The Devil You Know Page 11

  Marie smiled at this. It was almost exactly what Father Joe had told her, but coming from Jasper it seemed far more honest.

  “Of course,” he went on, “the more interesting version has the demon acquiring a physical body of some sort. Your friend said they used blood?”

  “He’s hardly my friend,” Marie said. “But yes, that’s what he said.”

  “Makes perfect sense according to this.” He waved the book around. “It says they can reanimate a corpse or simply create an entire body out of just a bit of flesh. Once they have a body, they can take on any shape they want. This, too, is a part of the legend used for the convenience of some. There’s one story here about a medieval monk who was accused of fornicating with the nuns. He claimed an incubus had taken his form and gone into the nuns’ chambers. And the courts believed him.” He laughed briefly. “Wonderful thing, religion.”

  Marie smiled a bit uneasily and said, “Does that book say anything about what happens to the victims of these…things once they’ve taken bodies like that?”

  “You mean your friend or this woman up on Ivar, yes?” Jasper nodded without waiting for Marie to respond and hummed a bit as he turned his attention back to the book. “No,” he said after a few minutes. “Not here. Not in this one. But, uh…” He looked a bit sheepishly in the direction of the bookcase he had drawn the book from. “As you can see, there are a few more experts to consider. It would take some time to sift through the varying opinions and accounts and such.” He looked back at Marie, and she realized that she must have worn a look of disappointment, as Jasper immediately changed his tone. “Don’t be discouraged, though. I’ve been needing a little project to keep me busy around here. Give me an excuse not to clean up that front room, you see.”

  Marie waved a hand at him, saying, “No, Jasper, really. I never expected you to—”

  “Nonsense. If those animals have really found a way to do this, then they need to be stopped. And you’re not going to get much help from the authorities, I’m afraid. Even if the principle figure in this situation wasn’t one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, I don’t think the police would be much help. Demonology isn’t something they teach at the Police Academy.” He turned again to the shelves. “No, what we need is here. And you’re welcome to come back here anytime. In fact, I’ll need you to come back and help separate the bunk from the hokum. You up to it?”

  She did not hesitate. “Of course, if it’s really not a bother.”

  “It’s just reading old books. One of life’s greatest pleasures.”

  Marie stood up, considering what Jasper had said about stopping Julian Piedmont and his followers. “So, you believe they’ve really done it—conjured these demons and created bodies for them? You don’t think Colin was making it all up? Or that I am?”

  “You?” Jasper shook his head and smiled broadly. “I think I know you well enough to see that you’re still the same rational being you’ve always been. I believe something unexplainable happened to you and your friend. And I think this Krebs fellow has a possible explanation. The story he told…well, it’s not the kind of thing you could just make up and have the details so accurate without already being a scholar on the occult. Which you don’t make him sound to be.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Jasper shrugged. “Then it’s happened. Is happening. The fact is you’ve got these fellows who look too good to be true and they’re doing something that’s having a pretty awful effect on their victims. I suppose we should hope it’s not incubi, that there’s a better explanation. But for now, this is all I’ve got to offer, and from where I sit, it actually seems plausible.” He put the book back in its spot on the shelf and closed the glass door. With a broad smile and a sparkle in his eyes, he said, “I’m starting to smell something coming from the kitchen. Shall we go see what Tom’s been up to?”

  Marie had smelled it, too, and though she still felt a bit awkward accepting the invitation, she did so regardless. When they got back to the dining room, she saw that the table had three settings laid out, accompanied by three glasses of red wine. Tom was at the stove tending to a large, steaming pot, a dishtowel over his shoulder. At first, he did not notice Marie and Jasper emerging from the library, and Marie stood looking at him for a moment. Any man who would make spaghetti for his grandfather couldn’t be all bad, she thought, and when Tom looked in their direction and smiled pleasantly, she found it hard to believe that he still suffered from the things he had seen and done in the war. She wondered if it really was Jasper who took care of him, or if it was the other way around.

  “Can we help?” Jasper asked.

  Tom whipped the towel off his shoulder, wiped his hands on it, and then killed the flame on the burner. “Nope,” he said, tossing the towel onto the counter behind him and nodding toward the table. “Just sit,” he said good-naturedly.

  Marie ended up staying until well past nine o’clock, amazed at how comfortable she felt talking and laughing with the old man and his grandson. After dinner and dessert, cigarettes and another glass of wine, she finally pulled herself from the table with the promise to meet Jasper the next day at the bookstore just before closing time. When she left, she resisted the urge to drive up Ivar once more; instead, as she went home, she kept replaying parts of their conversation in her head. If someone could have heard her thoughts, it might have been pointed out to her that what stood out the most were the times Tom had made her laugh or when his eyes had caught the light from the simple lamp over the dinner table. And if this had been pointed out to her, Marie would have shrugged it off as just coincidence, protesting that she was thinking just as much about Jasper’s part in the conversation. In actuality, though, while she could recall much of what Jasper’s grandson had said over dinner and dessert, she would have been hard pressed to remember a single thing the old man had said from the minute they had sat down at the table.

