“Clara, not all witches are like you or the witches you grew up with. They were rotten to the core and infecting others. Remember that mind control spell? That's where they began and it only got worse from there.”
Deep grooves appear between her eyes. It's hard to fully explain the extent of their corruption, especially to someone like Clara. I don't know a lot about where she grew up, but I know a little. Dimitri was kind enough to find out more about her and keeps slipping me tidbits of information. I’d be pissed, except he needs a side quest to occupy his time. If he keeps calling her my witchy girlfriend, though, I might stab him.
“You can give up on the desk. I'll deal with it tomorrow,” she murmurs.
I don't want to go back. It's more than just the meeting and the paperwork. I was content for several decades. Even recently, I didn't need more than what I was doing. Training demons as they move up the ranks, traveling to different dimensions of Hell, and even running errands—it filled my time at the very least. Lately, I'm struggling. I'd rather spend my time here putting together a desk and pretending it has nothing to do with the witch sitting across from me.
“Why do you need a desk?” I ask, fitting another screw in a hole that's much too big.
“I sell plants. It comes with its own paperwork, and my back hurts when I work on it in bed or on the couch.”
“You have a business?”
“Yes…why?” Her lip slips between her teeth, and I have the irrational urge to bite the plump flesh.
I shake my head, wishing I would have kept my damn shirt on. “No reason. Just wondering.”
A jingle rings through the space and I glance around. She jumps up and strides from the room. I have no idea where the music came from or what she's doing. Instead, I focus on the parts in front of me. It's the only way I'll be able to ignore whatever's happening between us. None of this makes any fucking sense—with Clara or with the desk. I pick up one piece of wood after another and throw it down again. It doesn't matterhow I fit them together, none of it works. My frustration grows with each second until smoke rises from my skin.
“Fuck this,” I mutter.
I snap my fingers and the pieces fly into place. It's so quick, I can barely follow them fitting together. Shadows swirl around the desk and I smirk. None of the screws were used, but that shouldn't matter.
“You're telling me you could do that this whole fucking time? You asshole,” Clara cries from the doorway.
She stomps toward the desk and runs her hand along the top. She brushes a finger along the burn mark I left behind. If she complains about it after I saved her all that time and frustration, I might lose it on her. Then again, bantering with her has been…fun. Exhilarating even.
She huffs, pulling me from my thoughts, and she drops onto the couch. I didn't even notice the basket full of clothes. As she starts folding them, I wonder if this is her polite dismissal. I don't know how long it's been in Hell, but I doubt the meeting is over. And the paperwork will still be waiting.
“Thank you for putting the desk together.” She unfurls a towel and hides behind it. “Am I annoying you?”
“What? Why would I be annoyed?”
She sighs as she drops the fabric and levels me with a stare. “Because I keep summoning you and making you do all these tasks for me. Seems to me as a demon, you'd have better things to do. Plus, all I've ever done for you is make you fries. And those weren't even for you.”
I lean back on my hands. “You're not annoying, Clara. Now, tell me about this vacation.”
My eyes flutter open, and I stare at the ceiling for a bit before I figure out where I am. Lumps from the old couch dig into my back and I groan. Turning on my side, I narrowly avoid dumping myself onto the floor. My hand flops around and I almost smack myself in the face.
“What the hell?” I groan as I push upright.
I almost feel like I got drunk last night and am paying for it now. I didn't. At least, I'm pretty sure I didn't. My memories slowly return as I massage my fingers. Omen was here. I accidentally summoned him, yet he stuck around. It must have been a dream, though. Otherwise, it'd mean he was here. And I opened up to him about my feelings.
No, it must have been a dream. Why would a demon hang out? Especially with a witch. It doesn't happen as far as I know. Most witches aren't summoning demons in the first place.
My eyes catch on the desk, decidedly not in pieces and sitting in the middle of the living room. I scramble to my feet, thenslow, brushing my fingers across the burn marks gracing the top. I had plans to paint it, but I don't know if I'd be able to now. Having Omen here, drinking tea and bitching over a desk, was refreshing. I don't have it in me to resent my friends, but having no one to talk to hasn't been easy.
When he asked about the vacation, I tried to play it off as no big deal.They're free to do whatever they want. Not even getting an invitation, though…hurt. Thank fuck I didn't start crying in front of him. It was embarrassing enough to spill my guts. Tears would've made it worse. Other than paperwork and meetings, he didn't really tell me anything. I wonder if he's even allowed to.
“Hopefully, he doesn't get in trouble,” I mutter.
Even though he didn't open up about his deepest, darkest secrets, he revealed a lot more than I expected. He told me about his place in Hell and what happens when I summon him. Between him explaining pocket dimensions and the shadows always swirling around him, I feel like I got a glimpse of the demon underneath the reddish skin and horns.
I'm sure he just had no other place to go, but a thrill rolls through me that he stayed with me. Which is exactly what Ishouldn'tbe feeling. Reminding myself he's a demon I should stay away from gets harder and harder with every interaction.
I hum to myself as I make my way to the bathroom. Am I fantasizing about what it would be like if he were here more often? Maybe. Do I realize it's futile? Absolutely. Still, a witch can dream. Especially since I know what he looks like naked.
I go about my normal routine of showering, dressing, and throwing my hair up in a ponytail. I play our conversation from last night over and over in my head. By the time I start making breakfast, I'm lagging. The singing has stopped and my mind is mush.
