Page 40 of Unholy Night
“Where are you?” Lyla says, curling into my arm as she pulls it around her shoulders. “You look far away.”
“I”m thinking we are nearly through our list,” I say, glancing back at Mandy, who’s sound asleep and curled up with Gurch. “This is the last house.”
My words serve as a reminder to her that the night we are having is just a fantasy, not the reality for either of us.
“That’s great,” she says, but her voice carries a heavy wave of sadness that I can taste in the air. It rivals my own.
“Yes,” I say. “Great. We showed that bloated elf what’s what.” I try for my old bluster, but it falls flat. And when Lyla turns her head to hide the tears I know are welling in her eyes, my heart breaks again.
I take her hand in mine, holding it tightly as I guide the Hellhounds with my free hand. We haven’t spoken about our kiss. Our growing intimacy. The feelings we’re developing for each other. We seem to have an unspoken agreement that we will not commit these things to words. That what we have must live outside the limitations of language.
To speak of it is to doom it prematurely.
The night isn’t over yet.
Not quite.
“I don’t understand how we did this,” she says, leaning her head against my shoulder. I inhale the strawberry scent of her shampoo, setting it--like everything else about her--to memory. “It feels… strange. Surreal. How did we physically do all these houses in one night? I mean, I’ve been here the whole time and I still don’t believe it.”
“It’s part of the magic,” I say, a bit lamely. But what other explanation can I offer?
She looks up at me, her blue eyes sparkling with wonder. “We will remember this, right? All of it?”
“You’ll remember what your mind can handle,” I say.
She frowns at that. “That better be all of it. I don’t want to forget…” she tightens her hand in mine. “Anything.”
“Do you have any more questions?” I ask, shifting the subject. “I want to make sure our contract is complete to your satisfaction.”
The mention of the contract sours the mood and I internally kick myself for ruining the moment.
“Do you think tonight helped? That we made a difference in inspiring more magic?” she asks.
I look at her, at the desperate longing in her eyes that reflects the intensity in my own heart. “You certainly brought magic back to my life,” I say, my voice huskier with more emotion than I intend.
Her eyes are bright with unshed tears but she swallows her feelings and clears her throat, pulling away from me a bit as she does. “I hope it helped. That we… helped.”
“What about you?” I ask her. “Has tonight brought the magic back to your life?”
She averts her gaze, staring into the distance instead. “You know it has.”
Her voice is soft as she speaks, as she deepens the open wound that hasn’t healed. “I didn’t think I would ever feel safe again,” she says. “I… I never thought I would be in a position to be hurt like he hurt me. And… I feel so stupid. Stupid for staying. Stupid for trusting.”
I temper my reaction, knowing that if I blow up--quite literally--the way that I want to, it will hurt her. She won’t feel safe anymore. I will have broken her trust. So I stay calm. And I listen.
When she realizes I’m not going to interrupt, she visibly relaxes, sinking into me as she continues baring her soul. “I was scared to leave. Scared I couldn’t make it as a mother on my own. Scared I wouldn’t be able to provide for Mandy. Scared he might come after us and…”
And get violent. I can taste her unspoken words on the air and I vow to pay a visit to this man who tried to break the woman I…
Shit.
“Tonight was a reminder that not all guys are like that,” she says, oblivious to the dangerous road my thoughts are traveling. “That… well, you’re not exactly a typical guy, but still. That I deserve to be treated well. You told me the truth. You were kind and considerate with me and my daughter. You helped heal my heart tonight, Lucifer.Thatis your special brand of magic. You are a healer.”
Her words slice through me like daggers, though I know that isn’t her intention. She believes her words a balm to cover my wounds, but she doesn’t understand how her words make my heart ache for her even more.
Because she is saying the thing that I have always wished were true, but it’s delusional thinking to imagine Satan could ever be anything but the antagonist in the narrative. There is no room for a version of Lucifer that heals. There is only Satan.
Still, even as her words strike their death blows, I crave more of it. I cup her face, trusting my hounds to guide the sleigh just fine on their own, and I lean toward her, desperate to taste that mouth again, to feel the fiery passion burning hot and fierce within her.