Page 96 of What Happens at Nightfall

“What about Cornelia? She was still around. And Horace’s wife, presumably, whoever she was.”

“Yes, but neither of them are Vanderwilts,” Kimmy pointed out. “They don’t count. Cornelia was a Van Rensselaer, and Horace’s wife—I have her maiden name somewhere. Maybe she was a Bayard? Anyway, they’re not part of Horace’s calculus. Girls marry in and out. It’s the male line that counts. From what I’ve read, in Horace’s mind, women didn’t really count as people, much less as Vanderwilts. They were breeding machines and punching bags and convenient orifices.”

“Charming,” said Jess. “So when Horace binds this demon to his heirs . . .”

“He’s only talking about Vanderwilts,” said Kimmy. “Actual Vanderwilts. Which to Horace means male Vanderwilts.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The boy was shaping up nicely.

Belfagor flitted along as the boy directed the men placing something called “port-a-potties,” which appeared to be a sort of privy in a box.

“Don’t worry,” said the boy. “If you leave the rolls with me, I’ll make sure all the port-a-potties are stocked. I’m happy to help out.”

That phrase, I’m happy to help out, had been working its magic all afternoon. Combined with the boy’s big brown eyes and mop of curls, it was irresistible.

Belfagor thought nostalgically back over the centuries, to other boys he had lured into sin and early death. It was all about mentorship, really. Taking the young and showing them that the straight and narrow wasn’t the only path. So many demons out there just went straight to the top, expending their energies on autocrats and dictators, not stopping to think that it was the children who were the future. The boy pulling wings off flies today could move on to murder or even genocide. All it took was a little help and encouragement and the right demon whispering in his ear.

He’d forgotten how much he loved this part of the job.

“You think it’s going to rain?” one of the workmen asked, frowning up at Belfagor.

Ooops. In his pride, Belfagor had allowed himself to expand into a visible cloud. He sent a few feelers out to their thoughts, just to keep his talons in.

The tall one—he was worried his wife was cheating on him. She’s with her lover, Belfagor whispered to him. She’s pleasuring him in ways she never pleasured you. If you go now, you might catch them at it.

The man turned pale. “I gotta go.”

“The john’s right here,” said his partner.

“No. I gotta go home. Uh, plumbing trouble.”

“But—” The second man pointed at the row of port-a-potties. “We have to put in the paper and the hand sanitizer.”

“I can do that,” said the boy. “Just leave it all with me.”

You’re not well, whispered Belfagor to the second man. His father had died young of a heart attack and he was terrified he’d do the same. That headache you had this morning—it wasn’t just a headache. Have you checked your blood pressure recently?

“Yeah, okay,” said the second man to the boy. “Thanks.”

“No trouble,” said the boy, looking particularly angelic.

Oh, but it was. It was lots of trouble.

The boy thought it was a harmless prank. Something to make his father pay attention to him again, instead of mooning over that woman. That Jacinta.

Belfagor couldn’t have planned it better if he’d tried. Every time the boy’s father took out his phone to text, holding it close to his chest, Belfagor could feel the boy’s rage and resentment rise. The more alienated he was, the easier it was for Belfagor to manipulate him.

He didn’t know Belfagor was a demon, of course.

The boy thought Belfagor was something called a genie, compelled to grant him wishes. Belfagor had declined to disabuse him of this notion, even if he did find it mildly offensive being relegated to the realms of lesser spirits, especially when he discovered the genie the boy had in mind wasn’t even a proper djinn, but a cartoon character in a red waistband and a silly beard.

It just went to show how little people knew these days. No respect, no respect at all.

To restore his spirits, Belfagor had flitted over to a meeting of local Satanists in the hopes that they, at least, would recognize him. But, no. They were too busy painting a large mural of Baphomet to even notice his increasingly sulfurous presence. Even when he’d made one of them belch eels, they’d gone and attributed it to Baphomet.

Baphomet, Baphomet, Baphomet. It was always Baphomet.