The Devil You Know mk-2

by Jenna Black

  “Uh-oh,” said an all-too-familiar voice on the other end of the line. “Did big brother get caught with his pants down?”

  My hand tightened on the phone, and at that moment I was pretty sure I’d cheerfully kill both Lugh and Raphael if I had the chance.

  Raphael laughed at my outraged silence. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, as the saying goes. I have been ordered to cooperate with you.”

  I snorted. “Like that means anything.”

  “It’s true, I’m not great at following orders, especially when they come from Lugh. In the Demon Realm, he could punish me for my insubordination. Here, he just has to swallow it. However, I did agree with him that it’s in everyone’s best interest that I finish telling you what I’d come to tell you earlier tonight. Please forgive my fit of pique, but you have to know you are a sore trial for anyone’s patience.”

  I started to retort, but he spoke right over me.

  “The demon that was summoned into the Mortal Plain and left that body in the alley is known as Der Jäger.”

  I’d taken enough German in high school to translate the name. “The Hunter.”

  “Indeed. He’s an unusual creature. He has a unique ability to recognize demons in the Mortal Plain—and to hunt them. That’s how he earned his True Name. He is also the demon equivalent of a sociopath. His entire life revolves around the hunt and the kill. For the past three hundred years, he’s been imprisoned in the Demon Realm, but Dougal has offered him his freedom if he can find and kill Lugh.

  “The good news is that since your aura overwhelms Lugh’s, Der Jäger can’t seem to catch his scent. Everyone’s quite puzzled by the phenomenon, though I suspect they’ll be even more puzzled after tonight. Der Jäger will no doubt have sensed Lugh’s presence while he and I spoke, but I’m certain he won’t have been able to home in on it in so short a time.”

  “How do you know he hasn’t been able to catch Lugh’s scent?” I asked.

  “Because I’m one of the bad guys, remember? That’s the whole reason I went back to the Demon Realm in the first place, to infiltrate another cell. I’ll feed you what information I can, but I’m also going to keep my cover.”

  I heard the warning in his words and instantly bristled. “I told you before, if you ever hurt Andy again—”

  “Good night, Morgan. Sweet dreams.”

  He hung up on me, and it took every ounce of my self-restraint not to throw the phone across the room in frustration.

  I wasn’t surprised when I woke up at around ten in the morning, groggy and bleary-eyed, after several hours of uninterrupted sleep. Funny how Lugh hadn’t felt like speaking to me after my little chat with Raphael. I’d been more than ready to give Lugh a piece of my mind for driving my body while I was asleep, but apparently he wasn’t overly eager to hear what I had to say about it.

  I was left at something of a loss as to what to do with myself. Obviously, I couldn’t leave Andy alone and undefended, but I wasn’t going to learn much hanging around the apartment babysitting him. In the light of early morning—after getting a few hours of much-needed sleep—it was clear to me that ignoring my problems wasn’t going to make them go away. My mental vacation was well and truly over, and it was time to start getting some answers.

  The only thing I could think of to do for Andy was to call Adam to come keep an eye on him. Andy really hated the idea, and who could blame him? But we both knew I couldn’t just sit around the apartment and hope everything went away.

  I think my face was beet red the entire time I was in the apartment with Adam—which, considering my inability to block out the dream images Lugh had implanted in my mind, and my extreme discomfort with those images, was all of about five minutes. He gave me a curious look, but otherwise refrained from questioning me.

  I had three major issues I could deal with—or not deal with, as the mood hit me. There was the question of my parentage. There was the question of my repressed memory. And, because I needed another nightmare in my life, there was Der Jäger.

  What I wanted to do more than anything was hunt down and exorcize Der Jäger. Unfortunately, I hadn’t the faintest idea how to do it. I didn’t know what body he was in. And even if I did, the last thing I wanted was to draw his attention when he had no idea that I was hosting Lugh.

  That left the unpalatable choices of digging into my mom’s past or digging into my own. Since I knew what the first step would be to learning about my mom, and since I hadn’t a clue how to find out what happened to me—if Lugh was right and it was something other than what I’d been told—I supposed I was stuck.

  I showed up at my parents’ house just after lunchtime, having spent the entire morning procrastinating, finding one excuse after another to avoid doing what I knew I had to. My inner chickenshit prayed that she wouldn’t be home so I could put this off some more, but she came to the door before I had a chance to get my hopes up.

  Her eyes widened in surprise to see me, her plucked-to-within-an-inch-of-their-life eyebrows arching hugely. I had to stifle a laugh, though admittedly I couldn’t remember the last time I’d come here when it wasn’t the mandatory Christmas or Thanksgiving dinner.

  No doubt about it, there were parts of me that would have loved to disown my parents completely. Those holiday dinners were about as much fun as a yeast infection, and we’d probably all have a better time if I didn’t show up. But like it or not, this was the only family I had, and I did reluctantly love them—the man who wasn’t really my father, and my mother the Stepford wife.

  “Are you going to invite me in, or are you going to keep catching flies?” I asked when my mom just stood there.

  Her jaw snapped shut, and her lips pursed into her usual disapproving frown. “You could try giving me a hint of respect every once in a while.”

