The_Demons_Wife_ARC (14 page)

Chapter

7

True
Confessions

The next day—Thursday—Claire
couldn’t stop questioning why she was even trying to get in touch with Samael
when he so obviously was avoiding her.

Ditched
again…That makes three times. You’re out.

She had the TV
news on as she ate breakfast, and when she heard that a man named Ron LaPierre
had apparently committed suicide—they didn’t reveal how he had done it. She had
absolutely no doubts that Samael was behind it.

He had to be.

That’s what he
did.

The sole
meaning, the entire purpose of his existence was to drive people to damn
themselves, or put pressure on them to persuade them or cajole them, or do
whatever it took to get them to deliver their souls to him and his minions.

With a bitter
laugh, she thought about how he had told her he was a businessman, involved in
buying and selling and maybe a little bit of trading. She realized now—

Oh, the irony
was deliciously thick.

—that he meant
the buying, selling, and trading of human souls.

She wondered
how he was going to try to get hers…or if he had already tried…and maybe
succeeded…without her even knowing it.

But he had
said that she must willingly give it to him, and Claire was certain she hadn’t
done that.

She thought
about when and how they had first met.

Six days ago
she thought.

Later that
morning, sitting at her desk at work and staring at her computer screen while
reflecting on her and Samael’s time together, it felt disturbingly strange to
think it had been only six days. So much had happened in that time. She felt as
though she had known Samael much longer than that, and she realized now that a
lot of what he had said to her—maybe most…or all of it—had been layered with
irony.

End it now
, she kept
telling herself,
before it’s too late…Call him…Leave him a voice
message…Send him an e-mail…Hell, Facebook dump him if necessary…

If she valued
her soul, she had to do anything and everything she could do to get away from
him.

But every time
she took her cell from her purse and got ready to call, her resolve wavered…and
dissolved when she remembered what it was like to be with him…how he had made
her feel.

And not just
in bed.

Hanging around
with him in the apartment or taking walks in the city at night or going to a
restaurant—even when it burned—or a coffee shop with him…everything was so much
better with him. She couldn’t contemplate the terrible emptiness she would feel
if she had never met or saw him again…if he was no longer a part of her life.

Thoughts
continued to whirl in her head so much it affected her performance at work.
Finally, after lunch, even her boss, Marty, who was oblivious to pretty much
everything except the mistakes she made, noticed she was off her game.

“Something
bothering you?” he asked her when, for the umpteenth time that day, she had
gotten up from her desk and started pacing. Her foot still ached, and she
limped as she walked.

“I’m fine,”
she said. Even she heard the whip-snap in her voice.

“Come on. What
is it?”

Marty looked
at her the way he would a rattlesnake he’d stumbled upon, lying across a trail.

“Seriously…I’m
fine.”

Tears suddenly
welled up in her eyes. She blinked rapidly, knowing if she cried now, it would
be all over. She lowered her head and sat back down at her desk, staring at the
watery swirl that was her computer screen.

“You need the
afternoon off or something, just say so,” Marty said. He sounded surprisingly
sympathetic. That caught her off guard. She hadn’t told him or anyone else at
the office about what had happened over the weekend, but someone might have
found out somehow…maybe from reading the local crime reports.

So far, her
name had been kept out of the reports but she still might be the subject of
office gossip. Someone could have found out. She almost laughed when she
remembered her mother’s term for gossip: “The Devil’s Radio.”

“I’m telling
you, I’m fine,” she repeated as she ran the tips of her fingers across her
cheeks to swipe away any tears that might have already fallen.

“Well, then,”
Marty said, moving away from her warily. He was still treating her like she was
a snake about to start rattling before striking. “Just lemme know if you need
some time off. If not…you know you’re overdue with the Winthrop bid, right?”

Fuck you!
was on the
tip of her tongue, but she was relieved that he was back to his old snarly
self…

Filled with
frustration and rage and more, Claire glared at Marty’s back as he strode out
of her office, leaving the door open behind him. Once he was gone, she got up
from her desk and shut the door, being careful not to slam it.

~ * ~

Finally,
Samael texted Claire. She agreed to get together with Samael, but she insisted
that it be on neutral ground…a restaurant or someplace public. She wondered why
he hadn’t yet invited her over to his place, and she intended to force the
issue. She wanted to see how a demon lived in the 21
^st
Century, but
she was waiting for the opportune moment…and had no idea when that would be.

So at seven
o’clock, she walked into Chang Shao, a new Chinese restaurant on Exchange Street.
Samael said he’d already eaten there and didn’t like the place, but she
insisted. Sally had told her the spring rolls were to die for.

Claire scanned
the patrons seated at the tables, and even in the dimly lit main dining room,
she could see that Samael wasn’t there. She wondered if he was running late or
if he was messing with her—maybe even standing her up—because she had been so
insistent about meeting here.

“Table for
one?” the host—a young Chinese man with a bright smile asked. His eyes had a peculiar
gleam that gave Claire pause. She noticed that he spoke perfect English.

“No, I’m
waiting for a friend,” she said. She turned and looked expectantly at the door
when it opened behind her, but it was a middle-aged married couple, not Samael
as she had hoped.

“You can wait
in the bar, or I can seat you now,” the host said.

