The_Demons_Wife_ARC

by Rick Hautala

  And why not?

  His mother was dead. Alex, the only lover who had ever really meant anything to him, had deserted him. He had no other family or friends he was close to. Every day, his pointless job sorting mail sucked out any remaining shreds of his soul. And now he stood accused of a heinous crime he did not commit. He wouldn’t have wanted to commit…unless something inside him had snapped.

  His memories of last Friday night were fragmentary, at best, but one thing he was absolutely convinced of was that he had not, and could not have attacked that woman. That was the only thing that prevented him from ending it all. He was determined to establish his innocence, but not at the risk of outing himself.

  “I…I didn’t do anything…to her,” LaPierre said in a voice so low and fragile it actually touched Samael’s heart—with pity?—even as he thought, I can’t feel pity…I don’t have a heart.

  “I know you didn’t do it,” Samael said. “That’s why I’m here. To console you.”

  The words were out before he could consider or weigh them. He raised his clenched fist to his mouth and bit down hard on the forefinger knuckle as though wishing he could somehow bring the words back or unsay them.

  “You do?…But…how?”

  This was the moment, Samael knew, and for the first time ever in his existence, he was…

  Conflicted…Yes…Conflicted…That was the current pop-psych term for what he was feeling….

  This wasn’t going at all the way Samael had expected it would. He’d come over here with the sole intent of manipulating this loser, Ron LaPierre, and driving him—one way or another—into damning himself.

  It should have been easy.

  Samael had lost count centuries ago of the souls he had collected. LaPierre’s soul was nothing more than a solitary drop of rain in all the vast oceans of the world.

  Don’t tell me at long last I’m losing my touch, Samael thought.

  It was beyond human conception how long ago it had been, but at some point in time since the creation of the Universe, Samael had been an angel. In the mythic battle between Heaven and Hell, when Lucifer—the Lord of Light—had been cast down in the fiery depths, Samael—along with a host of other angels—had denied their angelic nature as well and been cast down with Lucifer or, as many people called him now, Satan.

  Is that what’s happening now? He wondered.

  I’m being cast down…again?

  No!…It can’t be!

  The truth was, Samael did not want to get Ron LaPierre to sell or bargain his soul away. He didn’t even want him to step on a bug to kill it. He felt sorry for the poor man.

  “My word,” Samael muttered, wondering what was happening to him as he covered his mouth with both hands.

  LaPierre stared at him, wide-eyed and pale.

  “You know something?” he said, his voice twisting up an octave or two.

  Samael looked directly at him and saw his frail, frightened humanity, and for the first time since…forever…he felt nothing but pity and…

  Compassion?

  No!…Impossible!

  Pity, maybe.

  But never compassion!

  He didn’t plan to do it, and afterwards, he deeply regretted doing it, but he told himself he had to do something dramatic to show that he still had some level of control over the situation. So Samael stood up and, raising his arms above his head, he disappeared in a flash of light and a puff of sulfurous smoke.

  Humiliated by his weakness, he was determined not to see or talk with Claire the next day; and throughout the day, he avoided her calls, e-mails, and texts because he needed time to collect his wits and figure out exactly what had happened that night at LaPierre’s condo and why he had let the man’s soul slip away from his grasp.

  If he didn’t claim it soon, he’d have some more ‘splainin’ to do.

  Chapter

  7

  True Confessions

  The next day—Thursday—Claire couldn’t stop questioning why she was even trying to get in touch with Samael when he so obviously was avoiding her.

  Ditched again…That makes three times. You’re out.

  She had the TV news on as she ate breakfast, and when she heard that a man named Ron LaPierre had apparently committed suicide—they didn’t reveal how he had done it. She had absolutely no doubts that Samael was behind it.

  He had to be.

  That’s what he did.

  The sole meaning, the entire purpose of his existence was to drive people to damn themselves, or put pressure on them to persuade them or cajole them, or do whatever it took to get them to deliver their souls to him and his minions.

  With a bitter laugh, she thought about how he had told her he was a businessman, involved in buying and selling and maybe a little bit of trading. She realized now—

  Oh, the irony was deliciously thick.

  —that he meant the buying, selling, and trading of human souls.

  She wondered how he was going to try to get hers…or if he had already tried…and maybe succeeded…without her even knowing it.

  But he had said that she must willingly give it to him, and Claire was certain she hadn’t done that.

  She thought about when and how they had first met.

  Six days ago she thought.

  Later that morning, sitting at her desk at work and staring at her computer screen while reflecting on her and Samael’s time together, it felt disturbingly strange to think it had been only six days. So much had happened in that time. She felt as though she had known Samael much longer than that, and she realized now that a lot of what he had said to her—maybe most…or all of it—had been layered with irony.

  End it now, she kept telling herself, before it’s too late…Call him…Leave him a voice message…Send him an e-mail…Hell, Facebook dump him if necessary…

  If she valued her soul, she had to do anything and everything she could do to get away from him.

  But every time she took her cell from her purse and got ready to call, her resolve wavered…and dissolved when she remembered what it was like to be with him…how he had made her feel.

