Hi Everyone!

First of all, you are all the most awesome readers ever! I really didn't think that anyone would be so interested in this story. The fact that so many of you are reading and following and commenting just makes my day. One of the questions I was asked was where in the Supernatural timeline this story falls. The truth is, I don't know. I just write what comes to me and hope someone else enjoys it. The rest of the questions…well…read on.

The title is a quote from Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I hope you all enjoy!

psyche b.

3. The Devil's Most Devilish When Respectable

The sensation of falling lasted for less than a second and then there was thick carpeting beneath her feet. There was no sudden jolt or sensation of hitting the ground from a height. She was one place and then milliseconds later she was somewhere else. That wasn't nearly enough time to process what he had just said and certainly not enough to wrap her head around the reality that she had been on the roof of her dorm and now she was…where? She crossed her arms over her chest, her fingernails digging into her upper arms in the hopes of controlling the tremors that were threatening to consume her.

It didn't work.

The instability started in her knees and worked its way up settling around her shoulders and reaching down to compress her chest. Crowley took her elbow and led her a few steps to a chair, a look of genuine concern flashing through his hazel eyes. It was either a split second of pure humanity or it was a trick of the light. In her shocked state Sara didn't trust herself to know which. He turned toward a marble-topped bar to the right of the wide fieldstone fireplace. She kept her eyes fixed on his shoulders and forced herself to draw a deep breath, then another. When he turned back, he held a cut glass tumbler out to her. It held a small amount of dark amber liquid.

Sara shook her head. "No. I-I don't…no.." The words trailed away as if she had forgotten what she was going to say.

"Sip it slowly. Best treatment I know for shock."

Sara hesitated.

"No tricks, no strings." His voice softened. "Take it."

Sara's hands trembled as reached for the glass. When she took the tumbler her fingers brushed his. The spark of contact flickered through his eyes and raced down her spine. She shifted her fingers and held the heavy glass close to her chest to keep from dropping it. After the frisson of the brief touch faded, she chanced a small sip of the dark liquid. It traced heat all way down. Crowley watched her for a long moment, then turned and poured himself a more generous portion. Sara took another small sip and felt the heat radiating out from under her heart. It served to further sharpen her focus and she was able to really look around for the first time.

The large room was well-appointed, masculine and comfortable. A fire crackled in the fireplace. The leather armchair she was occupying was next to another just like it. Both were in front of the warm blaze. To her left she could see another darkened room through a set of open pocket doors. The long table could accommodate eight for dinner or a conference. To her right another set of double doors were almost directly across from the first. They were closed. "Where are we?"

He set his glass on the small table between the chairs and took off his black overcoat. He opened the buttons of his suit jacket and sat next to her. The intense gaze was back and so was the smirk. "You're expecting me to say Hell." He took a generous sip of the alcohol.

Sara drew her knees up so that she was resting on her hip, but she met his eyes. "Accurate answers. It's one of the rules." She was sure that he could hear the little tremor in her voice.

His eyes sharpened. "I always honor my deals." He picked up the glass and took a sip. When he looked at her again, his eyes were the same enticing hazel they were before. "But admit it, you expect me to say Hell."

Sara remained silent, her will battling with his. She looked around the room again. Well-appointed, but bland. There was nothing personal anywhere. Everything matched perfectly, but nothing stood out. She might not have a home of her own, but she hadn't been completely cloistered. Her friends had homes and when she'd visited them, no matter how much care the designer had taken there were always things that stood out. Always little clues to the personality of the person who lived there. She didn't expect he would have family photos, but he did seem fond of his flourishes and he was the acquisitive type. There would have been something, if this space were his. Her eyes fell on a painting above the fireplace. It was a painting of mountains and trees surrounding a lake. It was relatively well executed but utterly unimaginative and inoffensive.

She looked back at him again. "This isn't Hell. Not unless Hell looks like a hotel."

His eyebrows rose just a fraction. "What makes you so certain?"

She gave a little shrug with one shoulder. "That coat is vicuna. Hermés?"

He clucked his tongue but a little smile curled the corners of his lips. "Been peeking at my labels darling?"

Sara smiled a little but lowered her eyes, needing a refuge from his intense gaze even if it was only for a moment. "I notice clothes. Anyway, the coat and painting don't go together. That's the kind of coat that draws the attention, even if the viewer doesn't know why it stands out. Maybe for some it's the drape or the cut or the depth of the color. Doesn't really matter, it catches the eye. Someone who chooses a plain black overcoat that stands out in a crowd wouldn't hang a painting that fades into the background." She met his gaze again. "At least, that's my best guess."

