Sympathy for the Devil

by Christine Pope

  Somehow I resisted the urge to run home at lunch to check and make sure everything was all right. Maybe it was Jennifer’s dire warnings about what would happen if I lifted the lid to the crock pot prematurely, or maybe it was just my habit of not really wanting to know the worst until absolutely necessary. Whatever the case, I kept myself busy all day, then skipped the gym and made a beeline for my apartment exactly at five o’clock.

  The smell that greeted me when I opened the door was beyond heavenly. I hurried into the kitchen and peered as best I could into the crock pot. Since the lid was coated with heavy condensation, I really couldn’t see much. But it smelled fine, so I had to assume everything was all right and go ahead with the rest of my dinner preparations. They weren’t terribly involved, since the bulk of the meal was of course residing in the crock pot, but I still had to set the table, run to the bathroom and wipe down the countertops, and generally make sure everything was as ready as I could make it. I’d told Luke to come over around six-thirty, since it was a weeknight, and I didn’t want to eat dinner too late.

  I’d just pulled out the Caesar salad kit I’d bought the day before and stuck some rolls into the oven to heat up when I heard the knock at the door. The whole day I’d been feeling mildly irritated with Luke for abandoning me for most of the week, but right on cue my heart began to beat a little faster once I knew he was outside on the landing. God, I was such a pushover.

  “For you,” he said, when I opened the door, and handed me a smallish pink box, the sort you get from a bakery.

  “Uh, thanks,” I replied, then pushed the lid open with one finger so I could see what forbidden fruits lay inside. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was, except that it looked luscious and dark-chocolate-y.

  “Chocolate truffle tort,” Luke said.

  “It looks fabulous,” I managed, although I couldn’t help wondering how many extra laps I was going to have to do on the treadmill to work off that particular bit of decadence.

  Luke stepped past me into the living room, then stopped and gave an appreciative sniff. “That smells wonderful.”

  “I hope so,” I said, moving on to the kitchen so I could put the cake in the refrigerator. “I’m kind of new to this.”

  “If it tastes even half as good as it smells, then I’m sure it will be fine.”

  Surprisingly, it actually did turn out to be very good. The meat was so tender that even with my less than optimal cutlery Luke was able to slice it easily, and the gravy and vegetables were equally delicious. From somewhere — I didn’t see him bring it in, not that it mattered — he produced a bottle of lovely Bordeaux, and it really brought out the seasonings in the roast. All along I’d been thinking that the meal had to be a dismal failure, since pretty much every movie I’d ever watched or book I’d ever read had the heroine flubbing royally whenever she attempted to do something similar, but I’d actually acquitted myself pretty well. Whether that was due to some heretofore untapped culinary talent or whether it was simply because Jennifer’s recipe actually was, as she claimed, foolproof, I wasn’t sure. I supposed it really didn’t matter one way or another.

  The whole time I wanted to ask Luke what he’d been up to the past few days but didn’t quite dare. After all, he did have Hell to run, even if he managed occasionally to leave things in the hands of a subordinate. I also wanted to inquire as to whether he’d known about Traci’s incident of the previous weekend, but again my cowardly side took over. I decided it was probably better not to ask.

  At least I scraped up the courage to inquire, “Did you know that Danny had one of his loser friends follow you back to your house?”

  Luke smiled, his glass of Bordeaux poised a few inches away from his lips. “Of course.”

  “And you’re not going to do anything about it?”

  “What would you suggest?”

  Good question. I lifted my shoulders, then said, “I don’t know. But it seems as if you shouldn’t just let them get away with it.”

  He gave a shrug to match my own. “They’re harmless. If it amuses them and makes them feel as if they’re in control of the situation by following me around, then let them.”

  Sometimes Luke seemed awfully laissez-faire for the Devil. “Fine,” I replied. “But Danny keeps threatening to expose you for what — who — you really are.”

  “He can try.”

  I sipped at my own Bordeaux and raised an eyebrow.

  Luke went on, “Even if by some miracle he convinced someone in authority to investigate me further, they would find nothing. I have everything an upstanding citizen of this country should have — Social Security number, clean credit record, no history of trouble with the law. They could even perform a complete physical on me and still find no anomalies…although I would prefer to avoid a full body-cavity search if possible.”

  “Very funny,” I said, although I was far from amused.

  “Don’t you think I would have done everything in my power to make absolutely sure I blended seamlessly into this world of yours? What would be the point otherwise?”

  That was the real question, wasn’t it? What, precisely, was the point? His revelation the morning after we’d slept together that he’d never been with a woman before sort of shot down my “lay of the century” notion. After all these millennia, why would he choose to be physically intimate with a mortal woman? I was no Helen of Troy; mine certainly wasn’t a face that could have launched a thousand ships or caused a man to start a war. Up until Luke, Danny was about the best I thought I could do.

  I set down my fork and gave him a direct look. “Why don’t you tell me what the point is, Luke?”

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand me. “That again.”

  “Yeah — it’ll be ‘that again’ until you actually give me a straight answer.”

