The Devil You Know (2 page)

“Then you should get someone to walk you home. A friend or a boyfriend. If you walk these streets alone at night, you’re inviting trouble.” I hadn’t
really
just said that, had I?

“You have a lot to say on the matter.”

“I used to be a cop.”

She looked surprised by that. Her shoulders relaxed. “For real?”

The kettle started singing so I filled our mugs to the rim with boiling water, transporting one of the mugs over to the table. I set it down in front of Vivian.

“If you’re a cop, why don’t you drink coffee?” she asked. It was a flirty thing to say, but she didn’t make it sound that way. She wrapped her fingers around the mug. I could tell she was still shaken from her run-in with Malach, as any normal human being would be. “Shouldn’t you have donuts or something?”

She was a prickly one, Vivian was, and I was pretty sure she was checking me out. Not that I minded. I like to window shop too.

“I used to be a cop. I’m not anymore,” I explained. “Now I just run an occult shop.” I stirred my tea with a spoon. “I could get you some donuts if you’re hungry, though.” The idea of sharing donuts with Vivian was rather appealing even though I detest the very scent of them. My beat partner Peter loved them, and he’s been dead going on six years.

She smiled again, a little. “Only if you make coffee.”

“I have to drink exotic teas,” I said, lifting the steaming mug to my mouth. “It comes with the image, you know?”

“So you’re like a wizard.”

“Harry Potter is a wizard. I’m a witch.”

“I thought witches were women.”

“Some are men.”

“So you’re a cop
and
a witch.”

“I
was
a cop. I’m still a witch.”

I watched her absorb that. “Do you cast spells?”

The steam from the mug made her otherwise redhead-pale face flush. Her seawater green eyes were sleek and wise in her small catlike face. I felt something inside me lurch around uncomfortably, something I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

“I heard about this place from some girls I know. So do you sell potions and stuff?”

“My partner does that,” I said, clutching my mug. I rolled my shoulder where some tension was settling in. “I do séances and channeling mostly.” One thing was certain, Vivian put out some very unusual energies. Very
sexual
energies, and I’m not just being a guy here. The more I talked to her, the stronger I felt. The more focused. I wondered who she was,
what
she was. I wondered if she even knew what she was doing to me. I wondered if she wasn’t a supernatural version of an idiot savant. I’ve met a few in my day. Folks who could move things with their mind when they became upset, that type of thing. It made me wonder even more about her. “Are you interested in magic, Vivian?” I asked.

She’d been staring at me so intently that it took her a moment to rouse herself. “Is that some kind of pickup line?” she asked cheekily, setting her mug down.

I decided I liked her fearless expression, the way she didn’t back down from me. Most folks do. I’m tall and rangy, which makes me look taller still. I run the only occult shop in town. I talk with a broad Brooklyn accent when I get upset. That’s usually enough to scare the bejesus out of any of the locals. I bit back a smile. “I was just wondering about your big blond stalker friend. Seems odd he would follow you.”

“You knew him.”

“He’s…local.” Which was a lie, mostly. “Has he followed you in the past?”

“No. I never saw him before in my life.” She looked up. She looked on the verge of shivering. She would undoubtedly have nightmares about a big blond leather guy for years to come. Leave it to Malach to always leave a great first impression. “You called him Malach. Is that his name? Who is he?”

“He’s…Malach.”

“What language did he speak? I didn’t recognize it at all.”

I thought about all the complicated lies I could weave together. But I could tell she was a smart girl. She’d see through the bullshit. Then I’d have to come clean anyway. Best to cut to the chase. That’s what they say in all the detective novels, right? I took a deep breath. “Malach’s an angel,” I said. “A Seraph, actually. They work under the Archangel Gabriel, who commands the Justice Division. Malach is like a secret agent. He does dirty work for the Throne and has what they call Dominion over earth, which means he may kill those creatures he deems are a threat to Heaven with impunity, so long as they’re not human. In a way, he’s like God’s hitman.”

