""What we have here is a failure to communicate." – Cool Hand Luke
Jemma curled on her side, watching her alarm clock's numbers tick over. 4:47. She had to be awake in just over two hours. Alastor left around midnight. She'd crawled into bed shortly after to try to sleep.
Alastor had been true to his word. Multiple nights in a row she found him waiting for her. He was no longer satisfied with the couch. Different positions, different spots throughout her apartment. He insisted on know what else could "make sure she was ready." He went at everything with a grim, feverish intensity.
It worked, at least in part. His technique was better than their first time. She'd even had tepid little orgasms once or twice. But that's all it was – technique - and it wasn't enough. What was missing?
And suddenly Jemma knew.
She groaned and flung her arm over her eyes. Idiot. You fucking idiot.
How am I going to tell him?
Because she had to. Jemma glimpsed in him the familiar off-kilter feeling that his charm, manners and even the shadowed power that draped him like a cloak couldn't hide. Something was wrong, wrong with Alastor and wrong with their contract. And that meant trouble for her.
"Damn it," she whispered. "Damn it!" He's the demon, not me! He has all the power. Why do I have to fix this? It's not fair!
Jemma's thoughts were still a tangled knot of fearful resentment and possible ways to approach the situation when sleep finally claimed her.
That morning she turned Alastor's calling card inside out and wrote:
Alastor - truce? J
Work kept her busy. She'd been volunteered to serve on the Thanksgiving luncheon. The committee meeting dragged on until after one pm. She completed a transcription after, and took advantage of her supervisor's offer to leave early since the rest of the pool had all the work.
The calling card was still in place. Jemma shrugged off her disappointment and changed into sweats and a t-shirt. Bacon for an early dinner; she had to use it before it went bad. When the strips were crackling merrily in the pan, she debated making pancakes or scrambled eggs and decided on sandwiches instead. Childhood comfort food. She set the fixings on the kitchen table, dug out the zip-lock bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos from her purse and nibbled while sorting through her mail. She'd let it go for the last few days.
Ads, a few catalogs, a notice of rent increase as of January 1. Jemma curled her lip but pinned the notice to the fridge with a magnet. The rest of the mail went in the trash, and she began picking out bacon strips with tongs to drain on a paper towel-lined paper plate.
"You know, in the Depression families would make bacon grease sandwiches. Nothing went to waste."
Jemma looked up. Alastor leaned on the kitchen counter. He smiled and nodded. "You're not going to indulge?"
She repressed a grimace. "No, but help yourself if you want." Did demons eat? She added the last strips to the plate.
"Mm. Maybe later. You're early."
"No work for me. You're early, too." She carried the paper plate to the table and began `fixing her sandwiches. She was stalling, and she knew she was stalling.
"I received your note. What did you…Young woman." Alastor's usual slightly amused, bantering tone disappeared. "Are you seriously putting bacon on white bread? With Miracle Whip?"
"It's sourdough, actually, and yes, I am."
Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose and made a sound indicative of deep spiritual pain. "Philistine!"
"And I'm going to drink skim milk with them, too." Jemma wanted to laugh. Laughing would ease the tension…if only she knew Alastor wouldn't take offense. She went to the fridge, Alastor hovering behind her.
"Tell me you have something less low class in your larder," he demanded as she opened the door. "Tell me –" He jerked upright, eyes narrowing.
" That's venison." He stabbed a finger at the package on the lowest shelf. "Fresh venison. I can smell the blood!"
"Brought it home today." Jemma hefted the gallon of skim milk. "A gift from one of the junior partners. He got lucky during his hunting trip and decided to share."
Alastor spun her around. "And you're not cooking it?!"
Jemma held up her hands, ducking out of his reach and grabbing a coffee mug with her free hand. She backed into her chair and sat down. "I've never cooked venison before. I was going to look up how later. I thought maybe a marinade, or using it like beef tips over rice…"
Alastor looked at her. "Like beef tips."
Again the urge to laugh bubbled up. "You can have it if you want," she offered impulsively. "There's four pieces. Seems you'd enjoy them more than me."
"Really? Very generous of you, my dear! I promise you they won't go to waste. You won't mind if I keep them in the icebox for now?"
Jemma shook her head."Of course not." She ate, surreptitiously watching him fuss over the venison like a little boy checking on a present he couldn't yet open. She wouldn't have expected him to behave like this.
