Personal Demons (16 page)

Finally, the draw of the mural outweighs her fear of the bed, and she walks over and picks a paintbrush up off the stack of painting supplies in the corner. “Who’s painting your wall?”

“That would be me.”

She spins to look at me. “No way.”

I can’t help but smile as she turns back to the mural and runs her finger along the contour of a blue flame emanating from the red molten surface of the Lake. “This is really dark . . . scary, but cool. What is it?”

“Hell.”

She turns away from the wall and stands there facing me for several heartbeats. “So, where do you want to work?” she finally asks, looking around.

I shoot a glance at the bed and smile.

She shivers, even though it’s far from cold in here, and takes a long draught off her beer. She opens her book bag, pulls her composition book out, and sits on the rug next to the bed, taking another sip.

I walk to the stereo, pop in Linkin Park, and turn it up just loud enough to feel the bass in my bones.

“Where’s your TV?” she asks.

I sit on the rug next to her. “Don’t have one.”

“Then how do you watch so much History Channel?”

I really need to be more careful. “I had one. It broke.”

“Oh,” she says, pulling
The Grapes of Wrath
from her book bag. “So, what do you think Tom should do?”

“Go straight to jail,” and then to the Inferno afterward, “do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.”

She nervously drains her beer. I glide up off of the floor and to the fridge, returning in a second with two more. As I pop the top and hand one to her, I “accidentally” brush my fingers along the inside of her wrist. Her eyes widen for an instant and her breath catches. A reaction to the heat of my touch? Or is it more? Ginger . . . mmm.

Yes, this is much better—the direct approach. Because my last game plan—the indirect approach—sucked. I had to fix it, so I pushed just a little power at her after English. And here she is. With me.

Alone.

A rush of hot electricity plays under my skin as I imagine the possibilities.

She looks at me and takes another hit off her beer. “So, why are you so hard on Tom? What did he ever do to you?”

I laugh. If he wasn’t fictional we’d probably be pals. “Well, let’s see . . . to me, nothing. But to others, stole from them and murdered them. Nothing major, I guess.”

She looks at me, all incredulity. “Did you actually read the book? ’Cause he had good reasons for doing what he did.” Mmm, how I love that fire.

“Oh, so there are good reasons for murder . . . I didn’t know. So sorry.”

“Sometimes. Even our judicial system lets people off if there were extenuating circumstances.”

“Hmm, yes, our infallible judicial system.”

“And the church too. They forgive people who have killed if they had no choice.”

“Okay, don’t get me started on the church.”

“You’re the most cynical person I’ve ever met.”

“Just a realist.”

“Maybe that was the deal with my parents. Did you pull this shit on them?”

Her words start to slur a little as she gets more and more agitated, and I fight the smile that’s threatening to sprout on my lips. “I barely said hello to them.”

“ ’Cause my parents like everyone—even Taylor. I’ve never seen them act like that before.”

Because you’ve never brought home a demon before. “Don’t know what to tell you. People just react to me that way sometimes.” I watch her blush. Her reaction to me seems to be quite the opposite, which works for me. And the beer seems to be loosening her up a little.

We sit for a long while, her staring at me and me staring right back. Finally I say, “Your parents like Taylor, huh?”

Her eyelids look heavy. “She cracks them up. They love her pink hair.”

I let myself smile now. “So maybe that’s my problem. I need pink hair.”

She laughs—a deep belly laugh—and it stirs something in me, makes me feel . . . alive. She leans back against the bed, her
laugh becoming more of a giggle, and closes her eyes. Drunk on two beers—a lightweight.

“Mmm . . . yeah. Except it’d clash with your red eyes,” she says, drifting off.

My red eyes?
She
is
observant. But the truth is I can’t take my eyes off her. Her breathing becomes slower and deeper as she drifts into sleep, and I’m still staring. I feel it again—lust, who is becoming a familiar old friend. But there’s more, something else deeper, just on the edge of the lust, that I don’t quite recognize.

