A Christmas Demon for Clara Page 3

  "Are there many ballrooms in Hell?" Clara joked when the song ended and the crowd clapped for the band.

  Locke pulled her close to him, to his warmth and that smart tux that she'd already at the shop. She maybe shouldn't have been letting her eyes stray to a demon, but he was an attractive man, and to Clara, no different than any other. A paying customer. The cherub-killing she couldn't judge him for; her ghosts had been doing that for years, sending them straight back to Heaven for her.

  "I enjoy my time on Earth," he purred in her ear.

  "A lot of time, I take it," she whispered quietly enough no one else would hear her. "I'm told your kind has long lives."

  "We do. If I were human, I would have been long dead by the time your kind first invented the waltz, and I'm glad I was here for it. It was the first time I could hold a woman this close without being banned from the ball."

  Clara was a big fan of hugs, so she supposed being held like this, even with him behind her, the palms of his large hands spread across her stomach, was no different. Yes, she decided, this was absolutely fine.

  "Do you spend all your time here?"

  "No, demons must live in Hell, but I'm free to visit Earth at my leisure."

  Clara had heard stories of the barren wastes, flaming forests, and wicked waters of Hell, and what she'd heard of buildings were mostly scary castles built into the sides of mountains, surrounded by lands impassable to other demons. Not surprising he’d spend what time he could on Earth. “What do you do in Hell? I'm told there are no cherubim there for you to hunt."

  "I hunted them today to protect you."

  "You don't know me."

  "I know how to foxtrot," he said as the band started up again and his hands pulled her closer. "Do you?"

  "What is your work, Locke?"

  He took her hand and spun her in a quick twist to face him. "I'm a warrior there, as I will be here until you make your lemon bars."

  "You fight other demons?"

  "I quell scourge uprisings. It is considered noble work."

  He took her by the waist to lead her in the complicated steps, pushing her away and dragging her back, spinning her until she was dizzy and then bringing her to his side for a promenade. "But you don't consider it noble," she pointed out in the dips.

  "It's a job that must be done, and I'm good at it. Here's the tricky step." He distracted her by lifting her off the ground with a spin, catching her by surprise when he flashed a big, fangy smile at her, making her burst into laughter before squelching it with a quick tug. The song was short, but she was breathless when it was over.

  The demon was glowing. So peculiar, she thought, as he led her off the dance floor to the refreshment table. He didn't ask, simply poured a punch for her and snagged a glass of whiskey for himself.

  "You're an excellent dance partner, Locke. Thank you." She started to wander away, thinking that with the dance over, he no longer had business with her, but he snagged her waist and led her toward a back room.

  She started to lecture him about manhandling her, but then she noticed his eyes were neither on her nor on the door. He was glaring at Stephen and Dennis. Stephen cocked his head to the side, and Dennis whispered something in his ear.

  "What is this about?" Clara whispered.

  Locke's eyes narrowed further, and she swore she heard a growl emanating from his chest. "Who are those men?"

  "Those men? They're—" Clara burst into laughter that hit her so hard she had to lean her forehead on Locke's arm as her eyes welled with tears. "Oh, my goodness. Locke, they're not…beaus or whatever. Boyfriends. They're just friends. And they're gay. I'm trying to get a match between them, and it looks like it's working. Look at the way they're leaning together. Isn't it sweet?"

  Locke's eyes returned to hers. His peculiar smirk confused her until she noticed she was leaning against him in a similar fashion.

  Clara straightened up and cleared her throat, worried he might get the wrong idea. "Well, anyway, we can't go back here. This is for the service crew."

  "Are you not part of the service crew? Those are your sweets all over the table. I was about to eat the entire display when I saw you and decided I wanted you instead."

  He said it without any playful inflection. Clara didn't doubt he would have wiped the table clean if given the opportunity. "I am not a snack for your tasting," she bristled. His words had sent a shiver up her spine, one that made her think she needed to squash this before she got herself into trouble. "And I'm not part of the service crew, not now. I am a guest, same as…well, probably not you. Did you have an invitation?"

