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Authors: Rick Hautala

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BOOK: The_Demons_Wife_ARC
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Claire’s heart
started pounding so hard her wrists started throbbing.

What the hell
is he doing there? She wondered, but before she could come up with any rational
answers, she questioned if this really was Samael.

It couldn’t
be.

Samael was a
successful businessman who took pride—

Which goeth
before the fall.

—in his
appearance and his social standing. He would never allow himself to be paraded
in front of a lineup like a homeless person.

That has to be
someone else…someone who looks like Samael.

But the man
standing at the end of the line kept gazing straight into the one-way mirror.
Claire squirmed in her chair, knowing that—if anyone could—he could peer
through the reflective glass and see her. As he stared directly at her, his
lips slowly parted, and he smiled at her with the most mischievous grin
imaginable.

He’s having
fun, doing this…He’s teasing me…

For just an
instant, his twin-tipped tongue flicked out of his mouth, licked his upper lip,
and then disappeared.

Claire
couldn’t help herself. Her body relaxed, and she started chuckling softly to
herself, but not so softly that Trudeau didn’t hear. He looked at her, a
curious expression on his face.

“Is something
the matter?” he asked.

Obviously, a
witness had never had this kind of reaction to a lineup before.

He must think
I’m being hysterical, Claire thought.

Claire was
still smiling, and she wanted to burst out laughing, but she managed to get a
grip on herself and nodded.

“Yes…yes,” she
said. “I’m fine, it’s just…I…This is so…so ....” She let the thought drift
away, incomplete.

“So what?”
Trudeau asked, but Claire could only nod, thinking this was a unique way for
Samael to leverage himself back into her life. Shaking off the initial shock of
seeing Samael in the lineup, she focused her attention on another man in the
room.

“This is
nerve-wracking.”

“I
understand.”

After casting
a questioning look at her, Trudeau pressed the button on the microphone’s base
and said, “Everyone turn to your right.”

The men in the
room did as they were told. Claire saw that one of the policemen was talking to
them, but she couldn’t hear a word he said, much less read his lips.

“That’s
him…That’s definitely him,” she said, her voice low and firm.

Seeing Ron LaPierre
again, the man who had attacked her Friday night, brought back every bit of the
horror. Her neck and breasts where he had grabbed and mauled her began to ache,
and the memory of the emotions that swept through her that night when she was
convinced she was going to die all but overwhelmed her.

But then she
looked at Samael again, and a genuine sense of peace and warmth spread through
her. His gaze grounded her in a most peculiar way.

“Which one?”
Detective Trudeau asked.

“The second
one from the left…The man wearing the red T-shirt and faded jeans.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Trudeau
exchanged glances with the other cops in the room and then nodded. Leaning
forward, he pressed the button on the base of the microphone again and, leaning
forward, said, “Thank you. That’ll be all.”

Claire watched
in silence as the cops in the lineup room led the men away. There was a look of
stark terror and total confusion on LaPierre’s face. He reminded her of a
little child who had gotten lost and was confused by the adult world rushing by
around him.

Before the
officers and men left the room, though, LaPierre turned and suddenly rushed
toward the large one-way mirror. His mouth was open. He was yelling something,
but Claire couldn’t hear what—just a muffled buzzing sound. He clenched both
fists and, lunging forward, started pounding frantically on the glass. The
thumping sound was distant, like a rapid, muffled heartbeat.

The man was
still shouting, and the panic of his face was riveting. Claire felt a flicker
of genuine sympathy for him in spite of what he had done—and tried to do—to
her.

One of the
cops who had been leading the men away came up behind him and, using a billy
club, struck him on the backs of the knees. Before LaPierre fell, the cop
grabbed him and tried to turn him around to lead him away.

But LaPierre
wasn’t finished yet.

He shook the
officer off and, still facing the mirror, kept shouting. Spittle flew from his
lips and flecked the glass. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, filled with
terror.

Another cop
approached LaPierre from behind. This one grabbed him by the left arm and bent
it behind his back until his fingertips touched his shoulder blade. Claire
could imagine the pain. In a flash, the cop snapped a pair of handcuffs around
the frantic man’s wrist. Spinning him to one side, he grabbed LaPierre’s other
arm and quickly cuffed his other wrist.

Even then, as
they led him away, LaPierre turned to the mirror, all the while yelling.

Claire didn’t
need to hear. She knew what he was saying.

“It wasn’t
me!…I didn’t do it!…I swear to God!…I don’t know what happened, but it wasn’t
me!…You have to believe me!”

As he was led
away, out into the corridor and off to the secure holding area, Claire caught a
glimpse of Samael as he exited the door into the corridor.

It lasted only
for a split second, but she was chilled by his expression. He was grinning like
he had been watching a hilarious comedy routine in a nightclub.

 

~ * ~

 

Claire moved
furtively down the granite steps to the sidewalk. The cold March air bit her
nose and throat. Her wounded foot was still aching, making her limp. Otherwise,
she would have run away from the police station. The back of her neck was
burning hot in spite of the cold March wind blowing off the ocean, and her skin
prickled. She was convinced that Detective Trudeau was standing in the doorway,
watching her go.

And why
wouldn’t he?...Who laughs while looking at a police lineup?

And LaPierre’s
reaction?…And the brutal way they subdued him? It was distressing.

And Samael?…

Smiled at her?

“Hey,
Claire!…Wait up!”

Oh, Jesus!