  Chapter Ten

  Zarafeth felt invigorated. He crossed the lobby of the Hollywood Hotel and headed for the door, filled with the energy he had just drawn from his latest victim. She was still up in her room and would likely remain there for another hour or so. One more time with her and she would be spent, he knew. He would miss this one—the way she rode him, the animal desire she had for him. Still, he had four other women in his stable, and he visited at least one of them every day. He would need to find another soon, but not right away.

  But as he walked out of the lobby and back onto the sidewalk, he stepped directly into the path of a woman as she rushed past the hotel entrance. The two collided, and he grabbed her by the arms to keep both of them from falling over. Caught off guard, sudden rage boiled up in him, and he almost called her a clumsy bitch. He held his tongue, though, as she blurted out, “I’m so sorry! I wasn’t watching wear I was going.” She was a slightly pudgy woman in her late thirties with dowdy clothes and an ugly purse, but when she saw his face, her smile made her look almost attractive. “Oh my God!” she began, peering more closely at him. After a moment, she shook her head and said, “I…I thought for a second you were Clark Gable.” She gave a nervous laugh. “It’s…uncanny.” She could not stop staring at him.

  Zarafeth forced a smile and said, “My fault entirely, madam. I hope you’re not hurt?”

  “Me? Oh, gosh no. I’m just…I’m fine. We just bumped a little is all.”

  “Good,” he said, “I’m so glad.”

  He was ready to give her a good-natured bow and be on his way. She would have gotten away from him had she not kept talking. “It’s funny I should run into you. I just love Clark Gable so much. I felt so awful for him when his wife’s plane crashed. Didn’t you?”

  “I…yes,” Zarafeth said, dumbfounded.

  “I don’t normally rush around like a chicken with my head cut off,” she rambled, “but the movie I was at ran longer than I thought, and I need to get home to start dinner. My husband gets so upset if dinner’s not on when he gets home.”

  Normally, Zarafet
h would not have pursued so plain a woman, nor would he have considered another conquest so soon after the last, but the more this woman talked, the more naïve she revealed herself to be. She seemed innocent and sheltered, if not a bit cowed. But under the surface, he could sense a longing that made his blood begin to pump faster. He began walking in the direction she had been heading, and she fell into step beside him.

  “What movie did you see?” he asked.

  “Gilda,” she answered. “Have you seen it yet?”

  “No,” he said, “not yet. You enjoyed it?”

  “Yes, very much.” As they walked, he noticed that she kept glancing at his face, still struck by his resemblance to Gable.

  “And how often do you hide your little trips to the movies from your husband?”

  She stopped walking and stared at him incredulously. Zarafeth turned to face her. “You’re awfully forward, aren’t you?” she asked with narrowed eyes.

  He smiled. “I suppose. Harold Easton, by the way.” He offered his hand by way of apology.

  She hesitated a moment, but then shook his hand. “Camille. Camille Lovejoy.”

  “Lovejoy?” he asked with a wide Gable grin.

  “Yes,” she said. “What’s so funny?”

  With a shake of his head, he said, “I don’t know. This is going to sound forward again, but you don’t sound particularly joyful. And as for love…”

  She looked angry, and he could see that she was about to storm off.

  “He’s jealous, isn’t he? Your husband, I mean. That’s why he doesn’t want you going to the movies without him.” He watched as her jaw unclenched and the hard stare softened. “I don’t suppose Gilda would be his cup of tea anyway even if he did go with you.”

  She nodded, almost imperceptibly, as she began falling under his spell.

  “And the worst part is,” he continued, “he’s really got nothing to worry about. Isn’t that right? You’ve never given him cause for jealousy, have you?” She nodded again at his questions, her eyes glazing over as she stared into his. “Just the good wife, taking care of the house. The days get long sometimes, don’t they? A movie’s not such a bad thing to fill the time with. Nothing improper about it. But you have to hide your little bit of fun from him, don’t you?”

  Again she nodded.

  “You know, Camille,” he said as he stepped closer to her and reached up to brush at her hair, “there’d be nothing wrong with pretending I’m him if you wanted to.”

  A look of confusion spread across her face. Her voice just above a whisper, she said, “Charlie?”

  “No.” He smiled and shook his head. Then he pointed to his own face and said, “Him. The one you thought I was.”

  She shook her head quickly, as though trying to wake herself up. Sounding more lucid, she said, “I couldn’t.”

  “But you could,” he continued, his voice steady, soothing, and persuasive. “You could. It would be easy. Do you really think you’ll ever get the chance to bump into the real Clark Gable on the street?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “And if you did, wouldn’t you want him to take you into his arms? Wouldn’t you want to know what it felt like to be Vivien Leigh or Claudette Colbert? Just for once?”

  “I would,” she said quietly. “I think I would.”

  “The memory would sustain you for a long time to come. Make it easy to get through his tirades. You’d have a little secret that would make you smile at the worst of times.”

  “I would,” she repeated.

  “Good, then,” he said quietly. “It’s settled. You were headed for your car? It’s in one of the lots down the way, I suppose.”

