A Christmas Demon for Clara Page 2

  He said it all so seriously that she had to laugh. "You can't just logic lemon bars into existence. And you're not even my customer yet."

  He dug out a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. Instead of setting it on the corner as she'd expected, he took her by the wrist and twisted her hand over so he could lay the bill on her palm. "Give me something, then. A butter bar. And one of those muffins. Keep the change."

  She started to box them, but the man reached over the counter to pluck the butter bar from her hand and chomp into it. Clara watched in awe as he devoured the square in three bites. He chewed thoughtfully, rolling his head back and forth before swallowing. His eyes rolled back as a satisfied moan rumbled out of his chest.

  "Another," the man demanded, and she was already retrieving one before she realized he was thrusting another bill at her.

  "Oh, that's alright. The first twenty was more than enough for the bars and the—"

  "Take it," the man growled, his peculiar purple irises whirling in a way that Clara somehow knew was pleasure. He devoured the second one in the same way and produced yet another twenty for the last one in the case. He glared at the empty space as she pulled the tray out and tossed it in a dish bin. "When will you have more of them?"

  "Tomorrow, when I've baked them again," she said as she rang up the sale and tossed the bills in the drawer. "Here's your muffin."

  He took the box from her, staring it down before opening it then closing it again. "I should save this for later."

  Clara nodded. "You'll get a tummy ache otherwise."

  The man's eyes, sated a moment ago, narrowed into a glare. "Are you accusing me of weakness?"

  Clara cast a glance at Jonathan, who had backed down but was still lingering by the refrigerator case. The man shook his head ever so slightly, signaling that she should absolutely not say she was.

  She wasn't, anyway. "Not at all! But isn't it better sometimes to save things so you can savor them later?"

  She wasn't sure how that would go over, but he cast her a lazy, almost cat-like smile, playful but passive. "I like to have things now and also later. When you make the butter bars tomorrow, you'll also make the lemon bars."

  Clara snorted. "You are a persistent one, aren't you? I'll try to make them for you before the spring, but not before Christmas. And I won't hold them for you, so you'll have to call to see if we have them. They'll sell out quickly, so call early."

  The man nodded. "But I won't call you. I'll see you. Every single day. You'll be so sick of me you'll be stocking lemon bars by Friday."

  Clara laughed lightly. "If you're running me out of stock, I doubt I'll care."

  The man started to say something, thought better of it, and nodded in farewell. It wasn't until he was already out the door and heading away that she ran outside to get a final word with him. "Wait a second!" she called as he turned down an alley, palming a piece of chalk he'd pulled from his pocket.

  He looked back and took his time looking her up and down before his eyes settled on her chest. His grin showed far too many sharp teeth. "That dress flatters you nicely, by the way."

  Clara rarely gave much sass to people, especially paying customers, but she grinned right back and said, "I don't need demons killing angels in my town square. I have ghosts for that. By the way."

  She turned back in time to see Jonathan passing through the brick wall to check on her. He'd always been good for killing the angels that came for her. She truly didn't need a demon helping out, not one bit.

  Chapter 3

  The handsome stranger didn't go far. Despite exiting with apparent purpose, it was barely fifteen minutes later that Clara spotted him pacing by her front door, his russet hair gleaming in violet highlights as the wind swept it up.

  "What do you suppose he's doing out there?" she asked Laurel, one of her resident ghosts.

  The wispy ghost, perpetually exhausted from a lifetime raising eight kids in the late ninteenth century, pointed a spindly finger at the window. "Setting traps, he is."

  Blood rushed to Clara's ears. "For ghosts?"

  "No, miss. He's hunting angels, same as us."

  "I told him my ghosts take care of that."

  "And we will, miss. Don't you worry your head. You've a ball tonight."

  Clara did, one she and her sisters had devoted all their extra hours to this week. There was no end to the special orders this season, but the gala was the reason they got those orders at all. They needed to make sure everything was perfect for tonight, and Clara, as the spokeswoman for Sweet Moments by Jubilee, had to make sure she was perfect.