Claire
recognized Samael’s voice instantly and cringed, drawing herself deeper into
her coat collar. She kept walking purposefully down the sidewalk away from him
as if she hadn’t heard him, wishing she had zero interest in seeing him.

You have got
yourself into one helluva mess, girl!

She wished
she’d never met Samael, and she wished she didn't want to stop and turn around.
The last thing she wanted was to see him…especially after pulling a stunt like
that in the police station, making her feel like such an idiot in front of
everyone.

“Hey! Come
on!” he called out.

The sound of
his voice made her tingle as she remembered hearing him speak to her in the
semidarkness of her bedroom. She didn’t want to think about what it was like to
hold—and be held by—him.

Knowing she
couldn’t ignore or outrun him, she drew to a sudden stop a few blocks down the
street from the police station and turned to face him. He was trotting easily
down the street toward her, his body moved with such smooth, elegant grace that
Claire wondered why everyone in the street didn’t stop to watch him. She cast a
nervous glance up the street toward the police station, relieved to see that
she was out of sight from the front door…in case Trudeau was watching.

“So…how you
doing?” Samael asked, not in the least breathless even though he had just run
quite a distance at a fast pace. He was smiling, and his dark eyes gleamed in
the daylight like chips of black marble. She noticed that he was wearing a
three-piece business suit, not the shabby clothes he’d had on during the
lineup. She wondered how he could have changed clothes so fast but decided not
to ask. He had his ways. She was beginning to think there were a lot of things
about him it would be better not to ask.

“I—I’m okay,”
Claire said, casting her eyes back and forth so she wouldn’t have to look
directly at him. If she did that, she knew exactly what her reaction would be.

Her first
instinct was to yell at him and tell him to go away…to leave her alone, but
just seeing his face again—

God, it seems
like ages ago.

—was enough to
melt the toughest resolve.

He smiled as
he gripped both of her arms above the elbows and drew her to him. She was
expecting a chaste kiss on the cheek, but he enfolded her in a passionate
embrace and kissed her full on the mouth. Claire tensed, waiting to feel his
twin-tipped tongue wiggle like a snake into her mouth. She was filled equally
with revulsion at the idea and a passionate wish that they were already back at
her place in bed.

When they
finally broke off the kiss and eased away from each other, Samael was looking
into her eyes and smiling a warm, full, genuine smile.

“What the Hell
do you think you’re doing?” she said.

Samael smiled
slyly and cocked his head to one side.

“Now, don’t
you start bad-mouthing my home,” he said, his smile widening enough to show his
teeth.

Claire didn’t
know if she should laugh or scream. Taken one way, he looked positively the
embodiment of Evil. Taken another way, he was the most attractive man she had
ever seen. She wanted to push him away and scream at him that she never wanted
to see or hear from him again while, at the same time, she felt compelled to
embrace him and beg him to take her home now so she could be with him forever.

Claire finally
got a grip and sniffed with laughter as she shook her head.

“You are a
piece of work,” she said.

“You thought
it was funny, too, huh?” Samael said.

“What you did
in the police station? It was insane!”

Samael nodded,
still smiling, and taking her by the hand, steered her around so they were
walking down the sidewalk side by side. Their bodies were so close she could
feel his body radiating heat like a burning coal. And as they walked, Claire
kept shaking her head, torn between feeling like the luckiest and the
unluckiest woman in the world.

Their
footsteps clicked in unison on the cold sidewalk. Their breath—hers,
anyway—came out as a white plume of mist that wrapped around her shoulder like
a scarf. No mist appeared when he exhaled, and she wondered if he breathed at
all.

“So tell
me—how’d you pull it off?” she asked.

“You don’t
think I have friends in the police department?”

Samael laughed
derisively, and for an instant, his expression looked truly sinister. His smile
hardened into a thin, cruel line, and his eyes held a hint—just a hint, mind
you—of dancing red flames.

“I’ve got
connections,” he said in a tone of voice that let Claire know there was so much
more, but that he didn’t want her to ask him…

At least not
right now, anyway.

“So why’d you
do it?” she asked, still walking. She didn’t like walking and talking at the
same time. She wished they could stop somewhere…maybe sit down, have a coffee,
and talk face-to-face. Then, she could gaze into his eyes all she wanted and
not have to worry about tripping.

“I wanted to
see you again,” Samael said, “and I figured doing it this way would be fun,
too. I like seeing you laugh.”

“Laugh?” she
echoed, narrowing her eyes and shaking her head.

“Yeah. You
know. Make a memorable, if not dramatic entrance.”

Claire
chuckled and said, “I’m surprised you didn’t opt for a blinding flash of
lightning and a puff of sulfurous smoke.”

“Oh, I save
that for special occasions,” he said, and there was something in his voice that
made her think he truly meant it.

“Like when you
come to claim someone’s soul or something?”

“Yeah. That’d
be one of the times.”

Claire drew to
a sudden halt and looked directly at him.

“You mean it,
don’t you?” she asked as gnawing worry filled her gut.

Samael
appeared to be taken aback by her vehemence. He regarded her as if he was
sizing her up as he shook his head up and down.

“No,” he
finally said. “I was kidding.”

Claire stared
at him for a long, tense moment, studying him carefully. Seeing him in blinding
bright daylight, she found it impossible to believe he was a genuine demon, and
not a person. At the same time, though, she couldn’t stop thinking that there
were so many things about him that made it impossible to think he wasn’t a
demon.

“So how’d you
change your clothes so fast?” she finally asked. “I was barely out of there,
and you show up in a three-piece suit, now.”

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