by Rick Hautala
“I should be going,” Samael said, his voice husky in the darkened room.
The mere sound of his voice made Claire want to tell him no and pin him down on the bed. Tie him down if she had to, but then—what would that make her? She knew, of course, especially since he was a demon, that there was no way she could command or control him. Still…it’d be fun to try.
“You sure?” She hoped she masked her disappointment.
Samael grunted as he swung his legs from the bed to the floor. Claire couldn’t help but look down at the perfectly smooth junction between his legs. She could almost convince herself that he did have something there, and that it was only the dim lighting in the room—ambient light from the city outside—that only made it look like he had no genitals.
Besides, what did it matter when he could do what he did with his tail?
She’d been to bed with enough men who had the usual equipment and had no idea what to do with it. One thing she could say for Samael—he sure knew how to pleasure a woman.
Claire smiled to herself, wondering how different her life would have been if she’d adopted such a forgiving attitude with the other men in her life.
“You have to work in the morning,” he said, “and I have some unfinished business to take care of tonight.”
“This late?”
He nodded.
“What kind of business?” Claire said, imagining all sorts of unspeakable horrors—claiming souls, corrupting people, sending them screaming to Hell.
Samael smiled, his eyes sparkling, and his wide, white teeth glowing eerily in the semidarkness.
“I left the office to come down to the police station to see you today. There’s still a mountain of paperwork sitting on my desk.”
Claire couldn’t help but snicker. A demon, she assumed, had one and only one job, and that was to collect damned souls. She had trouble imagining him as an overworked, stressed-out corporate bureaucrat, but in a funny way, it made sense. Any bureaucracy—even the stupid little one she dealt with five days a week at Montressor Chemicals—was her definition of Hell.
He started to stand up to get dressed, but she stopped him with a gentle touch on the arm. He sat back down on the bed and looked at her with unmitigated tenderness.
“The answer is no,” he said gently.
“What makes you so sure you know what I was going to ask?”
Samael’s smile widened as he said, “Because it’s the question any woman would ask at this precise moment.”
“Oh? And what is that?” Claire asked, offended by being lumped in with “any” other woman.
“You were going to ask if I’m married,” Samael said simply. The toneless quality of his voice was as irritating as the fact that he was absolutely right—that had been the question at the tip of her tongue, and she realized at that moment that she would never get away with it if she tried to lie or deceive him.
Good, she thought. A relationship can’t be built on lies.
She took a breath, held it, and then asked another question that was on her mind.
“Can you read minds…my mind?”
It just burst out of her. She wasn’t sure why. She tensed because she knew—and was fairly certain he already knew—that she wouldn’t trust his answer, anyway…no matter what it was.
Samael smiled at her with genuine affection in his eyes.
“I can’t,” he said. He raised his right hand. “Honest. It’s just that I…I have a vast amount of experience with humans.”
The way he said the word humans drove home the point that, other than his form, he wasn’t the least bit “human.” Never had been…Never would be. Again, Claire thought that no matter how she felt when she was with him and no matter how he made her feel in bed, she should end this now.
What if it’s already too late? She wondered.
What if I’m already doomed?
What if I’m already damned?
A flood of questions filled her, but she pushed them all aside and tried to revel in the mere sight of him. She watched silently as he got finished dressing and then turned to her. Extending his arms for a hug, he approached her. Still naked, and a bit self-conscious, Claire moved toward him as if in a dream. When they met and embraced, his body heat and the faint spicy smell of his skin made her dizzy. She vaguely wondered if this was one of the ways he had of getting to her and controlling her, but for the moment, she didn’t care.
They separated enough so they could kiss, which went on so long Claire’s knees began to weaken, and she literally thought she was going to lose her breath. His twin-tipped tongue darted playfully across her lips, sliding gently into her mouth and then out again.
Stop this!…Right now! She told herself. Before it’s too late!
And—somehow—she found strength enough to break off the kiss and embrace, and push him away. She knew she couldn’t have done that if he had really wanted to keep holding on to her.
Gotta get me a little bell and see what that does, she thought.
Samael looked at her with an amused grin.
“I guess you’ve had enough of me, huh?” he said.
Claire was speechless. All she could do was shake her head no and stare at him. Then, just like the last time he had been here, he turned suddenly and walked away without another word.
Well, then…if I’m damned, I’m damned, she thought, so that’s how it’s going to be.
She wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry.
~ * ~
This is what happened that night, but Claire didn’t find out about it right away. Her first hint came two days later—on Wednesday—when she was preparing breakfast, and the TV was on. The news reported that a man who had been arraigned recently in a criminal case and was out on bail had jumped off the balcony of his condo in the West End. Even before the Channel Six newscaster said the name, Claire knew what was coming.
After the newscaster said the name “Ron LaPierre,” she didn’t hear anything else.
She didn’t need to.
She could put the pieces together herself, even if the news team or even the cops didn’t have all the facts.
