Personal Demons

by Lisa Desrochers

  “You’ve found her.” It’s not a question.

  Reflexively, I turn to look behind me. Not there. But then I feel Him—His stare. I turn to face Him as He hovers high above me, near the domed ceiling. I’m careful not to look directly at Him, but I can see His immense black bat’s wings beating in slow rhythm as He lowers Himself to the ground. I drop to my knee, head bowed.

  The polished obsidian floor reflects back His image: immense with steaming, black, leathery skin that seems to absorb all the light and radiate it back out of His sharp, angular face through glowing green cat’s eyes. His twisted bloodred horns are encircled within a spiked golden coronet. When His clawed feet touch down, He folds His wings and stalks slowly and silently toward me, like a panther approaching its prey.

  “Yes, my liege,” I reply.

  “And you’re certain this is the one we seek?” His hiss sends ice up my spine despite Hell’s two-thousand-degree heat.

  It’s only at this second, confronted with the question, that I realize I have nothing to offer as evidence that Frannie is The One. I’ve always relied heavily on instinct, and my instincts have never steered me wrong. Now would not be a good time to question them.

  “Yes, my liege.” I stifle the sudden urge to ask why He wants her so badly.

  As He passes within a few feet of me, I feel the crackle of electricity—His power—pass between us like a thousand tiny lightning bolts. My own energy surges.

  “Rise,” He commands, and I’m helpless not to. I watch as He ascends the many stairs to the high throne and throws Himself into it, morphing from His natural form to His human shell—very Zeus-like: long white hair and beard; strong, angular face; and long, flowing red robes cloaking a powerful build. But the glowing green cat’s eyes don’t change. I feel them as they study me.

  “How long?” He barks deeply from on high, his voice changing with his form.

  “Not long, my liege.” No need to share that Gabriel is running interference and possibly stretching my timeline a bit.

  “Excellent.” He’s silent for a moment, and I’m hoping to be dismissed, but I feel a growing sense of unease as His eyes bore through the top of my bowed head. “Lucifer …” He says pensively, “I think you’ve been underappreciated. Beherit is loathe to give credit where credit is due, but I believe you’ve been a valuable asset in Acquisitions.”

  As He pauses again, I find myself becoming even more uncomfortable, unsure where He’s going with this. Finally, He stands theatrically and makes His way back down the stairs, long red robes flowing behind—all for show, since He could phase down in a heartbeat if He so chose—until He’s standing in front of me. Evil radiates off of Him in waves, saturating my mind with dark ideas and clouding my ability to think for myself.

  “Look at me, Lucifer.”

  Even if I wanted to, I could not disobey. I raise my head and look Him in His deep green eyes, bracing myself against the sudden rush of power as He scrutinizes me. A heinous grin stretches across His face as His energy courses through me.

  “Yes. Just as I thought.” He turns His back.

  My legs go soft, and I feel myself sway nearly to the point of falling as He releases me.

  “I’m in need of some new blood on my council, Lucifer. Does that appeal to you—a post on my council? Maybe head of Acquisitions?”

  It’s work to keep my face placid—expressionless—as I process that. My boss’s job. It’s what I wanted—what every creature of pride wants. So, why is it terror I feel at the prospect of being on the council—under His constant scrutiny? No!

  “Yes, my liege.”

  “It will be your reward, then, when you bring her to me.” He paces a wide circle and stops behind me. Suddenly, He sounds weary. “Do you have any idea how tiresome it is to always be second?”

  There is no answer to that, and He’s not expecting one. I stand motionless as stone and wait for Him to come to the point.

  “Since the Beginning, the Creator has had all the power.” All my hair stands on end as His power surges and His voice crescendos up to its usual boom. He continues His circle and stands in front of me. Rage etches deep creases between His full, white brows. “It’s my turn. This is my chance. I will be out from under Him—finally. We won’t have to abide by His rules any longer. I will finally have my rightful place!” The floor shakes with the boom of His voice, and one of the many white marble gargoyles surrounding the dais topples.