  And not just in bed.

  Hanging around with him in the apartment or taking walks in the city at night or going to a restaurant—even when it burned—or a coffee shop with him…everything was so much better with him. She couldn’t contemplate the terrible emptiness she would feel if she had never met or saw him again…if he was no longer a part of her life.

  Thoughts continued to whirl in her head so much it affected her performance at work. Finally, after lunch, even her boss, Marty, who was oblivious to pretty much everything except the mistakes she made, noticed she was off her game.

  “Something bothering you?” he asked her when, for the umpteenth time that day, she had gotten up from her desk and started pacing. Her foot still ached, and she limped as she walked.

  “I’m fine,” she said. Even she heard the whip-snap in her voice.

  “Come on. What is it?”

  Marty looked at her the way he would a rattlesnake he’d stumbled upon, lying across a trail.

  “Seriously…I’m fine.”

  Tears suddenly welled up in her eyes. She blinked rapidly, knowing if she cried now, it would be all over. She lowered her head and sat back down at her desk, staring at the watery swirl that was her computer screen.

  “You need the afternoon off or something, just say so,” Marty said. He sounded surprisingly sympathetic. That caught her off guard. She hadn’t told him or anyone else at the office about what had happened over the weekend, but someone might have found out somehow…maybe from reading the local crime reports.

  So far, her name had been kept out of the reports but she still might be the subject of office gossip. Someone could have found out. She almost laughed when she remembered her mother’s term for gossip: “The Devil’s Radio.”

  “I’m telling you, I’m fine,” she repeated as she ran the tips of her fingers across her cheeks to swipe away any tears th
at might have already fallen.

  “Well, then,” Marty said, moving away from her warily. He was still treating her like she was a snake about to start rattling before striking. “Just lemme know if you need some time off. If not…you know you’re overdue with the Winthrop bid, right?”

  Fuck you! was on the tip of her tongue, but she was relieved that he was back to his old snarly self…

  Filled with frustration and rage and more, Claire glared at Marty’s back as he strode out of her office, leaving the door open behind him. Once he was gone, she got up from her desk and shut the door, being careful not to slam it.

  ~ * ~

  Finally, Samael texted Claire. She agreed to get together with Samael, but she insisted that it be on neutral ground…a restaurant or someplace public. She wondered why he hadn’t yet invited her over to his place, and she intended to force the issue. She wanted to see how a demon lived in the 21st Century, but she was waiting for the opportune moment…and had no idea when that would be.

  So at seven o’clock, she walked into Chang Shao, a new Chinese restaurant on Exchange Street. Samael said he’d already eaten there and didn’t like the place, but she insisted. Sally had told her the spring rolls were to die for.

  Claire scanned the patrons seated at the tables, and even in the dimly lit main dining room, she could see that Samael wasn’t there. She wondered if he was running late or if he was messing with her—maybe even standing her up—because she had been so insistent about meeting here.

  “Table for one?” the host—a young Chinese man with a bright smile asked. His eyes had a peculiar gleam that gave Claire pause. She noticed that he spoke perfect English.

  “No, I’m waiting for a friend,” she said. She turned and looked expectantly at the door when it opened behind her, but it was a middle-aged married couple, not Samael as she had hoped.

  “You can wait in the bar, or I can seat you now,” the host said.

  Claire glanced at the bench against the wall next to a huge aquarium and then, nodding, said, “I’ll wait here.” She didn’t want to take a table, and then have him not show up.

  The host smiled and then led the middle-aged couple to a table.

  Claire sat down, but as the minutes passed, she became increasingly convinced Samael was going to disappoint her…again.

  And that will be the end of it, she told herself.

  She wished and prayed she would finally have the resolve to end it now. She’d had enough of disappointment and didn’t need any more. Besides, she didn’t need to keep putting up with this kind of treatment. It was almost as if he did things deliberately to piss her off…probably because he enjoyed it when she expressed negative thoughts and emotions.

  She took her cell phone from her purse and glanced at the time.

  Almost seven fifteen.

  Okay, she thought. Ten more minutes, and then I’m out of here.

  She tried to occupy herself by watching the tropical fish glide around in the large fish tank, but her mind—like a terrier with a rat—wouldn’t stop chewing on the things she planned to say to him when—

  If?

  —he finally showed up.

  If he didn’t come here or call, then it would be easy. She would never call him again, and she sure as Hell would never take his calls…if he ever bothered.

  But if he showed up now, there were so many ways she could see the conversation going. She might express anger…or hurt…or disappointment…or she could make it clear to him that he meant absolutely nothing to her…even though he did, and she was fairly certain he knew he did.

  Every time the door opened, her heart leapt, and she looked up hoping to see him.

  And every time she was disappointed.

  She hadn’t eaten since lunch, and she hadn’t had much then, so the aromas that filled the restaurant were driving her insane. Her mouth was watering, and her stomach was growling so much she was tempted to take a table alone and order something—even if it was only an appetizer of spring rolls.

