“I always pair a fourth-year med student with him,” she said. “He thinks he’s mentoring them, but they’ve been instructed to report anything that looks questionable.”
Behind her, someone cleared their throat. A very elderly someone. She closed her eyes. No, no, no, no, no. She turned around.
Dr. Wilson’s face was pink all the way to the top of his bald crown. “That woman’s heart is as sound as a bell.” He jerked his head toward the examining room. “If you don’t believe me, you can check with my mentor.”
Her face went hot with shame. “Dr. Wilson, I am so sorry. Please believe me…”
Without answering, he took off his lab jacket, hung it on a peg and retrieved his suit coat. She followed him, apologizing over and over, but he didn’t respond. At the back door, he settled his gray felt hat on his head and walked out.
Tears burned her eyes. She’d known he’d have to leave someday, but she’d never anticipated it would be under circumstances like these. Dr. Wilson had been her family physician since she was a child. He’d seen her through poison ivy when she was a middle schooler and mono when she was in college. It was he who had confirmed the joyous news that she was finally pregnant.
He was the first physician in town to volunteer at the clinic, and his standing in the community had done much to bring other doctors and nurses to her door. And he’d been Nana’s physician until the day he closed his practice. Nana would be horrified to hear how Dara had insulted a man who’d shown her nothing but kindness.
“I would be happy to help out tonight,” Dr. Lyle said, looking noble.
Had he deliberately engineered that situation to push Dr. Wilson out the door? If he were a demon, the answer was yes. Demons made mischief just for the sake of mischief. She tried to think of a reason that a human doctor might push out another doctor to secure a volunteer position but came up dry.
“Thanks for your offer.” She forced more courtesy into her tone than she was feeling. “But no. In fact, we’re currently overwhelmed with volunteers, so I don’t think you need to bother filling out an application.”
Dr. Lyle might or might not be a demon, but he was no fool. His olive complexion darkened and his jaw clenched. So he was angry, was he? Well, that was fine. She was even angrier. Then she noticed his eyes. They were different, somehow. She peered past his ridiculously long eyelashes to the center of his dark brown irises, where his pupils had sharpened into rectangles.
Like a goat’s.
Involuntarily, she stepped back. Looking down at her shaking hands, she told herself, Biology. Evolution. Humans cannot have goat eyes. She looked again into Dr. Lyle’s angelically beautiful face, now dark with anger. His pupils remained telltale rectangles.
The man was a demon.
She dug deep, and Nana’s lecturing voice arose from her childhood. If you spill anything with grains, a demon must stop and count them. There was the bowl of dry rice on the front desk that housed pens, but she didn’t want him to know that she’d recognized him as a demon. Her hand crept to her throat, to her necklace. She hated the idea of destroying Matt’s gift, but she hated the danger to the clinic even more. Each pearl was tiny, no bigger than a grain of rice. Would they be small enough to work?
There was one way to find out. She gave a sharp, unobtrusive tug. The frail thread gave way and pearls flew everywhere. She focused on Dr. Lyle.
His eyes scanned the worn carpet, seeking out the grain-like pearls, his lips moving soundlessly as he counted. It was so rapid that if she hadn’t been looking for it, she might not have noticed.
When he was able to tear his eyes away from the mess on the floor, she took his application from his hands. She bent over and flipped a switch. The cross-cut shredder used to shred confidential patient documents awoke with a growl. She fed the edge of the form into the shredder, reveling as it chopped Dr. Demon’s application into confetti. Her anger felt more than justified. It felt righteous.
“Thanks for your offer,” she said, “but we can do without your kind of help.”
Dr. Lyle’s eyes swept over her, and it was as though a flame danced across her flesh. If his goat-square pupils and compulsive counting weren’t enough to convince her of his subterranean origins, that scorching gaze would have given him away. She stood her ground, silently commanding him to shake the dust of her clinic from his Italian loafers.
