The_Demons_Wife_ARC

by Rick Hautala

  “It kind of is, if I want to walk in there in a couple of days and pick up that ring for you,” Claire said, fuming.

  Samael reached out and took both of her hands into his, squeezing them so hard it almost hurt. Even through her gloves, Claire could feel the heat radiating from him. His brow was slick with sweat.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he finally said, breaking the tense silence that made the air in the car seem too thick to breathe. “In a couple of days—maybe when we go to pick up the ring, I’ll put this stuff into a bag and mail it—or maybe just bring it into the store and leave it on the counter where that clerk will find it. That will get him off the hook.”

  Still less than one hundred percent convinced, Claire nailed him with a level, steady gaze and waited for a long time before she finally nodded her agreement.

  “Can I trust you on this?”

  “I swear to—”

  His voice cut off so abruptly, and his eyes bulged so much Claire thought he might be having a heart attack or stroke.

  Can a demon have a heart attack?

  Does a demon even have a heart?

  “What is it?” she asked anxiously.

  “I almost said…”

  He snorted and then started to laugh so hard it seemed he was going to lose his breath. His laughter rose so loud Claire was concerned someone passing by might stop to see what was going on.

  “I was…Without even thinking, I almost…”

  For a while longer, he still couldn’t get a good enough grip on himself to catch his breath and say what he wanted to say. Claire’s initial concern that he was suffering a stroke or something soon passed, but she still couldn’t see what had struck him as so damned funny.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  His eyes were glistening, and tears sliced oily tracks down his red-flushed face as Samael nodded.

  “I am…just lemme…catch my breath.”

  Finally, once he had control of himself, he looked at her and said, “I can’t believe I almost said that I swear to…you know who…”

  Claire was confused, but only for a moment.

  “You mean, ‘God’?”

  Samael visibly winced when she said the name, but he maintained his smile and nodded.

  “Yeah. I haven’t said His name in so long, it caught me by surprise. But you see?”

  Claire shrugged. She wasn’t quite sure she did see.

  “I’m changing, and before you know it, I may even be able to say that name out loud and not feel like there are ants crawling around under my skin…at least I hope so.”

  Claire grunted and, easing her hands out from his tight grip, said, “Yeah…I hope so, too.”

  ~ * ~

  “So, what do you think?”

  Claire’s eyes were wide as she leaned forward, her hands on the dashboard and stared up the driveway toward the house…

  No…This wasn’t a house…It’s a mansion.

  The first thing she thought of was the palatial homes on the Cliff Walk, in Newport, Rhode Island. When she had been looking for colleges after high school, she had checked out Salve Regina University but had decided against both that school and Roger Williams University because she was concerned that there were too many distractions in the area. The schools were wicked expensive, too, but then again, so was Ithaca where she ended up.

  But Samael’s home was amazing…like something out of a picture book.

  “And you live here…alone?”

  “Until now,” he said, and there was an unusual tone in his voice that made her shift her gaze to him for a second or two before she looked back at the house. “But not really alone. I have a staff that keeps the place going.”

  “I can imagine,” Claire said, and she was about to ask if his staff was human or demonic but remained silent on that point as they drove closer to the house. Samael drove up the gentle curving sweep of the driveway toward a huge portico made of granite blocks and a wooden overhang. Snow and debris had been swept clear, and even on a cold, March morning, the entryway to the house—as big as it was—looked warm and inviting. Claire could imagine rows of fancy, expensive cars lined up, and hordes of elegant guests arriving for summer parties and formal dinners.

  “It’s…absolutely…amazing,” she whispered, and Samael smiled proudly.

  But then—unexpectedly—a thought hit her like a dash of ice water in her face.

  But he got all of this from doing evil.

  Not just bad things…from doing Evil—with a capital “E.”