  She had her afternoon too tightly scheduled to worry about the demon.

  That's what she told herself when she left the shop at two and found the demon waiting at the door to escort her around. She ignored him as politely as she could, calling to a couple up ahead and catching up to them to chat as though she hadn't noticed him there.

  He followed her into Will Clarkson's bookstore, and although she did her best to ignore him again, she noticed that while she went straight to the counter, he made his way to the cookbooks. His attention was split between Clara and the books, and he even brought a gastronomy coffee-table book with him when he stood behind Clara at the register.

  He stood very close, close enough that she could feel heat radiating from his body. Were demons warmer than humans? He was like a cozy blanket inviting her to sink into him.

  Will rushed up from the back. The small, studious man, only a few years older than Clara and every bit as established with his independent bookstore as Clara and her sisters were with their shop, was waving a paper-wrapped bundle in the air. "Perfect timing!" he said with a laugh and a friendly, sparkling smile. "It's just come in. The other two were easy finds, but this one took some time."

  Clara stroked the spine of the book through its wrapping when he handed it over, knowing it must have been her gift to Eloise. The other two books she'd ordered were for Hazel, and they were common enough. An original print of the English translation of De Praestigiis Daemonum? That was a little more complicated. "Thank you so much for finding this, Will."

  His cheeks lit up. "Anything for you. I was wondering, would you…ahh…tonight? What I mean to say is, will I see you at—?" Will's words cut off sharply at a rumbling behind her.

  The demon was growling.

  "Can I help you?" Will asked in a voice the wrong octave.

  The demon held up his book. "I'm in a bit of a hurry, my apologies." He spoke unapologetically, and his grin was entirely satisfied. His growl had accomplished whatever he meant it to.

  "What was that about?" Clara asked when the demon caught up with her again halfway to the salon.

  The demon, who'd smartly walked slightly behind her, took the invitation to step beside her and lean in as though they were old friends.

  "That male was attempting to court you. He is beneath you."

  Clara snorted with laughter. "My goodness, no! He's not trying to…to court me. He's a friend. And what a terrible thing to say, that he's beneath me."

  The demon pulled ahead so he could drag his eyes down and back up her body, so she could see him do it. "You are exquisite, Miss Jubilee. And you are fierce. That shop boy was weak and pathetic. Unworthy."

  Clara couldn't hold back her flush. Some men did find her attractive, she wasn't naive, but it had been years since a man had gotten away with checking her out like that before she shut him down. White River was a very small town, and the locals knew Clara wasn't interested in a romantic relationship, even if they didn't know why.

  Ghosts made for relationships tricky.

  Perhaps it was because the man before her was a demon, but she hesitated to push him away. It was nice, after all, and this wasn’t going to lead to anything, so why not enjoy it? Nothing would happen, so her ghosts wouldn't be an issue.

  Still, he'd insulted her friend, so she couldn't help but say, "Keep insulting my friends, and you'll never g
et my lemon bars," as she swept past him, swinging her hips.

  "He's not weak or pathetic," the demon called up to her, "but he's not worthy of you."

  At the salon, Miss Jubilee stared Locke down but said nothing. When she was escorted to the next room to get her hair done, Locke drew a small portal on his pant leg—uncomfortable but effective in a pinch—to make sure she was safe. She emerged from the room with a gigantic hood over her hair to protect it from the rain. A shame, as Locke was curious about what they had done to her cobalt-tipped curls.

  "Will you be following me to the dress shop?" she asked as she sashayed past him.

  No way he was missing that. The conversation she'd had with the bookseller had irritated him but also intrigued him, even more so now that he saw how much effort she was putting into the evening.

  She spent an hour at the shop, and Locke took the time to buy himself a new tux. Normally he only went for bespoken clothing, but the fit was good and the style was new to him.