  I refrained from reminding her that respect had to be earned. I again had to fight against my urge to flee, but now I was getting annoyed at myself, too. All the terrible things that had happened to me recently, and I was turning into a total wuss over a conversation? I mentally recited the “sticks and stones” adage and forced myself to soldier on.

  “I need to talk to you about something,” I said. “I’ll try my best to be civil, and I hope you’ll do the same, but we both know we can’t talk to each other without a little sniping, so let’s just agree to ignore it.”

  She sighed dramatically, but opened the door and let me in.

  My mother is the last of a dying breed, the honest-to-God fifties housewife. She’d married my dad right out of college, and hadn’t worked a paying job her entire life. Her life revolved around cooking, cleaning, and being beautiful. Her children came in a distant fourth, though I knew she loved us in her own way. There wasn’t an aspect of her life I didn’t rebel against, which might explain why I was a single, work-obsessed, fiercely independent tomboy.

  The house I grew up in is beautiful, always freshly cleaned, and decorated with impeccable taste. And it has the warm, homey atmosphere of a walk-in freezer. It was impossible to step inside and not become instantly conscious of my ungainliness as I joined my mother in the formal living room. The house has a den, too, but it’s not any more relaxed than the living room. I found myself demurely crossing my legs at the ankles when I sat. Of course, as soon as I noticed I practically slapped myself on the forehead and forced myself to relax.

  “Shall I make us some tea?” my mother asked.

  I was proud of myself for not rolling my eyes. “Thanks, but I’ll skip it.” I squirmed a bit as I tried to figure out how to get started. I mean, really, how do you ask your mom about a rape she’d never even hinted she’d suffered? Not that I’d have expected Mrs. Perfection to discuss such a distasteful topic with anyone, much less her daughter.

  Prim and proper as a headmistress, she sat on the edge of a chair, her back arrow-straight. When she did the ladylike ankle-cross, she stayed that way. “What is it we need to talk about?” she asked. “Might I hope that you’ve persuaded Andrew to come h
ome?”

  You can hope all you want, I thought but didn’t say. See, I am capable of editing myself for content every once in a while. “He’s going to stay with me for the time being. You and Dad didn’t exactly make him feel welcome when you were in such a rush to have him host again.”

  My mother’s spine lost a little of its starch, and she looked away. Of course, the push to have Andy host again wasn’t the reason he was staying with me, but if I could shovel a heap of guilt onto her shoulders, I was more than happy to do so.

  “We made a mistake,” she admitted. That might have been a first. “We were so excited to have him back—”

  “So excited to have him back you tried to get rid of him immediately?” I interrupted, my voice going up an octave or two.

  She sat up even straighter. I wouldn’t have thought that was possible. “We just wanted things to go back to normal. And I guess we didn’t want to know that he’d been unhappy to host a Higher Power. It was what he’d always wanted, and we’d always wanted for him. We thought he was living his dream…”

  “Your dream, you mean.” My dad wasn’t attractive or well-built enough to meet the Society’s standards for a demon host, and when my mom had been young enough to volunteer, the Society had still been too sexist to consider women worthy hosts. Three cheers for progress!

  Mom winced at the accusation, but didn’t contradict me.

  It occurred to me that I knew where I’d inherited my talent for denial. The epiphany tasted sour in my mouth, and I made what I felt sure was an ugly face. “Remind me not to nominate you for Mother of the Year.”

  Her cheeks reddened—whether from anger, or guilt, or a combination of the two, I couldn’t tell. “If the only reason you’ve come is to talk about my inadequacies as a mother, then I have nothing more to say to you.”

  If I were there to talk about her inadequacies, she’d die of old age before I was finished, but I refrained from voicing that opinion. “I’m here to ask you about my real father.”

  She jumped like she’d just stuck her finger in an outlet, and even through her perfect makeup, I could see the color drain from her face. “What are you talking about?” she gasped.

  “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. It’s written all over your face.”

  Her face went from white to red, but, not surprisingly, she continued to stonewall. “Believe what you want, but you’ve known your real father from the day you were born.”

  Usually, my mom isn’t much of a liar, which is why she’s so bad at it. She sounded more confident now, but I caught on to the lie she was telling herself. “All right, then. Tell me about my biological father.”

  Realizing her tactics weren’t working, she went for slamming the metaphorical door in my face. “I think it’s time you leave.”

  I sat back on the couch and crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t think so. I think you owe me an explanation.”

  Her gaze frosted over. “I don’t owe you anything! Certainly I have no reason to feed this ridiculous fantasy of yours.”

  Maybe if I shoved some more information in her face, she’d realize how pointless it was to deny the truth. “Twenty-eight years ago, you filed a rape report with the police. You never pursued it, and as far as I can tell the case died before it took its first breath, but you did a paternity test on me. And Dad is not my biological father.” He wasn’t much of a real father, either, but that was beside the point.

  Her eyes glistened like she was on the verge of tears, and lines of strain were etched into her face. I almost felt sorry for her, though I carried too much anger to let the pity take charge.

  “Why did you never tell me?” I asked, and was pleasantly surprised when my voice sounded gentle, rather than accusatory.

