voice said.
And she was very afraid. She’d been raised Catholic but hadn’t given it much thought since about tenth grade, but now she felt her mortal soul within her, felt it with all the certainty of an eighty-year-old priest on his death bed.
No, she said, the tears heavier.
Then you should not journey his path with him. The choice is yours, the voice said and all at once, she was back in the diner.
The lady behind the counter was yelling:
“No! Mark, don’t!”
Roger writhed and writhed, screaming.
The waitress stood, brushing the hem of her uniform down. She glanced once at the man in the jean jacket then she turned and walked out the front door.
Sirens in the distance forced Kelly up and onto her feet.
“We have to get out of here,” she said, taking the Devil’s hand.
She started toward the swinging doors but he stopped her, his hand gripping hers. She turned back to him, suddenly shy to look into his face. Her eyes met his. She nodded.
He looked into her eyes, searching, and then nodded back.
They pushed through the swinging doors and into the kitchen.
The back door was still open, swinging a bit.
Kelly and the Devil passed through and into the bright sunlight of early afternoon.
* * *
She drove smoothly and competently, even though her nerves were singing. She felt like a high-tension wire, taut and alive with electrical current, dangerous, maybe deadly. She saw Roger in her mind, his writhing, bucking dance played over and over, and each slam of his booted feet seemed to say your fault, your fault, you brought this demon in upon me. Though some part of her wanted to see this as a burden of guilt, she found a larger part of her accepted the responsibility without regret. She’d brought the Devil into the diner, yes, but Roger had brought everything else upon himself. He had only himself to blame.
Outwardly her features did not change, but inside she smiled. Not a smile of triumph, not one of satisfaction or even righteousness, the smile was one of acceptance. She had accepted her own responsibility and found she could hoist the weight. Easily.
She glanced at the Devil next to her and for the first time, she saw him as wholly another, an entity apart from Mark, not her brother. She was awed by him, her mysterious passenger, and drawn to him. Not in the way you’d be drawn to an attractive stranger across a room, but in the way you are drawn to watch a thunderstorm, magnetized and frightened at the same time, unable to turn away from the firework display.
The Devil considered her feelings as she felt them. He couldn’t read her mind as such, but having made a bond with her by showing her Hell, he had a good idea of at least the flavor of her thoughts. And he was troubled.
He felt drawn to her, too, to her innate goodness and the strength that was her base, her basic nature. In the topography of Kelly, her bedrock was pure iron. There was something of an Angel’s character in her combination of strength and kindness, a balance, and it was beautiful. There was no beauty in Hell, and he found that in having it, he would miss it more when he had to return.
It had been a very long time since he’d been in Heaven and this woman next to him reminded him of that sad fact. And yet at the same time, her presence assuaged his grief.
He was very troubled.
They had stopped twice more for food and the Devil had eaten prodigiously each time. He could feel this body around him like a vehicle and it thrummed and revved, souped up and developing quickly, its metabolism almost literally on fire. Torn muscle rebuilt itself, gobbling the protein the Devil ingested. Tendons began to loosen, oiled by the physical activity he was putting this body through. And all the while, the clamoring for drugs faded and faded, becoming wee, winking out.
They were on the bridge to Philadelphia and the sun was hanging at the horizon as though too curious about the state of this part of the world to sink the rest
And she was very afraid. She’d been raised Catholic but hadn’t given it much thought since about tenth grade, but now she felt her mortal soul within her, felt it with all the certainty of an eighty-year-old priest on his death bed.
No, she said, the tears heavier.
Then you should not journey his path with him. The choice is yours, the voice said and all at once, she was back in the diner.
The lady behind the counter was yelling:
“No! Mark, don’t!”
Roger writhed and writhed, screaming.
The waitress stood, brushing the hem of her uniform down. She glanced once at the man in the jean jacket then she turned and walked out the front door.
Sirens in the distance forced Kelly up and onto her feet.
“We have to get out of here,” she said, taking the Devil’s hand.
She started toward the swinging doors but he stopped her, his hand gripping hers. She turned back to him, suddenly shy to look into his face. Her eyes met his. She nodded.
He looked into her eyes, searching, and then nodded back.
They pushed through the swinging doors and into the kitchen.
The back door was still open, swinging a bit.
Kelly and the Devil passed through and into the bright sunlight of early afternoon.
* * *
She drove smoothly and competently, even though her nerves were singing. She felt like a high-tension wire, taut and alive with electrical current, dangerous, maybe deadly. She saw Roger in her mind, his writhing, bucking dance played over and over, and each slam of his booted feet seemed to say your fault, your fault, you brought this demon in upon me. Though some part of her wanted to see this as a burden of guilt, she found a larger part of her accepted the responsibility without regret. She’d brought the Devil into the diner, yes, but Roger had brought everything else upon himself. He had only himself to blame.
Outwardly her features did not change, but inside she smiled. Not a smile of triumph, not one of satisfaction or even righteousness, the smile was one of acceptance. She had accepted her own responsibility and found she could hoist the weight. Easily.
She glanced at the Devil next to her and for the first time, she saw him as wholly another, an entity apart from Mark, not her brother. She was awed by him, her mysterious passenger, and drawn to him. Not in the way you’d be drawn to an attractive stranger across a room, but in the way you are drawn to watch a thunderstorm, magnetized and frightened at the same time, unable to turn away from the firework display.
The Devil considered her feelings as she felt them. He couldn’t read her mind as such, but having made a bond with her by showing her Hell, he had a good idea of at least the flavor of her thoughts. And he was troubled.
He felt drawn to her, too, to her innate goodness and the strength that was her base, her basic nature. In the topography of Kelly, her bedrock was pure iron. There was something of an Angel’s character in her combination of strength and kindness, a balance, and it was beautiful. There was no beauty in Hell, and he found that in having it, he would miss it more when he had to return.
It had been a very long time since he’d been in Heaven and this woman next to him reminded him of that sad fact. And yet at the same time, her presence assuaged his grief.
He was very troubled.
They had stopped twice more for food and the Devil had eaten prodigiously each time. He could feel this body around him like a vehicle and it thrummed and revved, souped up and developing quickly, its metabolism almost literally on fire. Torn muscle rebuilt itself, gobbling the protein the Devil ingested. Tendons began to loosen, oiled by the physical activity he was putting this body through. And all the while, the clamoring for drugs faded and faded, becoming wee, winking out.
They were on the bridge to Philadelphia and the sun was hanging at the horizon as though too curious about the state of this part of the world to sink the rest
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