The Demon's Riddle

by Jessica Brown

  The Demon's Riddle

  By: Jessica Brown

  Kerry Halligan is 22 years old. She's beautiful and talented, a superb mezzosoprano who just graduated from Oberlin as one of the stars from the program.

  But...she doesn't have a job, which means she has to move home to tiny McCord, Mississippi, where she has to live with her widowed father, a domineering pastor who did his best to turn her childhood into a living hell. All seems lost, until she meets the new guest choir director at her father's church, James Cavanaugh, who's about to change her life forever in ways she never dreamed.

  Check Out Other Great Books By This Author!

  The Romantic Misadventures of a Modern Woman

  Nita was heartbroken. She just lost what she thought was the love of her life. Her friend, Hannah, helps her out of her depression by giving her opportunities to talk about her problems and meet new friends. They begin reading and discussing a book on Christian dating that helps them begin to see how valuable they are. They are inspired to require others to value them more highly. Together, they try some of the modern methods people use, in the 21st century, to find romance, and meet some very interesting characters along the way. They find some wise and often eye-opening advice from each other, a concerned neighbor and a caring church community

  Set in the town of Karberry, a community that could be situated on the outskirts of any American city, the women in "The Romantic Misadventures of a Modern Woman", struggle with the limits that their faith leads them to place on themselves when it comes to dating and relationships. They discover how to enjoy spending time with men without compromising their convictions.

  Chapter 1

  Coming Home

  Kerry had always liked the music best of all. The way it seemed to soar, drawing her in, then sliding inside her...there was something exquisite and indescribable about it. It was a sensation that was completely unique, one she couldn't get from anything else. She thought about it constantly, so much so that she basically lived from one Sunday to the next.

  But there were other ways it affected her that simply made Kerry blush. She remembered the first time it made her wet, the experience indelibly stuck in her mind. She was all of fourteen years old, and it happened during one of the services when she was singing, a featured soloist, in fact.

  She'd been trying to hone in on a boy in the choir, just a kid she had a thing for, when she was a kid herself. A meaningless, adolescent thing, really, he was more nerdy than cute, but definitely her type, and Kerry remembered the exact instant when their eyes locked.

  Now Kerry laughed that memory, how embarrassed she'd been, how confusing the experience had been, all of it. She felt her skin flush and clenched her legs together in spite of herself, even though her circumstances now were completely different.

  She was 22 now, just out of college, Oberlin, in fact, one of the best music colleges in the country. And she'd managed to graduate early with an impossibly high GPA as well and a reputation as one of the best mezzo sopranos the school had ever produced

  But none of that seemed to matter much when she couldn't get a job and she had to move back to Mississippi, which Kerry referred to as the land of mud. That was the way she felt when she was living with her father, a pastor and a widower whose presence had smothered her like a dark cloud throughout her childhood. She tried to recall the number of times she'd run away, at least three, maybe even four or five, but the exact number eluded her.

  Now her life was a nightmare. Or at least it felt like one. Her father was all over her constantly, treating her as if she was 14 again, which Kerry supposed she'd always be in his eyes. Curfews, constant monitoring and a steady stream of inquiries about what she was going to do with her life were all part of the daily routine. All of the joy she'd felt in college, the feeling of being special, being on scholarship and one of the stars of the vocal program, all of that was gone.

  And as the weeks and months continued to grind on, it started to feel as if none of it had ever happened.

  Still, she had Sundays. Her father gave her that, and at times he tacitly acknowledged what she had done at Oberlin, allowing her to shine as a soloist. He even seemed to be ok with the publicity that came with it, the praise from the parishioners, the local newspaper story that came out shortly after her return, all of that.

  Kerry suspected he was pretending much of the time, knowing he had a bottomless pit of an ego, which she'd seen more times than she could count growing up. The womanizing, the chest-thumping sermons and homilies, his constant insistence on being the center of attention, all of it was still present when she returned. She'd caught her share of sidelong glances and sharp comments from him when the praise was just a little too profuse, but Kerry still managed to enjoy it for what it was, not letting the sadness overwhelm her when he made his true feelings known.

  Fortunately, there were new distractions in her musical routine that kept her from going stark, raving mad. Kerry worked in the church shop during the week, a job she'd held as a teenager, the part-time work giving her some independence and freedom. Now it was like an albatross around her neck, keeping her under her father's wing, at least until the arrival of the new choir director.

  The old one, Lance O'Dell, was a tired, stale dud of a man, rehearsing the same hymns week after week until they were basically beaten into the ground. Finally, when Kerry was about to scream in agony at one of his monotonous rehearsals, he announced the new guest director, someone he'd brought in from Jackson.

  His name was James Cavanaugh. He was younger, Kerry knew that, even though O'Dell's introductory speech about him was as boring as everything else he did. Cavanaugh would be arriving the following week for rehearsals, and Kerry knew something was going on with this guy when she caught some Cheshire cat grins from some other members of the choir, little knowing glances that told her he was something special.

