The Devil's Wife (8 page)

      I emerged from the bathroom using the wall to keep me upright and headed out to the living room. I stopped at the doorway, watching Lucifer carefully for any sign that he was awake. He was frowning slightly, and I was surprised to watch a tear roll down his nose, glinting in the dawn light from the kitchen window.

      I didn't know the Devil could cry, I thought with pity and wonder, staring at the tear. I stood in the doorway for a while, observing Lucifer slowly relax into sleep. His face softened, though the frown never really left it.

      When I was sure Lucifer was asleep, I crept past him, heading for the kitchen. He didn't stir as I put the kettle on, searching the cupboards for a mug and the coffee—I was dying for caffeine.

      The kettle boiled before I could find the coffee, though I'd found the tea and sugar in the cupboards. I groaned; I really needed a coffee. Stretching to look in the cupboards— obviously built for the seven-foot-tall Demon—hurt my stomach, and I still hadn't found the goddamn coffee!

      I debated with myself the wisdom of waking Lucifer up to ask where the coffee was. Did I really want to awaken the Devil, simply for my caffeine fix?

      Resigning myself to the tea, I poured the water into the mug and headed to the fridge for the milk. I was happy to see that he had some of the full-fat stuff. What kind of a man drinks that low-fat, watered down crap, anyway? I thought as I poured it into the tea. I neglected the sugar and sat down at the dining table to think.

      So the Devil is real, I thought, sipping the tea. What am I going to do? And what am I going to do about my resemblance to his lost wife? I mean, I can't do anything, but what can I change? People latch onto the images of their lost loved ones—seeing them everywhere, hearing their voice— but is that true of Demons? Even one as obviously powerful as Lucifer? Did God even give him such emotions?

      I glanced over at the Devil's sleeping form. I could only see his red face and his shockingly blond hair from where I sat. His eyes were closed, so their rich blue color wasn't observing me from across the room. I shivered, turning to look at the bookshelf behind me.

      Some of the books were cookbooks, worn and obviously well-used, the spines stained with food. Others were paperback fiction that had their spines bent in so many places that the bindings were perfectly curved. They were obviously well-read and loved by Lucifer or their previous owners. None of the books were the kind that I expected from Lucifer; some titles sounded like the stories were fantasy, some looked to be sci-fi, and still others looked like they belonged in the crime-fiction section of a bookstore. I'd read a couple of the well-worn ones, and found myself wondering if he'd let me borrow some of the ones I hadn't read yet.

      I climbed from my seat and staggered over to the bookcase, looking closely at the books as I used the shelves to hold myself upright, the muscles in my stomach twinging. I could easily reach the top shelf—the bookcase was only five feet high—and I stepped back to look at the lower shelves.

      On the bottom shelf was a collection of mint-condition novels, including an entire set of Harry Potter books, their pages unruffled and their spines completely unbent, with another such set of the Chronicles of Narnia books and—my word!—what looked like untouched editions of the Lord of the Rings. I reached down to take the first Harry Potter book off the shelf—I had a feeling that the shelf they were on housed books of the first edition variety—and felt the pain in my stomach spike agonizingly.

      "Fuck!" I groaned, holding the wound. I kneeled with one hand on the floor, the other on my stomach, breathing through my teeth.

      The next thing I knew, two bare red feet with claws appeared beside me, and Lucifer kneeled next to me, the tips of his wings disappearing as he laid a hand on my shoulder.

      "I think I tore the stitches again," I said through clenched teeth. It felt like my hand was holding my guts in, the pain was so intense.

      Lucifer sighed, gently making me lean back on my heels. When I was free to do so, I pressed both hands to the stitches, and he knocked them away.

      "Pressing on it could pull the stitches out in the other direction," he explained, pulling me to my feet so that I wasn't using my stomach muscles so much. When he had me on my feet, he put one of my arms around his neck, scooping me up into his arms when he was sure I was out of pain for the moment.

      Lucifer carried me down to his bedroom again, and I was able to focus enough through the pain to see that there were shadows under his eyes. The shadows weren't the black that I was sure were under mine, just a darker red than the skin on his cheeks. His eyes were even bloodshot from tiredness.

      "Now you," he said, putting me gently down on the mattress again, "stay here." He smiled at me to soften the command and headed out of the room again.

      Probably going to get more scotch, I thought. He's going to get me drunk on the stuff with the rate I've been pulling my stitches. The thought barely worried me, which shocked me slightly.

      "You'll have to be more careful," Lucifer said, putting the glass of scotch on the bedside table and laying out the dressings and such on the bed. "If you keep pulling the stitches out, there's going to be no muscles left for me to sew together." He smiled at me, and I noticed that his canines were just the slightest bit sharper and longer than mine. They were like an ape's, but I could tell there was no threat behind the grin.

      "I'm sorry I woke you up," I apologized, letting him help me sit up so he could take the bandages from my stomach again. "I only wanted to see if the books on the bottom shelf were first editions."

      "They are," he said with a smile, helping me lie back into the pillow without stretching the stitches more. "They're very rare, signed first editions, and I haven't touched them since I bought them. I have reading copies instead, which you should have seen on the shelves above them." He smiled slightly at me, lifting an eyebrow, and gently peeled the cotton away from my wound.

      I hissed in pain when the cotton pulled at the small amount of scabbing around the wound, and he glanced at me, but the cotton was off quickly, as was the stuff he'd packed into the wound. He peered into my stomach, checking out his stitching and trying not to cause me any more pain.

