Requiem for the Devil

  REQUIEM FOR THE DEVIL. Copyright © 2001 by Jeri Smith-Ready. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Song lyrics in chapter 6 by Gregory Miller and Jeri Smith-Ready.

  For information address Warner Books, 1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  A Time Warner Company

  ISBN 0-7595-8305-6

  First edition: April 2001

  Visit our Web site at www.iPublish.com

  To my husband Christian,

  and to the memory of my father

  Acknowledgments

  The mythical framework of Requiem is derived from that of John Milton’s Paradise Lost, to which I consider this novel one of many possible sequels. Other sources include historian Jeffrey Burton Russell’s Mephistopheles: The Devil in the Modern World, Genevieve and Tom Morgan’s The Devil: A Visual Guide to the Demonic, Evil, Scurrilous, and Bad, and all the bad Hollywood devil movies that left one good story untold.

  Thanks first to my parents and family, for a lifetime of encouragement. Thanks also to author Catherine Asaro, my mentor and friend, for showing me the way; to Warner Aspect editor-in-chief Betsy Mitchell, for passing my manuscript to iPublish.com; to Barry Gerber, for the original concept; to Rob Staeger and Cecilia Ready, for their invaluable editorial feedback; to Beth Venart, for her creative insights that helped form the characters and their destinies; to Gregory Miller, for the song that betrayed his gender’s most guarded secrets; to Li-Su Javedan, for offering support instead of sympathy when I faced setbacks; to Adrian Ready, for the 1:30 A.M. phone call; to Anne Griffith Liebeskind and Tom Liebeskind, for their inspiration. Thanks especially to my editor, Paul Witcover, for opening the door. I’d offer him my first-born child in return, but he already has it.

  My deepest gratitude will always belong to my husband, Christian Ready. He has inspired and proven the central truth of this book: that love is infinite in its power and patience.

  1

  Liber Scriptus Proferetur

  Some days it’s good to be the Devil. November 7, 1997, began as one of those days, and ended as something quite different.

  “. . . so I was going to fly out to Stanford for her homecoming dance, but the night before I was supposed to leave, she told me she had another date and didn’t want to see me anymore. We’ve been together almost two years.”

  The boy sitting next to me at the coffee shop counter fingered the W on his blue George Washington University baseball cap. I sneaked a glance at my watch and realized I was late for a conference call with a “freely elected” South American dictator. This diversion had been too tempting to resist, though.

  “I can’t sleep anymore, I can’t eat,” he said. “My grades are in the toilet. I’ll probably flunk out this semester.”

  “Have you thought about getting professional help?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, I saw a psychiatrist. He gave me some antidepressants that didn’t work, so I stopped taking them.”

  I could smell the young man’s despair—sweet and acrid, like a candle just blown out. He needed direction. I had one for him.

  “Could it be that your girlfriend just doesn’t realize how much you love her?”

  “How can she, when she’s totally cut me off? She changed her phone number, her e-mail address, she sends back my letters without opening them.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s like she’s dead.”

  “Maybe you need to send her a message she can’t ignore.”

  His bloodshot green eyes met mine, then he glanced over his shoulder toward the window. “I wanted to go into that church across the street, but it’s been so long since I went to mass I figured God wouldn’t recognize me. So I sat here and asked Him for some kind of sign.” He looked at me again. “That’s when you showed up. I figured you were my sign. That’s why I told you all that stuff, even though I don’t know who the hell you are.”

  “You looked troubled.”

  “Yeah, and you asked me what was wrong, and that was cool. Most people don’t even notice.” The boy sat silent and rubbed his stubbled chin, then suddenly reached for his bookbag and pulled out a bottle of pills. “I kept these. I’ve got three weeks’ worth left. You think . . . I mean, do you think that’s enough?”

  “Enough for what?”

  “Enough . . . to send a message.” His thumb fidgeted with the edge of the childproof cap.

  “I don’t know much about that sort of thing,” I said. “However, I do know that women are all die hard romantics.”

  “Yeah. My girlfriend loved that Romeo and Juliet movie—you know, the one with the kid from Titanic?” He stopped fidgeting and looked at me. “Hey, you think if she knew I was—I mean, if she thought I was . . .”

