Olivia Chase, a successful woman who sold her soul to the Devil in exchange for a baby, is offered a second deal of a lifetime after her daughter dies: she must harvest Lucifer a series of souls he claims belong in Hell in trade for her daughter's m...
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I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening practicing with the mirror until I gave myself a throbbing headache. As the sun set, so did I, laying on the couch with a cold cloth on my eyes. While it seemed like all the drums of Africa were pounding simultaneously in my head, I felt accomplished. I'd managed to get a fuzzy picture of George as she curled up and went to sleep.
I had just started to fade away, sinking into the comfortable warmth of the plush leather couch, when there came a knock on my door. I knew who it was before I checked the monitor.
I opened the door, and a very haggard Lucifer leaned on the door jamb. He carried his suit jacket over a shoulder, his white shirt rumbled with the sleeves rolled up. His hair, even though short, was in disarray, and he needed a shave. When he looked up at me, his eyes were dull and tired. "Hi," was all he seemed able to muster.
I gaped at him. "You looked like you've had a day from... well, a day from Hell."
He closed his eyes. "You could say that."
"I'm so sorry, Lucifer."
He hung his head. "May I come in?"
I moved out of the door. "Yes, of course."
As he shuffled past me, I asked, "Can I get you anything?"
"No, I can take care of what I need. I just want your company."
"Let me turn on the heater out on the terrace, and we'll sit out there."
He nodded. "Allow me to help," he said, snapping it on as we went outside. The night air was getting chilly at this time of the year, but the radiant heat from the standing heater carved out a little pocket of comfort.
We sat in the lounge chairs, with feet pointed toward the warmth. He sighed heavily and leaned his head back.
"You want to talk about it?" I asked.
"Not really," he answered. "I just do not want to feel alone, honestly. This seemed like the best place to come."
I blushed, awkward and self-conscious.
He snapped a drink into his hand, though I couldn't tell if it was whiskey or bourbon. "Would you like anything?"
"Wine, please," I requested, and he snapped a glass and a bottle to the small table between us. I helped myself to a generous pour; it wasn't as if we'd run out.
We sat in silence. He didn't appear to want to talk, and I didn't know what to say. So, I left it alone. I got up once to allow George to join us when she meowed at the door, but I settled back into place without a peep from him.
Since he didn't show interest in discussing the 'Big Thing,' whatever it was, I asked him about something else, just to get him out of his head.
