Sympathy for the Devil Page 26

  “Besides,” I added, “my friend Micaela thinks you’re cute and wants your phone number.”

  “She does?” he asked, and he lifted his gaze from the glass at last. The hopeful puppy-dog look was back. “Uh — which one is Micaela?”

  “Micaela Torres? You know — she works as a P.A. at Warner Brothers.”

  He obviously had to think about who she was for a minute. After all, Danny had probably only met Micaela at one or two parties during the six months he and I had been together. Her schedule was so crazy she didn’t have time for much of anything else. After a bit he said, “Oh, right. I remember her. She’s kind of hot.”

  A few weeks ago, that comment would have irritated me to no end. Now I was just glad to hear it — at least he sounded as if he were ready to move on. “So I can give her your number?” I asked.

  A brief hesitation. Then Danny said, “Actually, I think I’d like it better if you gave me her number.”

  So the warrior picks himself up and steels himself to try again, bloodied but unbowed, I thought, repressing the urge to grin. “All right,” I said, and he immediately pulled out his iPhone. I gave the number to him, and he entered it in his contacts, looking so adorably focused in a nerdy sort of way that I felt a stab of self-doubt. Was I really doing the right thing?

  Yes, the sane half of my brain said. Let him go. Don’t hold on to something just because you’re afraid to be alone.

  “Don’t worry about Luke and me,” I said then. “I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

  Danny’s expression grew troubled again, but after a few seconds it miraculously cleared once more. It was apparent to me he’d decided he had something new and shiny to focus on. If I wanted to throw away my immortal soul, that was my business.

  I got up, signaling that I thought our conversation was at an end, and he followed me to the door. We paused there for a second, both of us staring awkwardly at each other. Then he leaned down and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “If you need anything, just let me know,” he said. “I want to be friends if we can.”

  “I’d like that,” I replied, feeling a little overwhelmed. Maybe I’d underestimated him. Certainly I’d never thought that Danny would be handing me the “I hope we can still be friends line” — I’d always thought that would be my job.

  “Okay,” he said, then took in a breath, squaring his shoulders like a man about to head into battle. “Guess I’d better go.”

  And with that he was off, his sneakers squeaking a little as he moved down the stairs. They sounded very different from the soft slap of Luke’s expensive leather-soled shoes.

  I waited in the doorway for a minute. Then I shut the door, knowing that very soon I was going to have a long, drawn-out cry.

  If only Danny had understood it wasn’t my immortal soul that was in danger here…just my heart.

  Interlude

  The Lord of Hell reappeared, face like a thundercloud.

  Beelzebub fought to keep a grin from his lips as he thought, I love it when a plan comes together.

  That dark seed he had sown had apparently grown into a wondrous plant, choking all life from Lucifer’s nascent romance. Everyone who saw the Prince of Darkness stalking through the halls of his palace immediately discovered they had pressing business to attend to elsewhere.

  Even Beelzebub decided to lie low, mainly because he wasn’t quite sure he could contain his glee around his master. Not that it really mattered — he had immediately retired to the North Tower (Hell didn’t have actual directions, but topside nomenclature could be pervasive), which was where he always tended to go when he wanted to brood.

  Perfect. It seemed the little chit’s independent streak had won out. Beelzebub felt a momentary flicker of respect for her bravery, then quickly quashed it. Most likely she had confronted Lucifer because she didn’t have any real idea of what he could do to her if properly provoked. Ignorance and stupidity, while typically human, were nothing to admire. But he would acknowledge that she had played her part well. Actually, his master had done so as well. For all his power and intelligence, the Lord of Hell had fallen into Beelzebub’s trap as neatly as a rabbit running into a snare.

  A few centuries of black moods and hermit-like behavior were a small price to pay for knowing that Lucifer was back here where he belonged. Sooner or later he would snap out of it, would realize that his personal freedom was far more important than some promise of a return to paradise.