The first sandwich was gone and she'd taken a bite of the second when Alastor sat on the opposite side of the table. Jemma turned the bag of Flamin'Hot Cheetos toward him – another impulse. Alastor chose one, studying it dubiously before popping it in his mouth. Another followed.
"All right. You mentioned something about a truce?"
He had her favorite coffee cup. With coffee in it. She wasn't going to ask how he managed to work her cranky Mr. Coffee or the Keurig without her noticing.
"Alastor. Please, please, please hear me out. This isn't easy for me to bring up." She gulped milk, her mouth suddenly dry. "There's something wrong. With – with this." She gestured between them. Here was where she should put forth her realization. It sounded trite last night, and repeating it now in her mind sounded worse. Alastor might find it funny; worse, he might decide it was pointless. And then what? She grasped for other words.
"You're not enjoying yourself. I can tell. If you're not enjoying yourself, then I'm not enjoying myself. And the contract requires that, doesn't it? So the terms aren't being met. And that…" Jemma gripped her mug in both hands. "That's affecting you."
"How would you know that?"
The mildness of his voice frightened her as much as when he'd said he'd didn't like her tone. "Because…because I just do. Since our first night, every time I see, you're just…off. Like you're out of tune…"
His eyes flashed a deeper red. Jemma froze.
"You know all this because of some sixth sense, of course."
"Something like that."
"Dear, even if I believed in your claim, it isn't your concern."
"Isn't it? We made a bargain. If a difficulty prevents one side from completing the agreement, and the other side can help to the benefit of both, shouldn't they?"
The fridge's icemaker rumbled loudly in the silence that followed.
"And what's your solution to this..problem?" Alastor said at last.
"To find out what you do enjoy." He didn't sound angry. He wasn't acting angry. He might be, but he was also listening. She went on in a rush, "And for that, you need to let me touch you."
His eyebrows arched. "I think we've been touching rather thoroughly, myself. "
"Straight-up sex, not the…" God, why couldn't she say foreplay? Why did being around him change how she spoke? "…leadup. And all the men I've been with have liked me touching them. You don't." She forced her hands to relax, set them on the table. "You have no qualms ignoring my personal boundaries, but you're incredibly protective of your own. I try to touch you, you flinch away or stop me somehow."
The sensation of darkness that always surrounded him deepened. After a five-count, it receded. "I assume you have a way around this?"
"Start with the basics so you get used to me touching you. Cuddling, to start. Petting, eventually." Color burned in her cheeks. Blushing, for fuck's sake! She hesitated. Every instinct screamed she was making a mistake, a huge mistake, a huge dangerous mistake. But Alastor wouldn't cooperate without some say in the matter, and she didn't know what else to do. "And then, later… you show me what you like. What's fun for you."
Alastor's expression was unreadable.
"Dear, are you proposing another deal between us?"
Jemma ran her hands over her face. "Why does it have to be a deal?" she cried out in frustration. "Why not just – trust each other because of mutual enlightened self-interest?"
"That sounds like the definition of a deal to me." Amusement tinged his voice. "Formalization keeps both sides on equal footing."
Jemma stared at the table, head in her hands. You can win the battle but lose the war. This, right now, was the battle. That damned contract was the war. "Terms?" she asked at last, peering through her fingers.
Alastor propped his chin on his fist, smiling. "I'm all ears."
"We start my half as soon as possible, tonight if you're agreeable. Yours begins around the twentieth of December and runs until the end of the year. Then it's over, done, kaput. We reevaluate and move on from there."
"Is there a reason I have to wait that long?"
"Holiday season, and people at work have their vacations planned. I'm single, no kids and lowest man on the totem pole. I've already been told I'm covering for a few coworkers. Oh – no maiming, no disfigurement, no killing."
"Little lawyer, those are nowhere near my intentions toward you. I do believe we have a deal." He rose, still smiling, and held out his right hand. Eerie green light and a cold wind shot through the kitchen.
Leaning on her left hand to stay on her feet, Jemma shook his hand. The light vanished; the wind disappeared. "Excellent!" Alastor picked up his neglected coffee; steam wafted up from it as he drank. "I've no objections to beginning tonight."
"All right. Let me put the pan to soak first." She needed time to collect her thoughts. "Go on ahead."
On a whim Jemma caught up the bag of Cheetos as she left the kitchen. She tuned her stereo to a local NPR station that ignored the evening news for a jazz hour, set the volume low and tossed the Cheetos onto the end table. As she expected, Alastor sat in the middle of the couch. She'd have to be against one of the arms.