  "Forgot to get something for the Winter Wonderful Gala?" the tailor asked as he hemmed the pants Locke wore.

  So that's what she was up to tonight. And lucky Locke, he was already dressed for it.

  "Will I be seeing you tonight?" Clara asked from behind him. He twisted to tell her she definitely would, only to see that she was talking to the woman at the register.

  "Heavens, no!" the elderly woman laughed. "I make the fancy stuff. I don't wear it."

  Clara clucked her tongue. "You sound just like my sisters. One day I'll host my own fancy ball and invite only the three of you, and then you won't have any choice but to attend." She bid the woman farewell and left the shop with a little wave to Locke.

  He nearly took off after her, but he was wearing pants he hadn't paid for, inside out, that were still being hemmed. Not a good look.

  "You don't know what time the Gala begins at, do you?"

  The tailor chuckled. "About an hour from now. You cut it close. Hoping to meet up with the baker there?"

  "Just her lemon bars."

  The man shot up to his feet. "Did she make lemon bars? Are they at the shop? They haven't sold out yet, have they? Betty! Betty, run over to Sweet Moments and get—"

  "There aren't any," Locke growled. "Finish the hem."

  The man worked quickly, but still Locke was an hour late to the gala—and without an invitation. He slipped into the shadows, pacing the perimeter for an entrance, finding one the most irritating way: another damn cherub was heading toward a side door. The ghosts had handled the last two he'd seen, but there were no ghosts lurking this time.

  He summoned his lasso and blade again, reminding himself he'd never lied to Miss Jubilee, only defied her. He hadn't agreed to not kill cherubim.

  This cherub's wisp was so cold it was blue, a seasoned veteran, but no more dangerous than any other. A snap of the lasso, and he tumbled to Locke's feet.

  Locke stepped on its puffed-up stomach. He squatted down, said, "Why are you attacking Miss Jubilee?" and cut the thing's ear off.

  "You didn't give me time to answer!" it screeched, dropping its sword to cover the bloody mess.

  "I'm not here to waste time. Answer my question or I'll cut your other ear off!"

  He cut the ear off.

  "What the hey, man!"

  "And curse like a fucking adult, you fat asshole."

  It didn't argue that. Cherubim were sexless, chipper, globs of love unless they were combat trained, in which case they were sexless, dreary globs of weapons. But they never swore, and that pissed Locke off.

  "I'm just doing my job. That woman is an abomination."

  "I heard that before. What's she done?"

  "She communes with ghosts."

  "Communes, like…?" Locke's words trailed off as he switched to hand gestures, the index and thumb of one hand forming a circle for the index of the other hand to slide in and out of.

  Despite gushing blood from both sides of its head, the cherub managed to recoil. "That's disgusting. Her ghosts don't cross over, as is the natural course to Heaven or Hell. Your kind should be offended, too. Some of her souls belong to you."

  Locke snorted. "None of hers belong to me. I slaughter the ones that try to escape—the ones like you." Cherubim were no better than the scourge, crawling out of their rightful place in the seas of souls.

  A quick stab, and the cherub dissolved away.

  Locke walked through the door and into a back room near the kitchens, the door likely left open to cool the kitchen down. Locke made his way to the ballroom, unsurprised to find it decorated much the same way as the town square, but in a more appealing motif of silver, gold, and ice blue. A far cry from the fires and mud of Hell, and Locke gave himself a moment to appreciate the clean winter theme.

  The sweet tinkling of laughter nearby helped, too. He scanned the crowd to find the source and smiled at finding his Miss Jubilee. He caught sight of her just as the group in front of her walked past, revealing her in stages.

  Silvery hair twisted into a bouffant above, left to trail in loose ringlets trailing down her back.

  Lips dusted in violet and burgundy, nibbling on the rim of a champagne flute.

  Sparkling gown, tight enough to fluff up her chest but with a sophisticated neckline. The palest of silver satin hugged her ample hips. A translucent, sapphire-adorned lace covered every inch of her below the neck.

