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Chapter 37

Agonostis checked his face in the rear-view mirror. He had the human body back on—he just wished he'd paid a bit more attention to how he'd designed it the first time. When he first squeezed himself back into mortal form, he got the eyes wrong; they looked fine in the fluorescent lights of Satco, but in daylight, he saw that they were lemon yellow instead of amber. She would have noticed that. He tinkered with his shoulders and his waist and the length of his legs—the human clothing was an invaluable help in getting those details right. He just filled everything in.

But he didn't notice until he pulled into her driveway that his canines were still long and far too sharp. He was under too much stress, and he was getting sloppy.

Details, dammit, he thought. I refuse to be destroyed by mere details.

He rang the bell, and heard the sound of bare feet running across wood floors. He clenched his hands and swallowed. Even the sound of her footsteps made his heart pound and his mouth go dry. This was his last day—the last time he would ever do this.

Dayne opened the door and looked up at him; her round blue eyes could have pinned him to that spot for an eternity; for her sweet smile, he would have willingly been led astray. He wanted to scream. A day wasn't enough time. It could never be enough time.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi." His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. "I missed you."

She grinned. "Good. Come on in." She turned and walked down the hall, and he followed, wishing she were in his arms again. She told him, "I had an awful day and I'm in a terrible mood, but I'll try not to take it out on you."

"I've seen bad moods before," he told her, thinking that she couldn't imagine the sorts of bad moods he'd seen. "What made your day so awful?"

She dropped into an armchair where he couldn't sit beside her and waved him toward the couch. While he sat down, she tucked her legs under her and leaned back and sighed. "The problem this time is that I can't get a patient of mine out of my thoughts. I'm sure he was once a sweet little boy, but he isn't going to make it, and that's probably a kindness. A car accident split his skull open, and he lost one of his eyes when he went through the windshield, and asphalt scraped off half his face. He's in a coma. I don't imagine he suffered long . . . but God, it's so sad. I wish I could do something for him." She looked at him, watching for his reaction.

Agonostis made a face. "That's grim."

"That's work." Dayne leaned back again and closed her eyes.

"Um." Agonostis kicked his shoes off. "Anything I can do to take your mind off of it?"

She opened one eye just enough that he could tell she was looking at him. "Maybe there is. Did you bring another contract?"

He knew she was going to ask. He knew it, and he'd dreaded it. "Um . . ." he cleared his throat, and checked for spies. Not even Earwax was around right then, though he'd been sticking to Dayne like pain on a damned soul. He blocked Lucifer out of his mind, then extended the block until it became a little bubble of private space that surrounded only Dayne and himself. It wouldn't look like much in Hell if he didn't hold it there for too long. With luck, no one would even notice that he was hiding something.

Then he said, "I didn't bring the contract."

Dayne's other eye opened fractionally. "No? I'm surprised. As eager as you were to sign me up, I almost expected you to bring another copy by last night." He watched one eyebrow quirk upward; then she closed both eyes again and lolled her head along the back of her chair.

"I don't . . ." He took a deep breath. He was about to do something he would never be able to explain away, and his heart started racing again. "I don't think you would like the company," he told her. "I exaggerated its good points a bit—and I'm afraid the salary and benefits wouldn't be as good as I led you to believe."

"You lied to me about the job?" Dayne sat up and studied him. He couldn't read her expression, but the thing he had most expected to see on her face—anger—was notably absent.

"I . . . ah . . . misrepresented it." He sighed. "Lied. Yes. I lied. Satco is not a company you would like."

She smiled at him then. He would have predicted any reaction but a smile. "I . . ." She tipped her head to one side, then rose and walked over to him and kissed him.

He dropped his shield. Lucifer, should he chance to spy now, would only be able to assume that things were going well in the damnation of Dayne Kuttner. She was climbing onto his lap, and kissing him, and unbuttoning his shirt. He wished he understood how his failing to get her the job he'd promised her had resulted in her halfway undressing him. He would fail to get her a different job every day, if this was the way she took news.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, marveling at her body, which was both so soft and so hard.

Then she whispered in his ear, "Why don't you carry me upstairs?"

"I don't think I . . ." He clamped his shield around them for just an instant, and said, ". . . should." He had not protected her from damnation one way just to damn her another. But even as his mouth was saying he wouldn't, his body was saying he would. He wanted her. He desired her. The old line about the spirit being willing, but the flesh weak, he discovered, was based on nothing less than the truth.