  Beelzebub snorted. Paradise. That was one word for the place. Endless tedium, more like it. At least down here in Hell things could get interesting from time to time. He had no desire for eternal perfection. From time to time he lamented the fact that his master seemed to do little but rest on his laurels and make far more trips topside than he had any real need to, but those little foibles could be overlooked. After all, he was the one who had had the plutonium cojones to challenge the One Upstairs — it was only right that the Kingdom of Hell should be his reward. Even the most dedicated ruler might begin to find the bloom off the rose after so many millennia. But now he had probably realized that he had nowhere else to go and would reconcile himself to his situation as soon as he realized that there were far worse things than being the Prince of Darkness.

  Like being mortal, for example.

  Asmodeus flicked an imaginary piece of lint off the lapel of his new suit and cast a critical eye at the line and fall of the garments. Was the break at the hem of his trousers hitting in the right place? Or should he have the tailor let it out another quarter of an inch?

  A subtle throat-clearing caught his attention, and he turned, expecting to see the familiar shape of Nanthan, a transplant from Singapore who was the only person in Los Angeles he trusted to create the custom suits taste required. Instead, an elderly man in a shabby tweed jacket beamed up at him.

  That is, He looked like an elderly man. Asmodeus knew better, however.

  “Sir,” he said, and stood up a little straighter. Maybe Beelzebub would have thrown a little attitude in the newcomer’s direction, but Asmodeus wasn’t brave enough for that. Or perhaps he simply had a stronger instinct for self-preservation. Still, his mind reeled. What was God doing here, in a cramped tailor’s shop on the outskirts of L.A.’s Fashion District?

  God’s eyes glinted. “Allan. That is what you’ve been going by lately, is it not?”

  “Well, yes. Sir.” Asmodeus couldn’t quite figure out what to do with his hands and ended up jamming them in the pockets of his pants, thus ruining the lines he had been admiring just a moment earlier. He added, “I thought ‘Asmodeus’ might be a little difficult to explain.”

  “True.” God moved farther into the shop and appeared to inspect the bolts of wool stacked next to the counter. “I’ve also noticed you’ve been doing a bit of possession.”

  Oh, hell. God tended to frown on such things, which was why doing it for extended periods of time was such a risk. Get in, do your work, get out, had always been Asmodeus’ motto. But of course Beelzebub had to push things to the limit.

  “Well, sir — I, that is, we didn’t — ”

  God waved a hand. “No point in excuses, my boy. A bit of advice — I really don’t think Beelzebub has your best interests in mind.”

  Asmodeus blinked. “No, I would suppose not. He has his best interests in mind. They just happen to coincide with mine.”

  “Do they?”

  Frowning, Asmodeus stared down at the face of God. He wore an expression of mild curiosity and showed no other emotion. That meant absolutely nothing, of course.

  “I mean to say,” God went on, “that interfering with My plans is often a recipe for disaster.”

  “Disaster?” Asmodeus repeated, then attempted to swallow past the lump in his throat. This wasn’t going well at all.

  “Your master and I made a deal. Said deal did not include interference from meddlesome demons. Perhaps Beelzebub should have stopped to think. Perhaps then he would have realized that our friend Luc
ifer is not the only one who has a stake in this thing.”

  “Well, erm…I suppose you could be right — ”

  “I am always right,” God replied imperturbably. “And it’s not too late to fix things, regardless of what your compatriot might think. But I need your word that there will be no further meddling.”

  “You have it, sir,” Asmodeus said at once. What else could he do, after all? Defying God to His face was never a good idea.

  “I thank you for your cooperation.” A twinkle entered God’s dark eyes. “Perhaps a reward for good behavior?”

  Reward? That sounded promising. What Beelzebub didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. “You are too kind, sir.”

  “I suppose I am.” God crossed His arms and regarded Asmodeus thoughtfully. “You do spend quite a bit of time topside, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but — ”

  “No excuses necessary. Would you like to stay here?”

