Sympathy for the Devil

by Christine Pope

  “No,” she said at last. “I don’t need you to come tearing out here. I’ve made a date with a nice bottle of Jose Cuervo Reserve, and I think I’ll call in sick tomorrow.”

  “Good plan,” I replied, trying to keep the relief out of my voice. “Go shopping and buy yourself something completely frivolous.”

  “I plan on it,” she said. “I saw this amazing pair of Christian Laboutin shoes over at a shop on Montana. They’re fierce, and they will be mine.”

  “Nothing like a little retail therapy,” I agreed. “I’d call in and go shopping with you, but we’re shipping the magazine starting tomorrow, and the only excuse for not coming in is death. Or maybe Ebola.”

  Nina laughed. “That’s all right. I’m just glad I was able to get hold of you.” She paused, then said, “Thanks, Christa.”

  “I’m here if you need to talk more,” I replied. “I’ll probably be up until eleven if you need me.”

  “Thanks,” she said again. “But I plan to get so drunk that I won’t be able to find my phone, let alone navigate my contacts list. ’Night.”

  I heard the click of the phone hanging up. After a second, I pushed the button to send my cell back to its home screen and then set it back down on the coffee table.

  My soup had gone cold, but I didn’t feel like getting up to reheat it. Instead I finished the last few spoonfuls, thinking of Luke, thinking about Nina and all the crazy things people did so they wouldn’t have to be alone.

  Was falling for the Devil all that much different?

  I overslept the next morning, and hurried into work in a foul mood. My disposition didn’t improve any when I realized that the last article I’d been waiting on still hadn’t been sent to me. Goddamn freelancers. You’d think they’d be a little more professional when their livelihood depended on turning in quality work on time. Most of them were, really, but we had a couple of bad apples we nevertheless kept hiring because they were good enough that we had to overlook their chronic lateness.

  After I’d cleared off my desk, I started roaming around the Internet, visiting the Fug Girls site, checking to see if a couple of items I’d spotted on the Victoria’s Secret website had been put on sale yet. It had been a few days since I’d logged into my blog, so I figured adding another private entry might be a good way to kill some time until the next piece of work came along. That was the problem with getting a magazine out — it was definitely a case of hurry up and wait. The second the freelancer’s article came in, I’d have to massage it and then rush it over to the art department so it could get laid out, but until then I didn’t have much to do.

  But after I’d logged in, I found myself staring at the blank field where I’d planned to write about the breakup with Danny, and maybe Gina’s breakup, and realized I didn’t feel like writing about that at all. I didn’t want to write about relationships ending, not with things just beginning with Luke, all shiny and fresh and new.

  Because I was restless, and because I couldn’t think of anything better to do, I started noodling with the layout of my blog. I chose another theme, then changed the background color and the font. That didn’t take me very long, though, so I started roaming through the other menus to look at all the options I hadn’t really investigated previously. Usually I’m a cut-to-the-chase sort of person when it comes to that sort of thing — I just want to get the account set up as quickly as possible so I can get things moving. But since I was trying to waste time anyway, I went into the account settings and clicked on the “manage logins” option. I didn’t even know what it really was for.

  Basically, it showed a list of my previous logins, along with the IP address and the time stamp. It took me a minute to figure things out, because it was set up for Greenwich Mean Time, not local time. However, I hadn’t accessed my blog since Monday night, and the list of logins showed that, according to the account manager at the site, I’d logged in just the day before. What the hell?

  I was very careful with my passwords. I didn’t give them out to anybody, and I had a group of about six I rotated amongst my various online accounts. And because I used the blog as an online diary, I’d come up with something even more complex to guard that particular site. I hadn’t logged in to my account, though — I’d been out to lunch the last time the blog site thought I had entered my password.

