The Demon Lover

by Juliet Dark

  I scrolled through his profile and discovered that his favorite music ranged from U2, Kate Nash and the Vivian Girls to Billie Holiday to Celtic fusion bands like the Pogues, Thin Lizzy, and Ceredwen. His favorite movies were Beauty and the Beast (the Cocteau version), Bringing Up Baby, It Happened One Night, and, rather surprisingly, You’ve Got Mail.

  His relationship status was posted as “It’s Complicated.”

  I was just starting to read the messages on his wall when Ralph leapt onto the keyboard and skittered across the keys. I grabbed him before he hit a key that might inadvertently friend Liam Doyle and reveal that I’d been cyber-stalking him.

  “Hey,” I said, putting Ralph down on my desk. “Stay off, you’re going to get hair all over my keyboard.” Ralph shook himself, puffing up his fur until he looked like a miniature tribble, and then began to lick his fur down as if offended that I’d maligned his handsome coat.

  “Sorry,” I told him, closing my laptop so he wouldn’t get into it while I was gone. “Just because you’re a magical doormouse doesn’t mean you don’t shed.” Then I glanced at my watch and saw that I was about to be late for class. I’d spent an embarrassing amount of time cruising Liam Doyle’s Facebook page. He really ought to block it or else all his students would be doing the same thing.

  We were watching Wuthering Heights—the classic version with Merle Oberon and Laurence Olivier—in class that day so I used the time to organize the writing workshop folders and attach a Post-it Note to each one with a few words about each student. Too bad if I gave Liam Doyle a few preconceptions. After class one of my students—the boy with all the leather and piercings—asked to talk to me about his final paper, so I didn’t get a peek at the new writer-in-residence before the workshop started. When I walked by the classroom the door was closed. I heard a deep murmuring voice coming from behind the door and then a ripple of laughter from the class.

  Good, I thought, heading across the quad to the library, that class deserved a teacher who would give them all some attention. I just hoped he wouldn’t be waylaid by Mara the way Phoenix had been. Maybe I should give him a little warning about the situation when his class was done … which was in an hour and twenty minutes. I’d have to cool my heels in the library till then. Of course there was plenty of work for me to do there, but still, it might have occurred to Mr. Doyle that meeting with me after his class wasn’t the most convenient plan for me. He could have at least asked what worked best for me. Had he even asked Dean Book what my schedule was?

  Instead of sitting at my usual table, I sat at a computer desk and logged into my email account. I saw that Liz had responded to my last email—the one I’d signed with a smiley face—after I left the house.

  Oh, BTW, Mr. Doyle did ask which time was more convenient for you, but I said that since you often worked in the library either would be fine. I hope that was okay. We are quite lucky to get such a prominent poet (and one with such a good reputation for caring about his students) on such short notice. I was trying to accommodate him, but I do hope I haven’t inconvenienced you :)

  I sighed. Dean Book was obviously trying to soothe everyone’s feathers (a smiley face, for heaven’s sake! And what was up with that “BTW”?). I didn’t envy her her job. And she was right: writers-in-residence were notorious for bad behavior and shirking their students. An Oxford fellow who taught in inner city high schools was a pretty remarkable catch.

  I emailed back that I was in the library and had plenty to keep me busy until it was time to go meet Professor Doyle. And I did—I had papers to grade and an article in the latest edition of Folklore I wanted to put on my reserve list, and the names on the casualty list from the Ulster & Clare train crash to start looking up. But instead of doing any of these things I Googled Liam Doyle again and read his poetry credits. A couple of the magazines he was in were web journals. I clicked on one called Per Contra and found a poem called “Winter, Liar.”

