Inside Lucifer's War by Byron J. Smith

trailing off.
    She slowly walks back, kneels beneath my stare to catch my downcast eyes, and slowly rises, pulling my eyes up with her. Clutching my left arm with a gentle but firm grip, she says softly, “Look, Thomas. Let me be honest with you. I don’t trust you. I’ve known men like you. Still, you are a dear friend to Mike and Therese, which makes you a friend to me. If you need to talk, I’ll listen. If you don’t want to talk here, Mike has my number. Call me anytime you need to talk.”
    She stares a bit longer to make sure that I am going to be okay, and then she walks away. For the first time in my life, I feel love for a woman. It is a strange feeling, and it makes me nervous. I have known lust. I own lust. I can control my lust. This feeling I can’t control, and that scares me. Yet, as scary as it is, it is a feeling I hope will stay with me.
    I smile to myself when I think of this conversation. She never gave me her number. She told me that Mike has her number. Meaning, if I really want to talk—talk, not hit on her—I need to get her number from her big brother. Well played, Stacie, I think to myself.
    I want to slip out of the house, but decorum prevents that. And besides, I have a mission on my mind. I quietly find Therese, who fortunately is alone.
    “Hi, Therese. I had a lovely evening. Thank you,” I say.
    “Ah, you have to leave so soon? We loved having you,” she responds.
    “Before I leave though, you don’t happen to have Stacie’s cell number, do you? I think the one I have is old. I would ask her, but I don’t want to interrupt their conversation.”
    I lie, and Therese sees right through it.
    “Thomas, dear. You know better than to fib to me. If you want her number, just ask me,” she says as she writes it down for me.
    “Thanks,” I say. “Sorry about the pretense.”
    “No worries. Just remember, I didn’t give you the number. And if you hurt her, you have me to deal with,” she remarks with furled eyebrows.
    With that, I kiss her cheek and let myself out. Nothing major happened the rest of the night, save for the fact that I lie awake in bed like a schoolboy thinking about a girl and possibilities. I decide not to turn on any music for fear of what songs I might select. God forbid I complete the cliché.

C HAPTER 9
    Monday Morning Coffee
    I wake early Monday morning and quickly go through my routine. By the time I sit down in my office, I have almost convinced myself that my run-in with the demonic world is attributable to a bad mix of pills and alcohol. I must have had an acute case of alcohol poisoning or somebody slipped something into my drink. Then I look at my left wrist. The mark is still there. I recall that people often find patterns where there are no patterns. Surely, there are no emblems or writing within the symbol. It must be a cigar burn. Nothing more.
    My morning schedule is clear, which is a nice change. I’ve been too busy lately, and it is always a relief to have an open morning, especially a Monday morning. Actually, the rest of the day is relatively light. I have only one class, modern philosophy, from one to two thirty, and I need very little prep time for it. Today’s class is a review of some student essays. I earlier highlighted some of the essay material I think will be provocative. I jot down some questions for the class.
    Soon other staff and administrators arrive. I go to shut my door, as I’m not interested in the usual Monday morning greetings. I hear someone say, “How was your weekend?” Luckily, another person answers, “Too short. Sure was hot.” But I don’t shut my door completely. This routine conversation is strangely welcoming for me. It brings a sense of peace that things are normal, that whatever happened this weekend, as real as it seemed, is in the past.
    That thought shatters when I feel a push at my door. What follows crushes my feeling of peace.
    Andrew Mayfield is a high-intellect professor with an even higher