She looked at me steadily. It took her a long moment to speak. “Malach is God’s hitman.”

“That’s correct.”

“And you know this, how? Because you’re a witch?”

“Because I’m a daemon. My mother was human but my father was a demon, a fallen angel. Malach is a tracker and has a predilection for daemons. He and his kind believe that all daemons should be erased from existence, that we stand as an affront to God. He may have been tracking you because he believes that you too are a daemon. Do you know much about your parents?”

So there it was. The truth. Or, as I like to think of it sometimes, the Truth.

I waited.

She looked at me. She seemed to analyze me. “You’re an ex-cop, a witch, and a daemon,” she said with careful enunciation.

“Yes. Daemons make very good witches, as you can imagine.” I studied her, but I couldn’t decide if she believed me or not. Probably not. “You can stay here, if you feel unsafe,” I offered. “The Seraph cannot commit violence in a holy place, even if it’s a pagan one. This place qualifies.”

She gave me a guarded smile. She set the mug down and stood up. Her voice was very soft, neutral, carefully weighed. Mustn’t upset the loony. “Thanks for the tea, Nick. I think I’ll be going now, if you don’t mind.”

I had spooked her. I didn’t think the Truth would set her free, but the idea of Malach hunting her—hurting her—because I hadn’t warned her simply wasn’t my thing. That was more than I could live with. I had to clear my own conscience. I had to try and help Vivian, especially if she was one of my own. I pulled my cell from my jeans pocket. “I’ll call you a cab.”

“I live eighteen blocks away, Nick. That big guy was probably just a freak looking for drugs.”

I waited.

Vivian looked nervous. She didn’t believe her own bullshit. She glanced down at the bloody hole she had picked in one thumbnail. “All right, fine, but I want to go home now.” She no longer sounded calm. She sounded scared.

Before she left the Loft, I gave her my cell number. I told her to call me anytime she was frightened, anytime she needed to talk. Day or night. I told her to seek a holy place if she felt hunted, a church, an occult shop, anything. Even a synagogue would do. Hopefully, she’d avoid Malach in the future. I didn’t know if that was possible, but I was trying to be optimistic.

I didn’t expect to hear from her again.

I was wrong.

It’s always
the
woman that changes your life, that makes it more interesting.

Like my life needs to be more interesting.

We open the shop at noon and close at midnight.
Unless something unexpected comes up, or we have a client séance, Morgana takes the first shift from noon to six, and I watch the shop from six to twelve. Such are the hours of an occult shop. Morgana had tackled a séance the night before, so that meant it was my turn to do morning duty. But the following morning I’d overslept and woken around 11:45 to the sound of some very insistent pounding on the back door. I sat up in bed and flinched at the racket.

Morgana stirred and sat up beside me. She is tall and lanky blond like me. She keeps her weight strictly regulated with organic, non-meat products, yoga and a daily five-mile jog. Meat, she says, interferes with her energies, as does my smoking and sarcasm.

I can only hope to be so energetic and focused when I’m Morgana’s age. I smoke. I eat red meat. I like bagging girls. And guys, if they look like girls. Sue me. Morgana tells me that makes me a very bad witch, a very good daemon, and a typical male.

Morgana looked at me through gummy grey eyes and said, “Any chance you can get that, Nick? It’s probably a delivery.”

“The séance go badly?”

“Not at all. But Mr. Bingham brought company.”

“Demons?”

“Some low-levels. Familiars, I think. But I cleaned house.”

I lit a cigarette from the pack of Camels on the bedside table and sucked the smoke deep into my lungs. Morgana had succeeded in seriously pissing me off this morning. “You should have called me. You know I would have come.”

She shrugged her thin shoulders. “There was a problem and I handled it.”

“You don’t handle demons. I do.”

Morgana had gotten in at three o’clock in the morning last night looking like she’d been hit by a truck. I hadn’t asked for details because I knew she would tell me given time, but I also hadn’t known she’d been playing at being an amateur exorcist.

