The Repentant Demon Trilogy Book 1: The Demon Calumnius (7 page)

The door buzzer sounded, and Abigail ran to the speaker to see who her visitor might be.  She had very few and wasn't expecting anyone.  Pushing the intercom button, she was surprised to hear Doug’s voice again.

“Hey, I'm not sure if you noticed, but you left a bag in my car,” he said.

“I can't think of what that could be,” she said, realizing this would not have necessitated a drive all the way back from his student housing co-op at the Loop.  “But come on up anyway.”

She buzzed open the lock on the main entrance door, letting Doug into the building.  He was at her door in moments, just giving her enough time to run a comb through her hair after removing the band that held it tied in its long ponytail.  Soft, red waves fell over her shoulders sensuously.

This behavior was promising, indeed,
thought Calumnius, watching her every move. 
With the two of them here alone,
he thought,
I can whisper some tempting suggestions to both of them.
  He was considering that she might be one of those individuals known as asexual, who had no desire or interest in sex for whatever reason—mental, emotional, or hormonal.  That would present him with a much greater problem.  It would be impossible to tempt a celibate with no desires.
No, not with the way she attended to her hair.

Doug handed the Target bag to Abigail as he entered the room, looking around and admiring her surroundings.

“This is a really nice place,” he said.  “I only have a small bedroom in a dorm, but that's good enough for now.”

“This is the box of chocolates,” she said, handing it back to him.  “You bought the chocolates, remember the argument?”

“I remember it well,” he said. “It's a gift for a woman, right?”

“No,” she reminded him, “it’s a gift for the whole family, but I can check my receipt.  Meanwhile, would you like a soda or something else to drink?”

As Abigail put his can of coke and a glass of ice on the table by the sofa where he sat, she smiled in a smirk to let him know she was onto him.  Her bottle of water was already in her hand as she sat down beside him, relieving him of any thoughts he might have had of being sent away quickly.

“A typical teacher's abode,” he commented, meaning it as a compliment.  “Books and papers on top of papers and more books.”

“It's the reason our kind seldom move,” she admitted, “the thought of all that packing.”

“Speaking of packing,” he said, noticing her suitcase open and nearly full.  “I see you're about ready to leave.  All I ever take is my toothbrush.”

“You think I'm taking too much?” she asked, concerned. “I know it's only one suitcase, but if it's too large...”

“No, no,” he interrupted, “considering it's for three weeks, or maybe longer if we're lucky enough to find a sponsor with an extended stay or another group to join.  We're not limited like the ones who have signed up for the formal expedition.”

“That would be a dream come true,” she said with reserved enthusiasm.  “I've never been able to afford a longer tour than three weeks.  As long as I'm back for fall semester, allowing a few weeks for prep work, I'm free for most of the summer.”

Then his eye found the object displayed prominently on her bookshelf, and though he didn't have words to express his admiration, his face said it all as he rose to have a closer look.

“Don't tell me you uncovered this in a dig,” he said with amazement, examining the amulet with reverence and awe.

“No, it came from a collection of a very dear friend,” she said cautiously, “a gift.”

“Oh, so I'm not the only one in the room with mysterious friends,” he teased.  By the brief display of sadness appearing across her face for a short moment, Doug could tell there was a lot she was not ready to share.  He had hoped to discover a little more about her with this visit, but he didn't want to appear as prying.

“The Egyptian god known familiarly as Bes,” he mused, “Pataikoi, protector of women and children, especially during labor.  A Pataikoi amulet worn to ward off evil—a lovely specimen.  Do you know how old this one is?”

“I was told it is close to three thousand years old,” she answered. “It's my most prized possession.  Maybe I should take it along on our trip to keep us safe.”

Oh, right
, thought Calumnius. 
You can see how well that works,
referring to the obvious eight-foot demon in the room. 
It's not working,
he called through cupped hands to their deaf ears. 

“Not a bad idea,” he answered jokingly, “only be sure to carry your receipt so they don't accuse you of finding it at the dig.”