  It would be useless—and dangerous—to point out that He agreed to the Almighty’s rules in the Beginning for a reason. When they were both still sane, He and the Almighty recognized the need for balance in the universe. Without the lure of Heaven and the threat of Hell, humanity would sink to the pits of depravity, where it would destroy itself, rendering both Heaven and Hell pointless. Unfortunately, King Lucifer’s sanity has been questionable for as long as I’ve existed.

  His green eyes darken to black and, in His rage, His true form dances dangerously close to the surface, shimmering and peeking through His human shell like a mirage. He paces another circle. “Tag her as quickly as possible. The others,” He chews out the word like a piece of grizzle, “will be coming for her too. I need her, Lucifer. Don’t disappoint me.”

  The others have already come—in the form of Gabriel.

  He turns in a flourish of robes, and the roller-coaster rush hits me again as I’m dismissed.

  I’m suddenly back in my car, waiting for the vertigo to clear. When I remember where I am, I turn and watch the light flick on in the right, second-story window of Frannie’s house. I’m still watching as she pushes the curtain aside and peers out into the night, toward me. She drops the curtain and retreats into her room.

  When I have my head, I turn the key and drive out of Frannie’s neighborhood, secure in the knowledge that she’ll belong to Hell, and soon. I won’t fail. I wonder idly what my boss could have done to piss the king off so thoroughly that he’s being replaced, but I shake my head—not my concern at the moment. One thing at a time. And right now, Frannie is Thing One.

  Tomorrow.

  6

  A Snowball’s Chance in Hell

  LUC

  After my … encounter with my king last night, I’ve had a hard time waiting until two o’clock for my study date with Frannie. I’m electric, my whole body buzzing with anticipation. Because today it’s going to happen: I’m going to tag her.

  My palms are sweaty as I pull into her driveway. I steam in my natural form, but I don’t remember ever sweating before. Not sure what that’s all about. Regardless, I wipe my palms on my jeans as I make my way up to the front porch and ring the bell. And I’m feeling … eager, I guess, because there’s more to my buzz than just the thrill of the hunt. I seem to have missed her a little, and I can’t wait to see her.

  The door finally swings open, and I smile, anticipating Frannie, but instead there’s a man. He’s shorter than me, with chestnut hair combed neatly back, wearing a blue button-down shirt with a green tie. When he smiles, I can see Frannie in his face. I hold out my hand before I realize I’ve done it. He takes it and says “Hello—” but then flinches back from my touch, and the rest of the greeting is lost as his hazel eyes narrow and his face pinches.

  “Um … hi,” I finally say, cursing myself for being so careless. Frannie does that to me—clouds my mind. I need to start using my head.

  “You must be Luc,” he says warily.

  “Yes, sir,” I say. I push a little power at him, just to smooth things over, but his face remains cautious. No reaction.

  I push a little harder.

  Nothing.

  A mortal immune to my magic? That doesn’t happen very often. Not good. I reach out with my essence to try to read him and get … nothing. I can’t even tell if he’s tagged for Heaven.

  “I’ll tell Frannie you’re here.” He turns and leaves me standing on the front porch. I step back and seriously consider getting in my car and driving away, but then Frannie appears at the door.
Her hair is pulled back in a knot, a few wisps of sandy waves dangling free and framing her face. There’s a flush in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. Her faded jeans and black tank top are snug enough to tease me with her curves without being tight. Unholy Hell, she’s beautiful.

  “Hey,” she says with a quirk of her eyebrows. “I can’t believe Dad left you standing out here.”

  I can. I went over like a snowball in Hell. “Yeah … well. I don’t think I made a great first impression,” I say in a low voice.

  She surprises me by cracking a smile. “Really?” Then she surprises me again by grabbing my hand and pulling me through the door. I reflexively try to pull my hand away, but she doesn’t let it go. I’m surprised once more by my own visceral reaction to her hand holding mine.

  She tows me into a small family room where a girl is lounging across the couch. She swings around and sits as we walk in, her hazel eyes working their way over my T-shirt and jeans. Another girl, younger, with long, dark hair, is sprawled on the beige shag carpet with her back to us, messing with a Scrabble board on the low wooden coffee table.

