Part 22 (2/2)
She burst into startled laughter.
”G.o.d, I'd forgotten about that,” Connor said thoughtfully. ”The angel kitten. That's a bad one, all right.”
I glanced at Aunt Kitty, who was too poleaxed by now to respond, and then at Mom, who was ditto. But Uncle Edgar might have been on the moon, for all the attention he was paying. I suspected he secretly agreed with me.
”So let's not get into an etiquette smackdown,” I said. ”I shouldn't have wrecked the living room with the tree. But you shouldn't have driven me crazy. Agreed?”
There was complete silence for at least a minute -- a very long time for silence, especially among people who never shut up.
Then Dad pushed his chair back, crossed the room, and extended his hand to Ca.s.sie. ”It was a pleasure meeting you,” he told her sincerely. ”I hope we'll see you again.”
Ca.s.sie shot a bewildered glance at me. ”Thank you. I hope so too.”
He nodded. They shook and let go. When they did, Dad put his hand on my shoulder. ”Devlin, take care of yourself. Come see us again soon.”
Aw, dammit, this was going to ruin my exit. Reluctantly, I gave him a hug. ”Merry Christmas, Dad.”
It wasn't his fault he married into a family of monsters, after all. But next Christmas, I was going to buy him a spine.
There was one last thing I wanted to do in Hawthorne: make snow angels in the park. It was a tradition. And it wouldn't hurt to do one traditional thing.
The park was full of kids trying out their new Christmas sleds and snow discs, so we skirted the hills and went to a flat area by the merry-go-round.
”I haven't done this in years,” she mused.
”You'll love it. It's just like you remember.”
”I hope not. I got snow in some really bad places the last time.”
After a second's debate, I decided that I didn't need to know. ”C'mon. Over here.”
We jumped as far as we could into a patch of snow that didn't have footprints on it. Then we dropped back into it and made the angels.
”They look great,” she said, inspecting them. ”People are going to think real angels...” Then something caught her eye. ”Devvy?”
”Angel?”
To my annoyance, she didn't hear that. ”What did you do when you made yours?”
”The same thing everyone does. Why?”
She pointed. I leaned farther forward. There in the snow where I'd made my angel were the clear, distinctive outlines of horns and a long pointed tail.
”Monica!” I shouted.
When the demon didn't show after a few seconds, Ca.s.sie slipped her arm around me. ”I guess you're just a devil. But you're my devil.”
”Very funny,” I said, trying not to look flattered.
(c) 2000, K. Simpson To Part 19 The Devil's Workshop (c) 2000, M.C. Sak Disclaimers, Credits, & E-Mail: See Part 1.
CHAPTER 19.
December 26 *
One more Christmas was over. That much more blood was under the bridge now, and I was tired. It had been a very long couple of months. Maybe I could rest now, just for a while.
That was the plan. But Leonard Nimoy foiled it the first morning back. And then a fish finished me off.
”This is your fault for giving them that tape,” I informed Ca.s.sie while we threw some clothes on. ”Your fault for buying it in the first place.”
”It is not. Besides, I thought you liked 'Star Trek.'”
On the front porch, ”If I Had a Hammer” got even louder. Gritting my teeth, I willed myself not to hear it. ”This isn't 'Star Trek.' This is Golden Throats. And this isn't the first time they've done this to me.”
She stopped misb.u.t.toning her sweater long enough to give me a very crabby look. ”Well, now they're doing it to me, too. Satisfied?”
”No.”
We regarded each other in hostile silence. It was nothing personal; we knew we still liked each other. But it was very, very early in the morning to be awake, let alone to be awake while Mr. Spock was singing. And that part was her fault.
”I'll go let them in,” I said. ”If they don't have a fantastic reason for being here, you clean up the mess. You'll need a big mop.”
”Sweet-talker,” she groused.
Perversely, that made me feel better. I went downstairs; rummaged in the toolbox; and threw the front door open, ready for anything. Or at least for Heather, Chip, and Troy.
”Off,” I told Troy.
He turned off the boom box.
”Tape.”
Uncertain, he looked to the others for advice. Heather shrugged. He ejected the tape and handed it over.
”Now you do have a hammer,” I told them, bringing it out from behind my back.
They backed off, which was the first smart thing they'd done that day. Carefully, I positioned the ca.s.sette on the porch railing.
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