  A sudden wave of discomfort swept through her, and she involuntarily looked over her shoulder out the rear window at the receding driveway. The entrance from the road was lost behind a screen of pine trees. She could imagine a huge iron gate swinging shut behind her…and armed guards—or a host of demons—making sure she never escaped.

  What she did see behind them was even worse.

  Following them up the driveway was a police cruiser and an unmarked car. Samael and she seemed to notice the cars at the same time. His expression flinched, but only for an instant. Then the features of his face hardened. His jaw muscle flexed and unflexed, making it look like he had large walnuts packed between his teeth and lips.

  “Do you—?”

  “Just don’t say anything,” he said, his voice sharp with command. “I’ll handle it.”

  Claire nodded and, sitting with shoulders hunched, she clasped her hands tightly together. Samael pulled to a stop at the foot of the granite stairs, killed the engine, and opened the car door. Before he got out, he glanced back at Claire and said, “It’s nothing serious. You can get out of the car, too.”

  She fumbled for the door handle and opened the door. The cold air slapped her in the face, invigorating her. She got out of the car and watched as the cruiser and unmarked vehicle pulled in behind them.

  Samael shut the driver’s door and, folding his arms across his chest, leaned back against the car, watching and waiting as two patrolmen got out of the cruiser and Detective Trudeau climbed out of the unmarked car. The patrolmen waited for Trudeau to join them before they approached Samael.

  “Good morning,’” Samael said, touching his forefinger to his forehead.

  Claire couldn’t hear the slightest bit of strain in his voice, but she shoved her hands into her coat pockets to hide their trembling.

  “’Morning,” Trudeau said with a sharp nod. His eyes flicked in Claire’s direction, and he added, “Ms. McMullen.”

  Claire nodded, not trusting her voice to be steady.

  “And to what do we owe the pleasure of a visit from you today?” Samael said.

  Sounds like dialogue straight out of a movie, Claire thought.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Trudeau said.

  “Would you like to come inside? Perhaps have some coffee or tea to warm yourselves up?”

  Trudeau eyed Samael for a second or two.

  “Actually, I was hoping you’d come down to the station with us,” Trudeau said.

  Samael eyed the two patrolmen as if taking their measure. Were they here to help if Samael refused…or got violent?

  “Are you sure we can’t handle this matter inside?” Samael asked, nodding toward the front door. He glanced at Claire.

  How does he keep his cool like that? She wondered.

  Trudeau seemed to consider for a moment. Then he lowered his gaze and shook his head.

  “I’d rather do this at the station, if you don’t mind,” he said.

  Claire was really worried now. This sounded like they were going to arrest Samael. She was relieved in one sense, at least—it wasn’t her. If they’d come here to arrest or interrogate her, Trudeau would have spoken to her directly by now. She was suddenly irritated that he was dealing with Samael as if she wasn’t even there.

  “Could I ask what this is all about?” she said, surprising even herself with the strength of her voice as she stepped forward. Samael let a faint smile cre
ase his upper lip as he glanced at her, but Trudeau looked genuinely surprised.

  “This doesn’t really concern you, Ms. McMullen,” Trudeau said.

  “If it concerns Samael, it concerns me,” she snapped back.

  Where is this coming from…This isn’t at all like me…

  Trudeau appeared to be caught flat-footed. He looked at her with what Claire took to be a mixture of irritation and bemusement, as if she didn’t have a right to speak. That irritated her all the more.

  “If you have something to say to Samael, you can say it in front of me.”

  More lines from a movie.

  She still had no idea where this sudden courage was coming from. The brief thought flittered through her mind that this might be a result of being with Samael…that his brash confidence was rubbing off on her.

  Trudeau considered for a moment, and then his shoulders relaxed, and he said, “Sure. Fine. Let’s go on inside, then, shall we?”

  ~ * ~

  By the time they were inside the house, Claire was genuinely pissed off.