  I glance around at the comfortable yet nondescript room. There are three overstuffed brown armchairs scattered between the fireplace and the TV, all empty. A large print of da Vinci’s The Last Supper, framed in gold, takes up most of the wall over the couch. The rest of the walls are covered with dozens of school pictures: smiling little girls everywhere. The caramel-colored curtains on the front window are pulled back, revealing the large oak tree next to the driveway and my car, front and center.

  The History Channel is blaring about Caesar from an unwatched TV in the corner. Frannie picks up a remote from the arm of one of the chairs and turns off the TV. The girl on the couch rolls her eyes and says, “Thank God.”

  “You know what, Kate? If you’d shut up and watch, you might learn something,” Frannie says. Her eyes slip to me as she blushes. “Tell Mom we’re upstairs studying, okay?”

  The girl on the floor turns and looks at us, her sapphire eyes sparking. “So we don’t even rate an introduction or anything?”

  Frannie rolls her eyes. “Fine … Luc, this is Maggie, and that’s Kate,” she says gesturing from the floor to the couch.

  “Hello,” I say, turning on the charm. I walk over to the coffee table and bend over the Scrabble board. “I don’t think that’s a word,” I say to Maggie. “But if you do this …” I rearrange what’s on the board and add two letters from her holder, “it’s a twenty-eight pointer.”

  Maggie beams at me with those sapphire eyes and says, “Thanks,” a little breathlessly.

  Kate sighs and smiles, pulling her long blond hair back and tying it into a knot behind her neck, just like Frannie does. “Hey.”

  “ ’Kay,” Frannie says, “so we’ll be upstairs.”

  We’re around the corner and halfway up the stairs when I hear an “Oh my God,” and a round of giggles erupt from the family room. Before we make it to Frannie’s room, a woman’s voice calls urgently up the stairs.

  “Frannie?”

  “Yeah, Mom,” she answers.

  I look down the stairs at a petite woman, impeccably dressed in a white blouse and knee-length navy blue skirt, with short, tidy, sandy-blond hair and concerned sapphire-blue eyes. She’s nervously wringing her white apron with her hands. Frannie’s father is standing next to her, glaring up at me. I try again to get any sense of him, but it’s almost as if he’s Shielded. Why would Heaven Shield Frannie’s father?

  Frannie’s mom takes a step forward and lays a hand on the rail. “Why don’t you and your friend study at the kitchen table? I’m done in there and you’d have room to spread out.”

  Frannie looks at me, her eyes narrowing. “Um, sure. Okay.” She shrugs at me and turns to head back down the stairs.

  FRANNIE

  Picture those old fifties TV shows they always run late at night on Nickelodeon. You know … the ones where the moms all stay home and clean the house in sensible high heels and makeup. Like Leave It to Beaver. That’s my life. The Cleavers got nothing on us.

  In the ten years since my brother died, I’ve never seen my mother upset—about anything. It’s like she’s completely numb, humming through life pushing a vacuum cleaner. Sometimes it’s enough to make me want to do something totally outrageous just to see if I can get a rise out of her. Wake her up. But maybe she doesn’t want to wake up. Maybe it’s too hard.

  The closest I’ve ever come to seeing her upset was two years ago, on the day the call came from St. Agnes Parochial School that I was being removed for disciplinary reasons. I actually believe her jaw clenched a little, and her blue eyes might even have been a little moist while she listened to Sister Maria explain I was a disruption in religion class. But when she hung up the phone she smoothed her hair—like that minute jaw clench might have displaced one—then her skirt, smiled, and said, “We’ll have to get you registered at Haden High School this week.”

  So this whole “studying at the kitchen table” thing is a little weird. I’ve had boys in my room to study before and it’s never been a problem. Even Reefer. I guess Luc wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t make a great first impression.

  We spread out at the kitchen table, and Dad meanders by the door, peering in at us. It’s totally embarrassing. Why did he pick today to decide to ruin my life? Go away.

  I thumb through my composition book and open it to a blank page. “What should we focus on for this outline? Maybe the whole thing with Ma and Tom?” I glance up at Luc as Dad walks by again and cringe at the annoyed set to Luc’s face.

  Go away, Dad.