  She tried to do a little homework on Cavanaugh, but it all came up pretty vague. Kerry was able to access some of his programs, turns out he'd been traveling around the area as guest director for a while, flitting about here and there. There wasn't much detail available about the programs themselves, most of what she found was just printouts of the titles, and even some of those were botched and confusing.

  There were hints that he'd done some stuff out of the area as well, but Kerry couldn't verify that, all of her searches dead-ended when she got to that level of information, which frustrated her beyond belief. But she had enough to go on to build him up in her mind, which was especially easy given that she had nothing else to hold onto to battle the monotony of daily life at the church shop. By Monday of the following week, Kerry had built him up to a combination of Bernstein, Bach, and Jesus Christ himself, a musical savant and savior who could help keep her from going mad.

  Kerry tried to temper her enthusiasm when she arrived for the first rehearsal, knowing she was a half hour early and way too eager to see what he'd be like. As the rest of the choir gathered in the rafters of the tiny church for rehearsal, Kerry observed that she wasn't the only one whose curiosity was piqued --there was more energy in the group than usual, and much of that consisted of buzzing about the new choir director.

  He was late, but not by much. Cavanaugh announced his arrival with a unique buzz of his own, which came in the form of a throaty hum just outside the church doors. Quizzical glances followed, but no one had quite enough guts to go downstairs to see what was going on.

  When he walked up the stairs, though, they quickly got their answer. Cavanaugh was wearing a leather jacket and tight jeans, both of which were too warm for the fetid fall Mississippi air. The explanation for the noise came in the form of the motorcycle helmet he carried at his side, along with a folder that was presumably full
of whatever they would be rehearsing that night. His shock of light brown hair was appropriately tousled, thinning a bit but clearly quite intact for the most part.

  He smiled slightly as he made his way to the conductor's stand, glancing here and there but not really seeming to focus on anyone in particular. James Cavanaugh definitely knew he was being checked out, that was obvious from the small grin, and it was equally obvious that he enjoyed the process. Kerry wondered what his prior guest stints had been like, both musically and otherwise, and in spite of herself Kerry found herself wondering if there had been any affairs, involvements or trysts with female choir members along the way.

  Cavanaugh put the helmet down carefully at the base of the stand, then turned to the business of pulling music from the file. When he did look up, it seemed to Kerry that he was staring at her, his eyes boring a hole in her, just as she was musing about any romances he might have had. She found herself blushing furiously, and Cavanaugh's grin widened just a little bit, as if he'd been reading her mind. Which, of course, only caused Kerry's face to turn even more crimson, bringing out the strawberry highlights in her long, curly blondish hair.

  She looked down, desperately trying to regain her composure. Kerry struggled to regain the rhythm in her breathing, forcing herself to think in measures and beats as she desperately tried to avoid sucking air. She knew he was watching her specifically, and Kerry had a feeling he also knew she was the featured soloist of the choir, even though she had no idea how me might have gained that knowledge. She'd talked to both her father and O'Dell about Cavanaugh's prior guest conductor experiences, trying to get details without making it look like she was prying, but neither had known much of anything, much to her disappointment.

  When Kerry was finally able to look up, she instantly locked onto Cavanaugh's eyes, which of course were a steely blue, the kind she'd never been able to resist. Somehow she managed to keep from hyperventilating, and she returned his gaze, keeping her expression as emotionless as possible, to let him know right away that she wasn't overmatched.

  His eyes held hers for what seemed like a moment too long, the grin playing at the corners of his mouth, until finally he looked away and took in the rest of the choir, as if something normal had just taken place between them. Even though Kerry was sure he knew as well as she did that what had just happened was anything but normal.

  As Cavanaugh looked over the choir, Kerry got a chance to check him out as well. He was tall and thin, the jeans hugging his lithe form, and Kerry found herself hoping he would turn around so she could get a nice rear view of him as well. She was also dying to see if he would take off the jacket, but he left it on, and for once Kerry found herself damning the air conditioning in the church, which had saved them from many a sultry, smothering rehearsal.

  Even as she kept looking, though, Kerry found herself drawn back to his eyes, again and again. The more she looked, the more she realized there was something different about them, something she couldn't quite place or identify.

  It was almost as if they had gray highlights, tiny flecks of a metallic gray color that almost seemed unnatural in the way it made it impossible for her to look away once her gaze made contact with them. That was impossible, though, it simply had to be her imagination, even though Kerry literally had to tilt or nod her head to pull her eyes away from his every time she got caught up in them.

  Chapter 2

  A Song to Learn

  Cavanaugh looked over the choir, then went back to fussing with the contents of the file, saying nothing, his silence creating a giant pregnant pause that seemed to hold the choir in suspense. It took forever for him to arrange the music, along with the rest of his papers, the program or whatever it was he was getting in order. Normally this would have provided a gap for the group to start talking, but no one said anything, it was as if he held them in a trance, and Kerry wondered if she was the only one being effected so strangely by the man's eyes.

  She also found herself wondering exactly how old Cavanaugh was. He was definitely older than her, but it was hard to tell by how much, and Kerry could feel the calculator in her brain clicking and whirring, trying to gauge the age difference and what implications it might have.

