Kiss & Hell by Dakota Cassidy Page B

Marcella could be a peace-loving unwilling resident of Hell, why couldn’t Clyde?
    Delaney grabbed an old throw she kept in the store due to the draftiness in the winter. She hurled it up to Clyde so he could cover his fun stuff just as she caught the glimpse of a woman standing in the corner by the rack of herbal oils. She froze in place, forgetting that she really should ask this errant demon what his supposed mission was about and how it involved her, because the familiar goose bumps rising on her arms while her chimes swayed with a shiver took precedence.
    “Delaney?”
    “Shhhhh,” she whispered up to Clyde. “Do you see her?”
    “Her?”
    “In the corner. The lady with the poofy dress and the thing on her head that looks like a doily.”
    Clyde shifted to crane his neck. The moment he did, the woman began to fade, then her wavering form turned fuzzy like snow on a television set. Like when the picture faded in and out. Clyde stirred again, running a hand through his hair, and once more, the apparition crackled with static—almost in sync with his movements.
    “Sit back up,” she ordered.
    Clyde grunted, leaning back to his left and centering himself atop the armoire again. “Is it Aunt Gwyneth again?”
    “No, definitely not, and if you don’t hold still I won’t be able to help her. Quit squirming.” Each time Clyde moved, the presence slipped in and out of vision, syncing with his every move. How utterly bizarre. “Stop moving!”
    “Sorry, I had an itch.”
    Delaney moved closer to the woman, squinting her eyes to bring her into focus. “Clyde,” she threatened, “if you breathe the wrong way, I’ll hack your limbs off.”
    Moving with cautious steps, she approached the woman. Whoever she was, sucked to be her in that drab dress, wearing a doily on her head. Clearly she was from another century. Though the outfit didn’t ring any history bells with Delaney. The woman’s lips were moving, but the words rang with only the slightest whisper. Delaney leaned in as far as she could to try to catch what she seemed so desperate to say, watching her lips move as she did. “DasKomadasKomadasKoma,” she said, her face filled with a sense of urgency.
    Was that German? Oh, fuck. What did she know in German? “Uh, Volkswagen. Oh! Sauerkraut and Wiener schnitzel—oh, oh! And knockwurst. And, uh . . . Der Kommissar !” she shouted as though they were playing charades.
    “ Falco , 1981, After the Fire , 1983.”
    She tilted an ear up at Clyde. “Who? Never mind, demon—shut it. I’m working here.”
    “DasKomadasKomadasKoma,” the woman repeated with fierce insistence, extending a hand toward Delaney as though summoning her.
    Pinching her temples, Delaney gave them a hard squeeze. “Aww, crap, lady. You are foreign. That so sucks. You know, as a medium, I’ve given a lot of thought to taking some foreign language courses. I’ve had a visit or two from a group of Dutchmen, and once, even some gondola driver from Italy. But I just can’t seem to find the time, ya know? Shit. If you tell me how to spell it, I can go look it up online.” Which was probably ridiculous to ask because the woman wouldn’t understand her any more than she understood the woman. But the image began to fade before Delaney could turn to retrieve her laptop.
    Her shoulders slumped. “Damn. She’s gone.”
    “And this would be my fault, too, I suppose,” Clyde stated dryly.
    Delaney rolled her eyes at him. “No, Clyde, though whatever mojo you have going on is screwing up mine. Did you catch a glimpse of her? Do you know if she was speaking German?”
    “Foreign languages were one thing I didn’t tap in my lifetime. And how do you get used to something like that? People just showing up out of nowhere?”
    “You mean like you?”
    His blue eyes colored with amusement, and he conceded. “Touche.”
    “Are you sure you didn’t see her?”
    “You did tell me not to move. I listened. And I definitely couldn’t hear