Chapter Text
"I thought I told you to get lost."
I didn't look up from the stock pot I was stirring. I didn't have to look to know who was lurking only a few feet away. Lasciel's presence had a certain weight to it, as tangible to me as the slotted spoon in my hand or the apron tied around my front. Her soft, heady scent was as much an illusion as everything else about her. She existed only in my mind. Of course, one could argue that I only existed in my mind too, so reality could arguably be a relative term.
I shook my head to clear it. Now was not the time to get philosophical. I had lunch to make and I was already behind. Dad would be here in an hour, and I wanted to prepare at least an entree. The side dishes were probably a lost cause at this point. He wouldn't come here expecting a four-course meal. He knew that the six-burner stove in my new apartment was wasted on me. I was generally a culinary disaster in progress. He'd know something was up when I offered him a real meal. Maybe I should have ordered Chinese instead.
"By the time Etri's security personnel vet the delivery person, the food will be cold," she said, reading the direction of my thoughts easily.
I scowled down at the boiling water in the pot. She was right. I'd come to the same conclusion an hour ago, which was when I'd started preparing homemade noodles for lasagna. The apartment had come equipped with a host of nifty gadgets that I'd never used until now, like a pasta maker and a food processor that didn't immediately spark and die in my presence. Lasagna made from scratch wouldn't erase the heaping helping of bad news I had to deliver, but hopefully, it would make it go down a little easier.
"I'm busy," I said, ignoring her attempts at genial conversation. "Go away. You're distracting me. If I get into it with you, this pot is going to boil over and it's not going to help your cause."
"Add oil," Lasciel said.
"What?" I asked, in spite of myself.
"Add some cooking oil. It will interrupt the surface tension of the water and keep the pot from boiling over."
I pursed my lips, debating whether or not to follow instructions. After everything she'd done, I was loathe to take her advice. It felt too much like giving ground. I was already treading on thin ice with this dinner. I hadn't asked for the recipe that had popped into my head. Lash slid it under my mental door with an innocent smile and let me decide whether or not I wanted to use it. She'd been doing a lot of that lately and I couldn't decide whether she was trying to tempt me or if she was thrilled enough by my current predicament to drop breadcrumbs for the hell of it. She was right where she wanted to be after all.
I crossed over to a cabinet and fished out a bottle of vegetable oil, splashing a little into the water. No sense in scorching the noodles to spite the fallen angel. The only one who suffered from that outcome was Dad, who'd manfully choke down whatever monstrosity I'd whipped up on principle.
Lasciel was perched on one of the granite countertops, legs swinging in a cheerful rhythm, looking for all the world like an eager schoolgirl. She'd gone for a distinctly bohemian look today. She'd swept her red curls off her neck and into some curly updo dotted with flowers. The white knit top teased an edge of cleavage, and the fringe drew the eye to the toned planes of her stomach. The red paisley wrap skirt began at her waist and ended at mid-calf. She'd left her feet bare, and the toe rings on each one caught the midday light and sent it skittering around the room, making it almost impossible not to look at her.
Which was the point, damn it. She wanted to engage with me whenever possible. I'd been trying not to indulge her.
"You look festive," I said, moving to the cutting board. The onions, red pepper, and ground beef had to be cooked separately, apparently.
"I have much to celebrate," she replied sweetly.
"Do you? Because it's been four months, and you still haven't made any headway."
She didn't look put out. On the contrary, the words made a coy smile curve her lips. Then she was gone. I only had time to blink once in confusion before she was back, a line of heat and quivering tension along my spine. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled when her breath fanned over my nape. Her breath wasn't actually there. Her hands weren't actually snaking around me. Her fingers weren't a gentle pressure on my wrist. Yeah, tell that to my brain. It was the most intimate touch I'd had in months after my relationship with Chicago's robber baron had come to a messy conclusion at the end of February.
"Every good seduction requires foreplay, Molly," she whispered into my ear.
I shivered as a frisson of desire swept over my skin. My hands shook a little when I lifted the steel chef's knife from the counter. If I wasn't careful I'd mince some part of my finger while I was at it. The blades were Svartalf make and could have been used as throwing knives in a pinch. There was a reason that I tried to block her out most days. It felt too good, too right, which meant it was a trap.
It hadn't been like this between us last time. Oh sure, she'd been suggestive on occasion, but her more vampy tendencies were directed outward toward others. She'd taught me to act like a sex kitten, instead of being one herself. I didn't think that it was a sense of morality that kept her from seducing my fourteen-year-old self. She was a demon, after all, a being with centuries of dark deeds behind her. She wouldn't have balked at a little statutory seduction if she thought it would sucker me into taking up her coin. Back then I'd been too traumatized, too focused on vengeance to jump into bed with anyone. I'd needed a friend, so that's what she'd been.
Things had changed in the intervening years. I'd grown up, made new friends, and had a few adult relationships. The nightmares were easier to bear when you had someone to smooth your hair back and whisper assurances to you in the wee hours. Which was why she was doing this, of course. Marcone's betrayal and our subsequent breakup left an aching hole where solace used to live. I was heartbroken, lonely, and yeah, a little horny. You try having great sex for over a year and then going without. It's not as easy as it sounds.
"Go away," I repeated without conviction.
"It is your mind, my host. I wouldn't be able to appear to you if you didn't want me here."
Which was probably true. That was the problem with Lasciel. She existed in a state of constant flux in my thoughts. An intense longing for who she was, and the utter revulsion of the things she wanted me to do. I couldn't have one without the other, so I'd said no to the coin. Again. It was why I'd scheduled the bad-news dinner with Dad. I needed a sponsor to keep me honest. I'd tried to schedule it a dozen times over the last four months, but things kept coming up. Grandpa's health scare, Butters' training, Alicia's softball team going to state, and on and on. The timing never seemed right, and this wasn't the sort of news one delivered over the phone.
Lash placed a soft kiss just below my ear. "You're hurting. Let me help you."
An image popped unbidden into my head. A tangle of sheets, lush, creamy curves, and long legs tangled with mine. My hand fisted around copper curls. The honeysuckle taste of her skin. Low, pleased exhalations. Want clenched hard in my belly and I screwed my eyes shut, trying to blot the vision out.
"Quit that. I don't need sex therapy. Besides, I've barely tiptoed on that side of the street."
I had no doubt she'd be a masterful teacher if I let her. A thought that I wasn't going to dwell on. At all.
"Perhaps this is more to your liking?" she asked.
Or rather, he asked. I turned before I could think better of it and found myself caged in by a very handsome man. The red curls were gone, replaced with sleek black hair with a few silver streaks at the temple. The eyes were similar but with a dark ring of cobalt around the iris, and a starburst of hazel near the center. He was a well-preserved forty-something, at least five inches taller than me, and well-built. He gripped my chin in warm, calloused fingers and tilted my face up to his.
He was going to kiss me and I wasn't sure there was anything I could do to stop him. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, too stunned by the sudden development and my raging hormones to protest. He leaned toward me, eyes bright and...
The phone rang.
"Oh thank God," I muttered, ducking out of his arms. "Saved by the bell."
I beelined for the landline in the living room. Lasciel followed behind me, female and sullen once more. My pulse was still hammering when I lifted the phone to my ear and gave a breathless, "Hello?"
A bright, chipper voice on the other end asked, "Hello, is this Makayla Nixon?"
It took me a befuddled second to recognize my alias. So far as the state of Illinois was concerned, Molly Carpenter died when she was fourteen years old. Hard to set up ID and bank accounts as a dead girl.
"Yes, this is she."
"Good," the woman said, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. "My name is Selena, and I'm calling on behalf of my employer, John Marcone..."