The Devil You Know (2 page)

He
had coerced poor Colin into reading the spell several more times, joking that
if Colin had gotten it right, soon enough there would have been a demon lover
for each of the men in the room. The last time they even chanted all together.
He thought the whole thing stupid now, of course, and the idea that his father
had bothered collecting such a pile of trash—rare antiquity or not—only
added to the contempt he had long felt for Leonard Piedmont. No doubt some of
his friends had found real women to warm their beds once Julian had dismissed
them. It had been a long twenty-four hours, though, and Julian wanted to do
nothing but sleep. Not even a demon lover could keep his head from his pillow,
he thought.

Still
in his tuxedo, he fell asleep almost immediately, promising himself that he
would call a fledgling starlet the next day to make up for any debauchery he
had missed during the wake. His thoughts led into a dream, an extremely vivid
one in which he sat at his father’s desk trying to make sense of the headlines
in
Variety
. In a flash, he realized
the words were in Latin, and he cursed Colin Krebs and all Catholics for what
they had done to the movie industry. But the curse was not directed at the
trade paper in his hand now; he spoke it aloud to Veronica Lake, who sat
inexplicably across the desk from him, her long blonde hair parted on the side
and hanging halfway across her face, obscuring one of her eyes the way it had
in those scenes in
The Blue Dahlia
.
He had never met Miss Lake, and she had never done any work for his father’s
studio, but that didn’t matter. She was here now, and the hair that hid part of
her face was like a curtain he wanted to see behind, one that she invited him
to lift with every movement of her full lips.

Strangely,
the hair stayed in place, hanging mysteriously across half her face as she
crawled across the desktop, suddenly nude. Her breasts hung down as she
advanced, and Julian reached out to cup them as she finished crossing the desk
and met his lips with her own. They both opened their mouths hungrily, and he
felt her tongue against his. At the same time, he kept telling himself that
this was a dream, and then felt a mixture of surprise, alarm, and delicious
curiosity as he realized that he was really feeling her tongue flicking against
his, her breath against his cheek, her fingers running down his body. She felt
as real as any other woman could feel. Then the desk was gone; they were in his
bed, their legs entwined, and it felt like nothing he’d ever known, a sensation
of electricity running from her body into his. He felt it deep inside, a surge
of pleasure running up into the pit of his stomach with intensity he’d never
thought possible. It took only moments for him to reach a climax that made him
feel as though he were leaving his body, floating out of himself in waves he
wished would never diminish.

But
he was brought back into himself when she smiled at him, finally tossing back
that curtain of blonde hair to reveal to Julian that there was something not
right about her face. It was her eyes, he saw. They were not quite right, not
quite Veronica Lake’s. Then the alarm he was beginning to feel turned to
revulsion when he realized that they were a man’s eyes looking at him from this
woman’s face. And when she murmured in his ear, “That was good, Julian. Let’s
do it again,” he was horrified to hear a man’s voice.

He
screamed in the dream and woke to hear the same scream dying on his lips as he sat
up in bed. With the curtains closed, the rising sun had barely lit his room,
and for a moment he felt disoriented, wondering where his father’s desk had
gone. With the relief that came from knowing he’d only been dreaming, he lay
back down, his heart still pounding.

The
relief was short-lived. Awake long enough for his eyes to have adjusted to the
dim light, he could see that he was alone in the bed, but his other senses told
him differently. He could feel someone beside him in the tangle of sheets, felt
sure he could detect another person’s scent and hear faint breathing. Julian
had had enough women in his bed to know that this presence, whatever it might
be, was not female. And as he dove to the floor, shivering in terror, he was
convinced that Colin Krebs had conjured a demon lover; but either through his
poor Latin or some other error, he had failed to conjure the right gender.
Inching away from the bed, afraid to take his eyes off the sheets, yet fearful
that he would see something move if he stared long enough, he tried to remember
exactly how many times Colin had read the spell.