"How do we..."
"Well, you're a little overdressed for cuddling. Stand up. I want to take off your bow tie and jacket."
Alastor glared at her. Jemma looked at him.
He stood with a martyred sigh.
Jemma reached up, took hold of opposing bows and tugged. The bow unraveled; she pulled it off his shirt collar. She ran it through her fingers before draping it over the back of the couch. Velvet, heavy, expensive.
"Something wrong?"
"It's very well made." Jemma unbuttoned his jacket – silk, and like the velvet, expensive. Beneath it he wore a bright red dress shirt with a black cross. "Your jacket, too.
Alastor took it from her; the jacket disappeared. "I don't buy off the rack."
"There's Brooks Brothers in Hell?" There's shopping – there's money - in Hell?
"There's many things in Hell." He sat back down in the same place. Jemma joined him next to the couch's arm. He glanced at her sidelong. "Now what?"
Jemma guided his right arm around her waist. "Now this." She put her left arm around his waist in return. She felt like she was hugging plywood.
"So …adolescent," Alastor muttered. "I'm surprised you haven't turned your TV to some bobbysoxer channel."
"You don't like TV. Every time it's on when you arrive, or just before, you turn it off."
"My dear Jemma, has anyone ever told you that your talent of observation is very annoying?"
"Many times," Jemma answered ruefully. "I'll stop."
"Stop telling me."
"Yes."
"Mmm." He drummed his fingers against her side, once. "I'd prefer you didn't keep secrets from me."
"All right. Can I ask you a question?"`
"You can. I may even answer."
"Why do you call yourself the Radio Demon?"
She could almost feel him mulling over what to say, if anything.
"I was a radio host in New Orleans when I lived."
Jemma craned her head to look at him. The dead could become demons? Tuck that away for later. "Did you report on The Axeman of New Orleans?" she asked, curious.
"That, and the Lindburg kidnapping, the stock market crash of '29... How did you hear about the Axeman?"
"My family took a trip to see my grandmother's side of the family when I was nine. Went on one of those haunted tours."
"Oh? What did you think of my hometown?"
"The buildings were gorgeous, the food was amazing, the people very friendly and the accent was too cool."
. "You Yankees have the accent, sweetheart, not us." He brushed her hair from her eyes. "Why don't you tell me about this sixth sense of yours?"
"Fifth and a half. I've had it as long as I can remember. It's never been very good for much, and not predictable at all. Which university parking lot was going to be full, or whether a store would be out of something I wanted, or a pop quiz. Sometimes it would let me know if something weird would happen at Renee's Ouija board sessions." She grabbed the Ziploc bag of Cheetos off the end table, opened it, and held one up to Alastor's mouth. He took it neatly, gold teeth flashing. "It didn't the night of the party. Not even when you showed up. Registering...what's going on with you since then is the biggest thing it's ever done."
"Interesting." His voice and his expression were thoughtful. "You've a unique gift, my dear. You should cherish it."
"There's lots of psychics out there."
"There's lots of people who claim to be psychics out there. They can't admit when their ability falls short, or has its limits, while you have the confidence to confess it freely."
He was flattering her. Jemma didn't know what to make of it. She held up a second Cheeto, then a third. At the fourth, he caught her hand and gazed down at her.
"Is this where I say, 'Beulah, peel me a grape'?"
The last straw, breaking the camel's back. Jemma burst into uncontrollable laughter. She felt and heard a muffled chuckle from Alastor. She managed to stop long enough to answer when he asked her,
"Why are you feeding me these plebian snacks, anyway?"
"Because you like them. People who don't like them stop after the first."
His eyes narrowed. "I believe I've had enough juvenile spooning for the night. More adult activities are now on our dance card."
With that, she was stretched out on the couch. Alastor knelt over her, inching down her sweatpants. He bit a Cheeto in thirds, then smiled.
"I'd like to start with a particular Latin term."
The next morning the venison was gone. So were the Cheetos.
#
Alastor returned directly to the hotel kitchen. He could hear the others in the front lobby. Charlie had come up with another group bonding exercise, a card game by the sounds of it. He hoped they stayed busy. He wanted privacy to enjoy his gift.
He poured oil in a frying pan and turned on the stove with a gesture. He scribbled ALASTOR'S with a claw on the paper wrapping and put the package with the remainder of the venison in the icebox before adding a single piece and spices to the pan.
Gift.
