by Mark Henry
In the end, the woman simply pulled it out with her nails and flicked it onto her desk like a bug.
“Hardcore,” Luce mumbled, but Grace merely stared back at her, the same sour expression never leaving her face.
“You’re the one who better be hardcore. I don’t know how they painted this job, but Wade tears through partners like a kid with presents on Christmas morning.”
“What happened to the last one?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“Nope.”
“Typical. It’s just like this organization to keep staff in the dark about pertinent information. Though,” Grace rolled her eyes, “if you’d known that you were replacing a dead woman, you’d probably have asked more questions.”
“Dead?”
“Well, deadish. Wade will probably give you the specifics if you ask him directly, but from what I heard, their mark’s infection was far more progressed than they were aware of and the demon jumped into Rachel and committed suicide.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why go through the trouble of losing a body.”
Grace sneered. “Wow, they didn’t pick wrong with you. So cold. Yeah. There’s definitely something weird about it. For the demon to gestate to such a powerful state only to lose its grip on our world.” She leaned in closer. “Some people around here say that the demons have it out for Wade in particular.”
“Then why not jump into him?”
“Demons are more about the misery than the happy ending. Probably figure Wade will torture himself for years over that cock-up.”
Chapter Seven
“The subject’s name was Grant DeFevre,” Quince said, slapping a photograph of a heavy-lidded lothario with a tight goatee and no shirt. “Twenty-six-year-old accounting trainee at Toilette & Douche. Live-in girlfriend of six months. No prior demonic infestations and no past history of religious complicity whatsoever. Seemingly a do-gooder pre-transplant, by his girlfriend’s report. Stayed home. Big reader. Very loyal and supportive.”
Sister Mary-Agnes yawned, leaning back in her chair and throwing her arm casually across the back of another. “This is a liver, isn’t it? I bet that liver was as clean as a Japanese day spa. Am I right?”
“Subject did not present with alcohol in his system and, yes, his liver was clear and on the transplant roster.”
“I knew it.” The nun unscrewed the cap of her flask and took a swig. “If only he’d been harder on his body, might have stood a chance.”
“Who’s the source?” Wade asked.
Quince flipped the paper over. “An employee of the nightclub, it doesn’t specify.” They all stared at her for a moment before Quince delved back into the story, slapping her metal pointer against a photo of the scene.
“Mr. DeFevre was found stone-cold dead in the dressing room of the Tiger Lounge, a strip club catering to…” Quince curled up her nose in disgust. “Mommy Parties.”
“Excuse me?” Luce coughed. “What kind of party?”
“Mommy Parties. Empty nesters gather to watch male strippers in diapers throw tantrums.”
“Is there a cover charge?” Luce giggled.
“Hold on.” Wade’s mouth was agog. “That’s a big enough thing to have an actual club devoted to it?”
“Apparently. DeFevre’s specialty was an act known only as the Peepee Teepee.”
Sister Mary-Agnes scrunched up her nose. “Let’s not discuss that.”
“Essentially,” Quince continued as though the old lush hadn’t said a word, “an audience member helps to alleviate a certain situation—that being the occasional urination of a boy child—by fitting a device, a paper teepee, as it were, over DeFevre’s penis.”
“Is this really necessary?” Wade winced.
Luce tightened her lips to hold back the laughter. She liked Quince and could sense a compatriot when she saw one. Her delivery had nothing to do with information and everything to do with discomfort.
“The surprise is,” Quince went on, tone rising to a crescendo. “The stripper doesn’t pee during the procedure, but rather is doused by a whole bucket of—”
“Enough!” Sister Mary-Agnes slapped her palm on the table. “Get on with the vital information. If I have to tell you again.”
“I don’t even want to know about that kind of crap,” Wade said, throwing his hands up to his face.
“C’mon tough guy, surely you’d dealt with perverted demons before,” Luce said, smirking. “Hell, I have and that’s only from speed dating!”
Her new coworkers glared at her but not with the kind of venom that Wade did.