      "How can you see in here?" I asked through clenched teeth as he dipped a bit of the dressing in the scotch, handing the glass to me. "I can barely see you."

      He frowned, sitting up. The curtain was down, so there was only the slightest bit of light from around the edges. I could barely see him as he grinned.

      "I can see in the dark," he explained, putting the needle down. "But if it makes you uncomfortable, I'll try to be more human. When I can work out what being human means, of course." He smiled at me again and stood up to open the blind. "An ambitious concept, like being normal, after all."

      The sudden influx of light was too bright and I squinted. He laughed, seemingly suffering no problem in the suddenly-increased light, and sat back down beside me, picking up the dressing soaked in scotch.

      "What else can you do?" I asked, holding the glass as he swabbed the wound. The liquid in the glass shook, and I realized I was trembling. "I mean, you can fly, you can see in the dark, you can cook and you obviously have a good medical knowledge. Surely the talents end there."

      Lucifer laughed lightly. "Take a drink when the pain gets unbearable." He stitched my muscles back together.

      "Answer the question," I said with a smile, taking a large mouthful of scotch as I felt the pinch of the supersharp needle. I barely contained a squeak of pain.

      Lucifer laughed again, shaking his head. The sun caught his shoulder-length golden hair when he did, catching my attention. I mentally shook myself to concentrate on blocking the pain.

      "Well, I don't really have any other 'talents.' I can't really even fight, I just shoot."

      "You said last night you were helping my veins refill or something. How?"

      "Ah, you do remember that." He continued to smile, even as he tied off the newest stitches, checking his handiwork, poking and prodding my tender stomach. "I do have some magic, that's true."

      "What can you do with it?" I asked, interested. I wonder if the tales of temptation and witches are true...

      He shrugged, helping me lean forward so he could wrap fresh bandages around my waist. "I don't know. I didn't even know if it would help you with your bleeding last night."

      "Do you think it would be able to heal me?" I asked, curious. I caught a flash of some emotion in his eyes when he glanced up at me, but he looked away too quickly for me to work out what the emotion was.

      Fear? Disappointment? Anxiety? Sorrow? All four? Why would he feel that way? Unless he meant that thing about friends last night and he knows I'll leave as soon as I'm healed enough for it...

      "I don't know. I could try, if you want me to." He hesitated as he fastened the bandage around my stomach. "I can't guarantee anything, though. It might not work, or it could make it worse."

      "That's okay. Even just the chance of getting rid of this pain is good enough for me." I smiled up at him.

      He sighed, looking resigned, and pulled the bandage off my stomach, gently extracting the cotton pad from the wound. He pressed his hand onto my injury, making me jump—his hands were cold, very different from the warmth I was expecting from such human-looking skin.

      "Sorry," he said, moving to take his hand from my stomach. He probably though he'd hurt me.

      "No, it's okay," I said, grabbing his hand and preventing him from removing it. "Do what you were going to do."

      Grief flashed across Lucifer's face. He took his hand back anyway, standing up. He looked like he was going to cry.

      "I'm sorry, I'm—I'll be back in a minute."

      "Lucifer, what—?"

      The red-skinned man ran from the room, and I heard the front door open and slam closed. I frowned, worried despite myself.

      Hey, what do you know, I thought sarcastically, I'm worried about the Devil Himself. What made him do that? Was it something I did? Something I said? Both?

      I shocked myself at the depth of worry I had for Lucifer. After all, if he hadn't shown up to save me, I probably would have been dead in that alley. I laughed. Jason'll be pissed about losing all those followers. My humor faded. I hope he doesn't take it out on Jayce. Again.

      I shuddered at the thought and grabbed the rejected dressings, putting them on my wound and binding them down as best I could. I did a sloppy job at it, far worse than Lucifer's neat, precise bandaging, but I was in a hurry. I didn't want to be alone in the Devil's house. What if one of his deputies or someone like them showed up?

      That thought spurred me to action. I had no idea about the personalities Lucifer kept company with, so I wasn't going to wait for him in his bed. I threw my legs over the edge of the mattress, carefully making my way out to the deck.

      Lucifer was sitting on the edge of the wooden platform, his head in his hands. I could see tears falling from his cheeks. His shoulders were shaking slightly, and he didn't look up as I used his shoulder to sit down beside him. I thought I could hear him faintly sobbing.

      "You shouldn't be out here," he said, not even looking around at me. "You shouldn't have even have left the bed." Lucifer wiped at the tears on his cheeks and looked out at the countryside. He had quite a view from the high deck. He was rubbing his upper arms with his hands, a fresh tear falling down his cheek. "You might pull your stitches again, or get an infection."

      "I'm sorry," I said, resting my hands on my knees to ease the stress in my stomach as I moved to sit beside him. "I said something wrong again, didn't I? Something I shouldn't have?"

      Lucifer shook his head, glancing at me. His rich blue eyes were swimming with tears. "It wasn't you. It was a memory. It just hit me, that's all."

      "Oh." I looked at my bare feet, swinging them gently in the air. My stomach twinged, but I ignored it.

      I couldn't remember where I'd left my shoes. I frowned, trying to remember. The Hellraisers had found me a few blocks from their robbery, and dragged me all the way to the alley. I remembered being barefoot by the time I'd been thrown to the ground. I sighed. Some lucky bastard's probably scored a pair of expensive Jimmy Choo shoes by