The_Demons_Wife_ARC (9 page)

Her knees hit
the carpeted floor first, and then she flopped forward like a puppet whose
strings had been cut. Her chin hit the floor hard enough to send a bright
splash of stars across her vision. Somehow…miraculously…the buzzing sound cut
off when she closed the bathroom door, and it took several seconds of lying on
the floor, panting hard before she realized she’d trapped them. The flies
hadn’t escaped from the bathroom.

With tears
welling up in her eyes, she somehow found the strength to sit up and take stock
of what had just happened.  Her gaze fixed on the closed bathroom door.

It was silent
in the bathroom. Eerily so…

“Hey, what’s
up? You okay?”

Samael’s
voice, coming so suddenly from behind her, made Claire squeal and spin around
to face him. Her fists were clenched, her heart racing. He was dressed, and she
couldn’t help but notice how neat and slick he looked.

Maybe too
slick?

The sight of
him made her flash with anger.

“What the
fuck? Where were you?”

She struggled
to hold back the tears that threatened to spill as they stared at each other.
The buzzing sound of the flies behind the door gradually faded away. For the
first time since she had found out the truth about him, all Claire could see
was the demon he truly was.

He was
enjoying this…He relished her fear and confusion. It amused him.

“I’d like you
to leave,” she said, her voice low and broken. “Right now!”

Samael stared
at her but didn’t say a word, but he took a few steps forward, his arms raised,
his hands extended as though to help her to her feet.

“No! Leave me
alone! I mean it!” she shouted, glaring at him. And then she gasped.

She knew
exactly what it was in the tub.

“I’m serious.”
She was breathing so fast it hurt. “I want you to leave now.”

“But Claire…I
thought we—”

“Now!” she
said, her voice finding strength even though she was hyperventilating. She
raised her hands to her face as though to protect herself from him. She was
terrified because right now she could see him for exactly who and what he was.

“You did
that…didn’t you?”

“Did what?”

“In the
bathroom—” She gagged at the thought and had to inhale deeply. “That’s Mittens,
isn’t it?”

“Mittens?
Who’s Mittens?”

“Sally’s cat.
You did it, didn’t you?”

He started to
reply, but his expression suddenly collapsed and, for the first time ever,
Claire saw—or convinced herself that she saw—a spark of genuine emotion…of real
feeling.

“Did…what?”

“You know
exactly what I mean,” Claire said. “You killed Mittens.”

Even as she
said it, she heaved herself forward so she could stand. Samael made a motion
forward as if to help her, but she fended him off with a vicious slap to his
outstretched hand. The smacking sound was as loud as a gunshot in the narrow
hallway.

“I don’t know
what you think you’re doing, but you’re not going to get away with it. You’re
not going to terrorize me like this.”

“Like what?”
Samael said, his voice now as smooth as ever.

Unsure if her
legs would support her, Claire hiked her thumb over her shoulder at the closed
bathroom door, but the perplexed look on Samael’s face almost convinced her
that he genuinely didn’t know what she was talking about.

Oh, he’s good
at dissembling
,
all right, she thought.
World class.

“Where were
you just now?” she finally asked, telling herself to calm down and reason this
through. She had to stay in control and not let him intimidate her.

“What are you
talking about? I was in the bedroom getting dressed.”

“Bullshit!”

Claire kept
reminding herself to see him for what he really is—pure, unadulterated evil.
She chided herself for having even the slightest interest in him. She was in
mortal danger.

“No you
weren’t. I checked in the bedroom. You weren’t there. You weren’t anywhere
except—Christ, you were probably…in here.”

He winced at
that, and she realized her use of the word “Christ” bothered him.

Again, she
indicated the closed bathroom door. The lack of the buzzing sounds from behind
the door created a dense silence in the hallway that was broken only by the
heavy thump of her pulse in her ears and her short, panting breaths. She hadn’t
realized until this moment just how dangerous Samael was and how vulnerable she
was. All she wanted was for him to leave her alone, hopefully without hurting
or killing her…much less claiming her soul.