It turns out she was dead wrong, but she didn’t find out about that until later, too.
Samael did, indeed, have some loose ends to tie up when he left her place on Monday night. He hadn’t lied about that. True to his intentions, he had driven straight to Ron LaPierre’s condo in the West End, where he lived alone following the death of his elderly mother three years ago last January. LaPierre had put the condo up as a guarantee for his bail, which was posted for two –hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
“You from the DA’s office?” was the first thing LaPierre said when he opened the door and saw Samael standing on his doorstep.
With the light full on his face, Samael looked like he’d just returned from a vacation in the Caribbean, and that immediately put LaPierre on edge. He didn’t like people who could afford to take vacations when he had to struggle so hard to make ends meet. He was lucky the condo was paid off and his expenses were relatively low, but even so, in this economy, only a handful of people were getting ahead.
Who was getting ahead?
For LaPierre, the answer was simple enough: assholes like the guy standing on his front doorstep.
“You a cop? You guys work late.”
“I’m not a cop or from the DA’s office,” Samael said simply with a smile. “But I would like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind.”
“My lawyer says not to talk about it to anyone.”
“I’m not just anyone,” Samael said.
LaPierre considered for a few heartbeats. He was close to slamming the door in this asshole’s face, but there was something about him—a smoothness and a certain confidence and—
Admit it, he told himself.
—charm that was…well, interesting.
“If you’re a reporter or something,” LaPierre said, “you might as well leave right now, too. I ain’t making any st
atements to anyone.”
He craned his neck to see past Samael in the doorway to see if there was a fleet of news trucks with cameramen and soundmen streaming into the parking lot, swarming like hornets on the front lawn.
“I’m not a reporter, either,” Samael said simply.
He cast a glance over his shoulder to see what LaPierre was looking at, but he saw no one there—just the quarter moon over his left shoulder. A good omen, he thought as he turned back to the man.
“It does, however, concern your recent legal troubles—”
LaPierre’s shoulders dropped as if he were bearing the weight of the world. Shaking his head, he started to close the door in Samael’s face, but Samael placed a foot in the doorjamb, blocking him. Of course, he had the physical strength to force his way into the condo and do whatever the Hell he wanted to, but that wasn’t the way he operated.
This was a game much more complicated than chess.
The first rule was: The victim—and, yes, that’s how Samael thought of them all, even Claire, as victims—had to damn himself or herself by their own word. The first step toward accomplishing that was that the victim had to invite him into his or her house. Claire had done that, but for reasons he still wasn’t entirely ready to admit to, he had delayed her invitation to damnation too long. She was special to him in ways no other human had ever been.
He still wasn’t precisely sure why or how.
It certainly wasn’t—He cringed, just thinking the word—love.
LaPierre, on the other hand, was easy. He could be persuaded to damn himself eternally within an hour, tops…Hell, in the state he was in right now, it might take no more than five or ten minutes.
Yes, Samael was that good, and he knew it. How else had he been promoted through the demonic ranks so fast?
“Mr. LaPierre,” he said. “I’ll only take a few minutes of your time. I promise.”
They made sudden and intense eye contact, and at that moment, Samael realized one slight miscalculation he had made when he manipulated LaPierre last Friday night. There was no way he could have even wanted to attack—much less rape—Claire, because LaPierre was gay.
No wonder today in the lineup room he had been screaming and carrying on so.
“I didn’t do it!…There’s no way I did it!”
Sure, he might feel inclined from time to time to get a little rough when he was with someone…and maybe, especially when he’d been drinking…he might force himself on a less than willing partner, but that partner most definitely would have been a man. His type was a middle-aged, tall, dark, and chiseled man…
Much like the one standing outside his front door at this very moment.
Tonight, though, LaPierre was so distraught with his pending legal problems that he didn’t delude himself. There was no way a man this good-looking would be willing to offer LaPierre anything he really wanted…
Then again, wouldn’t it be nice to allow him into his home and play out the fantasy, if only in his mind?
Why the Hell not?
“Sure,” LaPierre said. “Sure…Come on in.”
Ah, good, Samael thought.
LaPierre let his shoulder slouch and his head drop as though he’d already suffered defeat and rejection as he swung the door wide open so Samael could enter. As Samael walked past him, LaPierre caught a faint whiff of his scent. It was a curious blend that, unfortunately, reminded him of Alex, his most serious lover of several years ago.
“I’m sorry,” LaPierre said, pausing for a moment, “but I didn’t get your name.”
“Samael,” was the reply, and LaPierre was left hanging, wondering if that was his first or last name.
Regardless, “Mr. Samael” followed LaPierre down a short hallway into a compact living room. A small fire blazed away in the fireplace, lighting the walls with a friendly orange glow.
“Cold nights,” LaPierre said, as if he needed to explain. “Drives the chill away.”
“Reminds me of home,” Samael said pleasantly. He was positive LaPierre missed the irony.