Not a bribe to make him more amenable to her terms of their new deal; Jemma hadn't suggested it yet. Not an offering of something he wanted or needed, as the lesser demons of Hell did in order to avoid his attention. She simply gave it to him without any ulterior motive.
But was that true? She might obey his order to never bring up dissolving their contract again, but that didn't mean she didn't consider it. No, that wasn't right. She put on a good face, but her reaction to him was clear as water: he terrified her too much to disobey, even in her thoughts.
So why this gift?
Alastor shook his head. Peculiar girl, but entertaining. He wasn't looking forward to fulfilling her side of their new deal, but he'd endure. His side would be worth it. Completion of their overarching contract would be worth it. Having her soul with her observational knack and odd little talent at his beck and call would be more than worth it. Power itself didn't interest him, only as a pathway to entertainment. The means to power didn't need to be flashy or overwhelming. Sometimes the smallest were the most lethal.
"Like you're out of tune…"
Alastor stared down at the stove, unsmiling. She'd echoed his own experience all unwittingly then, and for that he had almost killed her before cool pragmatism took over. Killing her wouldn't mend the issues with his deal-web. There was potential backlash to him for breaking their contract so fatally without cause.
Moreover, it felt …tawdry. Almost as if he were cheating because he was afraid to lose.
Ridiculous notion. She was clever and observant, but she was still a woman. And mortal. He would win.
Alastor took the Cheeto bag from inside his jacket and placed them next to the stove. Disgusting things. All heat, hardly any flavor…yet he couldn't stop eating them. Another thing to lay at Jemma's doorstep.
Impertinent little piece of fluff.
"Wow, something smells good!" Charlie bounced into the kitchen and smiled at Alastor on her way to the icebox. "What are you making?"
"Venison." Husk trod in on Charlie's heels carrying a large bowl. He tramped over to the cupboard with the current favorite snacks and began filling the bowl with potato chips. He eyed Alastor suspiciously. "Real venison."
Alastor smiled at him. "Cats and curiosity, remember?"
"From Earth?" Angel Dust dropped empty soda bottles into the recycling box and grabbed the full ones Charlie passed on to him. "Hey, Al, if you're working top-side now, can you get me some Lucky Strikes? Or Pall Malls? I'll take the Pall Malls but I'd love the Lucky Strikes. I miss 'em."
"Ooh, you're making that dish!" Niffty stood on tip-toe to peer over the stove top. "Want me to fix up some boiled rice?"
"No, Niffty, sweetheart, there's not enough here to share."
"Did you really, Alastor?" Charlie paused in her bottle-passing. "Isn't that –"
"—illegal except for an elite select few? Yeah, it is." Vaggie leaned against the doorjam, arms folded.
Alastor bared his teeth in a smile at her. "Was it necessary for all of you to fetch refills for your card game?" Husk and Niffty wouldn't say anything to make Charlie suspicious. Vaggie was another matter.
"Since some of us couldn't be trusted not to cheat? Yes."
"We'd never cheat!" Husk, Angel Dust and Niffty chorused. Charlie sighed.
"Never mind that. Alastor, would you really get in trouble?"
".If I went to earth at all…only if I'make a habit of it, my dear." And if I'm caught.
"Uh, what're these red-orange things?" Angel Dust poked the ziplock bag with his fourth arm. "Never seen them down here before." He squinted, reading the embossment on the plastic. "Hefty Slider Storage Bag. Never seen that, either."
"Busted." Husk popped the cap off a bottle of hard cider.
Alastor counted silently to ten. Angel, Husk, Vaggie – especially Vaggie – irritated and annoyed him to some degree or another. Fortunately there was only one person who needed convincing of his bona fides. He looked at Charlie. "What you see here is from my personal business. It has nothing to do with the Hotel, and won't affect it."
The Princess of Hell rocked back on her heels, hands in her pockets. "Well," she said slowly. "As long as things stay that way…no harm done."
"'No harm done'! Charlie, one of the biggest rules is going among the living without a human disguise! He's already broken it!"
"What makes you so sure I did?"
"You're too arrogant to wear one."
Husk snorted. "Got you there."
"All right, enough already! Alastor, no one's going to mention this…right?" Her gaze swept over staff and clientele, who voiced their agreement with varying degrees of enthusiasm. "Then let's get back to the card game. Niffty, it's your turn to deal."
"Okay! Angel, you have to finish your story about your new friend at work…"
Charlie herded the others back to the lobby, giving Alastor a small, apologetic smile and a wave as she closed the door. Alastor's own smile lasted until he turned back to the stove.