Claire glanced
at the bench against the wall next to a huge aquarium and then, nodding, said,
“I’ll wait here.” She didn’t want to take a table, and then have him not show
up.

The host
smiled and then led the middle-aged couple to a table.

Claire sat
down, but as the minutes passed, she became increasingly convinced Samael was
going to disappoint her…again.

And that will
be the end of it
,
she told herself.

She wished and
prayed she would finally have the resolve to end it now. She’d had enough of
disappointment and didn’t need any more. Besides, she didn’t need to keep
putting up with this kind of treatment. It was almost as if he did things
deliberately to piss her off…probably because he enjoyed it when she expressed
negative thoughts and emotions.

She took her
cell phone from her purse and glanced at the time.

Almost seven fifteen.

Okay
, she thought.
Ten more minutes, and then I’m out of here.

She tried to
occupy herself by watching the tropical fish glide around in the large fish
tank, but her mind—like a terrier with a rat—wouldn’t stop chewing on the
things she planned to say to him when—

If?

—he finally
showed up.

If he didn’t
come here or call, then it would be easy. She would never call him again, and
she sure as Hell would never take his calls…if he ever bothered.

But if he
showed up now, there were so many ways she could see the conversation going.
She might express anger…or hurt…or disappointment…or she could make it clear to
him that he meant absolutely nothing to her…even though he did, and she was
fairly certain he knew he did.

Every time the
door opened, her heart leapt, and she looked up hoping to see him.

And every time
she was disappointed.

She hadn’t
eaten since lunch, and she hadn’t had much then, so the aromas that filled the
restaurant were driving her insane. Her mouth was watering, and her stomach was
growling so much she was tempted to take a table alone and order something—even
if it was only an appetizer of spring rolls.

But the
churning in her stomach was more than hunger, and after one final glance at the
time on her cell phone—

It was 7:30

—she got up
and left.

The walk back
to the apartment was far enough to be irksome, especially since the wound on
her foot was still throbbing, and she was tossed between rage and tears the
whole way. By the time she got to the building, the Canal Bank time and
temperature display showed that it was 7:43.

No show…No
call…No nothing.

“Thanks for
nothing,” she muttered as she stepped into the darkness under the archway.

That’s when a
hand reached out of the blackness and clamped down onto her shoulder. Before
she could scream for help, a voice she recognized all too well whispered, “We
have to talk.”

~ * ~

Five minutes
later, they were sitting on the couch in Claire’s living room. The flash of
traffic lights, passing cars, and store and restaurant fronts filtered through
the thin curtains; but other than a small candle which she had lit and placed
on the coffee table, there were no other lights on in the room. Samael said he
liked it like that and, quite honestly, she didn’t want to see him clearly
because of what it might make her think and do. She was careful to keep as much
distance as she could between them, because now, more than ever, she was
determined to end it with Samael.

Tonight.

First, though,
she agreed to talk because she had dozens if not hundreds of unanswered
questions. Claire wanted them answered before she declared their relationship
officially over.

“Okay,” Claire
said after clearing her throat. “The first thing I want to know is, why did you
stand me up?”

For the first
time in a long time, she was craving a cigarette. Even as simple an urge as
that made her wonder if Samael was trying to corrupt her.

“I didn’t
‘stand you up.’” He glanced at her briefly, his eyes glowing in the dimly lit
room. Then he broke eye contact and shifted his gaze to the floor. “I met you
here, didn’t I?”

“I was waiting
at the fucking restaurant we were supposed to meet at.”

“I know. I…I
couldn’t make it.”

“You ever hear
of a cell phone?” she asked, unable to hide the bitterness in her voice.

“I tried to
call. My cell was dead.”

As if
, Claire
thought, not believing him for a second, but she let it slide. There were
other, bigger issues to tackle.

“So instead of
walking down to the restaurant, you came and waited here instead?”

Samael
shrugged and looked for all the world like he didn’t know what to do with
himself—where to look and how to sit or even if he should stand and pace or
stay seated on the couch.

“There’s
something…” When he swallowed, his throat made a loud gulping sound like he was
really nervous, but Claire couldn’t help but think,
Oh, he’s good. I gotta
give him that
.

“…There’s
something about that restaurant.”

“What, you
don’t like Chinese? Or are you like a vampire who can’t stand the smell of
garlic or…or five spices?”

Claire thought
what she’d said was funny, and she chuckled, but Samael looked pained as he
stared at her. His twin-tipped tongue flicked out and licked his upper lip,
which was glistening with sweat. Then, he bit down on his lower lip and shook
his head.

“It’s not like
that. It’s…Did you notice the statue in the entryway?”

“You mean the
wooden Buddha? Yeah. The one by the door with the fat belly?”

Samael nodded.

“There are two
of them, but one is on a shelf in the corner.”

“Yeah?…So
what?”

“There’s an
altar next to that Buddha, and there are…offerings on it.”

“I barely
noticed, but—okay. So there’s a Buddha and some offerings. So what? It’s
Buddhist stuff for, like, good luck and all.”

“Did you
notice a little piece of yellow paper on the altar?”

It was
Claire’s turn to bite her lower lip and shake her head.

“Well, it’s
there. I saw it when I went there when it first opened. There’s some writing on
it.”