He smiled, but it was a travesty of the comforting expression he’d worn before. He raised his hand in salute. “Until we meet again.”
Chapter 7
In ten thousand years, no mission had ever begun as badly as this one. On rare occasions, targets had avoided Belial. Once or twice, a subject had even taken a dislike to him. But never had anyone simply dismissed him.
His cell phone rang.
“What the fuck just happened in there?” Satan roared.
“Nothing.” Belial forced himself to sound upbeat. “Trust me, she’ll be begging me to come back in a day or two.”
“Who are you trying to shit? She threw you out.”
“A temporary setback.”
“She made you.”
“She did not make me.” Only rank amateurs got made right out of the gate.
“Then what were the pearls about?”
“She’s clumsy.” But even as Belial said the words, he knew they weren’t true. Although she’d pretended it was an accident, Dara had spilled those beads deliberately.
“We should have foreseen this.” Satan’s tone made it clear that when he said “we,” he meant “you.” “She is Lonnie and Esther Perdue’s granddaughter.”
“Why is that significant?”
“Didn’t you read her dossier?”
“Of course I read her dossier. The only thing it said about her grandparents was they adopted her following her parents’ death.”
There was a rustle of paper as Satan opened a folder. “There was a hyperlink. You must have missed it.”
“I didn’t miss anything.”
“A lot of older demons struggle adapting to technology.”
Said the demon that made his secretary copy everything onto parchment. Belial was willing to bet the observation about older demons had come from directly from Bad.
“There were no hyperlinks in the copy I received.” Was that an oversight, or intentional?
Satan grunted. “The point is, Lonnie Perdue was once the foremost demon-fighter of the twentieth century.”
“What happened?”
“Lucifer took him down.”
Lucifer’s specialty was pride. Like grandfather, like granddaughter? Belial tucked that away for future reference. “I’ll go back and review the dossier again.”
“It’s too late for that. I’m replacing you. It’ll take a couple of days, but I’ll send in Asmodeus.”
Asmodeus was the Demon of Lust as well as chief marketing demon, another contender for the CED slot. He was also bosom buddies with Abaddon. The missing hyperlinks were definitely intentional. Well, bad news, boys. Belial wasn’t about to return to Hell a failure, the laughingstock of all the fiends who had envied him his starring role as Satan’s right-hand demon. Especially not if it meant being replaced by that perv Asmo. It would effectively end his chance for promotion.
“We don’t know that she made me. And anyway, if she had the skills and knowledge to identify me, she’ll be able to identify him.”
“Maybe,” Satan said. “Maybe not. We’ll review the game tapes and figure out what clued her in. Then Bad can tweak Asmo’s identity so this doesn’t happen again.”
Belial refused to return to Hell in disgrace, the butt of jokes, with other demons sniggering as he walked by. He wasn’t about stand in the vestibule, playing bogeyman to new arrivals. Bile rose in his throat at the image.
“Asmo has a strong field record, especially with women.” At the other end of the phone, Satan was thinking aloud. “Bad can fix the problem with the identity and…”
A frail human vessel like Dara Strong could not
be allowed to best Hell’s most accomplished demon. Not even if she came of demon-fighting stock. Not even if she was the Enemy’s chosen champion. Belial would rethink his approach and come at her again. And the next time, he’d succeed.
“Asmo has only one arrow in his quiver—lust,” he said. “Of all the evils you created, lust is the most unreliable. Gluttony creates new hunger, and greed satisfied generates more greed, anger more anger. But lust fulfilled is subject to satiation. If the feeling is purely physical, with no emotional component, it quickly grows stale and looks for other temptations.
“Dara must come to believe that she cannot live without me, that life without me is not worth living. This is a woman who has been conditioned to loss since childhood. She endured bereavements that would throw most humans into an irreparable depression, but she mourned for only six months before deciding the best way to memorialize her husband was to help others. Do you truly believe that if I seduce her today and abandon her a few weeks from now, it will yield the result you’re looking for?”