  A hell of a way to see the house for the first time, she thought, simmering as she walked next to Samael from the foyer down a long oak-floored hallway to what she assumed was either a well-appointed den or Samael’s office. The hallway had some stunning artwork and sculptures along the walls, but the room she entered with Samael and the detective a step behind was so stunning she stopped in her tracks.

  Two walls, to the left and right, were covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with a railing running the length of each side with rolling ladders so someone could get a book from the highest shelves. At the far end of the room was a huge picture window that looked out over a wide expanse of lawn that ran down a gentle slope to the shore. The view was a bit dreary today, but Claire could imagine how magnificent it would be in the summertime. Today, traces of snow looking like jagged teeth streaked the lawn, especially under the trees and shrubbery. The ocean was gray and flecked with whitecaps. A solitary lobster boat tossed about on the waves.

  Claire looked around the room. The desk alone surely cost more than all of the furniture in her and Sally’s apartment combined. It positively glowed with a smooth, mahogany finish that was so bright Claire could see herself and the two men reflected in it. The desktop had a brass lamp with a green glass shade and a leather-bound ink blotter with a set of expensive fountain pens and a bottle of India ink. It all looked so formal and old-fashioned, but the laptop to one side of the desk indicated that Samael had made concessions to the 21st Century.

  “Please. Have a seat,” Samael said, indicating the plush leather chairs and couch in the center of the room. The Oriental rug in the middle of the floor had an intricate pattern with predominantly red and black designs. “Would you care for a drink?”

  “Not this early,” Trudeau said with a wave of his hand.

  Samael nodded and took a seat on the couch, slouching down and placing his feet on the edge of the coffee table.

  “I could get us some coffee,” Samael said, and again Trudeau graciously declined while Claire shook her head. Draping his right arm over the back of the couch and looking relaxed enough almost to drift off to sleep, Samael cleared his throat and said, “So, Detective Trudeau. What’s this all about?”

  “We have a problem…with the LaPierre case.” Trudeau’s voice was low and gruff.

  Claire instantly wanted to ask him directly what the problem was, but she said nothing, letting Samael handle this. Trudeau had told her it didn’t concern her, but if there was any kind of “problem,” as he put it, with the death of the man who had attacked and tried to rape her, then it sure as hell involved her.

  “And what’s this problem?” Samael’s voice was low and casual, but Claire was sure she heard a catch in his throat. She was sure Detective Trudeau heard it, too.

  “Well, you see…We have video from the surveillance camera outside his condo building. According to the time stamp, it appears as though you visited him the night he died.”

  “Committed suicide,” Samael said, correcting him.

  Trudeau nodded but didn’t appear to be totally convinced.

  “That’s still to be determined,” Trudeau said. When he leaned back in the chair he was sitting in, the leather creaked like an old saddle. “Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.”

  Samael nodded and, turning to Claire, asked, “And you?”

  Biting her lower lip, Claire shook her head no. She was overwhelmed by the opulence of the house and couldn’t believe she was sitting in such luxury. And she was still irritated that her first visit—as Samael’s future wife—had been interrupted by this unexpected police visit.

  Where do they get off?

  But her anger masked that she felt very much out of her element. She still couldn’t understand how a poor, underemployed girl from the County could possibly spark the interest of a man—

  Not a man…a demon!

  —as handsome and wealthy, as obviously successful and powerful as he was.

  And he couldn’t have gotten any of his apparent wealth from doing anything but pure, unadulterated Evil.

  Samael picked up a tiny silver bell from the end table beside him and gave it a quick jingle.

  There goes the bell idea, Claire thought.

  Seconds later, the door to the office/den opened. Claire was sitting with her back to the door, and she didn’t think it would be proper—besides, she was too nervous—to turn and look to see the servant or maid who had responded to his summons. She tried not to imagine another demon or, if it was a woman, a temptress in a sleazy, kinky French maid’s outfit.

  “Michelle,” Samael said. “My guests and I would like coffee.”

  “Right away, sir,” the unseen maid replied, and the door shut with a faint click as Michelle left.

