The Devil Dances (17 page)

I eyed the altar, but was sure to leave generous space between me and it. Another thing about my dad is he likes to talk about the Devil in third person. In this case, I could forgive him, since he wasn’t, technically, the first Lucifer. That would be his dad, my grandfather.

“Fine. You know your shit. How do I get rid of it?” As loathe as I was to ask my dad’s advice, that vision I’d had had made me desperate. I didn’t care if it crippled my pride; I wasn’t going to allow this place to cause further suffering for one more little girl in the community.

Dad took a puff of his smoke and arched a winged eyebrow at me. “You mean de-sanctify it? That would be an interesting trick, considering only a god can de-sanctify another god’s altar. Even
I
couldn’t do that.”

So there was an hierarchy here, obviously. I could push demons around. Gods? Not so much. “But I hurt it,” I reminded him. “It
can
be hurt.”

“You did hurt it. You do have power, son. But not enough to kill a god, I’m afraid. You’re the Angel-breaker, not the God-killer. At least, not yet.”

“I can’t just leave it.”

“You can’t stay in the community much longer, either. If you do, you’ll be putting Vivian at risk.”

Now I glared at him. “What does Vivian have to do with any of this?”

“She heard the music. The women can. The men can’t. Obviously, this thing only wants the women of the colony.”

He had a good point, but …

“Why are you so worried about Vivian?”

He stood up as I turned on him. We stood toe to toe. We were exactly the same size. We looked alike. My dad had basically just cloned himself in me. If I had any physical similarities to my mom, he had hidden them, obliterated them. And I hated him for that. “Who is Vivian?” I persisted. “
Is
she the Whore of Babylon? The Devil’s consort? What is she to you? Part of some sick plan of yours to undo me, to teach me a lesson?”

My dad smiled indulgently. “I told you, son, she’s yours, not mine. She’s your soul to protect, to play with.”

I got a very bad feeling then. Bad, because I’d just realized something, something important. Something I had never noticed until this moment.

I didn’t have my dad’s eyes. His features, yes—the lean, faintly cruel, aristocratic face, the aquiline nose, rangy frame, blond hair, and foxy, movie-star-perfect smile. In his vanity, he’d given me all those… but not his eyes. Mine were a gunmetal grey color, like a stormy winter sky. His were a vibrant, almost electric, aquamarine, like Caribbean waters. If they were just a shade greener… they would be Vivian’s eyes.

I stepped back, nearly lurching with the sudden realization. “Jesus,” I said. “Jesus Christ, Dad. Is she yours?”

My dad lost his smile but waved his hand, opening a portal into the Netherworld where he belonged. “Nicky, you used to be a cop. You know better than to ask a question when you don’t really want to know the truth.”

“Tell me,” I said, my voice more gravelly and demanding than I was used to hearing it, even as my dad moved effortlessly toward the portal. If I had to throw myself upon him to stop him and make him tell me, I would. “
Is
she your daughter?”

He glanced at me over one shoulder. “Think of her more as my contingency plan… should you not work out.”

I could feel my heart lurching up near the root of my tongue. “I’ll tell her,” I said as my rage mounted moment by moment. “I
will
tell her.”

But my father just smirked. “No, I don’t think you will.” Then he was gone, back to his world, leaving me alone with my thoughts and revelations.

Despite being my father’s son, I had always tried to live my life as an honest man. I hadn’t always succeeded, but I liked to think that it was the thought that counted. Confession time: I hadn’t chosen honesty as a life path out of some heroic sense of goodness or honor; rather, I’d always thought that by being honest—by rejecting lies and falsehoods—that I could somehow hurt my father. If I could hurt him enough, disappoint him, he’d give up on me, leave me alone.

But now, finally, today, standing in the midst of the Swartzcopf colony, I realized I had to decide just how much that honesty I’d cherished meant to me. Was being an honest man worth losing Vivian? If I lost Vivian, would I even want to be an honest man?

“Nick!” she called. She was coming down the gravel path that led to the coach house where the buggies were kept, dressed in the simple, long, blue dress that Mary had lent her, and she was carrying a picnic basket over one arm.

She stopped where Abraham and I were working on one of the buggies. Abraham’s sleeves were rolled up, and there was grease on his hands and sweat on his brow. I wondered how many men of the cloth were actually willing to do such dirty work. I wagered not many in the English world. He was fixing a wheel that had splintered off when a horse had gotten spooked and dragged its buggy and driver down into the ditch on the side of the highway.

There was a crisp, late-afternoon wind that whispered of autumn and harvest, and it blew strands of Vivian’s sunset red hair around her cheeks. She hadn’t yet started wearing a cap or apron, but she
had
piled most of her hair atop her head as she worked beside Mary in the big farmhouse kitchen, cooking and baking and otherwise doing things I never would have expected of her. It left her bare, freckly neck looking vulnerable and delicious.

She grinned as she raced up to us. “Mary sent me down with lemonade and friendship cake, if you guys are hungry.”