The Ziploc bag was gone.
Shadows, angular and deer-shaped, darkened the kitchen.
"Someday, my effeminate fellow, I'm going to crush you like the bug you are."
#
How do I get out of this?
Niko lounged against the wall of Porn Studio's smallest soundstage, glitter plastered to his skin and a confident smile he didn't at all feel plastered on his face. He wasn't a co-star again for this film, thank Lilith. He could play his part and go do something else.
Free-lance, his fellow incubi said. Keep it strictly professional with Porn Studios, they said. Don't become a permanent employee, and for the love of Lucifer do not accept any offers of shelter from Valentino, no matter how good it sounds. Advice Niko accepted as prudent and wise. He knew Valentino abused his employees for no reason other than he could. He was hardly the only employer who did. As a free-lancer, Niko found Valentino…manageable.
As a permanent employee, he was far from it.
If Niko had only wanted a full-time job, he would've found a way to still consider Valentino manageable. It wasn't a steady if meager paycheck he needed, but a bolt-hole. A place to hunker down while he figured out what in the Seven Rings was happening to him, and why.
Niko was pretty sure he knew when his life went south: not long after his last job.
Initially he believed he suffered a run of Hell's bad luck. His powers were not weakened, exactly, but …clumsier. Seductions were more difficult. His affect on mortals was subdued. Changing his appearance took concentration. All bad enough. For Niko, though, the kicker was the feuds, bickering and backstabbing that erupted among his friends, acquaintances and business partners. Common as fire in Hell, but the speed and irrationality of said eruption was disturbing. The pettiest, most illogical bullshit started it off first. Slowly it grew more serious, more dangerous. Telling who he could trust, who he could double-cross and who he could discount was growing more difficult by the day. Among his fellow incubi existed a tacit understanding of "Screw over everyone else before screwing over us", and that gentlemen's agreement being ignored worried him.
Niko's increasing suspicion the whole mess had to do with his last employer terrified him. The Radio Demon was no one to fuck around with. You didn't just walk up and ask if he'd been having problems lately. And if you did and if he was, the only question remaining was would your death be quick and painless or long and agonizing? Niko needed to hide, and what betting hiding place than with an associate of Alastor's biggest rival?
Not long after Creamsicle body paint fiasco, he asked Valentino if he was hiring for the Studio. When Valentino wanted to know why, Niko had his answers ready. Free-lancing wasn't going so well (true). The work at the Studio was interesting (partially true). He was tired of his housemates (false).
Valentino hired him.
Which meant Valentino owned him.
Niko hated it. Hated having that unspoken fact emblazoned on his brain, lurking behind every single thought, word and deed. The Overlord hadn't targeted him for the same amount and level of abuse as Angel Dust. Yet. That didn't matter. His time would come sooner or later. Worse, what set him on edge right now was Valentino's sudden nosiness about his past employment. Overlord paranoia, or Val suspecting who Niko's immediate ex-employer actually was?
No way to tell.
His call to take his place came. The shoot limped along. When it was over, Niko headed to the baths.
"Niko, baby. A word?"
Niko pivoted, smiling brilliantly. "Of course, Mr. Valentino. Now or after –"
"Now."
Niko nodded and followed Valentino to his private office, gut tied in the Gordian Knot.
"Niko, baby," Valentino said again when the door shut behind them. He sat on his desk. If he meant to put Niko at ease, he failed. Eight-foot-tall moth demons still loom even when attempting to be shorter. "You know Angel Dust, right?"
"We work well together, I think. He's Porn Studio's star."
"Mmhm. Lately Angelcake's been keeping some questionable company. Nothing I want to make a fuss over, yet. But one of these new friends of his is sketchy. Very, very sketchy. People give him a wide berth. He's also jealous of a friend of mine.
"I'm worried about Angelcakes, Niko. I'm worried this sketchy sinner might want to hurt him. I don't want that."
"None of us do."
Valentino smiled, gold tooth glinting. "Glad to know we're on the same page. I'd like you to be there for Angel. Remind him he has old friends he shouldn't forget."
Spying. Niko nodded. "No problem."
"Oh…something else. I've heard vague whispers this sketchy new friend's been having…issues. Things not quite going his way when it comes to people he knows. People he does business with."
Valentino leaned down. "You haven't heard anything about that, have you, Niko baby?"