She’d held a circle for one of her aging clients, old Mrs. Bingham. The old woman had deep pockets and a great deal of guilt to unload on her newly deceased husband. I’m by nature a natural conduit. I certainly hadn’t lied to Vivian about that. You’d think I’d be the man for the job, but I can’t channel the dead. In fact, the dead don’t come anywhere near me, not that I can blame them, really. The dead are pretty sensible chaps. The things I
can
communicate with are very much alive, and have never been human. So Morgana had tackled the job for me while I stayed home watching a Lifetime movie marathon wherein I learned that all men are perverts, psychopaths or both. Seriously, it was either that or old
Night Gallery
episodes, and I don’t like it when art imitates my life.

See, if you need to speak to your dead mother, Morgana is the one you should call. If you need to speak to the low-level demon hiding in your child, well, I’m available three nights a week. Just saying.

“Nick . . . ”

I threw back the covers, naked as the day I was born, the Camel clamped in my steel-trap jaw. Call it a point of contention, but I don’t need Morgana doing my work for me. “I’m gonna go open up. I’m already late.”

Morgana turned over to watch me dress in the dreary grey light of morning filtering through the one window. She’s a witch, but still a woman, and she gets off on watching me dress, go figure. “Don’t be angry. I’ve been using tantric exercise to expand my powers.”

I buttoned my jeans and turned to glance at her as I pulled last night’s pullover back on. “And
that’s
why you milked me the way you did last night.”

“It was more exhausting than I’d anticipated.”

“Which means you shouldn’t be doing it yet.”

“You are one crabby bastard in the morning, Scratch, do you know that?”

Then she smiled, and I smiled, and, as always, we forgave each other. I went over to her and pushed her long, mussed white-blonde hair aside and kissed her on the forehead. Like Malach, she and I have a history, just one that’s a lot more enjoyable. I owe Morgana much. Well, everything, really. She patted me companionably on the ass and told me I looked like hell and to get the patch already.

For the record, I don’t have an actual romantic relationship with Morgana. We’re very good friends with very good benefits, in more ways than you think. I naturally generate a great deal of ambient chaotic energy. Morgana has the unique ability to absorb and tune that energy. With it, she can increase her own magic exponentially for a short while, heal herself of injury, or restore her natural abilities after a particularly exhausting spiritual session, like last night. She can siphon the excess energy from me through either blood or sex. Sex is a great deal more fun than letting someone cut on you, let me tell you.

I wended my way down the backstairs, rubbing at my chin and throat. For a blondie like me, shaving is optional rather than a daily necessity. In any event, I figured if anyone complained about my unruly appearance today, I could just tell them I was rocking the Don Johnson look and hope to hell they were old enough to know what I was talking about. Maybe after tea I’d change my mind, shave nicely, dress better, and stop smoking. Not likely, but hope springs ever eternal, at least according to Morgana.

In the delivery alley behind the shop I found three parcels waiting for me, all bearing return labels from our supplier in Salem. They weren’t heavy, but I was still obviously in recoup mode. As I lifted them, my nerves jumped slightly under my skin as if I’d been beaten with Nerf bats for a good long time. Morgana had said I was positively humming with energy last night, overflowing with it. She’d pushed me down onto the bed, climbed on top of me, and milked me for a good twenty minutes, until my eyes had rolled up in my head and I had started speaking in tongues, literally. Then she wanted to know who Vivian was.

I knew I should probably tell her, just not right now. It was possible that Vivian would never call, never enter my life again, and there would be no need to mention her. The thought was fatally depressing as I set the parcels on the counters in the back room and started on the tape with a utility knife. Behind me, through the open door, I could smell autumn—fertility wilting, that damp, warm rush of leaves and apples and the promise of cold rains that just makes you want to sleep all day. I left the door open to air out the cinnamon incense in the back room, and just because I love the scent of fall in the mountains.