“Lonnie said he never saw another young ‘un with as much promise as a healer as you had,” said Nana.
“I’m still a healer,” Dara said. “I heal bodies.”
Nana pursed her lips disapprovingly. “You can’t take your body into the next world.”
“And you can’t get along without it while you’re in this one.”
“It’s not too late to get back to it.”
Another memory. Dara was sixteen. Her best friend Sarah lay in that very same aisle. Dara tried pulling Sarah’s breath into her lungs, but nothing came forth. Her friend didn’t wake.
Dara locked eyes with Nana’s. “I’m a nurse now. I use science to heal.”
Nana was first to look away. She pointed at a clipping in the book with one age-thickened fingernail. The photo showed a clearly skeptical Mike Wallace interviewing Granddad. “This is when he was on 60 Minutes.”
As Nana launched into the oft-told tale, Dara let her mind drift. Until we meet again, the stranger had said. Heat rose in her body, and the warmth evoked the smell of petrichor and vanilla again. She could feel his fingers weaving themselves into her hair and see his lips descending toward hers. Fear and desire mingled in equal parts.
She squeezed her thighs together, shocked by the strength of her yearning. She’d all but forgotten what desire felt like. What had gotten into her? She touched her pearls, but the talisman effect didn’t work this time.
“Did I ever tell you about this she-demon?” Nana’s question was a welcome interruption, even if the subject wasn’t. She had reached the last page of the scrapbook, a hand-drawn portrait of a young woman. At first glance, it appeared to be an inexpert rendering of a beautiful female. It was doubtful anyone could have identified the woman from the picture, except for one thing. Her eyes had rectangular pupils.
A hundred times. Dara bit back the harsh response, restricting herself to a nod.
Nana traced her crooked forefinger over the drawing. “When they get mad, their eyes go goat, you know.”
Nana had shown Matt the scrapbook once. When she came to that picture, he admired it politely, but on the way home, he said, “You don’t really believe any of that stuff, do you?” Then he went on to lecture Dara on how evolution meant human pupils couldn’t be rectangular. She hadn’t responded. There was nothing to be gained from debating the subject.
Matt had never stopped trying to convince her that her grandparents were crazy, and Nana never stopped trying to bring her back into the fold. These days, Dara viewed herself as a demon agnostic. Maybe if she’d ever seen a demon’s pupils turn rectangular she’d feel differently.
“So I hear.” She crossed the room to plant a goodbye kiss on Nana’s head. Nana pulled her close for a hug. In spite of their disagreements, the bond between them remained strong.
Before Dara could straighten, Nana sneezed again. Her eyes went wide, and she clutched Dara’s arm. “That’s demon I smell.”
Dara stifled a groan. This was exactly what she was trying to avoid. She patted Nana’s hand. “It’s not demon scent. It’s aftershave.” Particularly delicious aftershave.
The old woman’s gaze sharpened. “When were you rubbed up against a man to where he’d leave his scent all over you?”
Heat flooded Dara’s face at the memory of the stranger’s muscled chest pressed against her breasts, his melodic voice in her ear. If she told Nana how he’d roared up out of the darkness to beguile her, Nana would insist he was a demon, sent from Hell to corrupt her. Which, in turn, would send Nana’s blood pressure soaring.
Dara hated lying to her grandmother, but she couldn’t have her upset. What would calm her down? Dara needed to account for the smell in a believable way.
“He’s a doctor,” she said, “a friend of Matt’s from college.”
Nana’s gaze raked her up and down. “He took you out to dinner in your scrubs?”
Maybe if Dara lied more, she’d be better at it. “It was casual. We’re just friends.”
“That’s a lot of smell for just friends.”
Before Nana could take another sniff, Dara retreated to the doorway. “He gave me a hug.”
Behind Nana’s bifocals, her eyes were so narrowed Dara could barely see their pale blue. “What made you decide to go out with him?”
“I was trying to convince him to volunteer.”
Nana threw up her hands. “That clinic is all you ever think about.”