I could take her now if I wanted to. And part of me is screaming for that—to take her flesh. But another part of me, connected to that foreign feeling, is also screaming. It’s screaming for her soul. I could take
that
right now too. And if I did, we would be together—in every way—for all of eternity.

But she hasn’t even been tagged yet. She has to earn her place in Hell. And besides, I have no justification for bringing her soul back with me now—except I want her. I know He wants her too, eventually, but my king has plans for her in the meantime.

It couldn’t hurt to have a little taste, though, could it? She won’t remember it, and she would never even need to know. I sit for several minutes, staring at her and arguing with myself. But, in the end, unhealthy curiosity wins out and I give in. I lean against the bed next to her and close my eyes, collecting myself. I gather my essence and feel it leave my body and enter Frannie through her slightly parted lips.

The first thing that hits me is how comfortable it is. Usually possession feels tight and claustrophobic, but this . . . this feels pleasant. No, not pleasant . . .
good.
I work my way toward her
mind—not to control it, just to take a peek. I want to know Frannie’s hopes, fears, deepest desires. But I pull back at the last second because it doesn’t feel right. It feels like an invasion of her privacy.

I chuckle to myself.
Like I’m not already doing that.
Isn’t possession the ultimate invasion of privacy?

Instead, I seek out her essence—her soul. And when I find it, it takes my breath away. I’ve never experienced anything close to its beauty: shimmering opalescent white shot through with silver and rich greens and blues, like mother of pearl. So unlike the seedy, dark souls Collections drag back to the Abyss. And it’s spicy-sweet, clove and currant on my tongue and in my nose. But there’s more . . . a sense of profound hope and . . . something else.

My slick, black obsidian essence swirls and twines with hers, and I’m embarrassed by the thick, oily feel of it compared to the silk of hers. But as we dance, my brimstone heart soars.

I let myself be with her and it feels like I’m welcome here . . . like she wants me. I lose myself in her, exploring as we dance. When she pulls a shuddering breath and moans—in pleasure?—I realize that maybe this is one place we can
truly
be together. I let my essence get closer and blend it with hers. And in that second, as her shimmering white blends with my glossy black, what I feel is . . .
everything.
I feel an overwhelming rush of sensations with no name, at least in the demonic realm. Things I can’t identify or describe. I can’t even begin to explain the sensation, except that it’s something I’ve never felt before and it’s something
real.

She moans again and whispers, “Luc . . .” It’s a sound like music, but also a wake-up call. I need to get out of here before
I get myself into trouble. But it’s nearly impossible to make myself leave. Almost against my will, I compel my essence to seep back out between her lips, savoring their caress as I move between them. As I reenter my own human shell, it suddenly feels empty and cold, despite the demonic heat I bring back with me.

I breathe deep, letting the air fill me, pushing out the building turmoil, and fight the overwhelming urge to jump back into her body.

Satan save me . . . what was that?

I pull myself to my feet, force my eyes away from her and walk to the window, where a small black spider is furiously building a web across the upper corner. I watch for a while as she moves quickly and smoothly around the circle of her lair, efficiently and meticulously constructing the perfect trap. Flawless.

I wonder how mine got so big and out of control.

I have no idea what I’m doing. No game plan. The indirect approach doesn’t work when all I can do is obsess about being with her, touching her. But I don’t have the discipline to handle the direct approach—clearly. I’m out of approaches.

I sit on the floor next to Frannie and just stare for a long minute. Then I find myself leaning toward her. And I just barely brush my lips across hers.

In my dream, Luc and I are dancing under the stars. We’re so close I can feel him everywhere, almost like he’s right inside
me. And then we’re doing more than dancing, and his touch feels like heaven. I hear myself moan as I climb right into him.

Something very soft but very hot brushes across my lips and, as my eyes snap open, I see him just backing off. In some sort of reflexive reaction—or maybe it’s the beer—my hand darts up, wraps in the silky black hair on the back of his head, and pulls his face back to mine. He pulls away just the tiniest bit and I almost let go, but then his lips are on mine again, soft and oh-so-hot.