“Speaking of receipts,” she teased, “do you really want me to dig mine out of my purse, or are you going to admit you wanted an excuse to drop by—not that you would have needed one.  You are a welcome guest any time.”

He smiled, like the proverbial cat who swallowed the canary.  “I didn't actually lie.  You left it in my car, and it is typically a gift for a woman.”

“You lied,” she scolded. “Maybe not technically—but your intentions were to deceive me.”

“No, my intentions were to see you again.” He smiled.  “It was fun shopping with you, and that never happens for me—believe me.”

“Why should I believe you,” she laughed, “when you are such a liar?”

They decided to eat a sandwich and discuss more trip details, especially the customs and etiquette of the people, and Doug was quite impressed at her knowledge.

“You speak some Arabic, too,” he said. “How is that when you've only been there twice?”

“Oh, I'm not fluent,” she explained, “but I can get by.  I took an evening course several years ago—it was free as one of the faculty perks.  If I get more opportunities to travel in the area, I hope to learn more.  I still need to carry a pocket dictionary.  At least one pocket of every travel outfit I own will accommodate that little book.”

“Yes, I see you have an extensive wardrobe there,” he said, pointing at her open suitcase, “lots of brown, brown, and more brown, with brown accents and brown trim—much like my own.”  They laughed, knowing it was best to blend with the background in all the Middle Eastern countries.

“So how did all of this interest in antiquities begin for you, Abigail?” Doug asked. “You know mine began with my service during the war.”

“As long as I can remember, even as a child,” she said, “I've always been drawn to the Middle East ever since I came across my first Bible with the maps included.  The places became real for me when I saw the landmarks designated on those pages with color illustrations depicting the Bible stories.  I was maybe ten years old when I decided this was what I wanted to study.  At first I thought about becoming a nun so that I could do missionary work, but I soon learned about their vow of obedience.  Faced with going where they chose to send me, I soon lost interest in that vocation.  In my younger days,” she said slyly, “I was much more willful and rebellious.”

“You certainly wouldn't have been sent to the Middle East,” he agreed.  “Missionaries are not welcome there.  In most of the countries you can be arrested or even executed if you even discuss your religion with any of the natives.  I would suggest you leave your pocket Bible at home, even though Iraq is not as bad as others.”

“It's in my heart,” she agreed, “and I know better than to try to convert any of these people.  However, if any ask me questions, I'm hoping I'd have the courage to share my beliefs with them.”  He agreed that he felt the same way.

“So your parents taught you about the Bible, then,” he probed.  “You were a cradle Catholic?”

“Not exactly,” she continued, feeling this was the time and place for her to share her background.  “I hardly knew my parents.  They were very young—and sort of hippy flower-children, from what I learned later.  They were unmarried, without jobs or ambition—thank God, they did believe in life enough not to abort me.  I was raised in a commune for the first part of my life, up until five or six years old.  They smoked a lot of pot and panhandled for money—all of it with me at their side, so I discovered from court records later in life.  When they progressed into heavier drugs, apparently they got busted, ended up in jail, and I was removed from their custody.  I only have vague memories of those years.

“That was phase one of my life.  By the time I was almost eight years old, I was not considered adoptable.  That meant I fell into the foster care system—four families in two years.  I wish I could say I have only dim memories of those years, but it was terrible.  Just being with strangers was bad enough, but to endure abuse and constant switching from one place to another—it was pretty bad until I was lucky enough to find myself in the Fitzgerald home.  They were Catholic and wanted to adopt me right away.  After all the red tape, I was actually thirteen by the time I legally could take their name.  I had been with them since I was ten, however.  They never forced me into their faith, but I was hungry for more from the very first Mass I attended with them.  I begged for books, watched Catholic TV, and participated in their family prayers and Bible studies.  I loved these people—a mom, a dad, and six siblings—my own family, finally.”

She paused, sighed, and took a deep breath before resuming her story.  Doug reached out his hand, and she took it in a heartfelt clasp that gave her comfort.