“Mostly.” Dara turned the door handle. “And right now, it needs money. Let me know if you come up with any ideas.”
“Don’t ask me,” Nana said. “Ask God.”
Unfortunately, Dara couldn’t do that. She and God weren’t on speaking terms.
Chapter 4
The cavern that housed Demon Security, a.k.a. DemSec, the bureau responsible for outfitting demons for Aboveworld assignments, had changed beyond recognition since the last time Belial was there. Formerly a dank cave with piles of moldy paperwork and groaning clerks chained to army-surplus desks, it was now a well-lit grotto filled with modular workstations. Only the groaning clerks remained the same.
The transformation was due to Abaddon, the Demon of Sloth, known to his fellow demons as Bad. Short, dark and hairy, he had tiny horns protruding through the brim of his fedora and an arrow-tipped tail. He was a Hade, a member of the indigenous tribe that peopled Hell long before Satan arrived with his band of fallen angels.
It would be a mistake to underestimate him. Bad was, without question, the smartest demon in the Underworld. Few Hades ever left the mines and metal shops of their kind, but Bad was different. Six months ago, Satan had promoted him to chief technology demon. With that advance, he became one of four demons competing for the chief executive demon slot. Satan may have publicly promised Belial the CED job, but his promises weren’t worth much. If Bad made it look like his technology was responsible for the win, he could still edge Belial out.
“What have you got for me?” Belial wouldn’t have been here at all if not for a direct order from the boss.
Bad pushed the heavy frames of his glasses up on his nose and peered at the screen of a hand-held device. “We’re putting together a dossier on the target. Also, based on the mission description you sent me, we’re building an identity for a physician.”
Just the kind of tech wizardry that had Satan fawning over the geeky demon. “I don’t need that stuff.”
“With the advances in human medicine, you won’t be able to pass as a physician undetected without it.” Bad’s eyes ran over Belial, assessing. He punched something into the device. “We’ll adjust your pheromones to improve your enticement quotient and splice in some homo sapiens DNA to make you appear more human.”
Belial lifted his chin. “No need for that. I’m fine the way I am.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve been down here so long your skin is like leather and your hands are curling into claws.” One of the most annoying things about the nerdy demon was his way of making rude statements in a matter-of-fact way.
Belial thrust out his chest. “The success of my initial foray with the target suggests you’re wrong.” His first meeting with the target had actually been a bit of a letdown. He’d expected more resistance from the Enemy’s chosen one.
Bad poked a button on his device and a tiny hologram of a man and a woman standing beside a gas pump appeared. He pointed at the male figure. “The halogen lights at the gas station cast an orange glow that disguised your skin tone. And those gloves obscured your hands.”
In the hologram, a black-and-white squad car pulled up on the other side of the pumps and a chunky police officer got out. A few moments later, Belial roared off into the darkness. The look of relief on Dara’s face was impossible to miss. The demon in the hologram didn’t look nearly as close to success as Belial had felt at the time.
He clenched his fists. “Where did you get that footage?”
“The security camera at the gas station. DemSec captures the feeds from all Aboveworld cam
eras and audio recording devices.”
Belial frowned. “You mean there’s nowhere up there I can go where the boss can’t watch?”
Bad scratched his nose and thought about that. “Unless you hang out with total Luddites, probably not.”
In the old days, there was a fair amount of room to freestyle. The boss sent undercover demons to spy, but it was easy to spot them. Now it sounded like there was no getting away from oversight. On the upside, the cameras would beam back Belial’s successes, keeping his image front and center. It would give the tadpoles a chance to see how the big frog did things, and make clear why he was the best choice for CED. If he needed privacy, he’d just have to locate some technology-free zones.
“We got you a house in”—Bad consulted the little screen again—”Alexandria, Florida, out at the beach. And Travel leased a Porsche 911 for you to drive.”
Travel, like Accounting, reported to Mammon, chief financial demon and the most miserly fiend to ever walk the lava floors of Hell.
“A Porsche?” Belial’s lip curled. “I’ll need a Lamborghini Aventador.” Half the fun of taking on Aboveworld missions was playing with the toys.