He has to be about a thousand degrees, and it feels like he’s burning my hand and my mouth. But at the same time, it feels so good. I lose myself in his touch, and I swear my head and my heart are both about to explode. No other kiss has ever felt like this. It’s electric in its intensity, making every nerve ending buzz. His lips part, and I taste his cinnamon, breathe it in, and it feels like it fills me, like part of him is seeping right into my body, making me whole. But I don’t close my eyes, and neither does he. As I watch, his eyes soften and the red glow of the fire that’s always present behind the black of his irises flares for a second.

When I finally let him go, he pulls back and looks sorta dazed and confused. Which is pretty much how I feel. He stares at me for a long time, and I start to think I really screwed up. But then concern touches his expression, and he asks, “Are you okay, Frannie?” like his kiss could hurt me somehow.

Am I okay? I’m not sure. ’Cause I feel light-headed, and some sensation I can’t even put a name to is rolling through me in waves, making me feel a little sick. I’m drained but energized all at the same time. My heart feels like a frog in my chest, and I start to worry that it might never be the same. I stare at him,
trying to catch my breath. But what I see in those black pools does nothing to help my breathing. “Uh-huh. What about you?”

The concern doesn’t leave his eyes. “Great,” he says, but he doesn’t sound “great.”

I remember Taylor and feel sicker. “So . . . what happened with you and Taylor last night?”

He looks a little surprised. “Nothing. I thought she would have told you that.”

“She was a little fuzzy on the details.”

He thinks about that for a long second. “Really. Interesting,” he says. Then he looks at me for another long second and his jaw clenches. His eyes shift away from mine, and he examines his hands as he asks, “What about you and Gabriel?”

“Nothing.” The giddiness I feel at the revelation that Luc cared more than he let on is immediately crushed by the ache in my chest at my own lie. I close my eyes and drop my head back onto the bed.

It hits me like a lightning bolt out of Heaven—some giddy, wild feeling, dizzying in its intensity, making me want to run. Run from Frannie. Or to her. I don’t know which.

And what I felt when she kissed me—I have no clue
what
that was. Some shift in my core. So, what in unholy Hell do I do now?

My job. She needs to be tagged. Which means I should keep
working my way down the lust path, making the whole wrath and envy thing all that much easier . . . right?

“I guess we should get back to work.” Or I should, at least. It probably wouldn’t be impossible to get her into bed . . . maybe another beer, a little power push . . . just the suggestion.

And then I catch the scent of warm chocolate. What signal is Frannie’s psyche giving off now? One I don’t recognize.

“Yeah,” she says, smiling. She pulls her composition book back into her lap from where it slid onto the rug.

I stare into her eyes, trying to read her. I’m not sure if this is part of my game plan or not. I’m finding it really hard to look anywhere else. And she’s staring right back. I start to reach for her again and she looks like she wants me to, but then I pull my hand back as some jab of something hits me. Because I want her in more ways than I can describe—in
every
way. But something’s stopping me from just taking her.

There’s some deep, throbbing knot in my chest—my heart?
Are you kidding?
Brimstone doesn’t throb. I look at her again, smiling at me. She wouldn’t be smiling if she knew what I was. I should tell her. That would be the right thing to do.

Oh, for the love of all things unholy.
Is that a conscience? What in Hell’s name is happening to me? Is this my boss’s idea of a joke? No—as sadistic as he is, I’m pretty sure Beherit wouldn’t find any humor in this.

Gabriel.

This has to be his fault, somehow. I’m going to track him down, pluck out his angel feathers, and stuff a pillow with them.

I pull a deep breath and try to clear my head. My gaze returns
to Frannie just as a wicked little smile turns up the corners of her kissable lips. I don’t remember ever wanting anything so much. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was born of covet instead of pride.

“So . . . chapter twenty-eight . . .” I say, looking away and opening my composition book.