Visits from Satan are never social calls, even when he's your brother. So, the first time Luke paid me one Here, on Earth, I knew what—or rather whom—he wanted.
"Long time, no see, Adora," he said.
"Maybe not long enough," I answered, unwilling to turn around from my studying, trying to hide my surprise at him showing up out of nowhere, or, more correctly, Hell. I also didn't want him to see how glad I was to have him back, glad even if he did sound ticked off at the moment. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he made his way around my bedroom. His hands were behind his back and he strolled like he was in an art gallery, looking at the small jewelry box and scattered mementos on my dresser, the black-and-white posters on my walls, the framed family photos on the shelf above my desk. Here, finally. Not my imagination, but my brother. And not flesh and blood, but as near tangible as a fallen angel could get.
"Where are my Ozzy albums?" he said. He was irritated; I could tell by the way the carpet burst into flames beneath his feet.
"Bookcase. Middle shelf."
He stomped over to my considerable library and began prodding at the spines with his ridiculous ornamental fork.
"What do you need them for anyway? Isn't it loud enough down there already? All those burning souls?"
Luke turned round and scowled, his heels igniting a smoky twister that whizzed off toward the kitchen, spitting sulphur and sparks.
I rubbed my eyes and took another look around the room. Gone. Empty. Nobody.
So, it was my imagination, after all, I thought. And on the heels of that: I really need to stop smoking crack.
Opening: Anonymous.....Continuation: WO/freddie