  Locke's eyes dragged back up to hers, only to find the pale jade focused not on him, but on the man she spoke to. A man who would surely die by the night was over.

  Because Locke was hungry now, and it was no longer just for lemon bars.

  Chapter 4

  Stephen Crown had been Clara's friend since first grade, twenty years now. She couldn't remember anything of him before then, but it was a small town and they'd both been born here, so Clara wouldn't have been surprised to learn they'd occasionally shared a crib.

  He was also gay in a town too small to have its own LGBT community, and he was too cripplingly shy to reach out. Clara tried to introduce him to others, but he was about as hopeless as she was—for very different reasons. A shame, really, because he was also very charming. If she could just get him to turn on that charm around others, Clara was sure he'd have his happily ever after.

  Instead, he flirted unabashedly with Clara, and Clara couldn't help but giggle at all his lines. After all, he actually knew color and fashion words instead of the lame "Nice dress" and "Is that your real hair?" she got from most men.

  The poor things. Even if they came up with the material Stephen floated her way, they'd still fail with her. But she wanted them to do better, anyway. It was a matter of principle.

  "Stephen," she cooed as she linked her arm with his. "My dear heart. Have you met Dennis Haversham?" She dragged him over to the man who was making himself a plate of pastries. He was perhaps fifteen years Stephen's senior, but she thought they'd make a lovely couple. "He's just moved here from Ohio, and you'll like him."

  She winked.

  Stephen groaned. "I'm a lost cause, Clara. We're both lost causes."

  "I am not a lost cause!" she laughed. "I'm not a cause at all. Oh, Dennis!" she called, and the man turned around to cast her a friendly smile.

  "Thank you so much for getting me an invitation to this. Everyone's been so kind to me. I mention you, and everyone is suddenly an old friend."

  Clara gave him a hug. "I'm so glad. You deserve it. I wanted to introduce someone who is an old friend—of mine, and now of yours. This is Stephen Crown. He's—oh, hello?" she squeaked, keeping her manners through her alarm as someone grabbed her arm forcefully and pulled her back.

  The demon, of course.

  "Hello," he said, his voice almost polite if not for the bite of aggression to it. "Clara, is it? We weren't properly introduced before."

  "It is, yes," she said as she lowered her eyes from the intensity of his. He was looking at her the way he'd looked at that second, and third,
butter bar. "I don't believe I caught your name."

  "Locke," he said shortly. Not so politely, either, but he was a demon. She could forgive that.

  "Mr. Locke, may I introduce you to—"

  "Just Locke."

  "Ah." She wanted to ask if he did have a last name, but perhaps that was a sore subject best left alone. "May I introduce you—oh, okay then," she mumbled as he pulled her away from Stephen and Dennis, who both looked concerned about how she was being handled. She forced herself to laugh and call to them, "You two enjoy your evenings!" so they wouldn't think anything was amiss.

  "Clara,” the demon said quietly, against her ear so no one else could hear. “I have an urgent matter to address with you."

  She held back a groan. The ball was a good time for her to meet and greet with everyone and then fade into the shadows. Her ghosts would be too scattered by the festivities to keep her company. She'd been looking forward to the break from the constant attention. "Locke, I'd really prefer not to discuss the lemon bars—"

  "It's a ball, and I've no dance partner."

  Sure enough, the demon was pulling her out to the floor, where they were swept into the flow of dancers. There were few opportunities for White River residents to show off their ballroom skills, but the evening dance classes at the local college were booked all year in preparation for the event.

  She wasn't surprised that the demon knew how to dance properly, but she was impressed with how light he was on his feet as he swung her around the dance floor, leading her cautiously at first, spinning her in more complicated moves after they'd gotten comfortable. The dance floor was congested, many of the people out there not quite so skilled, but he deftly navigated them around without incident, even when he sent her out and back in spinning flourishes.