  At first Asmodeus wasn’t quite sure he’d heard the question correctly. Surely God couldn’t be handing him the whole world on a platter. To be able to stay here, to never have to return to Hell — all in exchange for some simple cooperation?

  He cleared his throat and said, “Very much so, sir.”

  The twinkle returned. “I thought you might say that. I don’t believe you’re quite ready for the same deal I gave your master, but let’s see how things go. Say a trial basis of a year?”

  Asmodeus wanted to inquire more as to the nature of the “deal” God had entered into with Lucifer but decided it would probably be wiser to just keep his mouth shut. A year he could handle. A year up here was a year not spent in Hell.

  “Very good, sir.” His mind raced, already moving on to what he should do first. A house, probably. And a car. Or several cars. He thought of the gorgeous automobiles his master had parked in the garage of his mansion and felt his heart race a little. Something exotic and expensive, something to catch Nina’s attention —

  “I’ll leave you to work out the details,” God said, breaking into Asmodeus’ frenzied daydreams. “Enjoy yourself, and for My sake, stay out of his way.”

  Asmodeus nodded. Why would he want to interfere with Lucifer’s life when his own had taken such a miraculous turn for the better? He had far more interesting things to do with his time.

  God smiled and was gone, leaving Asmodeus alone in the tailor shop, his mind thrumming with possibilities.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Micaela called me late Sunday afternoon to ask if I’d given Danny her number. When I told her I had, I got a long pause as a reply. Then she said, “I wasn’t sure you were really going to go through with it.”

  I replied, “I told you I would.”

  She hesitated again, then said, “Yeah, but after you and Luke…anyway, I wasn’t sure whether you’d be having second thoughts about breaking up with Danny.”

  “That’s the only thing I’m not having second thoughts about,” I told her, with a bitter little laugh. “So he called you?”

  “Yeah, earlier today. We’re going to meet tomorrow evening for coffee. I figured I’d better start out easy. Anyway, I’ll be back on set after that, and I probably won’t have time even for coffee for a while.”

  I said, “I hope it goes well,” and discovered I was actually telling Micaela the truth. Just because my love life had been torpedoed into shrapnel didn’t mean she shouldn’t give it a try. At first glance the two of them seemed like sort of an odd couple, but they were both really into film, which helped, and at least Micaela wouldn’t care if Danny pulled a disappearing act from time to time. Then there was the whole Catholic thing. Danny’s parents were very old-school Polish (his father had actually been born in Poland), and I thought they would have fewer issues with Micaela being Mexican than they had with me being a complete heathen. The relationship might not make it past coffee, but if it did they wouldn’t have that particular complication to deal with.

  Micaela, being the practical sort, just said, “We’ll see,” and we left it at that. It felt a little weird, setting up a friend with my ex-boyfriend, but we all knew there was a shortage of decent guys in L.A., and sometimes you just had to be open-minded about those things.

  Not too long after that my father called as well, offering belated congratulations on the promotion and an offer to take me out to dinner some time during the next week or so.

  “Sorry it took me so long to get back to you,” he said, “but I haven’t gotten much of a chance to check my email lately. Traci has been running me ragged.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” he replied with a laugh. “I just hired an LVN to come in and help, and now I’m trying to schedule as many appointments as I can. It’ll keep me out of the house at least. And Traci can’t complain, because more clients means more goodies for her and the baby.”

  He sounded so casual about Traci’s materialistic behavior. Maybe, though, he sort of enjoyed it. After all, my mother had never really cared all that much about my father’s earning power as long as there was enough to make the mortgage and keep food on the table. He’d always been much more interested in the finer things in life, starting with the cars and going on from there. I still remembered the argument they had when I was in high school and he’d gone out and bought a Porsche. The cost had nothing to do with it — by that time my father’s practice was flourishing, and he could definitely afford the car. It was more that my mother thought it was completely impractical, and worse, extravagant. What was the point in having a two-seat roadster when you had three children?

