Demon

“I’m a busy man,” he said, smiling at me. He had a dimple in his left cheek, and his skin was flushed pink. He looked like a young man in the throes of infatuation. I had never seen him like this.

“I don’t need to tell you the committee liked what I gave them, do I?”

“Of course they liked it.” He smiled again and looked around. “I haven’t been here since they expanded.” A waitress came for his order. He smiled at her and, with a look at my cup, asked for coffee.

“Helen assumes the content is mine, and that it’s fiction,” I said, shaving the corner off the bread pudding, taking just enough ice cream with it.

“But of course.”

“It feels dishonest.”

He shrugged. “If you want to put ‘as told to’ before your name, be my guest, though it won’t do wonders for your credibility.”

“I plan to use a pen name.” It would be my concession to a conscience that knew it could not claim full credit for Lucian’s story—only my own.

“A nom de plume? How mysterious.”

I did not say that it was also practical, a means of separating this work from my former, failed attempts at publishing.

The demon seemed to be elsewhere, just disengaged enough from our conversation to be unflappable, which bothered me. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“I’m comfortable with knowing how it ends.” It came out more calmly than I expected.

“Soon,” he said. “You’ll know. I promise.” He returned his focus to me with an absent smile.

“What you don’t seem to understand is that I can’t even finish a synopsis without”— I stopped as the waitress reappeared. Lucian smiled up at her, and I considered my soggy bread pudding, not wanting to follow their small talk. I wasn’t in the mood to witness any kind of interaction that I had not had since—since Lucian’s trick in the bookstore.

“Don’t be so sour, Clay,” he said after she left.

“I’m not sour.”

“You will be when you see . . . this,” he said, lifting a scrap of paper from the table with a triumphant flick of his hand. I stared, exasperated, at a number with the name Nikki scribbled next to it.

“I’m trying to discuss this memoir that is so important to you, and you’re collecting phone numbers?”

He tucked it inside his jacket. I couldn’t help wondering what would become of that number—and the woman it belonged to.

“All right, you want to get to the end of the book.”

The skin on my arms prickled.

There’s a monster.

I suddenly wondered if I might have done better to stay home. I needed sleep. Television. A movie. I needed to focus on something normal—nothing, in other words—like any other anesthetized human for once. But I knew I wouldn’t trade being here for sleep or time in front of a television I had not turned on for more than a month.

Lucian settled into his chair as though getting down to business and lifted his coffee cup. I gave him a quizzical look.

“First, a toast.”

“To what?” I was almost afraid to know.

“To you, Clay. They’re going to love your story,” he said. “You’ll have a contract within three months—not to mention a nice little advance.”

Something lurched inside me, scrabbling at his words like pennies on the ground. I wanted to believe him. How I wanted to believe him! “You said you’re not omniscient.” But I lifted my coffee cup. He clinked it, sloshing coffee over the edges of both our rims.

“I’m not. But as you know, I play the percentages. And I would bet money on it.”

I took a tentative sip, trying not to think about it, but it was too late; my heart had started a desperate little dance.

I had to admit I could use the money. Moving my books and sparse belongings to Cambridge and trying to replace the furniture I had given to Aubrey had not done wonders for my checkbook. I supposed I had Lucian to thank for providing me other matters to focus on than the minimalist décor of my apartment that Mrs. Russo had so generously called “Spartan.”

“Speaking of which, you should look into some of those last-minute vacation specials.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“Put it on your credit card. You deserve it. You can finish the story on the beach.”

I dropped my head, slid my hands over my hair. The beach. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen a beach or taken a vacation.

“Meanwhile, if we have a book to write, we’d better get to it. Now then . . .” He scrubbed the back of his head.

“The Messiah was born,” I said slowly, not wanting to remember the look of that withered face again, contorted in that terrible smile.

“Of course,” he said, leaning forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely together, “by the time of that horrible, eerie night, Lucifer had made tempting the faithful and bringing them before El like so many unruly children his life’s work. Not that it brought Lucifer much joy.”

“It’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?”