But that
didn’t excuse what he had done to Mittens. As much as Claire didn’t like her
roommate’s cat, that didn’t mean he had to kill her.

“I didn’t mean
to…or want to, but…Cats are—” He paused and looked at the ceiling as though
searching for the perfect word. “Cats can be problems for my kind.”

“Demons, you
mean,” she said with just enough edge to let him know she left enough room to
doubt that’s what he really was.

“I honestly
didn’t want to do it. It—the cat forced me to.”

“Why, so you
could possess its soul? Like you want to possess mine?”

“I can’t do
that, you know,” he said. His eyes held a flat, dead gleam, and his expression
was perfectly neutral.

“Do what?”
Claire asked, fearing—again—that he was reading her mind.

“Take
possession of your soul,” he replied.

“You can’t,
huh?”

Samael lowered
his gaze and shook his head.

“That’s right.
I can’t. You have to give it to me…willingly.”

“Well I won’t
give it to you. You can count on that. I don’t want to have anything to do with
you…not if you’re going to lie to me and tease and torment me and…and kill
innocent creatures.”

“It wasn’t my
fault, I swear.”

Claire laughed
at that. How could he expect her to believe little old Mittens was any kind of
threat?

“I swear to
you. I’m not lying. I was in the bed, sleeping,” Samael said. His face softened
with what might have passed for sympathy…if he had been human.

But he isn’t
human.

He’s a
demon—with a capital D, and she had to do everything and anything she could to
get him out of her life.

Now!

“You said you
were getting dressed.”

“I did?”

“Yes, you
did.”

“I’m pretty
sure I was still in bed. I remember you coming in and then leaving. I assumed
to go to the bathroom.”

“How can I
trust anything you say?” By now, Claire was making no attempt to mask her
disgust and doubt. “You’re a demon, for Christ’s sake!”

“Oww…I wish
you’d stop using that name,” Samael said. The pained expression on his face did
look genuine.

“What,
‘demon?’” Claire said, knowing full well what he really meant but wanting to
see if she could get him to say the name Jesus.

But Samael
lowered his gaze and shook his head, no.

“You know…the
other one,” he said, sounding wounded.

“Oh, you mean
‘Christ?’ Does that name bother you?”

Samael winced,
hunching his shoulders as though preparing himself for a violent blow. Against
every shred of common sense, Claire couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. The
title of an old Rolling Stones song popped into her mind—

“Sympathy for
the Devil.”

—and that made
her smile.

“What’s wrong
with ‘Christ?’”

Once again,
she took pleasure in seeing him wince. So she did have some power over him
after all. Maybe things weren’t so bad…unless this, too, was an act.

He stepped
back, raising his hands.

“Does it
really bother you when I say that name?” She stepped closer, watching him
retreat. “Or are you faking it, now, because you’re trying to get me to lower
my guard?”

Samael's eyes
were glazed like an ice-covered pond as he nodded his head slowly.

“It honestly
does bother me,” he said, his voice no longer strong and confident. He sounded
to her like a little boy who was lost and frightened. “And—yes, it…it’s not
like me to tell the truth. It goes against my nature.”

“Is it
because—?”

“It’s more
complicated—a lot more complicated than you think, believe me,” Samael said,
squaring his shoulders. Like switching a TV station, his old confidence and
slickness were instantly back. “So…do you really want me to leave?”

Claire stood
there, her mouth gaping open. She had no idea what to say. She was trapped with
Samael blocking one end of the hallway and, behind her, nothing but the
bathroom and those horrible flies and what had once been Mittens. All too
easily, she could imagine that the bathroom was now overflowing with flies. If
she opened the door, a huge, dark mass of them would spill out on top of her
like a tsunami, burying her in a crawling, buzzing, suffocating pile. 

I’m trapped,
she thought
with a rush of panic.

