Devilish (12 page)

“Okay, but …” I stabbed the remaining whipped
cream iceberg and sank it. “She does this how? She says, I can help … I’m a demon? Allison was sick, but she didn’t lose her mind.”

“I think she starts it as a game,” he said. “But then people start to feed into it. She probably bought her some things to make her feel good. The new image boosts Allison’s self-esteem, and from there, she begins to believe…. She feeds on her own energy. The more people respond to her, the more confident she gets. The more things go right, the more she believes what Lanalee told her.”

“There’s this Poodle Club thing that’s been going on at our school,” I said. “That has to be her too.”

“I heard about it. That’s her. She must be trying to screw around with a lot of people. And she’s got a lot of friends. Maybe they’re doing it together….”

“She’s got
my
friend,” I said firmly. “She’s got Ally wrapped up in some crazy role-playing game.”

“Just stay away from her,” he said. “You can’t get her in trouble. You’ll never be able to prove she did anything. She’s very smart. I’ve been trying to protect you.”

It was meant to be kind, sweet. Maybe even romantic. And I’m sure he meant it.

“Thanks,” I said, getting up. “I appreciate the help. I’ll take it from here.”

“Jane,
don’t
.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I think I can handle Little Miss Bobbin. I’ll write sometime, promise. You’ve just answered a lot of questions for me. I owe you.”

I got up over Owen’s repeated objections. He even tried to follow me. His concern was touching, but I had to shake him loose. I lost him in the middle of Harvard Square by cutting through a tour group and headed back to South Station.

The Town Car was in the driveway, and there was a warm, yellowish glow coming from inside the Tremone house. All of the windows were lit. The whole house was awake, alive. When I knocked at the door, it swung open in a moment.

Lanalee was dressed in long, sweeping black pants and a skintight black turtleneck. This outfit made her look extra tall. In my worn jeans and gray cable-knit sweater, I looked and felt all of two feet.

“I wondered,” she said. “I figured that’s what this Boston thing was all about.”

She left the door hanging open as an invitation to follow her into the house. We went back into the living room. She tossed another log into an already alarmingly large fire. The room was sweltering.

“So,” she said. “How’s Allison?”

“She threatened to commit suicide earlier today.”

“Huh.” Lanalee tapped her teeth with her fingernail and thought that one over for a moment. “So soon …
Anyway. Wine? Soda? Sparkling water? And I think, for some reason, I might have a bottle of Yoo-hoo …”

She waved her hand toward a low table behind the sofa that had some bottles on it. A rage spun up inside me the likes of which I’d never experienced. My face set in a hateful stare.

“No drink?”

I continued to glower.

“Oh, please,” she said, throwing herself down on one of the sofas and grabbing a cupcake. “Spare me. You look about as scary as a pissed-off parakeet. Do you know who I
am
, little girl?”

One thing you should never, ever do to me is call me
little girl.
But the glower had run out of steam, so I sat down very calmly.

“I know you’ve done this before.”

“I have.” She devoured an entire cupcake in one bite, swallowed easily, and smiled.

“You’re behind the Poodle Club.”

“I
am
the poodle,” she said. “That’s true.”

“And you’re messing with my friend’s head.”

“That’s possible,” she said. “But unintentional. I just came looking for a deal.”

“You told her that you were going to take her soul.”

“Is that all she told you?” Lanalee looked aghast. “Ungrateful cow. It’s not like I didn’t give her anything for it.”

“And what did she give you?”

“I’ll show you,” she said, leaning in excitedly.

She got up and went over to the mantelpiece, which was covered in perfume bottles—all different colors and shapes. There was a long, narrow red one with gold threading cut through the glass. There was a tiny baby blue one, completely round. Another was blown green glass, another all yellow with a plastic daffodil top. She took a lavender-colored, heart-shaped bottle down from the back and center, where it had been prominently displayed. It was quite large. It had an opalescent finish, a green porcelain stopper, and a cameo of a woman in the center. It was a magnificent bottle.

“This is my last one,” she said, smiling at it. “The rest are all full. I kept this one for the end.”

She turned the bottle in her hands lovingly.