  His grin was lopsided, baring just one of his wicked fangs. "I did not. And I didn't mean to offend. I only assumed that, as part of the catering team, you would have access to this area. I thought to get us some nighttime air."

  "Oh, there's a balcony to the back of the ballroom where—well, I suppose we can go this way," she said when Locke pushed right through the swinging doors and into the kitchen. Eloise was back there along with a crew of about a dozen, and Clara couldn't believe Locke wasn't at least flinching at the daggers they shot him.

  "We're only getting some air," Clara told the crew. "Back in a jiff. Ellie, did you see that we're out of—never mind." Locke dragged her straight back to the loading dock and on to the small garden beyond the parking lot, a dormant rose garden maintained by the year-round staff at the venue. Clara had taken her share of lunches out here in warmer weather, and she wondered if the demon knew how she relished those moments of peace when the ghosts were caught up in the rush of organizing events.

  "It's lovely tonight, isn't it?" Clara asked.

  He took a step behind her to wrap his arms around her chest. "My apologies. I've dragged you out here without even a shawl."

  "How are you so abrasive one second and polite the next?" she marveled.

  "Was that polite? I wanted you to myself, but I didn't want you cold. That's all."

  She frowned as she looked up at the sky. She wasn't any good at this. She'd never known how to handle flirtatious men except to push them away. "Locke, I'm not sure what you think is happening here, but…" She sighed. "You don't have me to yourself."

  "Don't I? It's you and I out here, alone, not even a ghost or cherub lurking about."

  Odd. She hadn't seen many ghosts tonight and not a single cherub, in fact. Her ghosts should have been flitting around, mostly ignoring her, but present.

  Tonight, nothing.

  "Locke, I—what do you suppose that is?"

  She pointed to the sky, where an object that seemed at first to be a star was growing bigger. The longer she watched it, the brighter it grew, and the more detail she saw.

  "Fucked to Hell," Locke cursed. "You're in some trouble, Miss Jubilee."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  The glowing shape stretched into the form of a man. It was nothing like the cherubim who started as sprites before plumping out into the weird blueberry things she'd been stunned to discover were angelic in nature. This was very much a masculine shape, and behind him were glittering scrolls of wings that flapped slowly in his descent.

  "What happened to that cherub?" she whispered to Locke, leaning closer to him.

  "That's not a cherub, that's a seraph, and he's about to be a whole ass problem."

  Chapter 5

  Locke didn't have much in the way of feelings about cherubim. Bits to squash under his feet. Seraphim, meanwhile, were much harder to kill and had a nasty habit of killing demons right back. Locke preferred to avoid them entirely. It wasn't like they were going to be friends, and it was rare that their paths needed to cross.

  This was a Hell-to-Handbaskets collision. Locke could have dipped out right now, left the woman to her fate and moved on with his existence, but he wasn't about to give up on those damn lemon bars. He wasn't going to let one of these glowy bastards keep him from sating his hunger with the gooey sweet-and-tart treat.

  He tuck
ed Clara beside him. There were other treats he wanted from her, and he didn't want this idiot to damage those treats.

  The angel was already brandishing an unnecessarily large, golden sword. Totally impractical. Awkward to wield, and gold was an awful metal for combat. It would bend on Locke's bones. Probably couldn't even cut an arm off.

  It was shiny, though, more in the magical sense than the metallic one. Those guys were always coming up with new, fancier ways to kill. Likely there was something else going on with that soft metal.

  The angel shook his head, fluffing up his yellow hair. Vain bastard with his stupid filigree wings and his Roman profile and his perfect teeth.

  Locke pivoted Clara into his side. She didn't need to see all that.

  "What business do you have here?" Locke barked at the angel.

  The angel sneered as he pointed the sword at Locke's face. "You may go now, demon. I will handle this abomination."