But she was
also trapped by her emotions because, when she thought about what was going on
here, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. She was genuinely attracted to
him…in ways she couldn’t begin to comprehend. He made her feel things she never
even suspected she could feel. And it wasn’t just because of what he did to and
with her in bed. Besides the physical attraction—more than the physical
attractions, she felt a genuine emotional connection to him…a deep, overpowering
need to hold him and soothe him and be with him and love him forever.

“So?” he said,
his voice deep and resonant in the hallway. “If you want me to leave, say so. I
will if you command me to.”

No, I don’t
think you will
,
Claire thought, but she nodded slowly.

When he looked
at her, her resolve weakened and almost melted, and when she heard herself
speak again, it was like listening to someone else speak.

“I do…” she
whispered in a voice so weak and strangled she wondered if he heard her at all.
“But only for now. I need time…time to think.”

“I
understand.”

And with that,
he was gone.

No puff of
smoke, like she might have expected.

Without
another word, he turned and walked to the apartment door. And without looking
back, he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Then the door swung
shut behind him, the latch clicking loudly, even though it looked as if he
hadn’t touched it. Claire was left feeling more alone than she had ever felt
before in her life.

Already, she
wanted her demon lover back.

Chapter

5

Two-way
Mirrors

The next day—Monday
morning—Claire was at work. She was thinking about Samael—as she had been since
he left the apartment yesterday afternoon—and nothing else.

She’d had a
late-night talk with Sally, who told her she should take a day or two off to
relax and readjust, but she refused. She didn’t have the heart to tell her
roomie about what had happened to Mittens. She cleaned up the mess, putting
what was left of poor old Mittens into the Dumpster. After she scrubbed the tub
with bleach, the flies didn’t return.

She hoped
Sally would assume her cat had gotten out of the apartment somehow and would
eventually find her way back home. Claire didn’t want to take time off because
her work would just pile up, and Marty, her boss, would give her a ration of
shit about getting orders and bids done and sent out correctly and on time.

She was
sitting at her desk in her windowless office that was the size of a broom
closet and staring unfocused at her computer screen when her cell phone in her
purse rang. She jumped, grabbing the phone from her purse, her heart leaping as
she thought…hoped…prayed—

How can you
pray for a demon?

—that it would
be Samael.

A quick glance
at the Caller ID showed her that it wasn’t from the phone number he had given
her at the restaurant. She had that number memorized.

“Hello?”

She didn’t
like hearing the tightness in her voice.

“Yes,” said a
man’s voice. “This is Detective Trudeau, Portland PD. I’m trying to reach a—”
Claire heard a shuffling of papers and then, “—a Ms. Claire McMullen.”

Crushed with
disappointment that it wasn’t Samael, she wished now that she had taken the day
off.

“This is she.”

“Ms. McMullen.
I’m hoping you can come downtown to the station later today, maybe this
afternoon.”

“If this is
about—”

She began to
mention the call yesterday from what’s-his-name in the DA’s office, telling her
that the suspect wanted to talk to her personally, but Trudeau talked over her.

“We need you
to check out a lineup to see if you can positively ID the suspect.”

“A lineup,”
Claire echoed, amazed to hear herself talking about doing something she had
only seen on TV and in the movies.

But this was
real, and the reality of what had happened—

And what had
almost happened!

—hit her like
a sucker punch.

Nausea swept
through her, and she was sure—if anyone was watching her—they would notice how
her face had gone several shades paler.

“Why do I need
to do that? You arrested the guy there…We have eyewitnesses.”

Another twinge
when she thought that Samael was one of the witnesses…and her rescuer. Who
knows what might have happened if he hadn’t shown up?

“It’s just a
formality,” Trudeau said. “We have to make a positive ID before we can bring
him up on charges.”

Claire didn’t
want to hear what those charges might be. She so much wanted to put all of this
behind her, if only so there wouldn’t be such a distraction from her and Samael
getting to know each other.

But you kicked
him out,
she told herself,
and there’s no guarantee he’ll be back.

