playfully, her smile cool, her green eyes, now glittering, almost black. “So you must be Clyve.” She pushed herself between the two men, who’d both remained silent—one stunned, one unsure what was next. She flicked an absent finger at Clyde, dismissing him as she stared the demon directly in the eye.
“Who the fuck are you?” he spat, though his roaming, beady eyes appraised Marcella’s body with jeering approval.
Her fingers traced the soiled collar of his T-shirt with flirta tiousness. “Ohhhh, such harsh words, so big and mean. Grrrrrrrrrrr. I like it.” She squirmed, wiggling her hips with a saucy shift.