“Are you people nuts? You’re so serious!” she shouted, laughter bubbling up inside her. “This stuff is fantastic! Peepee Teepee! Jesus! That’s hilarious.”
Wade covered a heaving retch with his hand, oddly affected by the notion. Luce wondered if he had some aversion to scatological references. Seemed a weird trigger for such a manly guy.
“I’ll have you take this with the seriousness and respect a death of this nature requires, newbie,” Sister Mary-Agnes warned, swizzling her cocktail even more violently than before. “Mr. DeFevre was being used for nefarious purposes.”
Luce bit her lip and nodded somberly. But then a notion occurred to her. “Was there definitive proof that DeFevre wasn’t involved with the Mommy Parties before the possession? Maybe he contracted the demon there.”
“Good call, Montgomery,” Quince smiled broadly down at her and slipped a snide glance in the sister’s direction. “Luce is quite correct. Despite our subject’s seemingly pristine character, a friend reported that he had been working at the Lounge for at least six months.”
Wade grumbled. “Impossible for a demon to keep up the nice-nice at home for that long, he’d have eaten that girlfriend long before then.”
“With some fava beans and a nice—”
“Stop,” Wade directed. “That stopped being funny a long time ago.”
“Chianti is always funny,” she insisted, finishing. “Also, a great drag-queen name.”
“The transplants occurred within the correct time frame at”— Quince flipped through the chart, running her fingertips rapidly over the pages— “at Portland Memorial Hospital. Eyes. Heart. Liver. Kidneys. We recovered the kidneys and the heart, all rejected post-transplant. But the eyes and the liver are still out there. Good call on the cirrhosis burner, ma’am.”
“I knew it.” Sister Mary-Agnes tipped the flask into the air.
“Is that all we have?” Wade asked.
“That’s it. We have the names and addresses of the two recipients, but as Luce pointed out, we have a suspected infection port to confirm and possibly close down.” Quince stood and slapped the file down in front of Wade. “It’s all yours. Doesn’t seem to be the most aggressive of entities. Its purpose fit perfectly with DeFevre’s own degradation. It didn’t have to think too much to keep up with the evil.”
“Or it had just gotten started,” Luce mumbled.
Beside her, Wade nodded thoughtfully thumbing through the paperwork and then stood. “Looks like we’re road-tripping to Portland. I’ll pick you up tonight.”
“Can’t I drive?”
“I guess. You pick me up, then.”
“I don’t have a car.”
Wade sighed, glowering. “Please tell me there’ll be more of this scintillating conversation on the road.”
“I guarantee it.”
“Wait a minute,” Quince said, shaking her head. “You’re leaving tonight?”
Wade shrugged. “Yeah, why?”
“Traffic is going to be a mess. Some motorcade is closing down I-5 after ten o’clock.”
“Bishop Bugenhagen,” Sister Mary-Agnes growled and then spat on the floor as though trying to clear the filth of the words from her mouth. “In town to rake some poor priest over the coals no doubt, or close down a children’s hospital. Insufferable, lazy-eyed bastard.”
“So you’re close?”
The nun snarled.
Luce figured that meant no, but the looks on Quince’s and Wade’s faces told her not to press the issue.
“We’ll figure it out,” Wade said. “There are plenty of side roads.”
…
Luce dragged her suitcase down the stairs, collapsed the handle, and tossed it haphazardly into the car. Her attention went back to the apartment and Hitch waving forlornly from the window—as if he stayed behind anywhere. She had no doubt he’d pop up before they arrived. Luce rolled her eyes and ducked into the car.
Inside, Wade stared back at her, mouth agog, his muscular arms bare and draped over her suitcase. “I could’ve sustained a travel-related injury!”
“You’re funny,” she said and pulled the bag off his lap. “Onward, Jeeves!”
Wade sighed and shook his head. He opened his door and hauled her suitcase back out, stowing it in the trunk before flopping back onto the seat.