  “Do you have so little confidence in yourself?” he inquired. The blue eyes met mine; unfortunately, I was the first to look away. “You’re bright, beautiful — ”

  I made a disbelieving noise.

  He continued without pausing, “I think you’re beautiful. And if I feel that way, what should it matter what the rest of the world thinks?”

  “So you’re saying the rest of the world doesn’t think I’m beautiful?”

  For the first time Luke began to appear a little impatient. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. For whatever reason, you have these preconceived notions about yourself, that you’re merely adequate, the girl others overlook — ”

  “Well, watch me show up at a party with Nina and see how many guys pay attention to me instead of her,” I snapped.

  Unperturbed, Luke replied, “A wise man once said, ‘Comparisons are odious.’ Why do you persist in comparing yourself to someone who is so obviously different from you?”

  “Well, because — because — ” I flailed about for a moment, then muttered, “because it’s just what people do.”

  “People often do stupid things,” he said. “Don’t be one of them.”

  I couldn’t really argue with that. Comparing myself to others and invariably coming up short was something I’d been doing since I could remember, starting with my over-achieving sister and ending with Nina, whose outstanding gorgeousness was enough to put almost anyone in the shade. Was it so hard to accept that Luke might have seen something in me no one else had? Normally I would have said yes, except for the fact that he was here, sitting in my apartment, and telling me how wonderful he thought I was.

  “All right,” I said at last, then smiled. “Ready for some dessert?”

  “I thought you'd never ask,” he replied. He stood and took me by the hand, pulling me against him and giving me a warm, Bordeaux-flavored kiss.

  Oh, yeah. That was exactly what I wanted. I kissed him back, pressing up against his body, and then we proceeded to the much-anticipated finale to the meal.

  And the chocolate torte wasn’t bad, either.

  Interlude

  Beelzebub had halfway expected to be called in for this int
erview. After all, he had been spending a great deal of time away from Hell; it was only natural that he should expect some sort of report of the goings-on during his absence.

  Good thing he had been so distracted, or he might have noticed that his trusted lieutenant had been AWOL a good deal of the time as well. Beelzebub had tried to limit his times in Vincent Nguyen’s head to the occasions when the young man was actually in Danny’s presence. Extended possessions could be exhausting, and there was no point hanging around in that unfortunate specimen’s cramped cranium when he was going about his daily duties or hunched for hours over a computer desk, playing some infernal online game.

  So Beelzebub felt fairly confident that he’d put in enough face time here in Hell that no one should have noticed anything too out of the ordinary. Still, he knew he had to be on his guard. Despite his current unfocused state, the Lord of Hell was no fool.

  He waited now in an audience chamber at the palace. Why it was called the palace, Beelzebub wasn’t sure. “Palace” conjured for him images of fluffy human excess, and this building — this fortress — was anything but fluffy. Constructed of slabs of black basalt, with slit-like windows through which an unceasing chill wind blew, it had never been intended for comfort. Not even Lucifer was allowed that distraction, here in the heart of his kingdom.

  A door on the far side of the room opened, and he entered. At least he had discarded the ridiculous human garments he’d been wearing topside; dark robes flowed around his tall form as he approached Beelzebub.

  Still, he looked different, and for a few seconds Beelzebub couldn’t say exactly why. Then it struck him.

  Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness, looked happy.

  Well, that wouldn’t do at all. Happiness had no place in Hell. Hell was supposed to be the very antithesis of happiness. And yet here was its overlord looking as if he were about to burst out whistling at any moment. He practically glowed as he halted a few paces away from his servant.

  There could be only one explanation.

  He must have gotten laid.

  Beelzebub clenched his jaw. It was one thing for Asmodeus to commit a series of libidinous indiscretions every time he set foot on Earth. Minor philandering could be overlooked if necessary, and Beelzebub had long since given up on changing his fellow demon’s lusty ways. But it was quite something else for proud Lucifer, the lord of the underworld, to have surrendered his honor to some whey-faced little mortal who wasn’t worth even a second’s consideration.

  Although he fought to keep his face expressionless, some flicker must have caught his master’s attention. He frowned, then asked, “Is there something you’d like to say to me, Beelzebub?”

  At once Beelzebub inclined his head. “Not at all, my lord. I merely wait to give my report.”

  He waved a hand. “Report, then.”

  “An attempted break-out in the Fourth Quadrant has been suppressed,” Beelzebub said.

  Really, when would these lost souls learn? There was no place to run. Even if the guards let them leave the heavily secured zones where the damned were kept — for their own protection more than anything else — all they could do was wander the trackless wastes of the underworld until they met up with something far more frightening than the demons who’d been set to guard them. There was no death here, of course, but dismemberment hurt now just as much as it had when the prisoners were alive. The only difference was that they’d receive no relief in death. They’d only continue to hurt until one of the guards came along and sent them back to one of the safe zones.

  His mouth compressed slightly, but all he did was nod.

