“You’re always trying to find an
“Please, Mother Isobel… I had some kind of nightmare last night, I don’t know what exactly, but I must’ve hit my head thrashing around—”
“Quit lying! You remember as well as I do. There’re just three reasons I haven’t fired you yet. One, you’re Veronica’s husband; if I fire you I’ll probably have to let her go, and she deserves better than that. Two, the Sisters of Sanctimony haven’t yet been given official approval by the Church—we’re still in a probationary period—and I’d rather not complicate matters any more than necessary, especially with something as controversial as demonic possession. Three, I think what’s wrong with you is more basic spinelessness than out-and-out evil. I watched you carefully during the exorcism, and even though you squirmed a lot—”
“Because of the way you were glaring at me!”
“—still, you didn’t seem to be in any real torment. Sinistrari distinguishes between those persons who are visited by incubi and succubi through no fault of their own, and the witches and sorcerers who receive such visitations as the result of pacts signed with demons. My guess is you’re one of the first kind. Along for the ride, as it were. I’m assuming you haven’t signed any sort of pact—”
“Of course not. I don’t even believe in the Devil!”
“Yes or no?”
“No!”
“No real harm was done the girl, so I’ll take your word for it, this time. And perhaps it’s a point in your favor that you don’t believe in the Devil. According to Sinistrari, those who consort with incubi and succubi while believing them to be demons are as guilty of demoniality as those consorting with real demons.”
“I don’t understand. They aren’t supposed to be demons?”
“Sinistrari states that they’re actually a lower sort of angels, who themselves sin through their lust for men and women. That’s why he considers sexual relations with them as crimes against chastity, but not against the Church.”
“I told you I don’t believe in any of that.”
“And I told you I’d take your word for it this time.” She opened one of her desk drawers, brought out a sachet of herbs. “Here.” He took it warily. “It won’t hurt you. Put it inside your pillow before you go to sleep tonight. And keep it there: if I learn you’ve removed it I’ll have no choice but to assume you’re in conscious collusion with the forces of evil. In which case not only will I fire you, but I’ll do my best to make sure no one ever hires you again. Have I made myself clear?”
“Perfectly clear. Though I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
He sniffed the sachet. It smelled of cinnamon and spices and made his head spin a little, not unpleasantly, when he took a deeper breath.
“What’s in it?” Knowing that by asking he was implicitly recognizing her right to force him to keep something in his pillow so long as it was harmless.
“Sweet flag, cubeb seeds, root of aristolochia, ginger… herbs and spices. The recipes in here.” She pushed a leather-bound book at him.
It was a challenge. St. Jacques declined it, shrugged. “I’ll try it for a while. Since you insist. But the whole thing’s absurd.”
On his way to his car, he saw Russell Thomas sitting in a lawn chair by the pool, talking to some students. Veronica was away with the swim team—they had a meet in San Jose—and the poet was acting as lifeguard.
Thomas was young, blond, tanned, muscular, everything St. Jacques wasn’t. He had a rich theatrical voice and the total self-confidence of someone so in love with himself that he can’t imagine anyone failing to share his passion. The girls were listening to him in wide-eyed admiration, hanging on his every word: St. Jacques recognized Liz in her white two-piece swimsuit on the far side of the group. He stopped and watched them for a while, registering everything for future reference. Finally, having endured all he could, he left.
