Page 1 of The Devil Knows Her Name

Chapter

1

The devil came on the autumn equinox, as he always did.

I was in the cutting garden, a sharp pair of shears in one hand, a bucket of flower stems in the other. The toes of my boots were dark with dew and my sleeves were damp with it; I might have waited for the sun to dry the grass, but early morning was the best time to cut flowers. The dahlias were at their peak, each bloom larger than my splayed hand, and beside their bed my mother’s rose rambled its luxurious way up the side of the house, slaughterous red blooms turned carmine by the golden light.

When I saw him emerge from the woods, it was through a cluster of foliage. I made my cut, the close of the shears a satisfying snick in my hand, and extracted myself and the flower stalk from the bed. I stripped the leaves from the stem and placed it in the bucket, trying to ignore the uptick in my pulse. It was always a shock, at first, to see the shape of a man pull free of the shadows of the trees—but it was only the shape of a man, after all.

He made his way across the meadow, unhurried and familiar. There was no explosion of birds from the long grass, no flick of telltale white from fleeing deer; the wild things never seemed to notice him. He was barefoot, wearing a pair of loose-fitting pants that were soaked to the knee and a shirt that had been washed so many times the color and form had gone out of it. His dark hair straggled to his shoulders and fell into his pale eyes. He looked, of all things, like a young hippie about to pull out a guitar and play me a song.

But he was nothing so innocent, and I no longer took gifts from the devil—not even songs.

I left my bucket and shears and went down to the gate to greet him. He paused a few feet away, as he always did. He was as my mother and grandmother had always described him: polite enough that you might forget yourself, so beautiful that you’d want to, so dangerous if you did.

“Happy Mabon, reaper,” he said.

It was an old joke between us. My mother had named me Teresa, the harvester, perhaps hoping to imbue me with the merry generosity of an autumnal goddess. The devil delighted in calling me for the darker side of the coin, and I simply went by Tess.

“And to you,” I answered. “How was your walk?”

“Longer than I expected—you’ve grown your borders since I was here last.”

He sounded pleased, as though it was for his benefit. I smiled, trying not to read too much into it. “Yes, on the solstice. Will you come in for a while? I was just about to make breakfast.”

That was a lie, of course; I’d been up since before the sun rose, and the mug of black coffee I’d gulped down between mixing milk replacer and thawing mealybugs would’ve normally lasted me until noon. But my grandmother said I should always be polite to the devil, though I shouldn’t let him stay too long, lest he use it as a foothold in the world and bring the darkness with him.

“If you don’t mind,” he said.

“Of course not.” I swung the gate open for him, and we went up the little flagstone path to the porch, his feet leaving damp, six-toed prints on the stone. I paused only to collect my shears and bucket of flowers, and then I opened the door for us both.

As we stepped inside, I was conscious of the smell of sawdust and animal musk. It was faint, only noticeable in a few places in the house, and it was an unavoidable part of being a wildlife rehabilitator, so I didn’t apologize. He said nothing of it, and I motioned to the spare chair I kept at the table for times such as these. “Coffee?”

“If you have some made.”

“I was about to make another pot for myself anyway. It’ll take just a minute.”

He moved carefully into the space, ducking the bunches of dried calendula and lavender that hung from the ceiling beams, and eased himself into the chair. I washed my hands in the sink and filled the reservoir for the coffeemaker, taking a quick look around to ensure I hadn’t left any cartons of worms or rat livers in plain sight. Thankfully, the only things covering my counters were apples, early pumpkins, and the half-finished leaf and acorn charms I was preparing for the night’s table decorations.

I preheated the oven and began to slice up a few of the apples, conscious of his eyes on me as I did so. “Did you miss me?” he asked, teasing. “You must get lonely up here by yourself.”

I glanced up, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the window; the playfulness in his voice did not reach his face. “I’m so busy I hardly have time to be lonely,” I said lightly. “Besides, my friends come to visit me.”

I spread the apples in a baking dish, covering them with cinnamon and nutmeg and golden squares of butter. He reached for one of the table decorations—the white candle in the set of three, its red and black siblings just out of his reach. He handled the soft wax delicately in his long fingers, and yet I found myself wishing he would put it down. “Are you celebrating with your friends tonight?”

“Yes, they’re all coming.”

“They know the old ways?”

“Well, no.” I bent down to slide the dish into the oven and straightened again. “But they’re like-minded enough.”

I didn’t say what I really meant, but the line of his mouth curved sharp and wicked nonetheless. He studied the pattern in the sealed wax a little more closely, and I knew he would see the truth of my intention there. I made myself busy, sweeping the apple leavings into the compost and taking a few of the pumpkins to the larder so I had a bit of elbow room.

“You said you moved your boundary line on the solstice?” he asked finally. “The first time in a while, isn’t it?”

I shrugged, brushing off the defensiveness that rose to the surface. “Three or four years, I think. I can’t go too quickly or it’ll draw attention. Besides, like I said—the day-to-day keeps me busy.”

He inhaled as if to speak, then seemed to think better of it. After a moment he changed the subject, and we talked about the weather and the roads until the timer went off. I served him the apples dripping with cream, and he ate slowly, as if this was the first meal he’d had in some time or might be the last for a while. For all I knew, both could be true; without a foothold in the world, his time here was limited and his energy finite.