“I’m told it’s stifling. I’m told it’s like being sucked into an underground pipe that’s just big enough to hold you, your face pressed into the rusty metal, your lungs never able to expand to get a full breath of air, a trickle of water always running over you … total darkness … and no one knows you’re there. You’re just under their feet, maybe a foot or two under a city sidewalk, but you’ll never be heard, never be found … and you’ll never die. It will be like that forever.”

She sighed contentedly.

“I have a journalist from the
New York Times
,” she said. “I let him come out for a few minutes one afternoon and tell me all about it.”

She carefully replaced the bottle.

“There’s nothing in the universe more desirable than a soul,” she said. “People think bombs are powerful. Or money is valuable. Bombs cause little dents in the earth. Money is paper. But souls … souls are impossible to create or destroy. Souls are living energy. Owning a soul—really owning it—that is the only real power in this world.”

“You must watch a lot of TV,” I said. “I don’t know what you guys are into, but she really believes this. It has to stop, and you have to back off.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Lanalee said, poking her finger into the pink frosting on her second cupcake. “I can’t just back off. We signed a contract. It’s all legal. I need the soul. I can’t just give her up.”

“I’m not playing along with your game, okay?” I said, losing all patience.

“It’s no game, Jane.”

“Fine,” I said. “In your little fantasy world, what will it
take
for you to give her up?”

“Now,
that’s
an interesting question,” she said, putting down her plate and leaning forward. “What are you offering me?”

“What do you want?”

“Well,” she said, “the deal is still in the bonding stage. I haven’t taken possession yet. I don’t get her until the Poodle Prom on Halloween.”

“So you need to take possession of … someone? Is that it?”

“That’s generally the way it works.”

“So take me.”

She looked at me, then at the heart-shaped bottle, as if sizing up whether or not I could fit in there.

“And what do you want in return?”

“Nothing. Just switch us.”

She examined her remaining cupcake for a moment.

“The thing that keeps this job challenging,” she said, “is the fact that we can’t just grab you and wring your soul out of you. If we kill anyone, we forfeit. No force, no threats. As little direct contact as possible. We can only try to coax you to do what you clearly want to do anyway. We can only take a willing soul.”

“I’m willing.”

“But you don’t believe,” she said.

“In devils? In you? No, Lanalee.”

“That’s no fun,” she said. “But you do believe that something’s happened to Allison. Something that’s hard to explain. Something I did.”

“I think you made her think something was going on. There. Are you satisfied?”

“It’ll do. Your opinion will change. Now, I always give
something
. That’s what I’m good at! But in your case, we could do something better. How about a bet? I’ll let Allison go right now. I’ll set her free. The rest is just us. You win the bet—you walk away.”

“Fine,” I said. “What’s the bet? Where’s your twenty-sided die? Let’s get this going.”

“The kiss,” she said, “is a very powerful gesture. So here’s what I want. You get yourself to the Poodle Prom. I’ll make sure Elton gets there. Once you’re there, you have until midnight for him to kiss you. You can’t tie him up and make out with him against his will. He has to give you a kiss.”

“And then?”

“And then you’re free. You’ll both be free. Can’t get more fair than that.”

“And if I fail?”

“Then you go into the bottle.”

“Fine,” I said. “Done.”

She almost clapped.

“I’ll have to mark you,” she said. “I have to make some sign of the agreement. I’ll send you a more formal contract later on, but I need to leave something on the body.”

“Mark me how?” I asked.

“Just with a pen.”

Good. This was just what I needed. Something to show Allison that it was all over, that I had taken it on.

“Fine,” I said. “Mark me.”

She grinned and picked up the remaining cupcake and more or less shoved it all in her mouth at once by taking these large, gulping bites, like a baby bird eating. Then she went across the room to a rolltop desk. She removed a key from a nearby pot, unlocked the desk, reached in, and produced what looked to be a very fine antique pen-and-ink set.

“If you could just take off your sweater,” she said, “I’ll do your arm.”

“No problem.” I yanked off my sweater. “Have a preference?”

“Oh, the left one, please.”

I turned my left side toward her and pushed up the short sleeve of my T-shirt so that nothing would get in her way.

“That’s perfect,” she said. “Thanks.”

She dipped the pen carefully into the ink pot and let one or two drops leak out before coming near my skin.