Satan didn’t say anything. Encouraged, Belial went on. “We need a multipronged approach.”
“And what is your ‘multipronged approach’?” Satan’s voice was a sneer, but at least he was still listening.
“The same snares I’ve used successfully since time immemorial—wealth, fornication and corruption of the sanctuary.”
“She doesn’t care about wealth.”
“She’s an American. Of course she cares about wealth.”
“She didn’t respond to your seduction technique. As near as we can tell, she hasn’t had sex since her husband died.”
Belial looked back at the building that housed his adversary. She might try to resist, but she would fall, as all women eventually fell. “She will.”
Satan didn’t bother to argue the point. “She doesn’t even attend church.”
Overhead, the sky opened up again. Fucking Florida. Belial ran for the car, diving into the driver’s seat and slamming the door behind him as a bolt of lightning split the sky. It lit up the solid cement-block structure of the clinic like a miniature fortress. Dara Strong was a fool. Death was inescapable. Her efforts to treat disease changed nothing but the timing.
“For Dara, her clinic is her sanctuary.”
There was a moment’s silence. He was right, and Satan knew it.
“I still think we’re better off starting fresh.”
It was time to bring out the big guns. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Your deal with the Enemy specified me.”
“He won’t care about that. We’ll just slide Asmo into—”
“You’re talking about the guy who invented the phrase ‘letter of the law.’ Do you really want to lose this bet on a technicality?”
Satan let out a string of curses that threatened to melt the phone. When he finally ran out of breath, Belial said, “We need a new way to approach her.”
“Like what?”
“Something that doesn’t involve the clinic. DemSec should be able to tell us where she spends her time.”
“There was a pie chart in the dossier on that.” Papers rustled again. “The only other places she goes are home and to visit her grandmother. Are you planning to seduce her in a nursing home?”
“Of course not. She has to buy groceries. Or I can waylay her on the way to visit the old woman. Or run into her at the gas station again. There are lots of possibilities.”
“No.” As he often did when Belial won an argument, Satan dug in on a small point. “You’ll never get anywhere stalking her as she runs errands. It has to be the clinic. If you don’t think you can get in there…” He let the sentence hang in a clear threat.
Of all the idiotic… “Fine, the clinic it is.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
Through a brightly lit window, Belial watched the volunteer doctors and nurses go about their lifesaving work. Places like the clinic needed two things: volunteers and money. If those were removed, its very survival would be threatened. Dara would be forced to accept whatever assistance was offered, no matter what the source.
“I’m afraid things are about to go badly awry in Mrs. Strong’s clinic.”
Chapter 8
Nana was in bed, reading her Bible, when Dara came in and closed the door behind her. The old lady lifted her head and sniffed. Then she sneezed.
“You smell of demon again.”
Dara set her purse down on the nightstand. Any hope she was imagining things died. “I think one came into the clinic tonight.”
“Lord save us.” Nana clutched the ruby cross that hung around her neck with a frail hand. “What was he doing there?”
“He was disguised as a doctor. He wanted to volunteer.”
“You never let him?”
“Of course not.” Leaving out their initial meeting at the gas station, she described their encounter and the way Dr. Lyle’s pupils had turned rectangular. “So I broke my necklace, those seed pearls Matt gave me? And I saw him counting them.”
Nana’s hand jerked on the cross. “He’s a demon, all right. What did you do?”
“I ran his application through the shredder. He left in a huff.”
Nana chuckled. “That’s my girl.” When was the last time her grandmother had praised her like that? Not since she’d stopped attending church.
“What kind of car was he driving?” Nana asked.
Dara blinked. “What difference does that make?”
“If he has an expensive car, then he’s not just some stray demon sent to pick off whatever soft-willed soul he can find. He’s been equipped. That means he’s on a mission.”
Dara had already figured out he had a lot of resources at his command, but her breath hitched at the thought of the Lamborghini. If what Nana said was true, what did the Lamborghini tell her?