The room was tastefully decorated with old—not antique, but old—furniture that looked like it belonged more to an old grandmother than a middle-aged gay man. How embarrassing. Samael could see that LaPierre appreciated the finer things in life but, frugal Yankee that he was, he hadn’t seen the need to get rid of his mother’s perfectly functional and very ugly furniture after she died. One wall of the living room had a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with all the right books, mostly history, fiction, and—surprisingly—numerous books about dogs.
That struck Samael as odd.
Why so many books about dogs but not own a dog?
Just as well, he decided. He didn’t like dogs any more than he liked cats, and dogs certainly didn’t like him, since they all, indeed, went to heaven.
Also on the walls were several paintings and drawings of amateur but quite good quality. They were tastefully arranged and appeared to have all been done by the same artist.
“Please,” LaPierre said, motioning toward a comfortable chair that was angled toward the fireplace. “Have a seat.”
As Samael sat, LaPierre took the chair’s twin, which was also angled toward the fireplace, and sat down.
Samael noticed that LaPierre’s hands were trembling slightly. For several seconds, they both sat staring silently into the flickering blaze. It really did remind Samael of home...
“So…would you care for a drink? Scotch, perhaps…or rum? A cup of coffee or tea?”
“I’m fine,” Samael said, waving his hand, but even as he spoke, he experienced something—
An emotion!
—he hadn’t experienced for…for millennia…
If ever.
As he looked at LaPierre and tried to assess how best to broach the topic of getting him to consign his soul to Samael, Samael experienced…
Pity.
“What in the name of home?” he muttered softly as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“What was that?” LaPierre asked.
Samael could all but smell the desperate loneliness of the man. With the threat of jail hanging over him if he was convicted, he would be much too easy to manipulate. This almost wasn’t fun. It certainly had lost its zest. Samael was already running through his mind several tactics he could try.
Should he go the sexual route?
That was the most obvious ploy.
Samael could easily sense LaPierre’s interest in him. He didn’t need to be able to read minds to know that. From the moment he opened his door and saw Samael standing outside, he’d had…nasty thoughts. Even if the man didn’t end up in Hell tonight, he could give him something he would never forget before he was carted off to ten or twenty years in state prison.
Naw…Samael decided. Too easy…No fun there.
Okay, then…What?
Maybe he should work on the poor sod’s guilt. Make it clear to him that, if his dead, departed mother was still alive, how utterly disappointed she would be in him. That tactic—guilt—often worked quite well with guys like LaPierre, gay or straight.
But, once again, it struck Samael as much too easy.
Where was the fun…the thrill of seducing a despicable human soul to its destruction?
Am I losing my edge? Samael wondered. Am I so jaded after all these centuries that the game has lost its thrill?
He cautioned himself to stay focused. If the sexual and the guilt ploys were out, then so were loneliness and desperation. They also would be too easy, too…and much too predictable.
Samael needed some spark to the proceedings. He was quiet for a moment as he mentally ran through his options. He noticed LaPierre’s increasing discomfort at Samael’s silence. He should begin…say something…get this party started. It should be—as usual—delectable, but something was putting Samael off his game.
What the Hell’s the matter with me? He wondered, amazed at the unfamiliar sensations filling him.
Pity?…Uncertainty?…Me?�
��Impossible!
Fear?…No way…I’m never afraid!…I make people afraid!… That’s what I do!
Samael was getting desperate to begin.
I never get desperate, either!
He tried to believe he’d come up with a fun and effective tactic once things got rolling, but he couldn’t stop staring at the fire, his mind a roaring blank. The blaze reminded him so much of home he felt nostalgic even as he hoped the flames would inspire him to get this man’s soul wrapped up and get out of here.
For his part, LaPierre kept shifting uncomfortably in his chair, too, wondering why he had allowed this handsome strange man into his home.
Where is he from?
What does he want?
Why did I even let him in?
Who does he represent…the prosecution or the defense…?
Is he a friend of the woman I’m accused of attacking and trying to rape?
Is he from the mental hospital, sent here to do another evaluation, this time in my home setting where I’ll be more comfortable…more myself?
Such questions were endless, and the longer Mr. Samael sat there, saying absolutely nothing while staring into the flames, the worse LaPierre’s agitation became.
He wanted a drink himself, but he stayed where he was, staring at the man—his handsome face lit to a warm copper color by the fire in the fireplace—and trying not to think anything...especially that he desperately wished he could seduce this man.
He simply didn’t have the courage or confidence or the Evil to start.
Finally, Samael shifted in his chair and said, “We need to discuss what happened to you.”
That got a vacant look from LaPierre.
“Have you ever thought about the only possible way out of your situation?”
LaPierre let out an audible gasp.
“What do you mean?” he asked, unable to believe this man—a total stranger—would come to his home and even hint at such a thing.
Of course he had considered suicide, if that’s what this man was implying. Almost every waking moment, the single most thought in his head was that he should end it all as soon as possible. He would be infinitely better off dead.