“You’re always supposed to use virgin parchment for contracts,” she said. “I think this counts.”

“Just do your doodle.”

Lanalee’s scary demonic mark was a small, very rough cartoon of a poodle, with curlicues for fur and a smiley face. She took the pen set back to the desk and carefully locked it up, then came and sat back down crossed-legged. She had a loose, happy expression—almost a kind of ecstasy. I folded my arms, leaned back, and met her gaze with my own.

“Congratulations,” she said. “We’re all set.”

“Call her and tell her,” I said. “Tell her it’s over.”

“There’s no need.” She smiled. “She’ll figure it out on her own.”

When I got home, I tried Allison’s number a few times, but she didn’t answer. Joan was out, my father left a message that he had to go into school for some kind of reception for a visiting mathematician, and my mother was at the restaurant. It was dark, and wind was causing one long, low branch of our big oak tree to bump and scratch against the window.

I slumped in front of the TV but couldn’t concentrate on anything. Of course, I wasn’t worried about any pact I’d made, nor did I have any intention of showing up at Lanalee’s stupid event and chasing my ex-boyfriend—now my best friend’s boyfriend—around in circles all night. I had gone along with the whole thing as much as I felt I needed to, and now it was done. But I wasn’t feeling well. I was achy and tired and my skin was warm. It had been a long day.

Crick was relentlessly pacing in front of the door, looking at me anxiously.

“Okay,” I said, pulling myself with great effort from the sofa. “Walk. But then Jane is going to bed, okay?”

He hopped from foot to foot, like a tiny Irish step dancer.

Crick was too dignified for a leash. We called it a walk, but really we just opened the door and let him trot out. But when I opened the door, he didn’t trot. He sat and stared in mortal terror at the fifteen or so cats that were on our porch. Then he hid behind my ankles.

The cats themselves were calm and still, some draped on the railing, others sitting primly. I recognized quite a few of them. Gray Betty from two doors down. Angelface from across the street. Hamlet, the kitten from the house that the Brown drama students were renting. The cats all looked up at me, their curious eyes glowing gold and green in the dark.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

They didn’t answer. Because they were cats.

This was deeply odd. I wasn’t sure why the Cat Club had decided that our porch should be the rendezvous point for the night, but it did give me the uneasy feeling that something small, furry, and dead might be involved.

There was no way that Crick was going out there. Cats terrified him. A cat had jumped on his back once and ridden him like a camel, digging its claws in for support. I quietly shut the door, and Crick retreated to his special safety zone behind the television. This was fine by me. I was growing more exhausted with every second. I could barely drag myself upstairs, put on my pajamas, and get into bed.

My head began to spin the moment it hit the pillows. I had never been so relaxed in all my life. My bed had never
felt so soft, my sheets so cool. I started to fall asleep so deeply, it actually felt like my head was falling through the pillow and into the mattress….

I barely jumped when I noticed the man on my bed. I opened my mouth to scream—but something in my head was saying,
Don’t. It’s no use.

It was Mr. Fields, the man I kept bumping into. I looked at him, and he looked at me, an ecstatic smile on his face. He wore a black suit, a kind of Edwardian-looking cut, a bowler, and a pair of very round, green glasses. He had a long purple scarf wrapped several times around his neck.

“Jane!” he said. “I’m so pleased! I had hoped all along it would be you. Here. Take this. This will help.”

He passed me a coat. I pulled it on and hugged it tight around me, as if it could protect me. Then he made sure I was securely propped up, with pillows behind and alongside me.

“Hang on,” he said. “We’re going for a ride.”

He pulled an object from inside his coat, which at first I thought was a flashlight made of a deep black plastic. He shook it hard, and a long silver tentacle of whip shot out of it. He snapped this at the foot of my bed.

I actually felt myself falling deeper into sleep, as if I was dropping through floors of a building, down, down, down—yet I seemed to be totally awake and lucid. And then we rose. Both of us and the bed too. The legs of the bed were extending themselves. Once they were about two feet from the ground, they began walking. The bed
pinched itself up to get through my bedroom door and traipsed carefully down the stairs. Crick, who hadn’t quite recovered from the cat incident, sat at the foot of the stairs and looked at me accusingly, as if asking me why I was doing this to his little doggie head.