  What came once here will never come again, no matter monument nor memory; all sunwarmed green succumbs to winter’s wind. And you, my love, were also my best friend, and had your life to live. The tragedy was not just my youth’s recklessness, although I trusted much to impulse, whim, freedom, a destiny excluding doom. Frankly, youth can be our insanity. But now I’m cured of that fever, although the price was high; and chilly April wind can only sigh at my regrets, yet sun will brighten wind so, one knows that soon green stirs, and wild bees hum. And summer once more will make winter liar, but I won’t warm. You’re all I’ll ever desire.Wow, I thought when I had finished reading the poem, Oxford Fellow, inner city teacher, and he could write, too. But maybe that poem was a fluke. I went back to his Google page and found another poem … and then another and another. I read half a dozen. They were all beautiful and all about lost love. Some girl had really done a number on him. I went back to his Facebook page and started to comb through the messages on his wall for any mention of this spectacular girlfriend, but all the messages seemed to be from colleagues or former students. The messages from the students were particularly touching. Thank you for inspiring me to write poetry, Prof, you really helped me believe in myself! Ali from Macalester College had written, I love the book you recommended, Mr. D, you’re right, the Romantics rock! KickinItKT from Baltimore had written.

  No wife or girlfriend mentioned anywhere.

  His relationship status was still posted as “It’s Complicated.” Like he would have changed it during class, I began to chide myself, but then I noticed the digital time readout on top of the screen and saw that his class had been over for ten minutes.

  Yikes! I grabbed my bookbag and hurried out of the library, sprinted across the quad, and arrived at Fraser Hall panting. I paused to catch my breath in the hall outside Phoenix’s old classroom and heard voices coming from inside. Peeking in I saw the broad, tweed-covered back of a large dark-haired man standing in front and a little to the right of Flonia Rugova. Usually shy—I hadn’t ever heard her string more than five words together at a time—Flonia was chattering away, her cheeks glowing pink and her hands waving in the air like songbirds recently freed from a cage. I tried to listen to what she was saying, but quickly realized she wasn’t speaking in English. Neither was Professor Doyle. He said something in what I could only assume was Albanian and Flonia giggled. Then she saw me lurking in the doorway and covered her mouth. Professor Doyle must have realized someone was behind him but before turning around he leaned toward Flonia, touched his hand to her shoulder, and murmured a few soft words. She nodded, serious now, and pressed both her hands together and inclined her head. I didn’t know any Albanian, but I could tell she was thanking him for something. Doyle said something else and she laughed again. She gathered up her books and left quickly, walking past me as if I wasn’t there.

  Wow! One class and shy, sober Flonia Rugova was smitten. What must this guy look like?

  I didn’t have to wait long to find out. As soon as Flonia was gone he turned around. My first reaction was Oh. I don’t see what the big deal is. Yeah, he had nice broad shoulders and a generous wide mouth, but his thick black hair was too long for my taste and he was wearing those square-rimmed glasses that guys wore to make themselves look intellectual and that made him look a bit like Clark Kent. And a floppy, collarless shirt that looked like something Errol Flynn had worn in Captain Blood. Sure, I could see why a young inexperienced girl like Flonia would find him attractive, but I personally thought he was a bit affected.

  Then he smiled. A dimple appeared on the left side of his mouth and his brown eyes behind the thick-lensed glasses flashed and turned a mellow tawny gold.

  “Ah, you must be Professor McFay,” he said in a lilting Irish accent. “My students talked about how generous you’ve been with your time.”

  My students? He’d certainly taken possession of them quickly. Okay, he was good-looking, but I was betting he knew it.

  “Well, they’re a good group,” I said. “Nicky Ballard especially …”r />
  “… is a remarkable poet. Yes, I saw that right away. It’s odd that Ms. Middlefield was trying to make her write a memoir.”

  I agreed entirely, but I didn’t like him kicking Phoenix when she was down—and right now poor Phoenix was probably strapped to a cot in a medicated stupor, which was about as down as a person could get. “Phoenix was under a lot of stress. I’m sure she was only doing what she believed was best for her students. She thought that confronting one’s demons was necessary for a writer.”

  His lips twisted as if I’d said something funny. “Is that what she called it—confronting one’s demons? It seems to me she was courting demons. Some of my students said that her breath smelled like alcohol during class and she hadn’t returned a paper since September.”

  “Well, yes, that is bad …”

  “It’s worse than that; it’s a crime. These young people were willing to bare their souls for that woman and what did they get for it? A drunken teacher who lied her way to fame and fortune.” He shook his head sadly. “I only hope I can gain their trust after that.”