  Did he think Locke was also there to kill Clara? Locke could talk his way out of this. "I have the situation well in hand, angel. You can go back to your…harps or whatever."

  The angel narrowed his eyes at him. "I am a warrior, tubby."

  "Excuse me? I am in peak physical condition, you fuck trophy of a whore!"

  "Locke!" Clara hissed. "You're not helping."

  "I know what you are." The angel scowled. "You are gluttony, and your intentions are protecting the abomination."

  "Is that why you're so intense about the lemon bars?" Clara asked. "You have an eating disorder?"

  "Hell's horns, woman! He just called you an abomination twice, and that's what you're thinking about?" When this was over, he and Clara would have to have a serious conversation about her priorities and personal safety.

  And how soft she was. Locke wanted to wrap himself up in her for a long time after this, so he'd have to be careful about how he approached that conversation.

  "Demon! Release her immediately or I will run you through!"

  Locke snorted. "That's not happening." He pushed Clara behind him while he drew a square on a bit of trellis with his chalk.

  "Demon, I warned you."

  "My name is Locke. You'll do well to remember it. And her name is Miss Clara Jubilee, not abomination." He fumbled through the opened weapon closet as he talked, hunting for something that would keep the angel at bay. Pretty much any of the blades and arrows would handle scourge and cherubim, but not seraphim. His fingers brushed across a morning star, and he considered that for half a second but worried how Clara would respond to exploded angel head.

  Probably not well.

  "I don't want to fight you, either," Locke said, stalling as best as he could. Actually, yeah, he kind of did want to fight the angel for the tubber comment, but he didn't want Clara stuck in the crossfire. "I tell you what, I'll make sure Clara never talks to ghosts again, and you'll leave her be."

  "You can't bargain with me," the angel said as Clara cried out, "I'm not promising that; they're my friends!"

  The woman was going to be the death of him, for real.

  He plucked a handful of shuriken out of the box. They wouldn't do much to the angel, their metal designed to handicap demons, but most anything could slow a man down if it was jammed in his eye. "Run," he hissed at Clara, pushing her away as he chucked the stars ahead of him, hitting the angel in both eyes and the throat.

  The angel screeched some truly unholy words but kept hold of his weapon, swinging it in a smart zigzag as he pulled at the stars. He was a warrior, after all. He knew how to stay alive when wounded. He didn't have a shield, but that stupid blade was broad enough to deflect most anything.

  The morning star was in Locke's hand before he noticed Clara's hand on his back. "Woman, get out of here!"

  "Where would I go?"

  The angel had plucked the star out of his trachea and was gasping at air as the wound sealed up.

  "I don't care! Just go, I will find you."

  She looked around, but her legs didn't move. "I'm sure my ghosts will be along at any moment to vanquish this angel. We're fine."

  "We are absolutely not fine. Your ghosts are useless against him."

  "They're great for taking care of angels. They do it all the time."

  The angel plucked out an eyeball along with the second star. Alas, another one was already regenerating. "I've reaped your ghosts," he rasped, his eyelid blinking rapidly over the gaping hole.

  "How dare you?" Clara screeched, stomping toward the angel. "They're my—!"

  Locke snatched her right back, this time spreading his arms to keep her from approaching the angel again, which left Locke fully exposed.

  The angel removed the last star, and this time his eye remained. He'd be back to healthy in no time.

  "You're a witch," the angel declared, "and we'll not suffer a witch to breathe on the mortal Earth."

  "I am not a witch! Or, I don't think I am. What exactly does that entail?"

  The angel ducked down low, his back bending deeply enough that his wings straightened upward and began to vibrate, shedding a dust that coated his back in gold luminescence.

  "Fuuuuuck," Locke groaned just before the angel straightened up and roared to the heavens, his whole body growing up and outward until he was at least ten feet tall and three times the width of Locke.

  "Do you see now?" he hissed at Clara. "Do you see why I told you to run?" He shoved her back hard enough she fell on her shapely ass with an ooph as he spun himself twice to get the momentum to pitch the morning star at the angel.