“Won’t happen,” said Bad. “We pushed the budget to the limit getting you the Porsche.”
“Budget? What do you mean, ‘budget’?”
Bad squinted at him. “When was your last mission?”
“Nineteen-eighty-one.” When Bad didn’t react, Belial added, “The assassination of Pope John Paul II.”
Bad frowned. “John Paul II wasn’t assassinated.”
“Exactly.”
Bad clicked his tongue and, for the first time, grinned. “Gotcha.” Then he shrugged. “These days, the boss wants to see a return on investment.”
“This is the most important mission since Job. How am I supposed to seduce the target with a…Porsche?”
Bad shrugged. “You’ll have to take that up with travel.”
He’d better believe Belial would, too. “If I were to agree to let you adjust my appearance, when could you make that happen?”
Bad checked his device. “Thursday.”
Thursday was four days away. The mission only had a seven-week timeline. “I can’t wait that long.”
Bad shrugged. “We have a full schedule down here.”
He was clearly trying to impede Belial’s progress. Belial had come into Hell at the bottom of the food chain. In Heaven, he’d been a Virtue, one of the lowest orders of angels. It had taken centuries to get to where he was today, on the cusp of the highest job any demon had ever held. He hadn’t reached this point by letting other demons sabotage him.
“This is the most critical mission we’ve undertaken in centuries,” he said. “Move me to the front of the queue.”
“No can do.” Bad pulled up a text from Satan. It said not to give any demon preferential treatment.
“This mission wasn’t even on the table when he wrote that.”
“He would have to tell me to make an exception.”
Belial pulled out his phone, prepared to dial 666, but stopped himself. He wouldn’t earn the second-in-command position by whining to the boss. He looked at the other demon. Every demon, like every human, had a weak spot. In some, it was a desire. In others, a fear. Either way, once you figured out what that weakness was, you could manipulate it to get what you wanted. He glanced around the room, taking in the sleek workstations.
“Are you getting enough budget to do what you need to do?”
“Are you kidding?” Bad said. “This is the top-producing department in Hell. We pay back double for every cent we spend. The boss gives us whatever we want.”
Belial’s score sheet tallied damned souls in the hundreds of thousands. He doubted Bad could claim direct credit for more than a handful, but his creations—TNT, the cotton gin and laser-guided weapons, along with a host of others—destroyed lives by the millions.
If money didn’t lure him, what would? A half-serpent she-demon slithered up with a clipboard. “That new shipment of memory came in.” She handed Bad the clipboard. “Should we start installing it?”
He initialed the document. “That would be great, Lamia.” His eyes followed her coils until she was completely out of sight.
“Would you like to fornicate with her?” Belial asked.
Bad tried to cover his interest with a shrug, but Belial didn’t buy it.
“I could arrange it,” he said.
Bad stared down the hallway where Lamia had disappeared. “Nah, I’ve got this.”
If Bad wasn’t susceptible to bribery, they’d have to go with fear.
“Once I complete this mission successfully—and I will—this department will report directly to me.”
“No chance. The boss loves this department. He says it’s where the most happening stuff in Hell is happening.”
“Be that as it may, once I take over as CED, he plans to move into a more strategic role.” Belial hadn’t earned the title “Lord of Lies” by being squeamish about a little falsehood. “There are entire corners of the galaxy we haven’t explored. He wants to focus on new opportunities.”
From Bad’s expression, this was news to him—and believable news.
“It would be a shame,” Belial said, “when that happens, if I felt like this department needed new leadership. I’m going to talk to Travel. I’ll be back in thirty minutes. Be ready for the load when I return.”
Bad stared at him, open-mouthed. “There’s no way I can…”
Belial pointed at him with the phone. “Half an hour.”
Chapter 5
Dara gritted her teeth and pressed down on the accelerator of her twelve-year-old Corolla. Her windshield wipers slapped at the heavy rain without much success. The Toyota’s engine whined a complaint, but the speedometer crept up to fifty-five.