Luce nudged his ribs. “You’re gonna fall in love with me before our first splenectomy.”
He snorted uncontrollably before reeling it back in. He wasn’t used to laughing, let alone so hard he couldn’t control his nasal passages. She’d caught him off guard. Something he was slowly learning would be a common occurrence. First her brash language, then her fighting prowess, and now the humor.
“Oh, you think so?” Wade asked, unable to resist the flirting.
“It’s a rom-com staple.”
“Spleens?”
“No, stupid. New mysterious, cute, and quirky girl and hot older man who just happens to be her superior thrust together by circumstances beyond either’s control. It’s a no-brainer.”
Wade slapped his palm against the steering wheel, pained from all the laughter, but then startled. “Wait. Older?”
Luce shrugged, shook her head as though it was impossible to tell that he was in his twenties.
“How old do you think I am?”
Luce squinted, peering at the edges of his eyes, ice blue to pitch-black coronas, only the slightest crenellation at the edges, but his forehead was smooth. “Thirty-eight,” she said, curtly, as though confident she’d hit the nail on the head.
“Ah, I see.” Wade cranked the car. “You have the age-assessment skills of a twelve-year-old. Do you still eat Cap’n Crunch?”
“Only crumbled on my ice cream.” Luce watched Hitch’s shape sink into shadow as the apartment faded in the side mirror.
“No? Not really?”
Luce shifted in the seat so she was facing him, fiddling with the knob on the gearshift. “Really. So good, you should try it.”
Wade tipped his head, noticing her hand, wincing and feeling the beginnings of an erection blossom in his jeans. “You think this constitutes mysterious?”
“I have my moments. Are you not going to address that I called you hot?” Luce lowered her head and smirked, loving every moment of torture. The way she figured it, ribbing was the first step to trust. If they could develop a natural and healthy banter based in brutal critique, they were one step closer to intimacy.
But not that kind.
Luce was determined to keep this relationship strictly in the friend category. She’d use Hitch as her standard, because clearly, that was never going to be sexual.
Inappropriate, yes. Sexual, no.
Wade volleyed. “I’m pretty sure that’s just a universal truth.”
Luce tried to suppress a chuckle and failed. “Self-esteem is important.”
A smile settled on his lips, crooked and sudden as a bruise. It wasn’t often that a person surprised him—Wade had long since dulled to shock—but this woman, with her mix of quirk, brash extroversion, and just enough crazy to get his attention and keep it even after she’d traveled past his sightline, did just that.
They fell into silence as a familiar mist on the windshield fractured their view into thin trickles. Luce turned her head to watch Seattle blur by in the drizzle. Wade gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and tried not to think of all the things he liked about this girl. Also, Luce’s delicate fingers stroking the Porsche’s gearshift. He had to avoid that thought at all costs.
They drove for twenty minutes like that, listening to the rain shirring under the wheels. Luce’s body going slack with relaxation, curving away from him as she drifted into a nap, her hands slipping between her knees to fend off a chill.
Wade rested his elbow on the doorframe and cradled his forehead, finding an uneasy comfort. It wasn’t just that he liked Luce. There was something else. A feeling that she was more fragile than most—her ability to kick ass not withstanding. And he didn’t mean that, really. He meant emotionally. It sparked a need in him that didn’t sit right.
He felt protective.
The demons would be able to smell it on him. Astaroth would for certain.
Wade glanced at the sleeping woman beside him and frowned. He couldn’t bear to see her possessed the way Rachel had been. Destroyed. All because he hadn’t seen clear to control the situation.
He wouldn’t let that happen again.
Wade had to be strong for her. Directive.
“So what’s your story?”
The words shook him from his pondering. “Huh?”
Luce twisted and stretched her arms and legs, shaking off her brief rest. “You’ve got quite the reputation around your office. None of it great,” she said through a yawn.
“Depends on the perspective. I guess.”
“You’re apparently like bad cholesterol. Deadly.”
Wade cocked his head. She was right, of course. “I was expecting you to say something else.”