“What kind of mission?”
“Your soul.”
But it was worse than that. “He’s after my clinic.”
Nana shook her head. “Demons come after people, not places. He’s targeting you.”
The memory of the encounter at the gas station, and those perfectly sculpted lips descending toward hers, slammed into Dara’s brain. She pushed it away.
“Why would he target me?” she asked.
“Because you’re Lonnie Perdue’s granddaughter.”
“But why now? I’ve been Lonnie Perdue’s granddaughter for thirty-five years. Why would they target me now?”
“Satan works in mysterious ways,” Nana said.
“His wonders to perform?” Dara’s flippancy was a defense mechanism against the danger, but it didn’t go over well.
Nana drew herself upright against her pillows. Her skinny gray braid fell over her shoulder, landing amid the gathers of her high-necked nightgown. “Don’t blaspheme.”
“Sorry.” Dara dipped her head in contrition. “So what do I do now?”
“Stay away from him.” Nana clasped her bony hands in her lap. Even folded, they shook like she had Parkinson’s.
Dara felt bad about upsetting her, but if the demon was on a mission, he wouldn’t give up. “Everywhere I went tonight, he was right there beside me.” With his melodious voice murmuring in her ear.
“That’s why I can smell him on you so plain.” Nana sounded satisfied, as though a mystery had been cleared up.
“It made me sneeze.”
The old woman cackled. “You’re allergic to demons, just like me. Those sneezes are the Lord’s way of protecting you.”
“Here’s the bad news. It only works if I’ve skipped my antihistamine.”
“Then stop taking it.”
Dara blew her nose to demonstrate the drawback to that approach.
Nana ignored that. “Every demon has a signature scent.”
“Have you smelled this one before?” When had she gone from demon agnostic to true believer? When one invaded her clinic.
Nana sniffed and then fought down a sneeze. She shook her head. “
Judging from his scent, though, I’m guessing he’s a fine-looking man?”
Reluctantly, Dara nodded. She preferred not to think about how fine-looking the demon doctor was.
“Did he apologize for driving Dr. Wilson away?”
“No.” If anything, he’d seemed pleased to have an obstacle removed from his path.
“I didn’t think so.” Nana looked grim. “Demons can’t ask for forgiveness. They committed an unforgiveable sin when they rebelled and left Heaven. They’re doomed to live outside God’s mercy for all eternity.”
Dara took a deep breath and expelled it. “Okay, so we’ve established that he’s a demon. Now what do I do?”
“Move away.” The expression on Nana’s face said she wasn’t joking. “Get in your car tonight and drive to the other side of the country.”
“And leave you here alone? Abandon the clinic?”
“If you have to.”
Dara shook her head. “I’m not leaving you. Or the clinic. Anyway, if he’s targeting me, he’ll follow. I just have to stay one step ahead of him.”
“They’re faster than you think. That she-demon that come after your granddad had him out of his pants and flat on his back before he knew what hit him.”
“Granddad…?” Dara goggled. It was impossible to imagine her highly principled grandfather in such a situation.
“If I hadn’t come along, she would’ve had him, too.” Nana’s tone was grim.
“What did you do?”
“I whopped her up the back of the head with a broom.” A smile played at the corners of her wrinkled mouth. “Then your granddad told her to be gone. He was so ashamed of hisself. That was the one time in sixty years of marriage he ever bought me jewelry.” She lifted the ruby-encrusted cross and fingered it lovingly. “Rubies protect the wearer from demons. Remember his ring? I bought that ring for him the day after that she-demon come after him.”
Granddad’s wedding ring had included a square-cut ruby set in a bezel. Dara couldn’t remember ever seeing him without it. She stared at Nana’s ruby cross. Its grimy stones seemed to sparkle with a new light. “How do they work?”
The Demon Always Wins: Touched by a Demon, Book 1 Page 5