  “So…” Samael said, drawing out the word as he eased back onto the couch and rubbed his hands together. “You were saying…?”

  “Yes. I was saying that we have security footage showing you entering and exiting Mr. LaPierre’s condo on the night of his death. Can I ask what you were doing there?”

  Samael cast a quick glance at Claire, but she wasn’t sure if he wanted her to jump in at any time or if he was trying to warn her to remain silent, no matter what he said. She gazed back at him blankly, hoping that if he could read minds, he would see that she was absolutely lost.

  Before anyone could say more, the door behind Claire opened again, and footsteps approached from behind her. Claire’s eyes widened when she saw that the maid was an elderly woman—she had to be in her seventies, at the very least—wearing a bright red dress that somehow didn’t look out of place in spite of its formality. She walked over to the marble-topped coffee table and carefully placed a silver tray down. It bore a silver carafe, delicate china cups on saucers, a bowl with sugar cubes and tweezers, and a silver pitcher filled with cream. She had also included a small plate loaded with fancy cookies.

  “Thank you, Michelle. That’ll be all for now.”

  Claire noticed the commanding tone in Samael’s voice, like he was used to ordering people around, but she also caught a note of kindness in his voice that made her think he was good to the old woman.

  As Michelle turned to walk away, Claire couldn’t help but look to see if she had horns on her head or the bulge of a tail beneath the folds of her dress. She caught Samael looking at her and caught the twinkle in his eyes. She gave him a rueful, quick smile.

  “Cream and sugar?” Samael asked Trudeau as he poured coffee into a cup.

  “Black, thanks,” Trudeau said, watching Samael intently. Claire was grateful that Samael’s hand didn’t shake in the least as he handed the cup to Trudeau.

  “You sure you don’t want any?” Samael asked Claire and, again, she shook her head, no. She was too nervous to drink without spilling it all over herself. So Samael poured a cup for himself, added cream and a single cube of sugar, stirred, and then sat back, balancing the cup
on his knee.

  “You were saying…”

  This was the second time Samael had said that, and Claire wondered if it was one—of probably millions—of ways Samael used to control a conversation.

  “I’d like you to explain what you were doing there that night,” Trudeau said.

  Samael appeared to be perfectly relaxed as he leaned back. After staring up at the ceiling for a moment or two, he let out his breath in a slow, controlled exhalation. Then he looked at Detective Trudeau and said simply, “I went over there because I wanted to kill him.”

  His confession struck Claire like a thunderclap, and she didn’t think—not right away, anyway—to make a distinction between wanting to kill Ron LaPierre and actually killing him. She looked at him, aghast. For his part, Detective Trudeau appeared to take it quite well. He rubbed his left cheek with the flat of his hand, regarding Samael for quite some time before saying, “’S’ that a fact?”

  Samael nodded.

  “Who wouldn’t want to kill him?” he said. “Look at the circumstances. A man attacks and apparently tries to rape a beautiful young woman. It doesn’t matter who she is—”

  It doesn’t, huh? thought Claire.

  “He violently attacks a person who is less able to defend herself. Ignore for the moment that after the incident I…” He glanced at Claire and shot her an enigmatic smile. “How do I say this without seeming a bit too forward? Following the incident, I came to realize that I was—let’s say ‘attracted’ to the victim…to Claire.”

  Thanks for finally using my name so I don’t feel like you’re talking about me as if I’m not here, she thought.

  “And as I got to know her over the next few days—a handful, really, but enough for me to know that my interest in her—in you—” He looked directly at her now, his gold-flecked eyes glowing. “—was so strong that I wanted to hurt…I wanted to kill the person who tried to violate you like that.”

  Claire was flummoxed. When she looked at Trudeau, who was leaning forward slightly in his chair as though ready to spring on Samael if he had to, she felt a stirring of anger at him. His presence here this morning had ruined everything. It was a crass invasion of their privacy.