by Rick Hautala
“No! Leave me alone! I mean it!” she shouted, glaring at him. And then she gasped.
She knew exactly what it was in the tub.
“I’m serious.” She was breathing so fast it hurt. “I want you to leave now.”
“But Claire…I thought we—”
“Now!” she said, her voice finding strength even though she was hyperventilating. She raised her hands to her face as though to protect herself from him. She was terrified because right now she could see him for exactly who and what he was.
“You did that…didn’t you?”
“Did what?”
“In the bathroom—” She gagged at the thought and had to inhale deeply. “That’s Mittens, isn’t it?”
“Mittens? Who’s Mittens?”
“Sally’s cat. You did it, didn’t you?”
He started to reply, but his expression suddenly collapsed and, for the first time ever, Claire saw—or convinced herself that she saw—a spark of genuine emotion…of real feeling.
“Did…what?”
“You know exactly what I mean,” Claire said. “You killed Mittens.”
Even as she said it, she heaved herself forward so she could stand. Samael made a motion forward as if to help her, but she fended him off with a vicious slap to his outstretched hand. The smacking sound was as loud as a gunshot in the narrow hallway.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you’re not going to get away with it. You’re not going to terrorize me like this.”
“Like what?” Samael said, his voice now as smooth as ever.
Unsure if her legs would support her, Claire hiked her thumb over her shoulder at the closed bathroom door, but the perplexed look on Samael’s face almost convinced her that he genuinely didn’t know what she was talking about.
Oh, he’s good at dissembling, all right, she thought. World class.
“Where were you just now?” she finally asked, telling herself to calm down and reason this through. She had to stay in control and not let him intimidate her.
“What are you talking about? I was in the bedroom getting dressed.”
“Bullshit!”
Claire kept reminding herself to see him for what he really is—pure, unadulterated evil. She chided herself for having even the slightest interest in him. She was in mortal danger.
“No you weren’t. I checked in the bedroom. You weren’t there. You weren’t anywhere except—Christ, you were probably…in here.”
He winced at that, and she realized her use of the word “Christ” bothered him.
Again, she indicated the closed bathroom door. The lack of the buzzing sounds from behind the door created a dense silence in the hallway that was broken only by the heavy thump of her pulse in her ears and her short, panting breaths. She hadn’t realized until this moment just how dangerous Samael was and how vulnerable she was. All she wanted was for him to leave her alone, hopefully without hurting or killing her…much less claiming her soul.
But that didn’t excuse what he had done to Mittens. As much as Claire didn’t like her roommate’s cat, that didn’t mean he had to kill her.
“I didn’t mean to…or want to, but…Cats are—” He paused and looked at the ceiling as though searching for the perfect word. “Cats can be problems for my kind.”
“Demons, you mean,” she said with just enough edge to let him know she left enough room to doubt that’s what he really was.
“I honestly didn’t want to do it. It—the cat forced me to.”
“Why, so you could possess its soul? Like you want to possess mine?”
“I can’t do that, you know,” he said. His eyes held a flat, dead gleam, and his expression was perfectly neutral.
“Do what?” Claire asked, fearing—again—that he was reading her mind.
“Take possession of your soul,” he replied.
“You can’t, huh?”
Samael lowered his gaze and shook his head.
“That’s right. I can’t. You have to give it to me…willingly.”
“Well I won’t give it to you. You can count on that. I don’t want to have anything to do with you…not if you’re going to lie to me and tease and torment me and…and kill innocent creatures.”
“It wasn’t my fault, I swear.”
Claire laughed at that. How could he expect her to believe little old Mittens was any kind of threat?
“I swear to you. I’m not lying. I was in the bed, sleeping,” Samael said. His face softened with what might have passed for sympathy…if he had been human.
But he isn’t human.
He’s a demon—with a capital D, and she had to do everything and anything she could to get him out of her life.
Now!
“You said you were getting dressed.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did.”
“I’m pretty sure I was still in bed. I remember you coming in and then leaving. I assumed to go to the bathroom.”
“How can I trust anything you say?” By now, Claire was making no attempt to mask her disgust and doubt. “You’re a demon, for Christ’s sake!”
“Oww…I wish you’d stop using that name,” Samael said. The pained expression on his face did look genuine.
“What, ‘demon?’” Claire said, knowing full well what he really meant but wanting to see if she could get him to say the name Jesus.
But Samael lowered his gaze and shook his head, no.
“You know…the other one,” he said, sounding wounded.
“Oh, you mean ‘Christ?’ Does that name bother you?”
Samael winced, hunching his shoulders as though preparing himself for a violent blow. Against every shred of common sense, Claire couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. The title of an old Rolling Stones song popped into her mind—
“Sympathy for the Devil.”
—and that made her smile.
“What’s wrong with ‘Christ?’”
Once again, she took pleasure in seeing him wince. So she did have some power over him after all. Maybe things weren’t so bad…unless this, too, was an act.