Chapter One

Marie
Doyle leaned back in her chair, a copy of
Woman’s
Home Companion
held before her. She tucked some of her auburn hair behind
one ear and tried to finish the story she was reading, her deep blue eyes
darting back and forth across the page. Her desk was situated so that if Father
Joe were to step out of his office and into hers, he would see her from the
side, and she always turned herself just enough so that all he would see of the
magazine would be the cover. He never commented on her choice of reading
material, and didn’t care if she read during slow moments when there wasn’t any
typing or filing to do.

She
did not doubt, however, that he would have had a lot to say if he knew she was
concealing
Weird Tales
inside her
copies of
Woman’s Home Companion
and
Life
, working her way through stories of
vampires and werewolves, gothic yarns of murder and mystery, and tales of
ancient, dark gods who lurked at the edges of the human world, waiting for
their chance to rise again. New issues came out only once a month, and when
Marie had worked her way through the latest offering, she would go back through
the old copies she’d saved, sneaking them into the church office in her purse
and hiding them in her desk until the right opportunity.

There
had not been any such moments during the two years she had worked at Lockheed
while Ryan fought in the Pacific. Then, it had been constant labor on an
assembly line, a steady supply of airplane parts rolling past, ready for her to
attach a wire or tighten a nut. She had been proud to do her part for the war
effort, maybe even helping to keep Ryan safe. But when she had gotten the
telegram and her whole world had fallen apart, going back to the plant had
become unbearable. She could not imagine herself working side by side with all
those other women, having to endure the mix of public sympathy and poorly
hidden paranoia that would have gone on until the next one got the same news.

Instead,
she had gone through the “Wanted” ads in the
Times
and left Lockheed for a secretary’s position at St. Lucy’s.
She’d surprised her friends by taking the job, as she had been a bit wild
before marrying Ryan. She had been a captivating beauty since her teenage
years, blessed with round cheeks and a wide smile, and taller than most of the
girls she knew by an inch or two. She’d been able to get the attention of any
boy she’d wanted for a long time. Even after she and Ryan were together, they
had gotten a reputation as the last couple to leave any party and the pair most
likely to drink amateurs under the table. But the war had put a stop to that.
After a Japanese torpedo ripped Ryan from her life forever, the quiet life at the
little office in St. Lucy’s was just what she needed. The job paid less than
war work, but with her widow’s pension she had had no trouble keeping up
payments on her green Chevrolet and the little house she and Ryan had shared.

At
the time, she had told her friends that the job was just temporary, something
to help her through the hard times, a place where she wouldn’t have to wear the
dowdy uniform or be reminded with every turn of a wrench that the war still
raged.

Only
after coming to work for Father Joe had she started going to Mass again more
often than at Easter and Christmas; the priest seemed to expect it from her in
his kind, avuncular way, and she felt good obliging him. She had felt a bit out
of place starting to work for Father Joe, surrounded as she was by people who
seemed so much more devout. But Father Joe had been so welcoming that she’d
quickly grown accustomed to spending her every day with him at the church.

She
felt only a bit guilty at deceiving Father Joe as to her character—but not
guilty enough to bring it up at Confession—and not at all guilty over
reading things he would have considered blasphemous. Marie had been used to
people criticizing this kind of literature—from her father to her
teachers and even her husband during the short time they had been together—and
concealing her magazines was something she had done for a long time and as a
matter of course.

The
day had been quiet. Marie had arrived as she did every day just after the end
of seven o’clock mass, the few faithful who attended leaving the parking lot as
Marie pulled in. Father Joe had needed a few letters typed, and Marie had
scheduled an exterminator to come in. She glanced now at the clock, glad to see
that it was almost three. Normally, she stayed until four, but had asked
permission to leave an hour early today. At ten till she closed the magazine
and opened the desk drawer where she kept her purse. The big women’s magazine
went into the bottom of the drawer, and the smaller pulp went into her bag, its
bright red spine pointed downward in case Father Joe should catch a glimpse.