Holding her tight, he stood and carried her up the stairs.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 37

Agonostis checked his face in the rear-view mirror. He had the human body back on—he just wished he'd paid a bit more attention to how he'd designed it the first time. When he first squeezed himself back into mortal form, he got the eyes wrong; they looked fine in the fluorescent lights of Satco, but in daylight, he saw that they were lemon yellow instead of amber. She would have noticed that. He tinkered with his shoulders and his waist and the length of his legs—the human clothing was an invaluable help in getting those details right. He just filled everything in.

But he didn't notice until he pulled into her driveway that his canines were still long and far too sharp. He was under too much stress, and he was getting sloppy.

Details, dammit, he thought. I refuse to be destroyed by mere details.

He rang the bell, and heard the sound of bare feet running across wood floors. He clenched his hands and swallowed. Even the sound of her footsteps made his heart pound and his mouth go dry. This was his last day—the last time he would ever do this.

Dayne opened the door and looked up at him; her round blue eyes could have pinned him to that spot for an eternity; for her sweet smile, he would have willingly been led astray. He wanted to scream. A day wasn't enough time. It could never be enough time.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi." His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. "I missed you."

She grinned. "Good. Come on in." She turned and walked down the hall, and he followed, wishing she were in his arms again. She told him, "I had an awful day and I'm in a terrible mood, but I'll try not to take it out on you."

"I've seen bad moods before," he told her, thinking that she couldn't imagine the sorts of bad moods he'd seen. "What made your day so awful?"

She dropped into an armchair where he couldn't sit beside her and waved him toward the couch. While he sat down, she tucked her legs under her and leaned back and sighed. "The problem this time is that I can't get a patient of mine out of my thoughts. I'm sure he was once a sweet little boy, but he isn't going to make it, and that's probably a kindness. A car accident split his skull open, and he lost one of his eyes when he went through the windshield, and asphalt scraped off half his face. He's in a coma. I don't imagine he suffered long . . . but God, it's so sad. I wish I could do something for him." She looked at him, watching for his reaction.

Agonostis made a face. "That's grim."

"That's work." Dayne leaned back again and closed her eyes.

"Um." Agonostis kicked his shoes off. "Anything I can do to take your mind off of it?"

She opened one eye just enough that he could tell she was looking at him. "Maybe there is. Did you bring another contract?"

He knew she was going to ask. He knew it, and he'd dreaded it. "Um . . ." he cleared his throat, and checked for spies. Not even Earwax was around right then, though he'd been sticking to Dayne like pain on a damned soul. He blocked Lucifer out of his mind, then extended the block until it became a little bubble of private space that surrounded only Dayne and himself. It wouldn't look like much in Hell if he didn't hold it there for too long. With luck, no one would even notice that he was hiding something.

Then he said, "I didn't bring the contract."

Dayne's other eye opened fractionally. "No? I'm surprised. As eager as you were to sign me up, I almost expected you to bring another copy by last night." He watched one eyebrow quirk upward; then she closed both eyes again and lolled her head along the back of her chair.

"I don't . . ." He took a deep breath. He was about to do something he would never be able to explain away, and his heart started racing again. "I don't think you would like the company," he told her. "I exaggerated its good points a bit—and I'm afraid the salary and benefits wouldn't be as good as I led you to believe."

"You lied to me about the job?" Dayne sat up and studied him. He couldn't read her expression, but the thing he had most expected to see on her face—anger—was notably absent.

"I . . . ah . . . misrepresented it." He sighed. "Lied. Yes. I lied. Satco is not a company you would like."

She smiled at him then. He would have predicted any reaction but a smile. "I . . ." She tipped her head to one side, then rose and walked over to him and kissed him.

He dropped his shield. Lucifer, should he chance to spy now, would only be able to assume that things were going well in the damnation of Dayne Kuttner. She was climbing onto his lap, and kissing him, and unbuttoning his shirt. He wished he understood how his failing to get her the job he'd promised her had resulted in her halfway undressing him. He would fail to get her a different job every day, if this was the way she took news.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, marveling at her body, which was both so soft and so hard.

Then she whispered in his ear, "Why don't you carry me upstairs?"

"I don't think I . . ." He clamped his shield around them for just an instant, and said, ". . . should." He had not protected her from damnation one way just to damn her another. But even as his mouth was saying he wouldn't, his body was saying he would. He wanted her. He desired her. The old line about the spirit being willing, but the flesh weak, he discovered, was based on nothing less than the truth.

Holding her tight, he stood and carried her up the stairs.

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Contents
Framed