"Can't say that I have." Which was Lucifer's honest truth, technically.
The moth demon's eyes narrowed. "A shame. I'd really like to know if there's any truth to this chatter. Asking for a friend, you understand."
Vox. "I do."
"Good." Valentino smiled widely. "Could be worth your while if you can deliver, Niko baby… in more ways than one. Now, why don't you go clean up?"
"Right on it, Mr. Valentino."
He smiled his way back out of the office. The smile stayed put all the way to the baths. It vanished when Niko ducked to rinse his hair.
How the fuck do I get out of this?
#
"Our old stand-by. Why do we come here again?"
"Availability, good food, decent prices, alcohol and they won't rush us out the door as soon as possible." Becky ticked off Pete's Place's high points on her fingers.
Anita shrugged and studied the appetizer's menu. "Whatever. Thought we might have tried for something different."
"It's tradition." Kirsten stuck out her tongue.
"You make us sound like fucking Fiddler on the Roof." Renee jabbed more buttons on her phone.
Jemma stirred the ice in her Coke and wished she'd ordered something stronger. She was the odd man out: everyone was sharing the Zinfandel Becky ordered, except Anita who insisted on a Rolling Rock.
"I asked for suggestions. No one said anything." Becky turned as their waitress approached. "I think we'll have the appetizer combo and the Bavarian pretzel bits to start."
"Aren't you large and in charge." Renee shut down her phone and gulped her wine.
"What difference does it make?" Becky said, exasperated. "Someone had to order. The waitress had been by three times already!"
"Sorry,"Renee muttered. "I'm in a piss-poor mood."
That was an understatement. Jemma had been the last to arrive. The others all looked up when she approached the table with a hello. Anita, Kirsten, Becky, returned the greeting. Renee, though…Renee had looked shocked, then furious; her reactions flowing one from another and disappearing behind the smile Jemma'd known for years. Jemma buried her hurt and bewilderment. She needed to be around her oldest friends, to forget for a time her own troubles.
Becky smiled and squeezed Renee's shoulder. "It's fine. We all have those days. And holidays can be stressful."
That would have been my line, Jemma thought. It was a relief to have someone else fill but
"No argument there." Anita spun her Rolling Rock cap on her placemat. "Guess who's bringing all the desserts this year?"
"You're shitting me." Renee sounded like her normal self. "None of your sisters are…?"
"Nope. They took over the side dishes. I'm supposed to make everything, even the pumpkin rolls."
"Thanksgiving is only three days away," Jemma said. "Better get cracking."
"S'why I can't stay long. I need to start on the cookies tonight."
"You still making the pie crusts by scratch?"
Anita smiled around her beer bottle. "It's my tradition."
"Will you be able to take a break for Wednesday services?" Kirsten asked. Anita looked pained.
"Kir, I'm not into the church thing."
"But you went last Wednesday –"
"Because you asked so nicely." Anita drank again, set her bottle down. "I don't let flesh-and-blood people push me around, I'm not about to let an invisible dude start now." Her eyes met Jemma's. Jemma blushed and became very interested in something in her purse.
"Yeah, not my brightest moment," she confessed. She hadn't told them about Alastor and her deal – deals – with him. She didn't know if she wanted to, let alone how. "What's everyone been up to since the party?" she asked, pulling out her car keys and dropping them into a zippered section.
"Eh. Same old, same old. Work and family drama. You?"
"Not much different." Jemma managed to laugh. " Well, one thing. According to my doc, I'm insulin-resistant. She put me on oral meds for it. I should be a good little Do- Bee and skip all the holiday goodies, but that's going to be hard. Not sure which would be the more petty if I did, the family drama or the work drama. "
"Let me guess, Slavies, Worth and Koseck got you temping for everyone else during Christmas and New Year's," Becky said.
"We have a winner!" Jemma pushed her hair back with her hands. "I don't know what's worse, the crazy repainting and remodeling underway that changes how we get everywhere besides trying to gas us with paint fumes, or the constant email inquiries if I can temp for a department I know nothing about. Especially when it's two partners who want me to fill in for their secretaries at the same time.
"You'll be fine." Renee refilled her wine glass from the bottle, looking at Jemma. "You always are. Nothing stops you, does it? The universe smiles on Jemma McIntire."
Jemma stared at her. "Renee, what is your problem with me?"
Renee turned to stare out the window. "Nothing. Pissy mood, like I said. I'm sorry."