St.
Lucy’s was actually little more than a tiny chapel nestled at the base of the
Hollywood Hills, supported generously by its small but wealthy congregation. A
kindly, gentle man in his mid-fifties, Father Joe ran St. Lucy’s more like the
head of a family than the head of a church, and Marie had never felt awkward
about seeing him for Confession, not even when she admitted that she often
doubted her faith. She found him now at his desk with a pen in his hand and a
dozen sheets of paper before him, many with several lines written, but most of
them scratched out. He peered at Marie over his reading glasses as she stood in
his doorway.

“I
wanted to remind you that I’m leaving at three,” she said.

“Ah,
yes,” he said, smiling.

“Was
there anything else you needed?”

The
priest shook his head. “No, no. That’ll be fine.” The last word barely out of
his mouth, he said, “Wait! Yes. You can help me. What sounds better?” He picked
up the sheet of paper he had most recently been writing on. “The sins we hide
in our hearts make those hearts grow bitter with time. Or this: a hidden sin is
like a cancer, flourishing in its concealment, corrupting the healthy soul
around it.” He looked up at her expectantly.

Marie
felt uneasy giving advice on his sermon and smiled nervously.

“Marie,
I’m just looking for your impression,” he said. “There’s no right answer.”

Relieved,
she nevertheless answered a bit demurely: “Well, I think the second one’s maybe
a bit... frightening?”

He
nodded. “Sometimes it’s good for us to be a little frightened.”

Marie
suppressed another smile as she thought of the story she had just been reading.
“But I don’t think people come to you to be frightened. Do you?”

He
sighed good-naturedly and waved his pen in the air. With a smile, he said,
“Maybe they should.”

Marie
smiled back. “Maybe. But I like the first one better.”

Father
Joe nodded. “The first one it is then.” He crumpled several sheets of paper
into little wads and tossed them into the wastebasket in the corner, and she
saw that the can was almost full to overflowing with identical scraps of
sermon. “I expect I’ll see you at Sunday Mass?” the priest said.

“Bright
and early.” She half turned to leave, but stopped and said, “Would you like me
to empty that for you?” She nodded toward the wastebasket.

“Oh,
I’ll take care of it when I’m done,” he said. “But thank you.”

Sure
that Father Joe would forget the wastebasket once he returned to his sermon,
she walked over to the can anyway, saying, “It’s all right. I still have to
empty mine.”

Without
waiting for the priest to respond, she lifted the little trashcan and
immediately heard the clang of the metal being struck, felt the shock through
her arm as something hit the can. She moved it up only to reveal a startled
rattlesnake, and let out a scream both short and loud as the snake drew its
head back, its neck curved and poised to strike again.

“Jesus!”
Father Joe shouted as he jumped from his chair and backed away from the corner
where the wastebasket had been.

Marie
stepped back as well. Now she quickly dumped the crumpled paper onto the floor,
flipped the trashcan over and slammed it down to cover the snake. She planted
her shoe atop the can to hold it in place. The rattle echoed inside, and she
felt the snake strike impotently once more at the metal walls.

“Are
you all right?” Father Joe gasped.

Her
heart pounding, Marie looked over to see the older man’s face covered in sweat.
She nodded. “You?”

Not
taking his eyes off the wastebasket, he said, “Yes,” and swallowed loudly.
“What do we do? Call the police?”

“If
you want,” Marie said, her breathing still rapid from the shock. “They may be a
while getting here, though.” Her lips had gone suddenly dry, and she licked
them now as she regarded the can. She did not relish the thought of keeping the
snake captive while she and the priest waited for the police to come to their
rescue. “It’s not that big. I think we can kill it.” She paused to catch her
breath for a moment, and then added, “If you’ll go out to the gardener’s shed
and get the shovel?”