  He was definitely over thirty, she knew that for sure, and her best guess put him between 30 and 40, although Kerry wasn't sure about that at all. He might even have been over 40, but there was a translucent quality about his light, fair skin that made it impossible to tell. She played with all the different possibilities in her mind -- 30, 35, 40, 45 -- then finally decided she didn't care and that it didn't matter. Not one single little bit.

  Then, finally, in the midst of Kerry's reverie, he was done. He looked up from the papers, seemingly ready, and blinked a couple of times, until finally he spoke.

  "I'm sure you've heard things about me," Cavanaugh began. "I've worked with several choirs in the area, and I know how things are done in these parts."

  He paused and reached down, shuffling some papers, and Kerry imagined what he'd sound like if it was just them, face to face, alone, in any variety of intimate settings. When he looked up again, it seemed that his eyes were locked just on her.

  "I'm guessing you've heard I'm different," he continued. "And I'm sure you have your opinions of me, based on what you've heard."

  She felt his eyes boring in on her, then looking through her. "But none of those things matter, because they are just things you've heard," he concluded. "I am different, but probably not in ways any of you can anticipate." His smile grew, and in spite of herself Kerry felt her heart racing, and she knew she was turning crimson again. "So let's just get to know each other, shall we?"

  * * *

  They started with a familiar hymn. One of the ones Kerry hated, surprisingly enough. She thought Cavanaugh might have better taste, and she hoped they weren't going to the entire program like this. If they did, she knew she'd end up screaming before it was all over.

  Cavanaugh raised his arms, a bit tentative, and the singing began. The entrance was ragged, even more so than usual, and Kerry frowned in spite of herself. Had she overestimated their new guest conductor? Was he all style and no substance?

  It took the entire hymn to answer that question. Slowly, the sound of the choir began to come together. At first, it was familiar to Kerry, something she'd heard many times, competent but ragged -- just good enough to keep her interested and support her solos, but nothing like what she'd experience at Oberlin.

  Kerry remembered the first couple of services she'd sung at when she returned, how she'd come home and locked herself in her bedroom, barely able to contain her tears, suddenly aware of the gap between what she'd left behind and what she had to live with now. And for the rest of her life, it felt like.

  Then, gradually, the sound began to change. There were one or two off-key voices that always threw them off, Kerry knew exactly who they were, usually, but that was part of the problem, sometimes it shifted from one person to another, in a way that O'Dell had never been able to correct. Not that he had much interest in doing that to begin with.

  Now, though, those miscreant voices began to disappear. Kerry found herself listening harder, trying to figure out who it was that was changing, and how. But it was impossible to figure out, because as the different voices fell into line the harmonies got tighter, and suddenly the choir was creating a wall of sound that was like nothing she'd ever heard before.

  Chapter 3

  Harmony and Power

  As it happened, she felt her own voice rising, even though she wasn't the soloist, sounding more powerful and forceful, coming from someplace inside her that she didn't even know existed. Everyone else heard it, too -- she caught several heads turning toward her, but when that happened Cavanaugh tapped on the podium sharply, barely interrupting his conducting motion, instantly bringing everyone back into line.

  As the power of her own voice continued to rise, she felt the voices of the rest of the choir growing with her, supporting her. Kerry shook
her head, knowing there was no one else in the choir with this kind of vocal talent, she'd been singing with variations of this group since she was nine, and she knew their limitations intimately.

  She looked at Cavanaugh, who was steering them into the final verse of the hymn. He was smiling again, that playful little grin, and he raised his arms just a touch, broadening his gestures, like a jockey taking a thoroughbred down the homestretch.

  All eyes were riveted on him now, and Kerry felt a new level of focus and concentration, one she'd never felt before. He was lifting them in some mysterious way, she was sure of that, and she wondered what kind of strange power he had that allowed him to do this, knowing it had to go far beyond his knowledge of the music, however impressive that might be.

  He held the final chord deliberately, for an extended period that went far beyond the whole note marked in the music, even with the fermata. It was as if he wanted them to hear what they were capable of, the ways in which they could rise above their previous level of performance, if they simply followed his lead.

  Cavanaugh cut them off suddenly, and Kerry cringed, waiting for disaster to strike. Endings were usually a horror show with this group, it had always been that way, the only thing that had rescued them in the past was the wall of noise put out by the organ, which covered up a multitude of musical sins.

  But the calamity never happened. The cut-off was crisp and instantaneous, and suddenly the church was silent, the silence almost holy in a way Kerry had never associated with the singing of this particular choir. Cavanaugh let it linger for several seconds before dropping his arms, and then he posed, frozen dramatically, something she knew he'd do for the audience on Sunday to make the hymn more powerful.

  When he finally let go of the pose, though, his demeanor changed completely. Cavanaugh looked at them, matter of fact, and then he looked down at the music in front of him, as if he had nothing but contempt for it. Then he shrugged, and looked back up at the choir, his face contorted slightly, as if he was struggling to find the right words.