  “You looked like you were well on your way with Flonia Rugova,” I snipped, instantly regretting my tone. The man was right. Phoenix’s behavior had been abysmal, but still it irked me to have him walk in and pass judgment on someone he’d never met after an hour of listening to her students. He was regarding me curiously, his head tilted to one side, his eyes narrowed.

  “Miss Rugova was telling me about how her family got out of Albania. She left a sister there whom she hasn’t heard from in three years. I was offering her a contact in Amnesty International to help find her.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling the blood rise to my face. “That was … good of you. Flonia hasn’t written much, but what I’ve read is beautiful. Here.” I handed him the stack of student papers. “You’re completely right, of course. They all deserve a better teacher than Phoenix was. She got distracted … which reminds me, the only student whose papers aren’t here is Mara Marinca. I can’t find them anywhere. I guess Phoenix lost them.”

  I was expecting another diatribe against Phoenix, but instead Doyle sighed. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Mara told me today that she was withdrawing from the class.”

  “Oh, really? I’m surprised. We talked yesterday and she didn’t mention she was dropping.”

  Liam Doyle shrugged. “I think she was disappointed to see that she wasn’t going to be the focus of attention anymore. I’m afraid that too much attention can be just as harmful as too little. At any rate, Ms. Marinca expressed an aversion to writing poetry, which is what I plan to do with the class for the two weeks remaining in the semester.”

  “It’s a shame, though, that she won’t get credit for the class after all the work she did. I’ve looked all over for her papers …”

  “I’m sure you have … which reminds me. I gather you were renting out your spare room to Ms. Middlefield. I’m staying right across the street at the Hart Brake Inn—” He grimaced at the name. “Which is fine for a day or two, but if I have to stay there much longer I might go into diabetic shock, from the décor if not the food.”

  “Diana does have a sweet tooth,” I concurred, “and a fondness for tchotchkes.”

  “I didn’t mean to insult another of your friends, Dr. McFay. Ms. Hart is a gracious innkeeper, but the rooms are … well, a tad feminine for my taste and the food is a little on the sugary side. What I wondered is … well, I don’t know if you’d be uncomfortable taking on a male lodger.”

  “You want to rent Phoenix’s room?”

  “Yes. Dean Book mentioned it had a separate entrance and access to a kitchen. I like to cook. In fact, I took a course at the Cordon Bleu when I lived in Paris.”

  I was about to wonder aloud why he didn’t list that accomplishment along with lute playing and speaking Albanian on his Facebook page, but caught myself before revealing my cyber-stalking activities. I smiled regretfully instead. “I’d love to help you out, Mr. Doyle, but Phoenix left her things there and I want her to feel welcome to come back.”

  “That’s very loyal of you,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to do anything that made you uncomfortable. But if Ms. Middlefield sends for her things …”

  “Well, then you’ll be the first on my prospective lodger list,” I replied, confident that Phoenix was in no shape to send for her things. I returned Liam Doyle’s brilliant smile, glad that this time I’d had a ready excuse for not taking on an unwanted roommate.

  When I left Fraser Hall, though, I felt unsettled. Why, I asked myself, had I taken such an immediate dislike to Liam Doyle? Was I jealous of his easy success with his students when I had spent all weekend reading their papers and all day yesterday conferencing with them? Or his exotic travels and philanthropic activities? Or his Oxford degree? Okay, there was something annoyingly pretentious about the guy. Lute playing, for heaven’s sake, and that shirt! I couldn’t be the only one to see it, could I?

  I turned around and headed back toward Fraser Hall, choosing the back entrance to avoid running into Doyle. If there really was something off about Liam Doyle, Soheila Lilly would be the one to notice it. There were no students waiting outside her office, but there were voices coming from inside. I was going to leave when I heard one of those voices—a deep, rumbly male one—say: “And did you get a good look at his shirt? It looked like he ordered it from the J. Peterman catalog!”