“It would have been a happy ending for me, except that tragedy struck.  We were coming home from a family camping trip in the Missouri Ozarks.  A guy driving a pickup truck fell asleep at the wheel, crossed the center line, and hit us head-on at full speed.  Everyone suffered severe injuries.  My dad was killed instantly on impact, the six children died one by one over the next few weeks.  I was hospitalized for months, as was my adopted mother, who was paralyzed from the waist down. 

“I was sixteen, and the two of us survived together in a small, handicapped-accessible cottage in south Saint Louis.  It was from there that I finished high school, attended junior college, and then pursued my bachelor's degree at night while keeping a day job.

“She was an amazing woman, my mother, and I think she helped me a lot more during her convalescence than I did her.  I did most of the cleaning, yard work, and shopping, although she made the lists since cooking was her forte.  The insurance settlement was sufficient to pay for all the funerals, renovations to the house to accommodate the wheelchair, and a van with a lift. 

“Mom wanted me to go away to college, insisting that she could take care of herself.  I have little doubt that she could have, but I didn't want to leave her—and I didn't want the extra expense of living away from home anyway.  It was my love of Biblical history, still, that feeds my interest in both anthropology and archeology.  And my mom was very knowledgeable on the subject although she never had a college degree.  She died in 2008.  I sold the house to pay for the funeral and the balance on most of my student loans.

“Your turn,” she said, gesturing with her hand as if he were now on center stage.

“It's simple,” he said.  “I was a military brat.  That says it all.”

“Not to someone who has never known any before,” Abigail insisted.  “How did you become interested in history and archeology?  From traveling?”

“I loved history from when I first learned to read,” he began.  “I could never understand the moans from the other kids.  The stories and characters and settings were more exciting to me even than the movies because they were real, and later when I was older because of the controversy that came with every discovery.”

“But you went into the military rather than teaching,” she said, as she pulled information bit by bit from him.

“Not only did it seem natural for me to be drawn to the military, with all my exposure to it, I also wanted to become someone I could admire.  I didn't have a religious upbringing, so the military's uncompromising standards of ethics and morals appealed to me.  I wanted to be courageous, respected, responsible, and do something important with my life.

“And with a career in history, your only options if you want to get paid are teaching or writing books, which usually go hand in hand,” he explained.  “I couldn't see myself doing either, not that I don't admire teachers and writers.  Even as a kid, I had no patience for all the disruptive behavior in the classroom and kids who just didn't want to learn—who seemed to enjoy being stupid.  I could never get that back then, and I knew I wouldn't have patience for unruly students.  I also didn't like sitting still long enough in complete isolation to write for a living.”

“Your papers in my class were very good,” she commended. “And that's why I teach college classes—at least you are dealing with students who are serious, who have paid a lot of money for tuition, and who chose to be there.  While reading your assignments, I was thinking that you could easily be a writer, if that's what you wanted.”

“Maybe, I could write about archeology, someday,” he admitted. “If I discover something important enough to write about. I'd love to work on translating the ancient tablets found, some 30,000 in the British Museum, which are just sitting there in storage.  Who knows what secrets they hold?”

“So you followed in your father's footsteps in the military,” she urged him on.

“So I followed my father's footsteps,” he concurred, “which pleased him to no end—went to officer's training at Quantico, which was his dream, and flew the Osprey—that really made him proud.  I had just finished training and was assigned, of course, to the Iraq War.  That's my story.”

He rose, taking his plate and glass to the kitchen sink, indicating he had finished talking—at least about his life. 
Very neat and orderly
, she thought,
from all that military training
. 
He'd probably go nuts living with all my paper clutter, not to mention the way I can let things go if I'm very involved in my work.

“What brought you to Saint Louis, then?” she asked, not wanting it to end just yet.  He seemed to be preparing to leave.

“The Middle Eastern Studies program at Washington University,” he stated simply.  “But after only one class I saw the courses were more geared toward careers in politics and government.  Then I met one of the teachers who directed me to the extensive programs on antiquities, and I switched.  I had no idea how much they had to offer.  So I'll be finished with my studies in about a year.”