The Devil wore Calvin Klein
Luc (because the last person who tried to shorten Lucifer to Luci is still trapped in the Seventh Circle) took a sip of his espresso, adjusted his red bow tie and smiled at me.
“It’s a no go Karlie. I earned that soul fair and square.”
I began to snort at his ridiculousness but stopped myself almost as soon as I started. Although I nearly choked myself to death, I was happy for my quick reflexes. It wasn’t wise to make fun of Luc. Nothing good could come out of pissing the Devil off and Luc was touchier than most.
He placed a glass of water before me with a thud and I gulped it down once I stopped struggling to breathe. I was certain he could sense my nervousness from the way he smiled at me but I wasn’t surprised. I never hid that I hated spending any more time than necessary in Hell, even if it were just the administrative wing. I wanted to get the Case Management Conference done as soon as possible but reaching some sort of deal seemed unlikely given the stubborn set of Luc’s jaw.
“Look,” I said opening the large folder that sat between us on the large, sleek, oak desk like a buffer. I shuffled through what seemed like a million documents until I found the one I was looking for: The Faustus Treaty.
“It clearly states here that you cannot rightfully claim someone’s soul if the deal was sealed via trickery.”
Luc pushed his chair back, stood and sauntered over to his liquor Cabinet.
“Scotch?” he asked. When I didn’t respond he made a motion with his hand that seemed to say ‘as you were’ and poured three fingers of Scotch for himself.
I wanted to smash the folder over his perfectly coiffed head but resisted the urge. My client wouldn’t be the only one weeping, wailing and gnashing teeth if I lost my cool. Chewing on my bottom lip I cursed my stupid, idealistic naivety that landed me with this job. When most of my friends from law school who specialized in Corporate Law lamented about making deals with the Devil, I often wanted to roll my eyes at them. And, when I complained about having the job from hell I wished I could confess that I meant ‘literally’. I’ve tried to do that more than once but because gagging order I was subjected to I ended up hospitalized with the symptoms of a stroke. I never tried to confess the true nature of my job again. Even if I were willing to risk seeing if a stroke was really at the end of violating the order, I realized that if I told anyone the truth I probably still end up in a hospital – the mental kind.
“I followed the Faustus Treaty to the T,” Luc argued. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I had my people put in a reservation to that Article.”
“You can’t put a reservation to that Article. That Article embodies the whole purpose to the treaty. My client offered you her soul and five years off her lifespan but you counter offered with eight years knowing she was scheduled to die in eight years.”
Luc grinned widely, “Eight years and two days. The deal was that she’d find her true love and spend the rest of her life with him.”
The self-satisfied smirk on his face grew as he took a sip of his scotch, “She did spend the rest of her life with him. I am not to be blamed if that life was shorter than she anticipated. I don’t decide when it is time to go, take that up with your boss.”
I might have been stupid to take this job but I was wise enough to know when negotiations were going nowhere. I pushed the chair back, stood and smoothed my suit, “See you in Court.”
He chuckled, “Or before then if you accept my invitation to dinner.”
This time I didn’t try to stop the rude words that streamed from my mouth.
“You’ll have a hell of a time,” Luc called after me with a loud, booming laugh as I made my way down the hallway.
I felt my lips curve upwards. Lucifer had a sense of humour. Well, I’d be damned.
© Rilzy Adams, 2014