  He linked his arm in hers, and the two walked together along Hollywood Boulevard. Every now and then, he leaned close to whisper in her ear, just enough to keep her focused on him and him alone.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were pulling up to a little one-bedroom house with a quaint porch and a chain-link fence. It was still early afternoon; later the street would be busy with children tearing up and down the sidewalk on skates and bicycles with ragged dogs chasing after them. But now it was quiet. The children were still in school and the husbands at work—Zarafeth’s favorite time of day. He grinned to himself as he imagined all the bored housewives up and down the block, and the little thrills they’d get if only they could see what was about to go on inside this house. If he could have them all, he would, and he knew they’d line up for an hour alone with him—even if it meant bite marks left in their shoulders, or the sting of a lash, or an eternity in hell.

  As soon as Camille got him past the front door, she turned to kiss him hungrily and began undressing him right there. In seconds, his tie was undone and half his buttons, and she was running her hands across his bare chest while her tongue went round and round his own. “I love you,” she whispered huskily as she started pulling at his belt. “Oh God, I love you so much.”

  They ended up in the bedroom, the shabby little bed squeaking as he took her from behind. He held her hips, but did not need to pull her to him as he thrust.

  “I love you. I love you. I love you,” she kept gasping as she gripped the faded metal bars on the headboard that had probably once looked like brass. Her hair flew wildly around her head as she tossed it back and forth, making animal grunts between professions of love. Her blouse and brassiere were still half on, and she still wore stockings and a single shoe.

  They had left the bedroom door halfway open, and a noise from the front room behind him drew Zarafeth’s attention. He turned just in time to see the front door opening and a man stepping inside. He wore a laborer’s uniform and carried a grey metal lunchbox. As he pulled his key out of the lock, he called out, “Fire at the plant, Camille. They shut us dow—” He stood stock still as he looked straight ahead, his gaze going across the front room, through the open bedroom door, and directly into Zarafeth’s eyes.

  Zarafeth watched, amused, as the cuckold staggered back against the door. The husband obviously wanted to speak, but no words came out. On the bed with her lover, Camille was oblivious, still grunting and swinging her hair around. Zarafeth could not resist giving the husband a smug, Clark Gable grin before turning back to Camille and bucking his hips against her with renewed zeal.

  “Camille!” the husband finally shouted as he lurched into the room.

  “Charlie!” Camille shouted back, suddenly realizing what had happened. Her fists were gripping the sheets now, pulling them loose, and she started trying to wriggle away from Zarafeth, who held on tightly to her hips and scooted himself across the bed with her. When she half turned, he locked his arm around her thigh and flung her calf over his shoulder. The husband was bellowing incoherently like some wounded animal, and the wife had stopped trying to get away. Zarafeth could feel his climax approaching and would not be stopped for anything now.

  And then a deafening report filled the room. Zarafeth flew off the bed and hit the wall beside it, turning in mid-air. On the other side of the bed, Charlie stood holding a small revolver that had smoke drifting up from the barrel. It took Zarafeth a moment to realize he had been shot in the shoulder. One of the dresser drawers was open behind Charlie, no doubt the place where he kept his gun. On the dresser, in clear view of the bed, was a wedding photo showing Charlie and Camille some ten years younger.

  “Son of a bitch!” Charlie shouted and fired again.

  This time, the bullet hit Zarafeth between the eyes. He felt the body die, and he left it immediately. Disembodied again, he returned to his natural state and drifted up toward the ceiling. Below him, the Clark Gable body had already turned to dust, and Charlie Lovejoy leaned over the bed, looking at the little pile in disbelief. Zarafeth considered penetrating Camille’s body again just out of spite, but then Charlie turned the gun on her and pulled the trigger.

  Zarafeth felt no regret for Camille’s passing. She was better off, he thought. The only regret he felt was at not having been with her long enough to have pulled a bit
of her soul into himself before she died. Disgusted, he passed out of the house, got his bearings, and followed the breeze back into the Hollywood Hills and the sanctuary he knew he would find at Julian’s. He was terribly disappointed. All the work he had done in the last weeks, all the strength he had built from all the conquests he had made—all of it was gone, turned to dust by the power of the husband’s tiny little bullet. Spitefully, he hoped the man had killed himself after shooting Camille. In the end, it did not matter, though. Tonight, he would have Julian make him a new body, and he would start finding new lovers he could use to strengthen it.

  It was not, after all, unpleasant work.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Wednesday afternoon, Marie left St. Lucy’s determined to see the woman on Ivar Street. Although she still did not know what to think about the prospect of incubi running loose in Hollywood, she did know that she would not feel at ease until she had at least tried to contact the woman Colin had told her about. During her day at work, she had taken advantage of Father Joe’s occasional absence to make a few furtive phone calls. One had been to Doctor Danforth, who had confirmed that Elise had been sent north to Camarillo. Another had been to Elise’s mother in Nebraska; Marie had stopped by Elise’s house early in the morning, letting herself in and feeling a bit like a burglar as she had looked for an address book among Elise’s things. It had been a hard call to make, and the older woman’s anguished voice still echoed in Marie’s mind, spurring her as she turned her car’s wheels into the curb across from the little Tudor style apartment building.