  But the churning in her stomach was more than hunger, and after one final glance at the time on her cell phone—

  It was 7:30

  —she got up and left.

  The walk back to the apartment was far enough to be irksome, especially since the wound on her foot was still throbbing, and she was tossed between rage and tears the whole way. By the time she got to the building, the Canal Bank time and temperature display showed that it was 7:43.

  No show…No call…No nothing.

  “Thanks for nothing,” she muttered as she stepped into the darkness under the archway.

  That’s when a hand reached out of the blackness and clamped down onto her shoulder. Before she could scream for help, a voice she recognized all too well whispered, “We have to talk.”

  ~ * ~

  Five minutes later, they were sitting on the couch in Claire’s living room. The flash of traffic lights, passing cars, and store and restaurant fronts filtered through the thin curtains; but other than a small candle which she had lit and placed on the coffee table, there were no other lights on in the room. Samael said he liked it like that and, quite honestly, she didn’t want to see him clearly because of what it might make her think and do. She was careful to keep as much distance as she could between them, because now, more than ever, she was determined to end it with Samael.

  Tonight.

  First, though, she agreed to talk because she had dozens if not hundreds of unanswered questions. Claire wanted them answered before she declared their relationship officially over.

  “Okay,” Claire said after clearing her throat. “The first thing I want to know is, why did you stand me up?”

  For the first time in a long time, she was craving a cigarette. Even as simple an urge as that made her wonder if Samael was trying to corrupt her.

  “I didn’t ‘stand you up.’” He glanced at her briefly, his eyes glowing in the dimly lit room. Then he broke eye contact and shifted his gaze to the floor. “I met you here, didn’t I?”

  “I was waiting at the fucking restaurant we were supposed to meet at.”

  “I know. I…I couldn’t make it.”

  “You ever hear of a cell phone?” she asked, unable to hide the bitterness in her voice.

  “I tried to call. My cell was dead.”

  As if, Claire thought, not believing him for a second, but she let it slide. There were other, bigger issues to tackle.

  “So instead of walking down to the restaurant, you came and waited here instead?”

  Samael shrugged and looked for all the world like he didn’t know what to do with himself—where to look and how to sit or even if he should stand and pace or stay seated on the couch.

  “There’s something…” When he swallowed, his throat made a loud gulping sound like he was really nervous, but Claire couldn’t help but think, Oh, he’s good. I gotta give him that.

  “…There’s something about that restaurant.”

  “What, you don’t like Chinese? Or are you like a vampire who can’t stand the smell of garlic or…or five spices?”

  Claire thought what she’d said was funny, and she chuckled, but Samael looked pained as he stared at her. His twin-tipped tongue flicked out and licked his upper lip, which was glistening with sweat. Then, he bit down on his lower lip and shook his head.

  “It’s not like that. It’s…Did you notice the statue in the entryway?”

  “You mean the wooden Buddha? Yeah. The one by the door with the fat belly?”

  Samael nodded.

  “There are two of them, but one is on a shelf in the corner.”

  “Yeah?…So what?”

  “There’s an altar next to that Buddha, and there are…offerings on it.”

  “I barely noticed, but—okay. So there’s a Buddha and some offerings. So what? It’s Buddhist stuff for, like, good luck and all.”

  “Did you notice a little piece of yellow paper on the altar?”

  It was Claire’s turn to bite he
r lower lip and shake her head.

  “Well, it’s there. I saw it when I went there when it first opened. There’s some writing on it.”

  “In Chinese, I assume.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And…?”

  “And…It’s a spell.”

  “A spell.”

  “The first time I saw it,” Samael said, “it made me feel uncomfortable, so I asked the host there what it meant, and he said it’s a protective spell against evil. The calligraphy literally says, ’block evil spirit.”

  “So what are you telling me, you’re afraid of it?”

  “Not ‘afraid.’ It just makes me feel…uncomfortable, so rather than deal with that again, I came back here to wait for you. Honestly, I thought you would have been back by the time I got here. You must have waited a long time.”

  “Half an hour.”

  “I figured if I walked down to meet you, I might miss you on the street. I wasn’t sure which way you’d come.”

  Yeah, right, Claire thought, not caring if Samael could read her mind or not. Let him pry all he wants, he’s got to know he’s not going to get to me.

  Claire swung her legs up onto the couch and draped her arm over the back of the couch. The candle was guttering in melted wax, the flame growing dimmer. She wanted to look casual and unconcerned because there was no way he was going to get the upper hand on her, no matter how reasonable his explanation.

  “So,” she said, “we have to get everything straight between us. I mean everything.”

  Samael smiled faintly and looked down at his hands folded in his lap. His feet were planted firmly on the floor. Claire still couldn’t decide how genuine this sudden humility or whatever he was doing was, but she told herself it didn’t matter.

  Genuine or faking it, she was determined to end it all here and now.

  “Everything?” He chuckled, but it was a humorless chuckle, and his expression was dour. “That would take a very long time.” He raised his gaze and pierced her with an intense look. His gold-flecked eyes glowed in the darkness.