His eyes brightened for just a fraction of a second and he gave a soft laugh. "Your best guess. We're at the Burlington Royal." He leaned forward a little. "The penthouse suite, of course."

Her eyes widened and Sara walked over to the wide balcony doors and opened them, stepping out into the chilly night. The mixture of small-town and city spread out in front of her. Sara recognized it from a field trip a few years ago. She closed her eyes and opened them again, but the view didn't change. Sara took a deep breath and walked back inside. "Burlington as in Vermont?" This time she couldn't disguise the tremor.

A slow smile spread across his face. "Your rules, darling. You've had your question and answer, now I get mine."

Sara's knees were shaking. At least this time she could blame the chill of the night air. She made her way back to the chair, drew her feet up and wrapped one of the sweaters around her knees. "Okay."

He studied her and for a moment, their eyes locked in a slow, wary tango. Neither was quite leading or quite following, but the longer the silence stretched the more complex the dance became.

The questions he might asked flickered through Sara's mind as well what might happen if she refused to answer. Being in another state in nothing but socks had changed the equation.

"What do you like on your pizza?" He asked finally.

That question hadn't even been on her radar. "What?" She asked.

He gave her an exaggerated exasperated look. "Pet, I know you aren't mentally slow."

"No, I just-" She decided that explanation was useless. "Pepperoni."

"See? Not so difficult after all." He got up and pushed a button on the phone. He spoke a few words into the receiver and refilled his glass.

"Why this hotel?" Sara asked.

"The suite is serviceable and the concierge is resourceful and solicitous." He grinned. "My turn."

Sara gave up trying to think of what he might ask and she did her best not to watch him move as he walked back to the chair.

"So, do you enjoy perching on all rooftops or just the one I found you on?" He took a sip of his drink and studied her over the rim of his glass. Amusement sparkled in his eyes.

Despite her best efforts to the contrary Sara smiled. She felt a warm blush rise to her cheeks. "Well that roof does tend to be the one I have access to most of the time. As long as I can find a hairpin." There were so many things she wanted to know. Too many to put words to. She followed his lead. "Why that little dive?"

He studied her for a moment, considering how much to tell her. "Twenty minutes before you arrived I had a very productive initial meeting with the CEO of a well-known brokerage house." He leaned toward her as if sharing a secret. "Gambling. It's a path that leads to all sorts of unexpected places."

She couldn't keep the curiosity out of her voice. "But it's the middle of nowhere."

"The thing that my representatives hear most often when they first answer a sales call isn't some version of 'thank you for coming' or 'I'm so glad to see you', it's 'I didn't think that would really work'. Men like my CEO all share two of the same flaws. They would do almost anything not to look like the fools they are, and they vastly overestimate how interesting they are to everyone else."

"So they think everyone is watching. If it doesn't work they look silly burying a box of random stuff. If it does work they think people will have actually paid close enough attention to connect burying the box with some kind of good fortune."

He nodded a little smile curling the corners of his lips. "The middle of nowhere provides enough privacy for the initial meeting. The negotiations can take place in more congenial surroundings once the customer finally admits to himself or herself that they're ready to move forward."

Sara shook her head and smiled a little. "You make it sound like a business transaction."

"That's exactly what it is." There was an intense sincerity to his voice that held Sara's rapt attention. "I provide a very unique and personalized service. Terms are agreed upon and a contract is signed and the terms are honored by both parties." He sat back and took a sip of his drink.

"You always get the better end of the deal."

"Is that a question?"

"It's an observation."

"Someone always does darling. I choose me."

Before Sara could respond someone knocked on the door. "Room service." The announcement was muffled. The door opened and a tired looking man in a shapeless dark green jacket came in pushing a cart.

"On the table." Crowley instructed.

The man in the green jacket set the table for two. Finally he lit the candles. When he was gone, Crowley stood and gestured toward the dining room. "Shall we?"

Sara followed him. He held out a chair for her. She hesitated, then sat down. The tips of his fingers trailed casually over her shoulders as he walked to his chair. Sara bit her lip and suppressed a pleasant shiver.

"This is...rather upscale for pizza."

He poured her a glass of wine and then one for himself. "The last time I ate pizza straight out of the box I was perhaps not at the apex of my power. Not a time I wish to harken back to."

Sara got the sense that this was not a topic he would be willing to talk about. She picked up her knife and fork and took a bite of the steaming slice. For a moment they ate in silence.