At the top of the next exit ramp, the light turned a soggy green. Her public health lecture at the nursing school up in Jacksonville had run longer than expected, but if she could make that light, and every other stoplight between here and the clinic, she could still start triage on time.
She eased the car into the exit lane. When the turn signal on the blue Honda in the next lane began to blink, she sighed and slowed to make room. A black Lamborghini cut in, missing her front bumper by inches.
She stomped on the brake pedal, her antilock brakes thumping like she had a demented mechanic trapped under the hood. She glared at the Lamborghini. Inside, the driver had his head cocked to the side. He was talking on his cell phone.
Of course. She snorted. Cell phones were an invention of the devil.
Just as that thought crossed her mind, his eyes met hers in his rearview mirror. They were so dark they reminded her of the guy at the gas station the night before. She pushed the thought away. No more fixating on the handsome stranger.
Ahead, the light turned yellow. She wouldn’t make it, which meant the waiting room at the clinic would be full of sick, wet, cranky people who’d been kept waiting.
When the Lamborghini reached the top of the ramp, it sped up, careening under the traffic signal, now red. Its tires threw a spray of dirty water on her windshield, temporarily blinding her. She stomped on the brakes again, scowling at the Lamborghini’s receding taillights through the murk.
After a long minute, the light changed again. She turned left into the residential area that surrounded the clinic. Outside, the rain tapered to a drizzle. Live oak trees lined the streets and grayish-green Spanish moss dripped water onto Cape Jasmine hedges. As they did every September, the firespike bushes sported tubular scarlet flowers.
It was exactly five o’clock when she pulled into the lot behind the white cinder-block clinic. There were three reserved slots near the back door for the volunteer docs. A Volvo that was even older than her Corolla occupied one of them. Dr. Wilson was already here. She hoped that was because he got bored and decided to come in early, not because he had forgotten, once again, when clinic hours started. One time, he’d arrived
at two o’clock and they’d had to entertain him for three hours.
She drove deeper into the lot, to her own slot, only to find it was also occupied. By a black Lamborghini. She stared at it in disbelief. Alexandria was too small to have an abundance of Lamborghinis. What business could Mr. Welcome-to-My-Universe have with the clinic?
She nosed the Corolla across the street to the overflow lot and the sky opened up again. Stacking her purse on top of her head, she dashed toward the clinic.
“Dara. Thank God you’re here.” Kelsey Saunders waited for her inside the back door. Kelsey had planned to be a ballerina until a torn meniscus destroyed her dream. As a favor to Kelsey’s mother, a longtime volunteer, Dara was teaching Kelsey to write grant applications, a skill she could take back to the dance world.
In her late twenties, she still moved with the perfect posture and fluid grace of a dancer. She took a second look at Dara and blinked. “You’re wet.”
Wet was an understatement. Dara’s suede pumps squished with every step and her polyester suit clung like wet bandages. A bolt of thunder shook the building.
“A little bit.” She fought back a sneeze and realized she’d forgotten her antihistamine that morning. “Could you please grab my scrubs and bring them to me? I don’t want to track water through the building.” She’d change clothes in the staff bathroom and be ready to go.
But Kelsey shook her head. She was so excited that she was vibrating.
“There’s someone in your office.” She rose on the balls of her feet, hands at her waist, like she might suddenly whirl in a pirouette. “A doctor. He wants to volunteer.”
So Lamborghini guy was a doctor. That made sense.
“Turn him over to Javier.” Javier Guerrero was their volunteer coordinator. Except for a tiny staff of full-timers, the clinic ran on volunteers. With the back of her hand, Dara wiped a rivulet of water from her forehead.
Kelsey stayed where she was. “He asked to talk to you.”
Of course he did. Anyone who drove a car like that would expect to deal with the director, not a lowly coordinator. She checked her watch. Five after five. There were nurses and medical students awaiting orders. If she didn’t start triage soon, not only would the patients be kept waiting but so would the docs when they arrived at six.
The Demon Always Wins: Touched by a Demon, Book 1 Page 3
