We Find What Is Lost: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 1)

Chapter Three: Rachel

She blinked again, this time in incredulity. Terror still robbed her of speech, but disbelief held it ransom.

He studied her. She could see now a hint of interest in the way he peered at her from a head slightly tilted down.

Her hand stopped on its way to the phone.

She swallowed. Her throat made a clicking sound. She made a little bit of saliva and swallowed again.

"What did you say?" she asked.

"I said sorry I'm late."

"Was I..." She struggled to find the words. "Was I... expecting you?"

He shrugged. "I don't know." He looked back into the living room. "I think you were expecting someone."

"I..." She looked to the living room. Suddenly she knew what he meant. "You... are you... my demon?"

He chuckled, a low, throaty chuckle that stirred something down below. Even now her body was betraying her when she should have been scared to death.

"Your demon?" he asked wryly. He stood from the couch and took a step toward the bed on which she still lay.

"Oh shit, the candles," she said, backing away in alarm. "I blew out the candles. I shouldn't have..."

He smirked. "The candles?"

"I shouldn't have blown them out, but I didn't think it worked."

His brow furrowed. A perfectly sculpted brow. Did he get it threaded?

"What did you think the candles were supposed to do?" he asked.

She looked up at him and blinked. "I don't know. I don't think I did it right."

"Did what right?"

"The ritual. To summon a demon."

"Is that what you think I am?"

She suddenly felt very stupid. "No, but, I mean, how else did you get in here, unless you walked in through the door, or window, I guess that's also possible. I mean you said you were late, so I guess I thought you were coming to my... command..."

"I take it you're unsure because I don't conform to your image of one."

"I don't know... I've seen pictures..."

"And who drew the pictures?"

"I don't know."

He was silent a moment. Then he said, "I suppose I could show you what I really look like, but it would scare you so badly you'd have a heart attack and die."

"Oh." She swallowed. "Okay then."

"But I don't want to kill you. Yet." He did that low, throaty chuckle again, making her skin erupt in goose flesh. "I'm just getting to know you. I'm more interested in finding out why I ended up in your apartment."

"You don't... you don't know? I did a ritual..."

He burst out laughing this time. It made her feel small.

"If you think... my being here had anything... to do with your ritual..." he said in between bursts of laughter.

"So... wait..." she muttered. "Did I do it wrong or right?"

He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "Oh, darling, I could tell you all the little things you did wrong, but they don't matter; most importantly, what you did wrong was believe you had any agency at all in bringing me here or controlling me in any way."

This made her angry. "So, why did you come, then?"

He smiled but said nothing, and now that she took the time to really look at him (something she'd think too intimate unless she'd gone on a few dates), she could see he looked too... perfect? Maybe not quite human enough? Yes, that was it. There were no imperfections on his face. Even clean-shaven men had a trace of the ghost of the stubble that would come in a day or so. His face looked waxed, shiny and smooth. Yes. Wax. He looked like a wax statue from Madame Tussaud. Or someone photo-shopped to ludicrous extremes, so that they looked like a CGI character in some fantasy computer game, like the one she used to play before she was chased out. His grey suit looked artificial too, not made of fabric but of pixels.