"What happened to Leah?" The question was out before Sara could really consider if she wanted the answer.

His mildly amused exterior didn't shift. "I believe you've had your question."

"You asked me if I was asking a question, I told you I was making an observation. It's my turn." His eyebrows rose. Sara looked into his eyes and smiled. "My rules."

He chuckled. "Your rules."

She blushed and lowered her eyes, reminding herself that the whole purpose of coming here was to get information. "So, what happened to Leah?"

"You were there. You saw the whole thing."

"I saw it, but…" She shook her head, giving up trying to be circumspect. She took a deep breath and tried to keep the tremor out of her voice. "Leah is gone. She disappeared a couple of days after we got back. I've left voicemails, I've texted. Her parents are freaking out because she hasn't contacted them either and since they knew I was her best friend I get to hear them freak out a couple of times a week. Is she going to be some kind of famous missing person? Are people going to talk about her like they talk about Jimmy Hoffa? Is she going to be a murder victim with a law named after her? Is she-"

He grasped her hand. "Breathe." His thumb stroked heel of her hand.

Sara took a trembling breath and felt her focus contract to that discreet arc of points at the base of her palm.

"Did Leah tell you the terms of her contract?"

Sara fixed him with a flat look. "You met Leah, sort of. Do you really think she even asked about the terms of her contract?"

"Point taken. What's her last name?"

A bite of pizza poised in midair. "Her last name? Why?"

"Pet, even I have a filing system."

"Kirtland." Sara took the bite of pizza.

He took a phone out of his inside jacket pocket.

Her eyebrows rose. "And you have a phone?"

"Just because the Catholics only recently came to grips with the fact that Galileo was right that doesn't mean we all have to live in the dark ages." He tapped the screen a couple of times and held it to his ear. "I want Leah Kirtland's contract." He was silent for a moment. "Jubal." His eyes narrowed and hardened. "I'm not playing twenty bloody questions. Find it. Now." He ended the call, put his phone away and held his hand out in a graceful gesture. A scroll appeared in it, a fleeting aroma of sulfur danced through the room.

Sara stared at it. "The twenty-first century?"

"Well, there are modern conveniences and then there are traditions." He gestured to the pizza. "More?"

"No, thanks." She looked at the scroll, trying to decipher some of the calligraphic Latin from her upside down vantage point. It was too many reorientations and translations for this hour of morning.

He took a languid swallow of wine. "Curious?" One finger stroked over the parchment. The candlelight added heat to his gaze.

Sara swallowed hard, her eyes following the path of his finger. Goosebumps rose on her skin.

"All you have to do is admit it." His voice was soft, teasing.

"Yes." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

The heat in his eyes grew more intense but the tone of his voice didn't change, neither did the pace of that fascinating stroking finger. "Sorry, darling, I didn't quite catch that."

Sara took a deep breath. "Yes, I'm curious."

He smiled a little and his eyes glittered for just a moment, then he unrolled the scroll, quickly searching through the seemingly endless paragraphs and clauses. "This is fairly standard. Leah gets ten good years of fame, and it looks like Jubal added in fortune. All for the standard price." He looked up at her. "Is your friend a good kisser?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"It was added." He said it as if it should be obvious. "Jubal tends to listen more closely to what is meant than what is said if the client is a good kisser."

"That's allowed?"

He spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. "I give my employees a great deal of autonomy within a few limits. Keeps productivity up."

Sara laughed. This time she didn't try to hide it.

Crowley returned Sara to her dorm room at a little after four in the morning, despite his desire to keep her longer. He couldn't see the angel warding, but he could feel it like the soft thrum of a well-tuned engine.

The room, like the girl, was not what he had expected. Several very fine pieces of furniture sat next to Ikea knockoffs. A dressmaker's dummy with a worn yellow tape measure draped around the shoulders stood in one corner. Sketches of dresses were pinned to a large cork board along with fabric swatches that would suit each one. She had an elegant sense of line and style that had been effectively concealed beneath the shapeless sweaters. It was also the only decoration in the room as aside from a dusty crucifix.

She stood back and watched him. Her twitching finger gave away the fact that she was nervous. He turned away from the designs and took a step toward her. She took a step back.

"Returned, safe and intact as promised." He said.

A shy smile tugged at her lips. "It was an unexpectedly pleasant evening. Thank you."

She wasn't tempted and she wasn't impressed, but she was definitely interested. He bowed slightly and was about to take himself off when she spoke again.