He stepped back, raising his hands.
“Does it really bother you when I say that name?” She stepped closer, watching him retreat. “Or are you faking it, now, because you’re trying to get me to lower my guard?”
Samael's eyes were glazed like an ice-covered pond as he nodded his head slowly.
“It honestly does bother me,” he said, his voice no longer strong and confident. He sounded to her like a little boy who was lost and frightened. “And—yes, it…it’s not like me to tell the truth. It goes against my nature.”
“Is it because—?”
“It’s more complicated—a lot more complicated than you think, believe me,” Samael said, squaring his shoulders. Like switching a TV station, his old confidence and slickness were instantly back. “So…do you really want me to leave?”
Claire stood there, her mouth gaping open. She had no idea what to say. She was trapped with Samael blocking one end of the hallway and, behind her, nothing but the bathroom and those horrible flies and what had once been Mittens. All too easily, she could imagine that the bathroom was now overflowing with flies. If she opened the door, a huge, dark mass of them would spill out on top of her like a tsunami, burying her in a crawling, buzzing, suffocating pile.
I’m trapped, she thought with a rush of panic.
But she was also trapped by her emotions because, when she thought about what was going on here, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. She was genuinely attracted to him…in ways she couldn’t begin to comprehend. He made her feel things she never even suspected she could feel. And it wasn’t just because of what he did to and with her in bed. Besides the physical attraction—more than the physical attractions, she felt a genuine emotional connection to him…a deep, overpowering need to hold him and soothe him and be with him and love him forever.
“So?” he said, his voice deep and resonant in t
he hallway. “If you want me to leave, say so. I will if you command me to.”
No, I don’t think you will, Claire thought, but she nodded slowly.
When he looked at her, her resolve weakened and almost melted, and when she heard herself speak again, it was like listening to someone else speak.
“I do…” she whispered in a voice so weak and strangled she wondered if he heard her at all. “But only for now. I need time…time to think.”
“I understand.”
And with that, he was gone.
No puff of smoke, like she might have expected.
Without another word, he turned and walked to the apartment door. And without looking back, he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Then the door swung shut behind him, the latch clicking loudly, even though it looked as if he hadn’t touched it. Claire was left feeling more alone than she had ever felt before in her life.
Already, she wanted her demon lover back.
Chapter
5
Two-way Mirrors
The next day—Monday morning—Claire was at work. She was thinking about Samael—as she had been since he left the apartment yesterday afternoon—and nothing else.
She’d had a late-night talk with Sally, who told her she should take a day or two off to relax and readjust, but she refused. She didn’t have the heart to tell her roomie about what had happened to Mittens. She cleaned up the mess, putting what was left of poor old Mittens into the Dumpster. After she scrubbed the tub with bleach, the flies didn’t return.
She hoped Sally would assume her cat had gotten out of the apartment somehow and would eventually find her way back home. Claire didn’t want to take time off because her work would just pile up, and Marty, her boss, would give her a ration of shit about getting orders and bids done and sent out correctly and on time.
She was sitting at her desk in her windowless office that was the size of a broom closet and staring unfocused at her computer screen when her cell phone in her purse rang. She jumped, grabbing the phone from her purse, her heart leaping as she thought…hoped…prayed—
How can you pray for a demon?
—that it would be Samael.
A quick glance at the Caller ID showed her that it wasn’t from the phone number he had given her at the restaurant. She had that number memorized.
“Hello?”
She didn’t like hearing the tightness in her voice.
“Yes,” said a man’s voice. “This is Detective Trudeau, Portland PD. I’m trying to reach a—” Claire heard a shuffling of papers and then, “—a Ms. Claire McMullen.”
Crushed with disappointment that it wasn’t Samael, she wished now that she had taken the day off.
“This is she.”
“Ms. McMullen. I’m hoping you can come downtown to the station later today, maybe this afternoon.”
“If this is about—”
She began to mention the call yesterday from what’s-his-name in the DA’s office, telling her that the suspect wanted to talk to her personally, but Trudeau talked over her.
“We need you to check out a lineup to see if you can positively ID the suspect.”
“A lineup,” Claire echoed, amazed to hear herself talking about doing something she had only seen on TV and in the movies.
But this was real, and the reality of what had happened—
And what had almost happened!
—hit her like a sucker punch.
Nausea swept through her, and she was sure—if anyone was watching her—they would notice how her face had gone several shades paler.
“Why do I need to do that? You arrested the guy there…We have eyewitnesses.”
Another twinge when she thought that Samael was one of the witnesses…and her rescuer. Who knows what might have happened if he hadn’t shown up?
“It’s just a formality,” Trudeau said. “We have to make a positive ID before we can bring him up on charges.”
Claire didn’t want to hear what those charges might be. She so much wanted to put all of this behind her, if only so there wouldn’t be such a distraction from her and Samael getting to know each other.
But you kicked him out, she told herself, and there’s no guarantee he’ll be back.