  It flew true, and with the angel's eyes still finding their focus, and with the sword now dwarfed by the angel's form, the morning star hit its target.

  The angel's head exploded.

  He crumpled to the ground. Shiny angel blood spurted everywhere, coating Locke and Clara in sticky rainbow goop.

  "I just bought this tux!" Locke roared. "And you! Why couldn't you just run? He only wanted to kill you. Now he'll want to kill both of us."

  Clara took a hesitant step toward the angel, only to squeal when the angel's hand darted out for her and Locke had to rip her back. "He's not dead. How's he not dead? My ghosts only have to touch the other ones to kill them, and they poof away."

  Locke rubbed his temple. The angel would be up in a few minutes, but he did have a second to be really and truly frustrated. "Woman. Clara. That is not a cherub. I don't know how you would even think he was. That is a seraph, a born angel."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Cherubim are souls plucked out of whatever Heaven keeps their souls in. They're workers. Seraphim are the higher order, born and bred angels. That headless moron could reap your soul as easily as he reaped your ghosts."

  Clara's mouth puckered in a furious but adorable pout. "They were my friends."

  "He doesn't care. I don't care, and I actually want you alive. Now come on, I have to get you out of here before he grows his head back and gets really pissed."

  She nodded, but she didn't look like she was moving much. "They're always sending cherubim after me, ever since I started talking to ghosts. But I've never had one of these before."

  "Obviously. You'd be dead now."

  "What's changed?"

  That was a damn good question, one Locke didn't have an answer to. "I'll draw a door for us. Here, take my hand as I do so, and think really hard about where you'd like to go."

  This door thing made for a handy skill, Clara thought, one that she might find useful if Locke was planning on hanging around. Not for anything terrible, but sometimes she was mixing a batter when the oven alarm went off, and how much easier would it be if she didn't have to walk to the oven?

  Her thoughts scattered when she noticed a lack of ghosts lingering outside, waiting for her. She'd always thought she'd love a quiet night; now, she stumbled, and only Locke's quick hands kept her on her feet.

  "Where on Earth are we?" Locke called to her once she was righted and rushing to th
e door, her progression hindered by the heels sinking into the snow-softened mud. "Like, literally. Is this Earth?"

  "Of course! This is where I live."

  "This is a house?"

  No time. No time. Her friends should have been here, and they weren't. Were they all gone?

  She stumbled again, but Locke was too far away. She cried out as her ankle twisted on a bad landing, but she couldn't sit here pouting in the snow. She struggled up to her feet, her leg dipping at each step until Locke picked her up and carried her the rest of the way.

  "I truly cannot believe you've survived as long as you have," he muttered. "And I'm not even talking about Heaven's Hit List."

  "My ghosts." She reminded herself that she'd lost more ghosts over the years than she could count. That was how it was, most staying with her only a while before moving on. Some had been around for years, but if they were gone, she couldn't mourn them. They were all going to where they belonged.

  Weren’t they?

  "Where do they go?" she whispered to keep the warble away. "What that angel did, will they go where they're supposed to go?"

  Locke nodded. "If anything, they'll go up when they should have gone down. Supposedly Heaven claims the lion's share when seraphim are involved. Something about remuneration. If they're all gone, you'll be happy to know they're not going to me."

  If demons and angels were both in the business of taking souls, and they were enemies, wouldn't they be mad if the other side took too many? Locke said it so lightly, though, even pleasantly, that Clara had to wonder if it was for her benefit.

  "Are you evil?" she blurted out.

  "Yup," he said, popping the p. No denial, no lecture on the definition of evil, just a simple agreement.

  “You’re being nice to me.”

  "Why do you keep accusing me of that?" He started up the flight of stairs, too steep for modern building codes and admittedly ragged and uneven, but none of that slowed him down. "Oh, you mean how I'm carrying you? If you end up in hospital, who knows when I'll get my damn lemon bars."