Page 97 of What Happens at Nightfall

Just because Baphomet had those silky horns and he’d had that fling with the Templars . . .

No one would remember Baphomet if it hadn’t been for the Templars, thought Belfagor crossly. You seduce one major religious order, and suddenly you’re everyone’s go-to demon, on all the posters, in all the pentagrams, carved into statues in front of courthouses.

But what about Belfagor? Where were the statues of Belfagor?

This was all the fault of that Vanderwilt woman, that Vanderwilt woman and her Jacinta. If Belfagor hadn’t been stuck in a glass bauble for the past century, it would be his statue being desecrated in front of courthouses, his mural on the wall of the Satanist temple.

Never let it be said that Belfagor arcidiavolo backed down from a challenge. Belfagor watched approvingly as the boy carried out his instructions, never knowing he was taking the first steps to his own doom.

“Let fall the night . . . and then let fall the night,” murmured Belfagor.

Hmm, not bad. Much better than that annoying Englishman’s “Put out the light . . . and then put out the light.”

Belfagor would show them pure motiveless malignancy.

Oh yes. The world would once again know his name.

After Nightfall.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“So you think the bargain with the demon was made by Horace and only applied to the male line?” said Jess.

Something was nagging at her, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

“Both of those,” said Kimmy. “There’s another reason I’m pretty sure it was Horace who called the demon and not Cornelia. Have you read Machiavelli’s Belfagor yet?”

Jess had the guilty feeling of not having done her homework, which was unusual. She always did her homework. Plus the supposedly optional extra-credit questions.

“Why? Is there anything in there that would tell us how to get rid of him?”

“Not exactly . . . At least, not in any way that would be useful to you. Someone tells him his wife is coming and he freaks out and flees. Hold on. Let me find it.” Kimmy flipped back through her notebook. “Here we go. He decided to go back to Hell . . . rather than be forced to deal with the discomfort, disrespect, and dangers that he had to endure under the yoke of matrimony.”

“Tell me how you really feel,” murmured Jess.

“I think that’s how he really feels. To the extent that demons feel,” said Kimmy. “It shows up in a bunch of different versions and it’s also been made into an opera. The story is called Belfagor Arcidiavolo, but it should really be Belfagor Arch-Misogynist.”

“You’d have to translate it into Italian.”

“I don’t speak Italian. I did Spanish with you and German in grad school. And a bit of French on Duolingo when we took the kids to Paris last year.” Kimmy perked up. “If he hadn’t been in the Vanderwilt mausoleum, we might have run into your Belfagor in Paris. According to the 1818 Dictionnaire Infernal, Belfagor was Hell’s ambassador to France.”

“He’s not my—hey.” Jess put down the pastry she’d just picked up. “I just realized something.”

“That Hell has a surprisingly professional diplomatic corps?”

“No.” Jess looked around her living room. They were surrounded by electronics, by Jess’s computer, by her television, by both their phones. All of them were humming along in the normal way. “He doesn’t blast music when you say his name.”

The corollary of that—that the demon was somehow more attuned to Jess and her utterances—was not one she wanted to think about.

“Maybe he’s busy doing something else? We have no idea what demons do when they’re not targeting you. Maybe he works at the DMV. Or in tech support,” Kimmy said darkly. “Anyway, to get back to the point, from everything I’ve read, Horace is the sort of vicious misogynist who makes incels look warm and cuddly. You can see where he’d be drawn to a demon who emblematizes hatred of women. That’s not Cornelia. Cornelia funds schools for poor but upright girls.”

“Could the schools be a front for something sinister?”

“No,” said Kimmy firmly. “Cornelia’s charity work checks out. There’s not a hint of anything dodgy about any of it. She’s friends with a ton of reformers of the day—and quietly involved in the suffrage movement. I’ve read her correspondence. Her idea seems to be that if you educate women and equip them with trades, and make them upright model citizens, then you can argue for the vote. A lot of the work on that dressing room of hers was done by female artisans.”

“Cornelia for Congress,” said Jess sourly. “So we got this all wrong. From the beginning.”

“Yep.” Kimmy took a lusty bite of walnut croissant. “Cornelia isn’t the villain. She’s the good guy here.”