She recognized the absurdity of her situation.
This is beyond crazy!
The more she thought about it, the more she realized the chances Samael was a genuine flesh and blood demon were slim to none…until she remembered the tail and what he had done with it.
Then?
All bets were off.
How could she explain that away?
“Ms. McMullen? You there?” Detective Trudeau said.
Claire shook herself, realizing that he must have said something she had missed.
“Oh—Sorry.”
She smiled to herself, wondering what he would think if she told him the truth about Samael.
What would anyone think, other than that she was nutso?
“I said Mr. Harris from the DA’s office is available around three o’clock. Would that work for you?”
“I—I’d have to get off work early.”
“If you’d prefer, we can schedule some other time.”
Claire shook her head vigorously as if he were in the room with her and could see her reaction. She glanced at her wristwatch and said, “No. I can make it. Three o’clock, you said?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“And where do I go?”
“You know the station downtown. Just come in through the front entrance. I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Should I bring a lawyer?”
“You can have a lawyer with you if you’d feel better, but it’s not necessary. There won’t be any questions, and absolutely no interaction between you and the suspect.”
Suspect?…Not rapist?
“I—ah—I’ll see you there.”
~ * ~
The tightness in Claire’s stomach and chest was bad as she mounted the wide, granite steps leading up to the front entrance of the Portland Police Department. A man wearing a straw-colored jacket and blue pants—a lousy combination, especially in March—was standing in the shelter of the doorway. Claire smiled to herself when she saw that he wasn’t puffing on a cigarette with a fedora pulled down low over his eyes like a movie detective.
“Ms. McMullen,” he said—a statement, not a question, Claire noticed as he stepped forward and extended his hand.
Of course he knows who I am…He’s a freaking detective, for crying out loud.
Claire smiled tightly and shook his hand. She noticed that his grip was warm and dry…even on a chilly afternoon like this. For some reason, she found that reassuring, but she instantly thought how much warmer Samael’s handshake would be...
Detective Trudeau stepped back and opened the door for her, and she followed him inside. The walls throughout the building were painted a shade of green that Claire was fairly certain didn’t occur in nature. They made their way down a hallway, past uncountable offices, and then down a flight of stairs. Their footsteps echoed in the stairwell.
Detective Trudeau introduced her to several people as they went. Standing outside a closed door was one of the officers who had arrested her assailant last Friday night. She couldn’t remember his name now, but she smiled and nodded. Trudeau led her into a small room with a folding table and several metal chairs. On one wall was a counter, its white surface marred and smudged from years of use and abuse. On it was a coffee maker as well as creamer and sugar, and numerous used mugs. The carafe was half full of something that looked more like recycled motor oil than coffee.
Trudeau grabbed a clean Styrofoam cup and filled it. Then he poured in three heaping spoonfuls of sugar and four artificial creamers. He glanced at Claire.
“Want some?”
Staring at the grimy coffee carafe, Claire shook her head. All she could think was: Let’s get this over with so I can go home.
“No, thanks.”
“How ‘bout a bottle of water?” He walked over to the refrigerator in the corner, but when he opened it and Claire saw several moldy containers that looked like science experiments gone wrong, she said, “I’m fine.”
After keeping Claire waiting for ten minutes or so while he talked to the other cops in the room, Detective Trudeau glanced at the wall clock and said, “Well, then, let’s get this show on the road.”
Trudeau led Claire back out into the corridor. Before closing the waiting room door, he dropped his half-finished cup of coffee into the trash can. It hit with a splash. He and two other policemen led her a short way down the corridor to another closed door. Before they went inside, Claire noticed that down the hall, the corridor was blocked by iron bars.
Trudeau opened the door for her to enter the small room. One wall, she noticed right away, was dominated by a large pane of glass. It was obviously a one-way mirror, but the lights weren’t on in the adjacent room, so it looked like a huge slab of polished, black marble. A narrow shelf ran the length of the mirror, and there was a microphone with a silver base on the shelf. Several chairs were arranged around the small circular table so anyone who might be seated would have a good view of the one-way mirror.
“Please. Take a seat, Ms. McMullen,” Trudeau said, indicating the chairs at the table. “Make yourself comfortable. We’ll bring the suspects in soon. But first, I want to reassure you that you’re under no pressure here.”
“Okay,” Claire said with some hesitation. “I still don’t see why, if you arrested this guy at the scene of the crime, I even have to do this.”
“Strictly a formality.”
Claire nodded, still not liking this, and then swallowed hard.
“And what if I can’t identify him?” she asked, suddenly fearful that, in the panic of the night and because of everything else that had happened since—especially with Samael—she might not be able to point out the man who had attacked her.
“It was dark, and it all happened so…so fast…that I…I don’t want to screw this up.”
“Don’t worry. Please. Have a seat. You won’t screw it up,” Trudeau said, and then he gave a quick nod to the police officer standing in the doorway, who left, closing the door behind him.