  Out to lunch —

  The realization hit me, and I swore. Goddamn Victor sneaking around while Danny kept me busy at the restaurant. No wonder Danny had a minor freak attack when I tried to leave early. It hadn’t been the realization that I was really dumping him — it was the thought that I might come back and catch Victor doing…well, I didn’t know exactly what he’d been doing, but it sure as hell wasn’t installing an antivirus program.

  Fuming, I got up from my chair and stalked down the hall to the art department. Jesus was actually pretty savvy on the technical stuff. If the magazine had had only Macs to maintain, we probably could have dispensed with IT Solutions’ services altogether. I wanted to see if he had any ideas about how Victor could have gotten my password when I knew I sure as hell hadn’t written it down anywhere.

  Jesus was doing his own ’net surfing when I peered inside his office. He started a bit when I stuck my head in the door, and then minimized the window for his browser so I couldn’t see what he’d been doing.

  “Really, I don’t care,” I said. “I’m waiting on Goldsmith just like everyone else.”

  He relaxed a little, then raised an eyebrow. “So what’s up?”

  “I have a technical question to ask you about computers.”

  Fingering his goatee, he said, “Okay — but it’d better be about a Mac, or I can’t help you.”

  “It is,” I replied. I stepped all the way into his office and then asked, “If you needed to get someone’s password for logging into an online account, how would you do it?”

  “Ask them for it?”

  “Very funny.”

  He swiveled his office chair back and forth in a thoughtful way. “If you’re not a hacker, probably the easiest thing to do is put a key logger on your computer.”

  I crossed my arms and frowned. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  He stopped the annoying movement of his chair long enough to answer, “A key logger is a little device about yay big.” He held up his thumb and forefinger about an inch and a half apart. “Install one of those suckers on the connection between your keyboard and the computer, and it keeps a log of everything. Then all you have to do is run a program that accesses the keystroke log and it’ll pull up everything — passwords, commands, all the text you’ve typed, that sort of thing.” Still with that raised eyebrow, he asked, “What’s the matter? You think someone’s been messing with your computer?”

  “No,” I said hastily. “It’s just something a friend and I were talking about last night.”

  “Uh-huh?” Jesus sounded skeptical, but luckily for me he didn’t press the point. He just swiveled the office chair back around to face his monitor and brought the browser window back up. “Sounds like you girls need to get out more.”

  “Very funny,” I said, but I’d heard enough. Frowning, I walked back into my office and started going back to every online site I’d ever used where I needed a password and began changing all of them. Maybe that was locking the barn door after the horse had been stolen, but it made me feel the tiniest bit better. And I didn’t care if my Mac blew up — I was damned if I was going to let anyone from IT Solutions touch my computer again.

  Of course, that didn’t solve the teensy little problem of Danny and Victor reading my entire private blog…or the fact that now they knew all about me and Luke.

  What they’d do with that information, I shuddered to think.

  Interlude

  “He’s the Devil?” Danny repeated, looking rather like someone who had just swallowed a large dose of battery acid.

  Beelzebub affected a negligent shrug. “That’s what her blog said.”

  “But
— ” The young man hunched over and twined his fingers in his overlong hair. “How is that possible?”

  “Maybe she’s just nuts,” Asmodeus put in.

  Danny lifted his fingers from his hair, which remained standing up in a pair of tufts closely resembling horns. Ironic, Beelzebub thought.

  “No,” Danny said at once. “She’s not crazy. I mean, she can be moody and all, just like most girls, but I don’t think she’d say something like that unless she really meant it.”

  “So you think she’s telling the truth?” The disbelief in Asmodeus’ voice was clear. Nicely done.

  Beelzebub tried not to look his compatriot in the face, because otherwise he’d run the risk of letting his own expression of disinterested concern turn into one of pure amusement. Danny wasn’t watching either one of them, but rather a blotchy stain in the center of the carpet. Still, one wrong step here, and the whole scheme could fall apart.

  “Yeah, I think she is.”

  “Do you believe in the Devil?” Beelzebub inquired. Good thing Victor’s delivery was fairly deadpan most of the time; it was a lot easier to ask that question when he could keep his tone flat and just barely accusatory.

