Demon

“There’s a reason Jake Salter is dead, Clay.”

The flesh rose on my arms. Jake Salter, the punk kid who, I had learned that day in the Commons, died just years ago. “He drowned,” I whispered.

She looked at me as though I were an insect flailing in a web.

“As for the pretty jogger—”

I sat back in my chair, pushing away the pastiche of death: cracked windshields, an orphaned sneaker, and always, always, the shattered pink iPod.

“There’s an interesting story to that one. Her husband left his wife for her last year. This year he decided to have a crisis of conscience. He was on the cusp of becoming one of them, those blooming souls. We couldn’t have that. He’s an influential man.”

“So you killed his wife?”

“Despite your American beliefs, there are no rules in war.”

“How is killing her supposed to stop him?”

“He’s bitter, throwing the blame at El’s feet.” She shrugged. Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. She reached up, slid her fingers through her hair, her back arching slightly.

“Do you—does this happen often?”

“I told you. This is a war.”

“Can’t people see through that? Don’t people know?”

“Have you seen through it?” She leaned forward, the V of her sweater gaping. “We have other methods of distraction as well, palatable, innocuous distractions condoned by your social mores. Gratification. Success. The striving for everything your culture says is important and worthwhile: the trips to Mexico, the brandy in the Four Seasons. The Audi, the private Belmont school.”

She stared at me as she pulled them from my brain like folded lottery numbers from a fishbowl. I felt my face redden. “And it works. Everyone thinks they deserve happiness, after all. It’s practically written into your Constitution. What a great country.” She smirked.

I thought of the day in Belmont, my aspirations and vision of a house there. “And for every human you distract, deceive, or kill . . . what do you get?”

She shrugged. “Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“This isn’t an incentive program, Clay. It’s the principle of the matter. Haven’t you understood anything? It is all about you. How carefully he formed you in your fragile mud glory. How long-suffering he has been with you, how willingly he labored with you, ultimately offering you the once-for-all atonement when you deserve it so little. No, when you deserve it not at all!”

With every sentence her palm beat the top of the table. Now it slammed down, the salt and pepper shakers rattling atop the smudged surface like loose teeth. “You again!”

Leave.

But I stared, transfixed by her anger, by the blazing black light of her eyes.

By her hatred of me.

She leaned back, instantly composed. “But not everyone wants El’s great gift. It hasn’t turned out as badly as I thought.”

“What do you mean?” It came out barely above a whisper. Too soft, I was sure, for any human to hear.

“Because people are good. Just like you, Clay. You’re a good guy. You’ve lived a good life. And just like you, humans aren’t in the habit of accepting charity. They’d rather work for redemption. But I ask you, what is good, really, Clay? Decency? A relative state of not-so-bad? Having good intentions? Well, you know what they say about the road to hell. And if intentions and states of relative goodness were good enough, do you think El would have gone to the trouble? You think you’ve suffered. What do you know of suffering?”

I wanted to strike her. Suffering! She dared speak to me of suffering? But even as I formed the thought, self- righteous and indignant, I saw the corners of her mouth turn up, and I knew that my suffering, such as it was, was pathetic to her.

“But who am I to challenge you?” Her arms crossed. Fury seemed to rise from the surface of her skin, like heat off a stove. “If you insist on being judged by the merit of your works, El will honor that. I’ve seen it many times. But what I haven’t seen is anyone who measured up. Maybe you’ll be the first, hmm?”

“Tell me about Mrs. Russo.”

Lucian stared at me as though a snake had slithered out of my ear.

“She’s religious.”

“I don’t mind religious.” But she looked as though she had bitten into a bug.

“She goes to church.”

“That’s fine with me.”

“What?”

She shrugged but appeared unsettled. “Churches are inbred, if you ask me, worshipping a radical god with conventional methods. So traditional. And so comfortable. Mind you, the church community is no paradise. Image takes effort. And one has to appear to have things in order, or else how can they judge anyone else? I see more judgment from churchgoers than anyone. In fact, I have a theory.”