She recognized
the absurdity of her situation.

This is beyond
crazy!

The more she
thought about it, the more she realized the chances Samael was a genuine flesh
and blood demon were slim to none…until she remembered the tail and what he had
done with it.

Then?

All bets were
off.

How could she
explain that away?

“Ms. McMullen?
You there?” Detective Trudeau said.

Claire shook
herself, realizing that he must have said something she had missed.

“Oh—Sorry.”

She smiled to
herself, wondering what he would think if she told him the truth about Samael.

What would
anyone think, other than that she was nutso
?

“I said Mr.
Harris from the DA’s office is available around three o’clock. Would that work
for you?”

“I—I’d have to
get off work early.”

“If you’d
prefer, we can schedule some other time.”

Claire shook
her head vigorously as if he were in the room with her and could see her
reaction. She glanced at her wristwatch and said, “No. I can make it. Three
o’clock, you said?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And where do
I go?”

“You know the
station downtown. Just come in through the front entrance. I’ll be waiting for
you.”

“Should I
bring a lawyer?”

“You can have
a lawyer with you if you’d feel better, but it’s not necessary. There won’t be
any questions, and absolutely no interaction between you and the suspect.”

Suspect?…Not
rapist?

“I—ah—I’ll see
you there.”

~ * ~

The tightness
in Claire’s stomach and chest was bad as she mounted the wide, granite steps
leading up to the front entrance of the Portland Police Department. A man
wearing a straw-colored jacket and blue pants—a lousy combination, especially
in March—was standing in the shelter of the doorway. Claire smiled to herself
when she saw that he wasn’t puffing on a cigarette with a fedora pulled down
low over his eyes like a movie detective.

“Ms. McMullen,”
he said—a statement, not a question, Claire noticed as he stepped forward and
extended his hand.

Of course he
knows who I am…He’s a freaking detective, for crying out loud.

Claire smiled
tightly and shook his hand. She noticed that his grip was warm and dry…even on
a chilly afternoon like this. For some reason, she found that reassuring, but
she instantly thought how much warmer Samael’s handshake would be... 

 Detective
Trudeau stepped back and opened the door for her, and she followed him inside.
The walls throughout the building were painted a shade of green that Claire was
fairly certain didn’t occur in nature. They made their way down a hallway, past
uncountable offices, and then down a flight of stairs. Their footsteps echoed
in the stairwell.

Detective
Trudeau introduced her to several people as they went. Standing outside a
closed door was one of the officers who had arrested her assailant last Friday
night. She couldn’t remember his name now, but she smiled and nodded. Trudeau
led her into a small room with a folding table and several metal chairs. On one
wall was a counter, its white surface marred and smudged from years of use and
abuse. On it was a coffee maker as well as creamer and sugar, and numerous used
mugs. The carafe was half full of something that looked more like recycled
motor oil than coffee.

Trudeau
grabbed a clean Styrofoam cup and filled it. Then he poured in three heaping
spoonfuls of sugar and four artificial creamers. He glanced at Claire.

“Want some?”

Staring at the
grimy coffee carafe, Claire shook her head. All she could think was:
Let’s
get this over with so I can go home.

“No, thanks.”

“How ‘bout a
bottle of water?” He walked over to the refrigerator in the corner, but when he
opened it and Claire saw several moldy containers that looked like science
experiments gone wrong, she said, “I’m fine.”

After keeping
Claire waiting for ten minutes or so while he talked to the other cops in the
room, Detective Trudeau glanced at the wall clock and said, “Well, then, let’s
get this show on the road.”

Trudeau led
Claire back out into the corridor. Before closing the waiting room door, he
dropped his half-finished cup of coffee into the trash can. It hit with a
splash. He and two other policemen led her a short way down the corridor to
another closed door. Before they went inside, Claire noticed that down the
hall, the corridor was blocked by iron bars.