  Danny’s response was immediate. “Yeah. Of course I do.”

  “For real?” Asmodeus put in, still playing the role of skeptic.

  “Yeah, for real.” Scowling, Danny got up from the couch and stalked into the kitchen, where he pulled the last bottle of beer out of the fridge.

  Interesting. None of the trio were big drinkers, although Zach tended to consume more than the other two. And of course Asmodeus had taken advantage of the fact. Danny was actually lucky even that one bottle of Anchor Steam had escaped unscathed.

  “So what are you going to do about it?” Beelzebub asked, after Danny had taken a few bracing swallows of beer. Excellent. If he got himself somewhat tipsy, he would be in a far more suggestible state.

  “Do?” Several hearty mouthfuls of Anchor Steam followed the first ones. “Um, this guy is the Devil, Vince. What exactly am I supposed to do about it? And I already didn’t have a chance, based on what you told me about his house and his cars. So on top of all that, he’s the Devil? I’m thinking the odds aren’t exactly in my favor.”

  Beelzebub exchanged a quick glance with Asmodeus. Mortals were horribly weak, of course, but he’d expected this Danny to put up a bit more of a fight over his Lady Fair. If they couldn’t get the young human to stir things up, they’d have to resort to far riskier methods, ones that would increase their chances of getting caught.

  To his surprise, he heard Asmodeus say, “Well, uh, what about her immortal soul and stuff?”

  That got him, Beelzebub could tell. Danny’s head went up, and he paused in the middle of lifting the beer bottle to his lips. “Her what?”

  “Her soul. You obviously believe in that, too — I mean, you still go to church every Sunday with your parents. What do you think your priest will say if you go to confession and tell him you let your girlfriend get stolen by the Devil?”

  Nice, very nice. Beelzebub reflected that perhaps he had been too hard on Asmodeus previously — his fellow demon was showing a nice streak of low cunning that certainly hadn’t been in evidence for the last few centuries.

  A tortured crease appeared in Danny’s brow. “I — well, probably he wouldn’t be too happy with me.”

  “So do something about it,” Beelzebub put in. “Go talk to her.”

  “What, now?”

  By Tartarus, this young mortal was dense. “You have to wait for the right time. She saw me leaving her office today and wasn’t too happy about it. I think a cooling-off period is in order. In fact, I think you should just let things lie for a few days. Let her think you didn’t find anything. Then go get her when her defenses are down. You’ll have a better chance of success that way.”

  Danny was still frowning, but he did manage a nod. “Yeah, that could work — ”

  “Sounds like a great plan,” Asmodeus added.

  Without replying at first, Danny upended his beer and drained the last of it. Then he looked down at the empty bottle with sorrowful eyes. “That was the last one.”

  “Maybe you should go get some more,” Beelzebub suggested. It would be helpful to have the young man out of the house for a bit so he and Asmodeus could talk in private.

  “Are you sure I should drive?”

  “After just one beer?” Asmodeus mocked. “Give me a break.”

  Danny squared his shoulders. “You’re right. It’s only a couple of blocks anyway.”

  A sane person would have just walked, but Beelzebub had long ago come to the conclusion that the inhabitants of this so-called “City of Angels” were all crazy — they’d jump into a car to go a distance that should only have taken them a few minutes by foot. But he also knew that suggesting such a thing to Danny would look suspiciously out of character, since Victor Nguyen was the type who’d drive his car to the bathroom if he could get it to fit down the hallway.

  “You want anything?” Danny asked as he fished his car keys out of his pocket.

  “I’m good,” Beelzebub said at once. Now, there’s a lie.

  “Me, too,” Asmodeus added.

  Danny nodded and headed out the front door after depositing his empty beer bottle on the coffee table. Both demons waited until they heard the sound of a car starting up in the driveway. After a few more seconds, Beelzebub let out a breath.