"King of Hell?" The title had been something of an infernal royal elephant in the room all night.

He stepped a little closer. This time she didn't back away. "Sorry? Was that a question, pet?"

She met his eyes and held them. "I only wanted to be sure I heard you right."

A slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "King of Hell."

She smiled shyly and he could practically feel the pounding of her heart in the small room. "Maybe, you could tell me more about that." Her eyes met his. "If we meet again, that is."

He grinned, took her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. "When we meet again, ask me." All night long the idea of what her skin would taste like fluttered around the edges of his consciousness. It was better than he had imagined. He disappeared with his fingers still in contact with her skin.

It was all Sara could do not to moan when his lips touched her wrist, she couldn't control the fact that she gripped his hand a little more tightly. Those hazel eyes looked at her from under his heavy brows. She could see amusement there and…and something else as he disappeared. She wasn't sure what that something else could be. He couldn't have been as affected by the touch as she was.

In the scheme of Sara's feelings, it didn't matter if he felt the same way. The feeling of his lips and his fingers still lingered, still made her breath catch in the back of her throat and heat radiating from her hand. The fact that he probably didn't feel it didn't help Sara get to sleep that night either.

Maybe this was what it felt like to have a crush. Sara wondered why she couldn't just have a crush on someone normal. The clean-cut handsome literature professor that had all of her friends' hearts fluttering. The brooding and muscular gardener that wore dirt and sweat like some men wore Armani. Any one of a hundred church-approved boys from St. Aloysious. All of them were prime targets for fantasy, but oh no. Sara had to go and get a crush on the King of Hell. The whole thing sounded perfectly ridiculous.

"No point in doing things by halves." Sara said, turning over in bed again, deciding that she would get over it. Not like she would ever see him again.

Crowley stood on the balcony at the Burlington Royal drinking in the cool early morning air. Her scent lingered in the room, teasing him from the chair where she'd sat with her feet drawn up under her.

She wasn't impressed with any of it. She wasn't tempted and she wasn't impressed, but she could bloody well see. The places where other people stopped were her starting point and from there she saw the connecting threads. Half of his demons couldn't do that and this girl, who only moments before could barely breathe for the shock, could calmly connect a coat and a painting and from there see the big picture.

Just remembering the way she looked in that moment set the human blood in his veins alight with something he couldn't name. It wasn't need. It wasn't yearning or sentimentality or anything else the blood had done to him in the past. Maybe it was all of those things wrapped around each other and tied in knots and rebraided in new and complex patterns.

He had felt it when she was there, but now it was worse. It was the absence of her. Or the absence of something about her. The question of her humanity tugged at his consciousness again. Her soul burned with a brighter intensity, but every human soul was a unique creation. Or his addiction had clouded his judgement.

"Your Majesty?" The hesitant voice came from behind him. He didn't bother answering.

"Your Majesty?" The voice spoke again. This time there was a tremor of uncertainty there. Crowley turned his head just slightly but not enough to see the speaker.

"I don't wish to disturb your Majesty-"

"Then don't." Crowley said. He didn't turn around. There was a long pause, but he knew the speaker was still hovering. "You're still there." Crowley said in a sing-song voice. His underlings knew that when the King was smiling and playful he was at his most dangerous.

"You wished to see this month's projections." The voice was laced with poorly concealed fear.

Crowley sighed. "Make it quick." He held out his hand and the obsequious little accountant put an iPad into it.

He flicked his eyes over the figures without really seeing them.

"Increase it by two percent." He held the tablet out. The minor demon didn't take it.

"But your Majesty the month is more than half over and-"

"Three percent."

There was a strangled sounding gasp. But the computer was still in his hand.

He raised an eyebrow. "Care to go for four?"

"No your Majesty! I mean, yes your Majesty." The iPad was finally taken from his hand. "I mean, I'll get right on it your Majesty."

He felt the air ripple as the little accountant disappeared. Crowley followed suit, appearing in his throne room. A demon in a butler's livery greeted him with a small smile and polite nod.

"Anything interesting today?" The king sat on his throne, feeling the boredom settle around him again.

"I couldn't presume to say, Majesty."

Crowley glanced around the Spartan room. "Death warrants?"

The butler-demon pointed to a stack of parchments just waiting for a name at the top and Crowley's signature at the bottom.

"Torture orders?"

The butler pointed to another stack.

"Torture to death warrants?"

The butler indicated a third, much taller stack.

He sighed and straightened his tie. "Send the first one in."