They visited with one another nearly every day for the next eleven days. On the twelfth day, work let out a little early, and Kate and Eli decided to have dinner at his Hollywood apartment and watch a movie after.

Everything during those eleven days had been dreamy, from work to their time together. And the sex—oh, God, the sex—had been a joy indescribable. She couldn't get enough of it or of him and had climbed on top of Eli whenever they'd had a spare moment. Every time they were alone, it was as if her clothes just fell from her body of their own volition, often the moment she stepped through his door.

Tonight, though, would be different. She perfectly intended to control herself until after the movie. And she had news, great news, that she'd gotten at lunch that very day. She was so happy she thought she might cry.

The moment Eli opened the door, though, Kate wrapped herself around him like a python and for a moment was uncertain she could maintain her resolve. When finally she peeled herself away from her friend's perfect form, it was to scold him for his unnatural and depraved lustiness and to shoo him toward the kitchen to complete his work. The smell from the oven was intoxicating.

"Oh, Dove," she sobbed pitiably, "lasagna? I already have to run an extra ten miles next week to work off the bread you've been force-feeding me. I'm not a goose." She knew complaining was wrong ... and futile. He was such a good cook.

Eli, laughing, retreated to the tiny kitchen, poked his nose in the oven to check on dinner, and rattled a few pots and pans as if he was serious about what he was doing. After stopping at the door to the veranda and enjoying the view for a few moments, she sat on his sofa and stretched out. He joined her a few minutes later.

"What did you think of the book?" he asked on his way to the couch.

The day before, he'd given her a small monograph by one S.L. Musgrave that he'd used while writing his thesis. The book was a partial translation and commentary on a minor work on demonology, a subject with which she still had a deep fascination. He'd dug the tiny book out of mothballs only with some persuading, for fear the topic might once again make her a scaredy-cat. She'd assured him otherwise.

"Boring. Dry," she responded. "It wasn't anything at all like your thesis."

"But what about the content?"

"It sounded a lot like the Church's party line ... except for one thing. The author said in a couple of places that anyone of us could be a demon. What does that mean?"

"We talked about this once before."

"I know," she said. "But the way Musgrave phrased it was funny. He seemed to distinguish between a person 'being' a demon and someone 'being possessed' by a demon."

"Oh ... well, that I'm not sure about. It's been so long." Eli's lips twisted several times in thought. "The Regensburg demon said there were all sorts of ways to possess someone. The demon can inhabit someone secretly, subtly guiding their actions, can reveal itself to the host and cohabit the same flesh, or can expel the host's consciousness altogether and walk around in his or her skin."

"Ah, right," she exclaimed, "I remember something about that. Maybe that's what he meant."

The faintest hint of a smile flitted across his face and then was gone. "Oh, and, um ...," he continued casually, "Musgrave might have meant, 'anyone of us,' literally. The R. IX demon said that after he took over a host completely, he could will himself to forget who he truly was and live life as a normal person. It was one of the ways he had of fighting off ennui and building emotional connections with humans."

Stop fucking with me, she wanted to scream, but her newfound probity wouldn't allow such language. It was obvious he was yanking her chain, yet again; not a word Eli had just said showed up in his thesis. But his imagination was vivid, complex, and funny, and, after a fleeting hesitation, she jumped up and ran to the other side of the room to join in the game, that enormous, open-mouthed smile on her face.

"I knew you were one of them. I knew it," she yelled.

He made like a vampire and chased her around the tiny room and through the veranda beyond, with her screaming, scrambling, and hollering all the while, until she let him catch her. Such games were their normal now. It was a wonder the neighbors had never called the police.

"I have big news," she said after they collapsed in a heap on the couch. She'd intended to wait until after dinner to tell him but couldn't resist.

"What?"

"I went to lunch today with a coworker, Caleb Patterson, and his boyfriend, Paul. They're the sweetest, and Paul said I had the most velvety, sexy stage voice he's ever heard. I didn't know at the time, but it was sort of a job interview."

"For what job?"

She wished for just a second that there'd been a drumroll.

"Get this," she said. "Paul is the showrunner for Murder Bird. After lunch, he said he wanted me to voice a femme fatale for a story arc in season six."

She began laughing and clapping and got up and danced her jig around the room. Eli's reaction was pure and honest. As always, he was thrilled. "This is genuine?" he asked, having rightly come to realize everything in that benighted town was flimsy and conditional.

"Georgie is working out the details," she answered as she again collapsed on the couch next to him, "but it's a solid offer. I am so, so happy."

He pulled her close and kissed her hard and lovingly on the lips. His passion sometimes overwhelmed her.

"When is dinner ready?" she asked in a husky voice. It no longer troubled her when her emotions showed around him.

"Twenty-five or thirty minutes, earlier if you don't mind your noodles a little chewy. You should have time to check your e-mail and read the news."

He knew she liked to check such things several times a day, especially just after she'd gotten off work. She did so now on his computer, reviewing the national, state, and local headlines as she always did and carefully reading the stories that interested her. She turned next to the news alerts for which she'd registered. There were several she had set for sundry topics, including some she hadn't shut off from previous months.

Clancy Cyril's name came up again, and she sat and stared at the article that mentioned him, reading and rereading the piece over and over. The details were something she had a hard time believing, even now. After many minutes, she felt Eli behind her, his warm and loving presence an enormous comfort. 

She didn't care who or what he was. She loved him.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Clancy Cyril's in some more trouble," she said.

"What did he do this time? Stage a breakout?"

"No," she whispered. "He killed somebody in a fight."

"What? ... Who?"

"Another prisoner," she answered softly, "a guy named Villiers, who was in for burglary like Clancy."

"You're kidding me," he whispered. "What. A. Loser. You're well rid of that miserable family."

"Oh, I know," she replied. She turned and kissed his cheek. "How's the lasagna?"

"Five more minutes. Why don't you go wash up?"

"I will. I love you, baby."

"I love you too, Dove," was his open and unaffected reply to her declaration.

Eli went off to finish preparations for dinner, something delightful in his step that had never been there before. Kate sat regarding the article on Clancy a while longer.

Poor Colin Bouchard, a tiny voice within her whispered after a time, that dude is so fucked.