  “That could have gone badly,” he said.

  “But it didn’t.”

  “I can’t believe he’s willing to throw in his lot with these pathetic mortals. I’d kill myself within a day.”

  “Yes. Although — ” And Asmodeus hesitated.

  Beelzebub was in no mood for his partner’s whimsical shifts in subject. “Although what?”

  “There are certain distractions.”

  Not that again. “Nothing is enough to distract me from the foolishness of these people.”

  Asmodeus glanced away. “I agree that he seems to be wasting his time with this girl. She’s certainly nothing to write home about. If he had any taste, he’d be going after her friend Nina.”

  “He shouldn’t be ‘going after’ anyone at all,” Beelzebub gritted. “His job is to run Hell, not to chase tail. Especially if that piece of tail is his means of getting back to Heaven.”

  “Agreed. Only — ”

  A low growl escaped from between Beelzebub’s teeth. Good thing Danny wasn’t around to hear it; nothing of this earth was capable of emitting such a sound.

  But Asmodeus, having heard that sort of thing countless times before, appeared unfazed. In fact, he looked downright wistful. “I wouldn’t mind a chance at Nina’s tail.”

  Focus, Beelzebub told himself. Focus. If you rip Asmodeus’ head off right now, someone will be bound to notice.

  For of course doing such a thing would only damage the mortal body Asmodeus now inhabited. Danny’s grasp of the situation was shaky enough. The last thing he needed to deal with was a beheaded roommate awaiting him at the end of his beer run. That would most certainly distract him from his crusade to save Christa Simms from the Devil.

  No, satisfying as it would be to show Asmodeus exactly what he, Beelzebub, thought of the other demon’s preoccupation with human women, he would have to control himself. He clenched his puny mortal fists and reminded himself of what was at stake here. It would all be worth it in the end. The possession of this paltry body, Asmodeus’ puerile obsessions — all of it could be brushed aside, as long as the status quo was preserved and Lucifer remained where he was meant to be.

  In Hell.

  Chapter Ten

  All my worry seemed to be for nothing, since I didn’t hear anything else from Danny, and no screaming headlines appeared in any of the tabloids proclaiming that the Devil walked the earth (at least, no more so than usual). Maybe Danny had decided I was just kidding, although why anyone would make that sort of joke, especially in a private blog no one else was supp
osed to see, I had no idea. Or maybe (and this seemed more likely) he was huddled with the rest of the Gunmen, trying to figure out the best way to take down the Prince of Darkness.

  Since Luke hadn’t said anything about getting together before we saw each other on Saturday night, I pried Nina out of the house, and the two of us went out to the movies on Friday. I didn’t want to eat a big meal, as I still felt a bit puffy, and I had to fit into the red dress the following night. So I used the excuse of having to stay at the office just late enough that we wouldn’t have time for dinner before the movie. I wasn’t sure whether Nina bought it or not, but she didn’t argue. At least I was able to feel virtuous about eating a Weight Watchers frozen meal instead of whatever calorie-fest we might otherwise have indulged in.

  We met in Westwood, since it was a halfway point between my office and her place in Brentwood. It was also completely mobbed, but going to school there for four years had taught me the goat paths and less popular parking garages, and I was able to meet Nina in front of the theater with some time to spare.

  She stood there, arms crossed as she scowled up at the marquee. Obviously, her mood hadn’t improved much. “Going to the movies this time of year sucks,” she said. “There’s nothing good out.”

  “Hi, Nina, nice to see you, too,” I replied.

  That made her stop and look at me. Then she shook her head and gave a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, I’m a real party. Sorry — I’m still cranky.”

  “Well, you have every right to be.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. In a weird way, it’s sort of a relief. She was getting awfully demanding there at the end. I think I’m going to switch back to guys. They’re not so high-maintenance.”

  For which the entire straight male population of Los Angeles thanks you, I thought. But I only said, “Well, whatever works.”