  She sighed and shook her head. “What good would it have done? It was better for all of us if we just…pretended it never happened.”

  Yes, pretending was one of my mom’s greatest skills. “Do you think it was better for the other women he might have raped after you?” I couldn’t keep the sharp edge out of my voice, though intellectually, I knew how hard a rape charge can be for the victim, especially that long ago.

  My mom’s lips pressed together in a thin, hard line. “We…I did what was best for my own family. I don’t expect you to agree. It’s not like you understand the meaning of the word ‘caution.’”

  “But you did file a charge, at least initially.”

  “I didn’t have a choice at the time. The police found me after…” Her hands fisted in her lap, perfect nails digging into her palms.

  I forced myself to gentle my voice. “Tell me what happened.”

  I didn’t really expect her to answer, so I was startled when she started talking.

  “I used to do volunteer work at The Healing Circle when Andrew was young. One evening when I was leaving, a man dressed in scrubs accosted me in the parking deck. He forced me at gunpoint to drive him out into the suburbs. Then he…” She swallowed hard and wrung her hands. “He left me tied up in the backseat when he was finished, and that was how the police eventually found me. The Healing Circle said they’d had a John Doe they’d been examining in the psych ward, and that was probably the man who attacked me. But they never found him, never figured out who he was.”

  Yeah, and apparently Mom never made a peep after that initial report. I had a strong suspicion she knew more about this John Doe than she was telling. But there was another question I burned to ask first.

  “Why on earth did you and Dad keep me under the circumstances? It’s not like you ever loved me.”

  Damn it, I hadn’t meant to say that. The last thing I wanted was to admit to my parents that they had the power to hurt me. But perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing after all, because my mom’s face softened, and some of the angry tension faded from her posture.

  “Of course we love you. I love you. You’re my daughter, and no amount of fighting will change that.” She offered me a smile, but I didn’t smile back.

  “Tell me why you kept me,” I insisted, glomming on to the question that troubled me the most. “Even if you do love me in your own way, you have to sort of hate me, too. I’m a constant reminder of what happened to you. How could you look at me every day after that?”

  I could see the denial on her lips. But she must have seen how pointless it was, because she gave up the fight. “It wasn’t always easy,” she admitted. “But I’m your mother, and that’s what mothers do. They love their children unconditionally.”

  “You could have put me up for adoption. It seems like the sensible thing to do. Why did you keep me?” I hoped that the third time I asked would be the charm, but I should have known better.

  “I’m just not the kind of mother who can give up her child. What my attacker did to me isn’t your fault, and neither I nor your father—your real father, the one who raised you—has ever held it against you.”

  That was bullshit, but I’d never get her to admit it, so I let it drop. “Tell me the truth this time. Who was my father? Because I don’t believe for a second that you don’t know.”

  And with that, it seemed that our special mother/daughter chat had come to an end. “I’ve said as much as I’m going to say. Your father and I kept you for your own good, and that’s all you need to know.”

  “Like hell it is!”

  The softness that I’d seen was completely gone now. “Well it’s all I’m going to tell you.”

  I looked daggers at her. “I’m not leaving until you tell me what else you know about my biological father.”

  She raised one shoulder in a dainty shrug. “Fine, then. Make yourself comfortable.”

  And then she got up and left the room as if I weren’t even there.

  CHAPTER 8

  I hung around the house for about an hour, making a nuisance of myself, hoping she’d cave. But she carried about her business without giving me a second glance.

  I almost gave up. Then I realized that there was more than one wa
y to get information out of her. If she was going to ignore me, then I had free range of the house—including my dad’s study, where I swear he keeps every piece of paper that has ever crossed his path filed, indexed, and cross-referenced.

  When my mom went to the kitchen to start dinner—which, seeing as she was Suzie Homemaker, was three o’clock in the afternoon—I didn’t follow her.

  Being anal as hell, my dad had always kept his study door locked. When Andy and I were kids, we’d briefly made a game of trying to breach the fortress of the Forbidden Zone. That had ended when I was six and Andy was nine. We’d finally found a way to get in, Andy having appropriated a copy of Dad’s key. While Dad was at work, we let ourselves in. There wasn’t a thing in there that was of any interest to children our age, but it was such an exciting, forbidden thrill to be inside that we’d stayed far too long. Long enough for Dad to come home and catch us.

  Now I don’t want you to get the impression that my dad is abusive. Really, he’s not. But he definitely believes in the old “spare the rod, spoil the child” philosophy. At age nine, Andy had thought himself far too old for a spanking. He found out the hard way he was wrong. It was an impressive thrashing that discouraged him from sitting down for a couple of days, but it wasn’t the pain that had made the strongest impression on him—it was the humiliation of it all, being spanked at that age, and in front of me.

  Even at six years old, I was something of a stoic. I watched Andy struggle not to cry, and eventually lose that struggle. My own eyes welled with sympathy as I waited my turn, but when Dad took me over his knee, I was determined to be brave.

  In the end, I’d broken just as my brother had, but I’m sure my dad was surprised at how hard he had to work for it. Andy was cowed by the whole experience, his spark of childish mischief extinguished. You can’t say the same about me.