  But, as I stare at Luc, the creases around his eyes smooth and a smile ticks at one side of his mouth. “Sounds good to me.” He raises his voice slightly. “Any thoughts, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

  Dad slides around the corner with pink cheeks and suspicious eyes. He sort of stares Luc down, something I’ve never seen him do before, nods at me and leaves.

  “What happened?” I whisper.

  He just shrugs.

  I shake my head and start writing.

  I’m surprised when my sister, Grace, shuffles through the kitchen door on her way to the fridge. She rarely ventures out of her and Maggie’s room, which is why Maggie’s never in it. She pulls a Coke from the fridge, pops the top, and stares at us from under her blond bangs as she sips. It’s a little creepy, actually, how Grace can make you feel like she’s looking right into you with those pale blue eyes. She’s always been like that.

  “Is there something you needed, Grace?” I ask pointedly when her staring starts to get weird.

  “No.” But she doesn’t leave. She just sips her Coke and stares.

  I try to ignore her, but it’s impossible. “You know, we’re trying to study …”

  She leans against the fridge like she’s settling in for a while. “Go ahead.”

  I scowl at her. “It’d be easier if you left.”

  “Whatever.” She shrugs off the fridge and shuffles back out to the family room, eyeing Luc the whole way.

  “Sorry about that. She’s just a little …”

  “Intense?” Luc is watching after her with a raised eyebrow.

  I smile. “That wasn’t the word I was going to use, but yeah.”

  When we finish I kinda want to invite him up to my room to listen to my new Fray downloads, but I figure that’s pushing my luck.

  Then again, pushing my luck is what I do best.

  We meander toward the door, but I look over my shoulder when we get there and grab Luc’s hand. “C’mon,” I say and tow him up the stairs.

  He looks a little surprised when I pull him through my door and close it.

  “So, you have no clue what happened?” I ask, climbing onto my bed. “ ’Cause I’ve never seen my parents act like that before.”

  “No clue.”

  I tuck my legs under me and lean on my outstretched arm. “Well, that was really weird. They’ve all turned into aliens.”

&nbs
p; He scans my room and cracks an amused smile. “Like Invasion of the Body Snatchers …” His gaze shifts to me as his eyebrow quirks. “Could happen.”

  He turns back to my walls and takes a lap of my room. “Interesting wallpaper,” he says, slowing to read some of Riley’s and Taylor’s captions. He gets to the Mona Lisa and lets out a mirthless laugh. “She did—a lot,” he mumbles under his breath.

  “What?” I ask.

  He looks at me for a second. “Nothing.”

  And then I remember what Taylor wrote on that picture. “Mona Lisa needs to get laid.”

  His eyes drop to my dresser, and he picks up a picture frame. He looks at the picture for a long time. Running his finger over the glass, he says, “Who is this?”

  “Me and my brother.” I look out the window into the swirling storm clouds collecting on the horizon.

  He sounds surprised. “Your brother?”

  “He’s dead,” I say flatly.

  “When?”

  I look back at him, and there’s sympathy in his eyes I don’t deserve. My insides churn and bile burns my tightening throat. I really don’t want to have this conversation.

  “Ten years ago.” I pull my government book out of my book bag.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  I thumb blindly through the book, pretending to be finding my page, and breathe back the threat of tears.

  He eases into my desk chair. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  God, no. “Not really.” I spring off the bed. “So I downloaded some cool stuff,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice the thick sound of my voice. I grab my iPod off the dresser and stick it on the speakers. “What do you want to hear?”

  “Depends on what you’ve got.”

  I breathe deep and feel my chest start to loosen. “The Fray, always,” I say and smile up at him, “but also some new Saving Abel and Three Days Grace.”

  “Put it on shuffle. I like surprises.” A playful smile dances across his face, making my heart skip.

  I hit the play button, but I so can’t pay attention to the music, ’cause Luc pulls himself out of the chair and saunters toward me. I’m not sure what I’m seeing in his eyes—something seductive and oh-so-dangerous. When that wicked smile curls his lips, the tingle low in my belly explodes through my whole body, making me gasp. But just as he reaches me the door swings open.