buffeted to the fore of her sight, and she had recognized her brother. She didn’t know how she had recognized him; all the husks were heavy, burning replicas of each other. But somehow, she knew. She knew that one in particular was Mark. And he was burning.
The Devil dropped her hand and instantly her body returned to normal except for the sweat that had formed under her hair. No heat, no flames in his eyes, no souls crying in her mind. She stood staring in shock at what had been Mark.
Then she’d believed.
Oh yes, she’d believed all of it.
And then she’d fainted.
The Devil had carried her to her room and laid her in the bed. He’d retrieved the thin blanket from the guest room and bloused it out and over her. He was pleased at the way the fine material floated, weightless and fluttering at its edges, like white wings.
Then he had studied her still, pale face. She had found pity in herself for the sea of the damned. Not understanding, not agreement or disagreement with the punishment–just pity. Her pity was not born of weakness, either; the Devil had understood that at once as he’d traveled with her to hell. Her pity was a product of her strength. Of her will.
The Devil, himself had never felt pity for the damned he punished.
When she woke, she’d been calm but dazed, almost shocky. She’d had a difficult time looking at Mark, because his outside was so very much the same but his insides…so very much not. The beginnings of grief were stirring in her as she remembered, over and over, that Mark had been there. In hell.
Poor Mark.
She was anxious for the Devil to go. He’d told her he had business here on earth and she had nodded, but the strain of what she’d learned subdued any curiosity she might have been able to muster in regards to his…business.
She was anxious for him to go so she could gather herself back together. She saw the possibility of it, but it was vague and far off. Something she’d need to work toward.
So she’d retrieved Mark’s belongings for him (the Devil) but had been unable to turn over Mark’s old leather wallet with his initials carved into it. Mom and dad had given him that wallet on his eighteenth birthday. Instead she’d stopped at a men’s store and bought him this new one, thin and crisp, and put Mark’s ID and her own debit card in it.
“You’ll have to answer to Mark, Mark Anders,” she’d said on the morning he was to take his leave. He was slipping on the jean jacket and putting the wallet (the new wallet) in his front breast pocket. She was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at her hands clutched loosely in front of her. “I’ll add your name to my bank account this morning so you shouldn’t have any trouble with the card. You should be all set.” She’d glanced up and a small, tense smile ran across her lips and was gone. Then she’d looked back down at the table, so terribly confused by her own motivations. She knew this was not her brother, but his appearance…she couldn’t get past it.
The Devil had laid a hand on her shoulder and she’d smiled the small, tense smile again, but hadn’t looked at him. Couldn’t look at him. He’d gone to the front door and stepped into the cool early morning.
Now he stood in the driveway and checked his breast pocket one more time. The highway was his destination. He’d refused the offer of Kelly’s car. He wouldn’t be needing it.
He looked back at the house and felt a disturbing wave of reluctance to leave. The house glowed in the early morning sun, the white siding clean and the black shutters crisp and straight. Kelly had painted her front door a striking, fire engine red. The flowerbeds were bare but fresh black mulch had been piled in them and they looked anticipatory; ready for this new season and the flowers that Kelly would plant in a few weeks.
The Devil understood that–charming as it was–it was not the house he was reluctant to leave.
It was the woman, Kelly, whom made him
The Devil dropped her hand and instantly her body returned to normal except for the sweat that had formed under her hair. No heat, no flames in his eyes, no souls crying in her mind. She stood staring in shock at what had been Mark.
Then she’d believed.
Oh yes, she’d believed all of it.
And then she’d fainted.
The Devil had carried her to her room and laid her in the bed. He’d retrieved the thin blanket from the guest room and bloused it out and over her. He was pleased at the way the fine material floated, weightless and fluttering at its edges, like white wings.
Then he had studied her still, pale face. She had found pity in herself for the sea of the damned. Not understanding, not agreement or disagreement with the punishment–just pity. Her pity was not born of weakness, either; the Devil had understood that at once as he’d traveled with her to hell. Her pity was a product of her strength. Of her will.
The Devil, himself had never felt pity for the damned he punished.
When she woke, she’d been calm but dazed, almost shocky. She’d had a difficult time looking at Mark, because his outside was so very much the same but his insides…so very much not. The beginnings of grief were stirring in her as she remembered, over and over, that Mark had been there. In hell.
Poor Mark.
She was anxious for the Devil to go. He’d told her he had business here on earth and she had nodded, but the strain of what she’d learned subdued any curiosity she might have been able to muster in regards to his…business.
She was anxious for him to go so she could gather herself back together. She saw the possibility of it, but it was vague and far off. Something she’d need to work toward.
So she’d retrieved Mark’s belongings for him (the Devil) but had been unable to turn over Mark’s old leather wallet with his initials carved into it. Mom and dad had given him that wallet on his eighteenth birthday. Instead she’d stopped at a men’s store and bought him this new one, thin and crisp, and put Mark’s ID and her own debit card in it.
“You’ll have to answer to Mark, Mark Anders,” she’d said on the morning he was to take his leave. He was slipping on the jean jacket and putting the wallet (the new wallet) in his front breast pocket. She was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at her hands clutched loosely in front of her. “I’ll add your name to my bank account this morning so you shouldn’t have any trouble with the card. You should be all set.” She’d glanced up and a small, tense smile ran across her lips and was gone. Then she’d looked back down at the table, so terribly confused by her own motivations. She knew this was not her brother, but his appearance…she couldn’t get past it.
The Devil had laid a hand on her shoulder and she’d smiled the small, tense smile again, but hadn’t looked at him. Couldn’t look at him. He’d gone to the front door and stepped into the cool early morning.
Now he stood in the driveway and checked his breast pocket one more time. The highway was his destination. He’d refused the offer of Kelly’s car. He wouldn’t be needing it.
He looked back at the house and felt a disturbing wave of reluctance to leave. The house glowed in the early morning sun, the white siding clean and the black shutters crisp and straight. Kelly had painted her front door a striking, fire engine red. The flowerbeds were bare but fresh black mulch had been piled in them and they looked anticipatory; ready for this new season and the flowers that Kelly would plant in a few weeks.
The Devil understood that–charming as it was–it was not the house he was reluctant to leave.
It was the woman, Kelly, whom made him
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