For
the first time since the snake had been discovered, Father Joe looked her in
the eye, his expression incredulous. “You’re sure?”

She
nodded. “It’s fine.”

The
priest said nothing but hurriedly maneuvered toward the door, keeping as much
space and as many obstacles as possible between himself and the captured snake.
Marie heard him pass out the door that led into the church’s rose garden. She
knew he would be back in a minute and told herself to take deep breaths, as she
would need to be ready for what came next. Considering the can and the pathetic
struggle going on inside it now, she felt a bit bad for the snake. It was not
the first creature she had known to wander out of the hills and onto church
property. In the time she had worked at St. Lucy’s, she had needed to escort
several tarantulas and a few gopher snakes out of the buildings and into the
chaparral that grew up to the edges of the church grounds. The little
rattlesnake had likely been dining on the rats that she had seen about
exterminating, and it would be the first of the church’s freeloaders that she
had needed to kill.

Still,
there was nothing else for it, and so when Father Joe came back with the
shovel, she nodded her thanks and suggested he wait outside in case the rattler
got away. With another deep breath, she carefully lifted her foot off the
trashcan. Holding the shovel tightly, she used it to knock the wastebasket over
before she thrust the shovel toward the floor and chopped off the snake’s head,
all in one quick motion. The body wriggled in a way that struck her as suddenly
more desperate than it had been while alive. She found it repulsive and deftly
scooped it up and into the trashcan once she’d righted it, followed by the
head. She turned towards the door and Father Joe, who stood motionless beyond
it.

“All
done,” she said with a big exhale. Trembling, she leaned the shovel against his
desk.

The
priest simply shook his head, awestruck. “Thank you,” he finally said. “You’re
all right?”

“Fine,”
she answered, trying to reassure herself as much as him.

Father
Joe smiled and sighed with relief. “Even so,” he said, grasping both her hands
with his, “that was a dangerous thing. I shouldn’t have let you do it.”

“It’s
okay, really. The police probably would have shot it, after all. Wouldn’t do to
have guns going off in the church offices, would it?” She smiled at him.

He
returned the smile and nodded. “I suppose not.”

Together,
they gathered the papers Marie had strewn across the floor and dumped them
unceremoniously onto the dead snake. Marie took the trashcan and shovel out to
the shed before she returned to the office for her purse and a final goodbye to
Father Joe. He surprised her by putting a hand on her shoulder and saying,
“Bless you, Marie. And thank you.”

Taken
aback, she only mumbled, “You’re welcome,” not sure of the etiquette for
receiving a blessing.

The
quickest route from the rectory to the parking lot was to cut through the
chapel itself. It was April, the weather still chilly, so she pulled a jacket
over her blouse and entered the chapel through a side door. The sun shone
through stained glass windows and lit the two rows of oak pews with a mosaic of
colors. As was her habit, Marie walked quickly in front of the altar, genuflected,
and turned to walk toward the double doors at the back. But before she could
take a step away from the altar, she stopped, her eyes drawn to a man kneeling
in one of the middle pews with his forehead on his knuckles, so all she could
see of him was the top of his head.

The
chapel was usually empty this time of day, and Marie felt as though she had
just intruded. The man seemed not to have noticed her, though she was sure her
heels had clicked against the tile floor. Marie considered turning around, but
then decided to go ahead and walk quietly down the aisle, trying not to let her
shoes make too much noise. She assumed that the man was deep in prayer, but as
she neared his pew, keeping an eye on him so that she could smile
apologetically if he looked up, she noticed that his shoulders were shaking. He
was not just praying, she saw, but full on weeping. Marie felt herself grow
flushed as she paused at the end of the pew, the kneeling man only ten feet
away from her. If she had felt like she was intruding before, the feeling
multiplied tenfold now, and she told herself she should move on and leave him
be. At the same time, though, she felt compelled to make sure he was all right
or, at the least, offer to fetch Father Joe.