“What?”
“Lady-killer?”
“I heard that, too. The phrasing was a little harsher. It’s like you’ve left a trail of burned vagina in your wake.”
Wade cried out in laughter. “I can’t deny it.”
“Gross. You could at least try to be decent.”
He shook his head. “That’d be. Counterproductive. I’m working on getting you to not think of me that way.”
“How about you worry about yourself? I can manage to avoid impaling myself on your dick as long as it’s not bulging and hanging out every time I turn around. You get me?”
Wade nodded.
“Plus, now I have access to scalpels. So…”
“Your threats have been noted. But in my defense, those women will turn a dust devil into an F5 tornado with their exaggeration. Mostly, I’m not so bad. I don’t date very often.”
“Good. What happened to your last partner? I’m guessing she bit it.”
Wade winced. “Yeah.”
He told her about Rachel and the possession and the forced suicide. Luce studied him as he talked, listened to the depth of emotion hiding beneath his gruff exterior. The way his voice beveled when he spoke his partner’s name. The anger that swelled when he talked about the demons.
He was a good man. She hadn’t met many.
“That’s, well, that sucks. Here’s a promise and something you need to know, I’m not running into anything without knowing you’re there to back me up and I hope that goes for the reverse. I’m not about to get killed.”
Wade nodded, absorbing her words. “I hope that’s true.”
He pulled the car off the highway and into a rest-stop parking lot.
“Are you looking to get a BJ in the bushes or just have to pee?” she asked like she’d made the most normal suggestion in the world, asked whether he liked his coffee black or with cream or if he’d ever been to Venezuela.
“Have you ever been delicate in your life?” he snapped, gawping at her, searching her beautiful face for just a hint of her.
Luce tried to remember a time. “Do you mean physically?”
“No,” Wade said, sighing. “Forget it, I don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Jesus! Stop. I know you’re doing this on purpose. Talking in circles. You know it irritates me, just stop. Please.”
Luce sat silently. Wade’s lip quivered. His fingers d
rummed on his thighs. Nervous, Luce thought. There wasn’t just too much baggage in the trunk it was surrounding them in the front seat, there was barely room for them. She was about to say something when…
Wade shifted in his seat and, leaning across the center console, slipped his hand behind her neck and pulled her gently toward him, more gently than she’d have credited him. His lips found hers and she relaxed into a kiss that was at once tentative and passionate. Light at first, their mouths brushing against the other’s, catching, parting, breathing each other in and then harder, progressing to a deeper need, tongues barely touching and then struggling to taste, to devour. There was a weight to it that spoke to loneliness, his and hers, a distant memory of a desire that had been walled inside. Wade’s hands drifted over her, his fingers coiling her hair as they kissed, brushing her neck, sluicing over the hollow of her throat.
He broke away a bit and studied the area, Luce left gasping for more of the man, wanting to touch him, to thread her fingers through his hair, to pull his shirt off and so much more, but it seemed she’d lost her chance.
Wade retracted to the driver’s seat and exhaled, his hands found the steering wheel, ground it. He stared at the front window.
“I thought maybe that would clear out my system, wipe these thoughts I’ve been having about you out of my mind so we could just work. But I think I made a mistake.”
Luce thought very carefully about her response. She knew pursuing Wade wouldn’t be a good career move. They weren’t in this alone. After all, there was a very suspicious nun monitoring them and demons stuffed into normal everyday people’s bodies seemingly around every corner.
Not to mention her own personal demon, in the form of Hitch, and, of course, her quirks that she’d been hiding.
“Mistake because kissing me didn’t quell your curiosity, or because it verified that you’re totally sprung?”
“See!” Wade said. “Why do you have to say things like that? It’s too aggressive; it makes me feel, I don’t know, uncomfortable.”
Luce straightened, suddenly irritated herself. “Listen, I don’t think you know what that means. Your discomfort isn’t about how I talk to you. I see you smile when I tease. I know you’re having fun with that.”
