How many times had I heard their whispers? The ones that told me to keep my ideas for removing plastic out of our oceans to myself because surely someone smarter and cleverer than me was already on it. Or how, when Jana Gill asked me to go out with the gang after work, I always declined for fear of embarrassing myself. Or how, when I worked up the courage to talk to Guy Baker, the whispers would start that there was nothing Silly Lucy could say he’d want to hear.
“That’s what demons do?” I asked after a minute, anger tightening my voice. “Keep humans down? Send us to war or make us feel crappy about ourselves?”
“Demons can’t make you do anything,” Casziel said. “We insinuate. Influence. Cajole. We stoke the fires of your sloth, or wrath, or jealousy, then feed off it. Whether or not you act on our insinuations is entirely up to you, though you rarely believe that. Our greatest victory was convincing humans they have no control over their reaction to adversity.” He tapped his chin. “Asmodeus earned himself a promotion for that one.”
This is a dream. I’m going to wake up. Any second now…
I took a long pull of cold water. “Are there many demons on This Side?”
“Not many. Perhaps a few thousand at any given moment.”
“Thousand?”
“We are legion,” he said. “And you’re out of cornflakes.”
“I’ll put it on my list,” I murmured as Casziel wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and slipped off the stool to wander my living area.
He tapped his long fingers on my window. “Does this unlock?”
“Yes, but…”
He pushed it open.
“I only leave it cracked in the summer,” I said, reaching to shut it again. “It’s not safe—”
“None dare hurt you. Not while I’m here.”
The casual menace in his voice sent another tingle down my spine. I’d never had a man—or reasonable facsimile thereof—vow to protect me like that. As if, under his watch, my safety was a forgone conclusion.
It felt good.
Casziel carried his inspection of my tiny studio into the sleeping area, leaning to peer at the photo on my nightstand. My dad and me at Coney Island when I was ten.
“Ah, so he smiles,” Casziel muttered. “I was beginning to wonder if he were only capable of disapproving grimaces.”
“Dad’s here right now?”
“Yes and no. Here is a relative term.”
“I thought you said—”
Casziel flapped a hand irritably as he perused my bookshelf that was crammed full. “He’s always here and he’s also somewhere else. Everywhere and nowhere.” He cocked his head, listening, then scoffed. “I beg to differ.”
“He’s talking to you now?”
“He says I’m being vague on purpose. As if it were that easy to explain the nature of the cosmos to a puny human brain for which ‘truth’ is only that which the senses perceive.”
“That’s a little harsh,” I said. “Plenty of people have faith.”
Casziel snorted. “On the surface. On their knees once a week, if that.”
“You have a dim view of humanity.” I crossed my arms. “It’s hardly fair to incite humans to war and hate, to whisper in our ears that we’re not good enough or drive us to temptation and then get all judgy about it.”
Casziel shrugged. “I’m a demon. I never professed to be fair.”
I rolled my eyes and picked up the photo of my father and me. Both of us grinning. Both of us carefree and full of joy. No demons there.
“He’s an angel now,” I murmured, tracing his face.