“Bless her heart,” Abraham said, sliding out from under the buggy where he was tinkering with something called the “reaches.” I wasn’t very good at mechanical things—my idea of fixing the toaster at home was to go out and buy a new toaster—so I’d been relegated to fetching tools for the man. I didn’t mind; it gave me a chance to try and explain some of the things I’d found in Mulberry Grove. It was easier for me to talk about it with Abraham under the carriage.

The three of us retired to a picnic table at the edge of the dirt lane. Abraham noisily drank down three tall glasses of lemonade before telling me he wanted to get back to work, but I was welcome to spend a little time with my wife, if I wanted. I hadn’t bothered to explain to anyone that Vivian and I weren’t married. I didn’t see the point of complicating things unnecessarily.

After he’d left, Vivian climbed up on the table and sat on the edge, dangling her legs in my lap. She leaned back, tilted her face toward the sky, and closed her eyes. The sun beat down upon her, seeming to embrace and warm her skin to the shade of Han jade and turn her mahogany hair to a halo of fire. I realized she looked beautiful in the sunshine, vibrantly alive and at peace.

“This is good cake,” I told her as I worked on my third piece.

“Mary says there’s two ways to a man’s heart. Through his stomach or through his trousers. Going through the stomach is just craftier.”

I choked on cake. “She actually said that?”

“They’re not as conservative as you think! After all, the Swartzcopf are just people in the end, the same as us English.”

“You’re enjoying yourself here, aren’t you?”

Vivian smiled. “I like it here, Nick. I like the Knapps. I’m glad you brought us here.”

“Despite what I told you about the grove?”

“I haven’t heard the pipes for two nights, if that’s what you mean.”

Together, we watched a pair of barn swallows wheeling lazily through the air as they carried nesting material to their nest. I thought it was a bit late in the season for nesting, but then again, who knew what the swallows’ history was? They might have mated and nested early in the season only to have a good windstorm or a hungry barn cat destroy their roost and their little ones. Maybe they were starting over, a last ditch effort to succeed in building their family before the first frost hit.

“Nick, do you love me?”

I took her hand and kissed it. “Of course I do.”

“Do you love me enough to court me?”

“How do you mean?”

She opened her eyes and grinned at me. “Mary told me that tomorrow night there’s this celebration—it signals the Rumspringa for several of the young people here. It’s like a fling that starts off the courting season.”

“I think we’re a little long in the tooth for Rumspringa, Viv.”

“Will you be serious? The young men all court their women at this dance, then drive them home and they do what she calls ‘bed courtship.’”

“Sounds kind of kinky.”

Vivian slapped my shoulder. “Mary says the young man goes upstairs to the young woman’s room and they get under the covers together—
in their clothes
.” She gave me a stern look. “The two basically kiss and make out all night, but without having sex.”

That sounded a little controversial to me.

“She said it originated in Europe when the Amish were being persecuted and had to practice ‘bundling.’ The couple would hide from the authorities in an upstairs bedroom where it was cold. They’d get under the covers in a bed and huddle together. Now all the young people do it.”

“And how does this
not
result in sex?” I arched my eyebrow at her.

She grinned mischievously. “Well, I guess it’s really a double duty courtship. If the girl does get herself knocked up, then she
has
to marry the boy. I bet a
lot
of the Swartzcopf are born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

I kissed her hand. “Vivian, if you want me to court you, then I’ll court you.”

“You’re the best boyfriend, Nick.”

“So you keep telling me.”

We sat in silence for a while and watched the swallows building their nest under the eaves of the old farmhouse.

“Vivian,” I said at last. “I need to tell you something.”

Vivian slid down into my lap and wreathed her arms around my neck. I was always amazed at how well she fit against my body. Like we were two pieces of the same person. She rested her head on my shoulder and said, “Anything, Nick, so long as we can just be like this forever.”

Her body was warm and soft against mine, her breasts firm, her breathing deep and even. I framed several ways of telling her about my father. Our father. I ran little word scenarios through my head. Then I dismissed them all. There was no way I could tell her the truth without losing her, I realized.
Anything, Nick. So long as we can just be like this forever.
But that was just the point. If she knew, then what we had… what we were… would change. She might not want it to, and we might continue on for a while as we were, but eventually, things would change.

“Nick? What is it? What’s wrong?”

I opened my mouth to tell the truth, but what came out was, “Vivian, I love you. I would be honored to court you.”

I guess it’s true what they say in the end: You are your father’s son.

In this case, my father is the Prince of Lies.

he Knapp household rose religiously at four in the morning to begin milking and chores.
By four-thirty, the whole house was bustling with the sounds of the men going out to the fields, the children going out to feed the scattering of chickens, and the women drifting down to the kitchen to begin breakfast. I wandered down closer to five—that was all I could handle, being a normal, spoiled American—and found Vivian wearing a black dress today like the other women, her hair up in a topknot, skirting around the kitchen as she helped Mary prepare breakfast for the men and little ones.