Jemma didn't believe her. What turned you into Bitchzilla today? danced on the tip of her tongue. Before she could say something she'd regret, Becky announced,
"I was just going to suggest refills for a toast, Ren, because I have good news all over."
Jemma obligingly held out her empty wine glass. "What?"
"I'm getting a bonus now and a raise at the start of the new year, John wants us to be exclusive, and Columbia University accepted me into their graduate program for anthropology."
Jemma's jaw dropped. "What? Beck, I can't believe it – that's amazing!"
"I know." Becky sounded her smug, but to Jemma her smile was a touch brittle. Well, that was understandable: very good news, but not without pressure. Quite a bit of pressure. Major life change, good or bad, brought on a huge amount of stress.
They clinked glasses. "I'll ask the priest to say a Mass for you." Kirsten sipped her wine. "For luck." She turned to Jemma. "Would you come to service this Wednesday, Jem? It's for Thanksgiving."
"I can't, Kirsten. The firm's having their Thanksgiving holiday. I'm on the committee for it." And I can think of someone who might object. Strenuously. Would Alastor scent it like theological cooties if she went into a church? Could she still? Or would she burn up like a match? "And like Anita, I'm not into the church thing." Why was Kirsten even asking? Given their mutual friendships, she should know how Jemma – how all of them – felt about religion. The Ouija board incident must have affected her deeply.
Kirsten deflated. "All right," she said. For an instant Jemma thought Kirsten would burst into tears. Instead she smiled and topped off her wine. "I'll pray for you, though.
"For all of us."
#
The next couple weeks were a mixture of frustration and success, both at work and with Alastor. Her schedule changed day to day, along with her duties; she spent an increasing amount of time outside the word processing pool being trained for the positions she would have to cover. She received praise from all concerned for catching on so quickly, but no offer of assistance or easing the work load. She wasn't excluded from her word processing duties. Staying long past business hours, sometimes past midnight, to finish them through her life into chaos.
That chaos affected her deals with Alastor. She stayed at Davies until just past 2 am finishing a contract, was back at work the next morning at 7 am once; as a result she changed into her favorite sweats and t-shirt and promptly passed out on the couch. She woke up hours later with an afghan spread over her and a note on the end table:
You owe me one.
The following night she asked him what he meant. "Give me time, dear," he said, tracing figure-eights on her shoulder with a claw. "I'll think of something."
Beneath the banter lurked something sinister, as always. Jemma had come to expect that, though she did her best to overlook it since she couldn't do anything. Alastor seemed to need to remind her he was in control. A puzzle to Jemma, because she couldn't forget.
Despite Alastor's attitude, her half of the new deal progressed. She no longer felt like she embraced plywood; he'd relaxed enough to be any of her past casual dates, if far less handsy. With one exception: during a rare attempt of finding out what he enjoyed about touching her, he discovered the tender spots along her collarbones.
"I'm supposed to be focusing on you," she managed raggedly after a few minutes of trying to dodge him and failing. "
"But you make such charming squeaky noises…"
Since TV was out and Jemma wasn't in a hurry to push past cuddling, they spent most evenings talking.
Jemma asked about what New Orleans was like when he lived, expanding to current events of the rest of the country, and beyond its borders. His initial confusion at her questions turned to amusement and then at the end, strangely enough, disapproval. "Why so curious about old history?"
Jemma laughed shortly. "I was a Library Science major with a History minor at University of Michigan."
"I didn't picture you as such a bluestocking."
She gave him an ironic half-smile. "I look like a Dumb Blonde. I don't think like one." She leaned against him, pulling her left leg up to her chest. "I had a soccer scholarship for three years. Blew out my knee during practice, bye-bye scholarship, bye-bye university."
After a particularly exasperating day, Alastor found her curled up comfort- reading Ivanhoe. Which led to a surprising debate.
"Rowena was the proper choice, of course. The standards of the time wouldn't allow anything else."
"But he was in love with Rebecca." Jemma craned to look at Alastor. "It's pretty obvious. Rowena just feels so forced."
"Scott set up Rowena as Ivanhoe's destined love from the beginning. You can't argue otherwise."
"He may have started the book, that way, but at some point there's more chemistry between Ivanhoe and Rebecca…"
She broached the topic she'd been most curious about only once.
"So what's it like in Hell?"
Alastor shook his head. "Don't ask questions I won't answer, dear."
"Had to try."
"I know."
NPR was playing an electro-swing hour. Arriving, Alastor listened for a few moments. "Can you dance to this?" he asked Jemma.