  “And the guards in the Second Quadrant are requesting that the next batch be sent to either Three or Four. They say it’s getting too crowded.”

  Usually he would have asked a few questions at this point, but again all Beelzebub received for his trouble was another abstracted nod.

  He said, “That’s all. It’s been quiet.”

  Then he paused for a second, gathering his thoughts. While he had no idea exactly what sort of deal his master had worked out with the man upstairs (Beelzebub refused to even think His name), he guessed that time was of the essence. After hearing Danny’s report on how Christa had reacted to his attempts to get her away from Lucifer, Beelzebub knew she was made of tougher stuff than he had originally thought. At the very least, it seemed clear that she had a stubborn, independent streak, something he wouldn’t have expected of someone who seemed so outwardly insipid. And so he’d come up with a plot that he thought might just work.

  Assuming an expression of mock concern, he added, “If I may, my lord — ”

  His eyes, which had seemed focused on something very far away, snapped back into focus. “What, Beelzebub?”

  “You seem…preoccupied. Is it the girl?”

  If the Lord of Hell’s eyes had seemed focused before, now they seemed to narrow into a pair of dark-blue laser beams. “So you know about that?”

  “Nothing much, my lord. Your business is your own. But since some were inquiring as to your frequent absences of late, I did a bit of checking. Pardon my presumption.”

  Then he waited, hoping he had managed to impart the correct mixture of arrogance and apology to his tone. A too-meek Beelzebub would arouse his suspicions immediately.

  “I suppose you think I’ve lost my mind.”

  “As I said, my lord, your business is your own.”

  He crossed his arms and said, “You would be correct in that.”

  This remark’s delivery was so mild it could hardly be called a rebuke, but Beelzebub heard the touch of steel within.

  Careful, he thought.

  Then he replied, “Still, anyone who has known you as long as I have, my lord, would have noticed a change in you. A lightness, if I may be so bold.”

  He said nothing, but merely lifted an eyebrow.

  Since it hadn’t been an outright denial, Beelzebub felt he should press on. “But now you seem…troubled.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Only to one who knows you well, my lord.”

  His eyes went unfocused again, shuttered. Beelzebub guessed he was thinking of that silly chit. Then he murmured, “This is proving to be more difficult than I had thought.”

  “My lord?”

  “Things seem to be going well, but I keep thinking I should do more.”

  Beelzebub held his tongue. He feared any comment now might prevent his master from continuing to say what was in his thoughts.

  The Lord of Hell turned away from him and toward one of the narrow windows. His hair ruffled slightly in the wind that blew through the chamber. Still in that quiet, contemplative tone, he went on, “I’ve done everything I could think of — wined and dined her, listened to her concerns about her family, been there for her in every way. And yet she still hasn’t said it.”

  Said what? Beelzebub wondered, but he knew better than to ask. Still, his words had given him the perfect opening.

  “If I may, my lord — ”

  His master turned. “You have a suggestion?”

  “My lord, it seems that young women enjoy it when men give them gifts. I would suggest that you give her something she’s truly wanted, whether it’s some bauble, or something a bit more…substantial.”

  “Substantial?”

  Now or never. “Is there something she feels she lacks in her life? A better home…perhaps a more fulfilling career?”

  That seemed to sink in. He nodded, eyes narrowing. “She has expressed some dissatisfaction with her current position.”

  “Well, then. It would seem your way is clear, my lord.”

  Again his master was silent. Another nod, and then he turned and swept from the room without so much as a farewell.

  Not that Beelzebub minded the curtness. Courtesy was not a currency much in use in Hell. Besides, it seemed he had planted a seed in his mind, one he hoped would bear dark fruit.

  He somehow guessed that his master’s paramour would have a slightl
y different reaction from the one he expected.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Roger McKinley, the magazine’s editor, called me into his office the following morning. Now, Roger and I didn’t normally have much contact besides the usual handing-off of layouts to proof, or the occasional phone call where he needed me as backup on some fine point of grammar or syntax because a freelancer was giving us grief over something we’d changed in an article. I liked Roger, but my job just didn’t require a lot of one-on-one contact with him.

  As usual, he looked vaguely rumpled and a little unfocused. Roger was a native of Southern California, just as I was, but he had always looked sort of English to me, too pasty for Los Angeles. Someone could have cast him as Tim Roth’s younger brother with no problem.

  Feeling somewhat uneasy, I took the seat he indicated and folded my hands in my lap. I hoped I hadn’t committed some heinous copy-editing faux pas, but even if I had, Jacqui was technically my supervisor, and it would have been her place to give me a dressing-down.

  “Well, Christa,” Roger said. His pale brown eyes, which always reminded me of weak tea, were focused somewhere above my right shoulder. I resisted the urge to twist around in my seat to see what he was actually looking at. “It appears Brian has decided to leave us.”

  “Really?” I asked, wishing I didn’t sound quite so much like a complete idiot. The news surprised me, though; I knew Brian had been less than thrilled to be passed over for the position Roger now held, but I hadn’t thought he was upset enough to actually leave the magazine.