Trudeau opened
the door for her to enter the small room. One wall, she noticed right away, was
dominated by a large pane of glass. It was obviously a one-way mirror, but the
lights weren’t on in the adjacent room, so it looked like a huge slab of
polished, black marble. A narrow shelf ran the length of the mirror, and there
was a microphone with a silver base on the shelf. Several chairs were arranged
around the small circular table so anyone who might be seated would have a good
view of the one-way mirror.

“Please. Take
a seat, Ms. McMullen,” Trudeau said, indicating the chairs at the table. “Make
yourself comfortable. We’ll bring the suspects in soon. But first, I want to
reassure you that you’re under no pressure here.”

“Okay,” Claire
said with some hesitation. “I still don’t see why, if you arrested this guy at
the scene of the crime, I even have to do this.”

“Strictly a
formality.”

Claire nodded,
still not liking this, and then swallowed hard.

“And what if I
can’t identify him?” she asked, suddenly fearful that, in the panic of the
night and because of everything else that had happened since—especially with
Samael—she might not be able to point out the man who had attacked her.

“It was dark,
and it all happened so…so fast…that I…I don’t want to screw this up.”

“Don’t worry.
Please. Have a seat. You won’t screw it up,” Trudeau said, and then he gave a
quick nod to the police officer standing in the doorway, who left, closing the
door behind him.

Claire was
about to say she was fine standing up, but the thought of sitting down was
suddenly quite attractive, so she seated herself in the chair furthest from the
mirror. After a few minutes waiting in silence, the lights went on in the other
room, and the lights in the observation room dimmed. A chill slithered up Claire’s
back as she waited for whatever would happen next. She took a moment to study
the empty room.

The walls were
dull white, and the furthest one had several black lines running the length of
it with increments of height marked with black tape or paint. There was also a
thick black line painted on the concrete floor, obviously to mark where the
lineup suspects were supposed to stand when they came in.

She
chuckled—out of nervousness—when the song “Toe the Line,” popped into her head.

“Love isn’t
always on time.”

“Just be a few
minutes, now,” Trudeau said, and Claire nodded. She shifted in her chair,
hoping to get comfortable, but she found it impossible to relax.

“Will they be
able to see or hear me?” she asked.

“Don’t worry.”
Trudeau’s voice came from behind. A faint reflection of his face drifted across
the glass like a pale, floating balloon. “It’s always a little intimidating,
but they can’t see through the one-way mirror, and this room’s perfectly
soundproofed. They can only hear us if we turn on the microphone.” He indicated
the microphone near the mirror.

Claire nodded
and cleared her throat, which by now was desert dry. She wished now that she
had accepted Trudeau’s offer of some water.

This is
fucking serious…I have to get this right
, she reminded herself. It wasn’t a
lark, and it wasn’t a TV show. This was real life, and a man’s future depended
on what she said and did in the next few minutes.

The door in
the lineup room suddenly opened, and three policemen ushered in a line of five
men. They were all dressed casually, and they all walked with the same
shuffling gait with their heads bowed as though even the innocent ones were
ashamed to be here.

Claire reacted
the instant she recognized the man who had attacked her, and almost shouted,
“That’s him! Right there! He’s the one who—”

But that was
all she got out because her gaze shifted to the last man in the lineup when he
raised his head.

She was barely
able to choke back a cry of surprise.

“What the—?”

It was Samael!

His hair was
scruffy, his face bristled with dark beard stubble, and his skin was sallow,
not the healthy bronze glow she remembered so well. His clothes were rumpled,
and hung loosely from his body. He looked thinner and much frailer, certainly
not the well-dressed, well-chiseled man she knew and was sure she loved.

It can’t be
him!
She thought, but she looked closely, and there was no mistake.

Samael was
definitely staring at the one-way mirror, and a faint smile crossed his face as
he stared at the glass as if he could clearly see her through the reflective
surface.

Claire still
couldn’t believe it was him. She looked at his baggy trousers, trying to see
some indication of his tail. But even when she didn’t, she was positive it was
him.