"I don't think so…"
"You'll learn." He snapped his fingers. Everything in the living room disappeared except for the stereo system.
"My furniture!"
"Don't worry, I'll put it back. Even the blasted television."
He changed her clothes, too – early 1930s fancy dress. Jemma guessed it was suitable for clubbing back then.
"Ready, dear?" Alastor took her hands. "We start like this –"
What followed was the strangest lesson – for anything – Jemma ever had. Alastor didn't explain fully, just said "Right, now" and "Spin back!" and the like. They needed the empty space, because the twirls, kicks, and slides required a lot of room. Once she realized where her feet had to go and when, the steps became easier. It was the closest thing to a full-on soccer practice since Jemma's surgery, and she was disappointed when it ended.
"Wonderful, sweetheart, just wonderful." Alastor plunked down on the couch (he had indeed returned the living room furnishings while NPR announced the news at the top of the hour), pulling Jemma along with him. "I haven't had a partner like you in years." He traced a zig-zag along her collarbone. "Now, would you like to see my etchings?"
"I'd like to see you with your shirt off." The words came unprompted, and Alastor laughed. But they were true, and the reason privately Jemma decided Alastor's next visit would be the moment of crossing the Rubicon.
Alastor was less than enthused when confronted with the prospect.
"I did mention it in our deal. You agreed."
Alastor conceded the point with a gesture and took his usual spot on the couch. His bow tie and coat disappeared. Jemma straddled him and unbuttoned his shirt. She slid her hands under the high-quality silk, pushing it away. She moved her palms across his chest – he had a good chest, Jemma noted – and along his sides. The texture of his skin didn't feel quite human, but was somehow still a man's.
. His breath caught as Jemma circled in to his stomach. Flat. More muscled than she remembered. There was a small, x-shaped scar above to the left of where his navel should have been. Jemma kissed it, feather-soft.
"What was –"
She looked up at him. "Tell me to stop and I will."
He tilted his head. His eyes narrowed but his smile was wide as ever. "You're fine," he said remotely. "Continue."
Her fingers traced the ridge of his hips and met at the front of his pants. She expected a protest; there was none. She tugged them and his boxers down just far enough for business.
Well. The curtains match the drapes. She bit back a giggle, wishing she didn't have to, but she couldn't predict Alastor's reaction. She pulled a travel-size Johnson & Johnson's baby Lotion from her sweats pocket, poured a dollop in her palm and rubbed her hands together before reaching for him.
His cock twitched in her hold; Alastor sucked in his breath. He was well-formed, no bumps or other oddities. Jemma stroked him from tip to base slowly, turning her hand on the return trip. Her thumb rubbed his head's underside, a touch-and-go pattern. He stiffened, half-erect.
Jemma glanced at him. Alastor stared somewhere above her head. Alastor kept his arms ramrod-stiff at his side, his hands spread open. She heard his claws puncture the upholstery.
"Alastor… does any of this feel good?" she whispered, applying a little more pressure here, a little faster speed. He didn't answer.
Maybe different stimulation would help. Jemma lowered her mouth over him.
"No."
Jemma rocked back against the coffee table, stunned, and scrambled to her feet. Alastor faced her, fully dressed. He still smiled, of course, but his demeanor carried …disgust? Contempt? An emotion Jemma had never seen from him before.
"Your experiment's failed, Jemma. As I would have warned you if I believed you'd listen. I don't know why you even bothered."
"Because you have to want me as much as I want you to make the whole Demon Love thing work! There's no chemistry from you, just biology. I find you attractive, Alastor – I don't know why, or how, or even if I should, but I do." She was saying way too much, and she didn't care. "But you're not interested in me at all."
"Poor thing. Rejection can be so painful. Especially if you're accustomed to it."
Jemma's hands knotted into fists at her sides. "You know, maybe you're right," she said evenly. "Maybe it's been a long time since someone rejected me. But I offered my deal because it was the only way out of a bad situation for both of us I could see, and I didn't know if you had even noticed you had a problem. That's me, good ol gotta-play-fair Jemma. Even with you."
She folded her arms and stared down the hallway. "The firm's changing my work hours by the day, and like you said, my side of the deal's a bust. There's no reason for further visits until it's time to complete yours."
The silence stretched out like beads on a string.
"Jemma."
He was right behind her. Go away, she willed him. Don't touch me.
He didn't.
"I'll see you on the winter solstice."
14