  At any rate, it had been just more proof of the widening gap between my parents. I’d often wondered exactly what my father saw in Traci (except the obvious), but maybe part of it was simply being appreciated as the superlative bread-winner that he really was.

  “I’m glad everything seems to be working out,” I said. “And Traci is doing okay?”

  “So far so good. Of course it’s a long time to the end of June, but the doctors say she’s holding her own.”

  “Good,” I replied.

  “And how are you doing?” he asked. “How’s this new man of yours?”

  My throat seemed to close up. “Um…fine,” I replied, in a tight little voice that didn’t sound very much like mine.

  A significant silence followed that statement. It’s sort of hard to lie to a psychologist, especially when that psychologist happens to be your father. Then he said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  If there was anything more excruciating than having your father ask if you wanted to discuss your love life, I had yet to find out what it was. I cleared my throat and replied, “Um…not really. We just hit a rough patch. Either it will work out or it won’t.”

  Another hesitation. “Okay,” my father said. “but if he keeps giving you trouble, just let me know. I’ll send someone over to break his kneecaps.”

  I managed to laugh at that, albeit a little weakly, and we went on to talk some more about Traci and the remodeling for the baby’s suite. Just before I hung up, I said, “I love you, Dad.” I rarely told him that, but right then it seemed important that I did.

  “I love you, too, Christa,” he said. “I’m proud of you. And if this guy can’t figure out how great you are, then he doesn’t deserve you.”

  “That’s what Nina said,” I replied.

  “Wise girl, Nina. You can keep her around.”

  I laughed again, and then we said our good-byes and hung up. The conversation left me feeling a little bit better about life. Not much, but at that point I was ready for any improvement, however infinitesimal.

  Before the Lone Gunmen indulged in their industrial espionage, I probably would have tried to work through my problems by writing in my blog — my online “dear diary.” However, the bloom was off that rose. Of course I’d changed all the passwords, but the blog still felt…defiled. Dramatic word, maybe, although I couldn’t think of any other way to think of it. At any rate, it didn
’t feel secure to me anymore, and so, after logging in one time and then spending five minutes staring at the blank field where I was supposed to be spilling my guts, I logged out and never went back to the site.

  An even longer week followed that very long weekend. Work kept me busy, between juggling my copyeditor duties and starting to take over some of Brian’s backlogged assignments. I planned to attend the Women in Film festival on Thursday, and Nina had agreed to be my “date” for the evening. Back before the shit had hit the fan I’d thought about asking Luke, but of course that wasn’t going to happen. But Nina was more than happy to go along; it would give her a chance to get out and have fun, which she considered the paramount reason for existing in the first place, and it would also provide some fun celebrity-watching as well. Roger warned me that it was a small festival and probably not many A-list stars would be there. I didn’t mind; even a D-lister would be worthy of a mention.

  I tried to ignore the fact that Valentine’s Day hit smack-dab in the middle of the week. It was hard, just because I knew that if Luke and I had still been together he probably would have planned something extravagant — that was just his way. Or at least the way he wanted to appear to me. Sometimes it was hard to know how much of what I loved about him was the true being underneath or just the public veneer he had presented to me.

  The fact that I felt I was on the moral high ground in this particular conflict didn’t help much, either. Sure, you can tell yourself that you did the right thing, but that’s cold comfort when you’re sitting home alone on Valentine’s Day and eating Godiva truffles until you make yourself sick. At that point I didn’t even care whether or not I’d be able to squeeze myself into my True Religion jeans for the film festival the following night. Who cares if the reporter is fat, after all?

  But either my metabolism hadn’t processed the chocolates in time, or the two days prior to that when I’d hardly eaten anything worked to my benefit. The jeans slid on with no protest, and I went through the process of glamming myself up for the night out half-heartedly at best. Who was I going to impress, after all? Of course there would be tons of better-looking women than I in attendance, starting with Nina and going on from there.