like stone. “Who are you, then?”
“Kelly,” he said, “I am the Devil.”
BOOK FOUR
The Devil Set Out
The Devil stood in the driveway of Kelly’s Cape Cod and raised his head to the cool, almost cold, morning breeze. He checked the pockets of his jacket. The jacket was of jean material and so worn it had turned white at the stitching. It was comfortable if a little too big; the sleeves hung to the backs of his hands. It was old and the barely legible tag said GAP. Kelly had bought this jacket for Mark for Christmas, 1998. Too long ago, now.
A thin wallet with his ID and one debit card were in his left hand breast pocket. The wallet was new. Kelly had given it to him in her kitchen that morning.
She’d driven to Mark’s apartment (which she paid the rent on) the night before to retrieve some clothes and found the jacket hanging forlornly in the front hall closet. The only jacket Mark had, even through the winter months. She’d grieved, standing in the apartment, holding his jacket to her chest.
She’d grieved his passing.
She’d been standing at the sink, arms crossed and getting pissed when he’d made his claim that he was the Devil. She’d felt the straw that would break her camel’s back fluttering inches away. She couldn’t figure out if he was being self-pitying or what the deal was but he sure hadn’t had Mark’s signature ‘why do bad things always happen to me?’ look.
And then he’d motioned for her hand.
She’d shaken her head, no way, even as her arms unclenched and she stepped one step and then two, her mind screaming at her body to stop, stop, what the hell are you doing? Don’t go near him, he’s the Devil! The God damned Devil!
Foolishness, the rational part of her brain insisted, total foolishness. It’s just Mark being Mark. If you take his hand, he’ll just do something dumb like pull his hand away at the last second and slap yours, so don’t, whatever you do, take his hand. It’s not a good idea. Not a good idea at all.
She realized the rational and irrational parts of her mind may have been at odds over the why of it, but neither side wanted her to touch that hand that hung so calmly, five feet away.
And she told herself that she wouldn’t take his hand.
She would refuse.
She took another step. And another. And then her hand was in his.
She stared into his green eyes, almost a mirror to her own but older and more worn, and she felt her hand growing warm. Not as though he was transferring heat to her, his hand did not feel hot at all; in fact, his hand seemed to get cooler the hotter hers became. She looked at their linked hands, searching for the source of the heat and there was none and then she looked back into his face. His eyes were gone and where they had been was a jumble of flame and blackened husks turning and turning on the heat waves, never completely out of contact with the nimble fire.
Her body was so hot, sweat began to form at her hairline and one small drop slipped loose and slid into the corner of her eye, stinging. Her mouth hung open and was going dry as though she were breathing scorched dessert air.
She couldn’t turn her gaze from those husks. They looked dense and heavy but somehow they floated, buffeted and turned and then she saw agony on one even though it was faceless, nameless, a mass of heavy, writhing something but nothing. She heard agony from another and then another, fading in and getting louder. Moans of pain. Cries of torment. She felt it as a sound deep in her mind, mid-brain or deeper, almost as though these tormented souls were in her.
Her head was getting hotter. She felt her brain was beginning to boil in the bowl of her cranium and she became afraid. She did not want to burn.
For the husks, or souls, or whatever they were, she felt a pity so deep that it was beyond tears, beyond grief. It was a stern, unbending emotion that said it is not good…but it is right.
Then one of the husks turned slowly,
“Kelly,” he said, “I am the Devil.”
BOOK FOUR
The Devil Set Out
The Devil stood in the driveway of Kelly’s Cape Cod and raised his head to the cool, almost cold, morning breeze. He checked the pockets of his jacket. The jacket was of jean material and so worn it had turned white at the stitching. It was comfortable if a little too big; the sleeves hung to the backs of his hands. It was old and the barely legible tag said GAP. Kelly had bought this jacket for Mark for Christmas, 1998. Too long ago, now.
A thin wallet with his ID and one debit card were in his left hand breast pocket. The wallet was new. Kelly had given it to him in her kitchen that morning.
She’d driven to Mark’s apartment (which she paid the rent on) the night before to retrieve some clothes and found the jacket hanging forlornly in the front hall closet. The only jacket Mark had, even through the winter months. She’d grieved, standing in the apartment, holding his jacket to her chest.
She’d grieved his passing.
She’d been standing at the sink, arms crossed and getting pissed when he’d made his claim that he was the Devil. She’d felt the straw that would break her camel’s back fluttering inches away. She couldn’t figure out if he was being self-pitying or what the deal was but he sure hadn’t had Mark’s signature ‘why do bad things always happen to me?’ look.
And then he’d motioned for her hand.
She’d shaken her head, no way, even as her arms unclenched and she stepped one step and then two, her mind screaming at her body to stop, stop, what the hell are you doing? Don’t go near him, he’s the Devil! The God damned Devil!
Foolishness, the rational part of her brain insisted, total foolishness. It’s just Mark being Mark. If you take his hand, he’ll just do something dumb like pull his hand away at the last second and slap yours, so don’t, whatever you do, take his hand. It’s not a good idea. Not a good idea at all.
She realized the rational and irrational parts of her mind may have been at odds over the why of it, but neither side wanted her to touch that hand that hung so calmly, five feet away.
And she told herself that she wouldn’t take his hand.
She would refuse.
She took another step. And another. And then her hand was in his.
She stared into his green eyes, almost a mirror to her own but older and more worn, and she felt her hand growing warm. Not as though he was transferring heat to her, his hand did not feel hot at all; in fact, his hand seemed to get cooler the hotter hers became. She looked at their linked hands, searching for the source of the heat and there was none and then she looked back into his face. His eyes were gone and where they had been was a jumble of flame and blackened husks turning and turning on the heat waves, never completely out of contact with the nimble fire.
Her body was so hot, sweat began to form at her hairline and one small drop slipped loose and slid into the corner of her eye, stinging. Her mouth hung open and was going dry as though she were breathing scorched dessert air.
She couldn’t turn her gaze from those husks. They looked dense and heavy but somehow they floated, buffeted and turned and then she saw agony on one even though it was faceless, nameless, a mass of heavy, writhing something but nothing. She heard agony from another and then another, fading in and getting louder. Moans of pain. Cries of torment. She felt it as a sound deep in her mind, mid-brain or deeper, almost as though these tormented souls were in her.
Her head was getting hotter. She felt her brain was beginning to boil in the bowl of her cranium and she became afraid. She did not want to burn.
For the husks, or souls, or whatever they were, she felt a pity so deep that it was beyond tears, beyond grief. It was a stern, unbending emotion that said it is not good…but it is right.
Then one of the husks turned slowly,
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