  Oh good, I thought spitefully, I am not the only one. I knocked on the half-ajar door and poked my head in. Soheila was behind her desk in a lovely toffee-colored sweater and long amber beads that matched the color of the tea she was drinking. The last person I would have pegged as her tea-drinking partner was Frank Delmarco, but there he was, leaning back precariously on a delicately carved chair, holding a steaming glass of spiced tea.

  “Am I interrupting anything?” I asked.

  “We were just talking about Phoenix’s replacement,” Soheila responded, getting up to pour me a glass of tea from the samovar. “Have you met him yet?”

  “Yes,” I answered, taking the chair next to Frank’s. “He seems very … dedicated,” I ventured cautiously.

  “Ha!” Frank snorted, and rocked forward in his chair so roughly I thought the fragile wood would crack. “All you women have been completely bamboozled by him.”

  “Not at all,” I said, annoyed to be lumped in with the infatuated students. “Actually, I thought he was a little presumptuous. He asked if he could have Phoenix’s room.”

  “See!” Frank crowed. “The poor woman’s bed isn’t even cold and he’s trying to take it from her. I hope you told him no.”

  “I did,” I said, then smiling slyly, added, “Although I might regret it. He told me he studied cooking at the Cordon Bleu.”

  Frank leaned back in his chair again and roared with laughter—as I’d known he would. I felt a little spiteful thrill.

  “Maybe he also sews—you could have gotten some curtains out of him! Have you read his poetry yet?”

  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to admit to that, but Frank didn’t wait for my answer. He quoted a line from the poem I’d read in the library in a mocking falsetto. I’d thought the line was lovely when I read it, but now something malicious made me laugh and ask, “Do you think he really believes that nonsense?”

  I heard a step behind me.

  Soheila cleared her throat and glanced over my head. I looked over my shoulder and there, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders, was Liam Doyle. The late-afternoon sun was in his eyes, so I couldn’t read his expression, but his voice was cool as ice water.

  “Yes, in fact I do,” he said. Before I could apologize, he was gone.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I spent the next week (the last week of classes before finals) trying to avoid Liam Doyle, so embarrassed was I to have been caught talking about him behind his back. Making fun of his poetry, no less. I didn’t know what had come over me. Why had I taken such a dislike to
the man just because he wore foppish shirts and had gone to Oxford?

  Nearly everyone else certainly liked him. Soheila Lilly served me Irish Breakfast tea the next time I was in her office—“a present from that nice Irish writer!”—and confided to me that he reminded her of Angus Fraser. I saw him eating lunch with Elizabeth Book in the student union twice and heard the dean laughing like a schoolgirl. Even Frank Delmarco grudgingly admitted to me that the new hire wasn’t all bad—and then he showed me the Jets tickets Doyle had gotten for him for the weekend after Christmas. His students raved about the workshop and told me how he took them on hikes through the woods and recited poetry to them.

  Nicky Ballard, especially, had been galvanized by him to write. She was working on a series of poems developing the theme of the ice maiden. When she showed me a few of the poems, I immediately saw that Nicky was working out her fear of being trapped by the legacy of her family history through the poems. I thought it was a good emotional strategy but wondered if it would really help combat a century-old curse. Of course, Nicky didn’t know she was under a curse, so it fell to me do what I could to avert it.

  I had started the painstaking work of looking up each casualty of the Ulster & Clare train crash, but it was going slowly. Even when I was able to find out something about a victim or their family I had no way of telling whether the person was a witch. There had to be some better way of going about this. At the beginning of finals week I decided to go by Liz Book’s office to ask if she had any ideas on how to track down the perpetrator of the curse. As soon as I mentioned the curse a pall fell over Liz’s face, making her look older and tired. In fact, I noticed that she was looking distinctly untidy. Strands of graying hair had escaped her usually immaculate chignon and her knit St. John’s jacket was missing a brass button.

  “The Ballard curse has been documented by my predecessors for generations. When I took this job ten years ago I made it one of my missions to avert the curse. First I thought that if we could find out the origins of the curse we could undo it, so I asked Anton Volkov to go through the very long list of people who had reason to hate Bertram Ballard.”