  He had his own momentum. Time for me to go.

  “Sorry to cut this short,” I said, “but I’ve got to get to the office.” I paid for my coffee and bought a bottle of spring water while the boy cradled the pills and gazed dreamily through the wall. “I hope everything works out,” I said to him.

  “Thanks for listening to me, man. You’ve helped me a lot.” He was calm now, and when he shook my hand, his grip was firm.

  “I’m sure she’ll get the message.” I turned and walked out, leaving the spring water on the counter.

  Later that day, Beelzebub and Mephistopheles called to tell me they were on the prowl for soft young female flesh. On a Friday night in Georgetown, that meant a trip to the Attic. The meat market dance club scene was beginning to bore me, but I decided to indulge them once more.

  While waiting for them to arrive, I wrote another movement of my latest piano concerto. Now that the busy Halloween season was over, it was time to find another composer to torture. I planned to track down a starving unknown musician playing in a dilapidated bar, infect their mind with one of my melodies, then watch them never sleep again. They would go mad and eventually self-destruct, but not before releasing into the world a work of great beauty and terror, a work that would rock the foundations of humanity’s faith.

  “Are you ready yet or what?”

  Beelzebub leaned against the doorjamb, his head cocked.

  “You’re late,” I said.

  “You’re surprised.” He bounced over to straddle the piano bench, facing me.

  “Where’s Mephistopheles?”

  “He’s out preening himself in front of the mirror in your foyer.” He pronounced “foyer” with an exaggerated French accent. “He thinks he may have a piece of lint on his jacket.” Before I could close the piano cover, Beelzebub knocked out a double-time version of “Chopsticks” on the minor keys.

  “I love that tune.” He smoothed a stray lock of blond hair under his baseball cap, worn backwards at an angle.

  I glanced at his baggy pants and denim jacket. “You look like you’re about twelve years old in that outfit.”

  “Hey, it’s the style. It’s what all the frat boy assholes are wearing these days.”

  I knew he intended “frat boy assholes” as a term of endearment. He was, after all, their king.

  We walked into the foyer to find Mephistopheles. His face was inches away from the full-length mirror, and he seemed to be examining his teeth.

  “Are my nose hairs getting too long?” he asked me.

  I shouldered my way in front of him to comb my hair. “Fine, thanks, and you?”

  “Huh? Oh, sorry, Lucifer. And how is Your Most Unholy Highness this fine evening?” Mephistopheles bowed and kissed the toe of my boot. I smiled at his sarcasm-coated respect. Sincere grovel
ing has no place in my regime.

  “Hey, Lou,” Beelzebub said, “I know I ask this every time we go out, but—”

  “No, you may not be taller than me, even for one night.” I looked at Mephistopheles. “New outfit?”

  “You know it,” he said. Mephistopheles burned clothes after wearing them once. Even his face changed subtly with the caprices of fashion. Over the past twenty years, his skin had grown darker, his nose broader, and his hair coarser. “Sort of a reverse Michael Jackson,” he would say.

  We left my apartment and went down to the lobby. While the valet fetched my car, we walked outside my building to wait.

  “I trust you had productive days,” I said.

  Beelzebub took a coin out of his pocket. “I deflated a Third World country’s currency.” He melted the coin in his hand. “Bangladesh, I think it was. Or maybe Barbados. I get them mixed up.”

  “I hacked my way into the Defense Department’s research and development files,” Mephistopheles said. “Rearranged some of the blueprints for a new missile delivery system. Now it’s not quite as accident-proof.”

  “Not bad,” I said. “I inspired a suicide this morning.”

  “Shit!” Beelzebub shoved my arm. “You lucky little snake, you.”

  “It’s like these people fall into your lap,” Mephistopheles said. “I wish I could get me a sweet hands-on project like that. I look everywhere, and damn if I can find them.”

  “That’s why you can’t find them,” I said. “Stop looking, and despair will find you when you least expect it. Just like love.”

  We all shared a belly laugh at the concept. Beelzebub started singing a spoof of the Motown hit “You Can’t Hurry Love.” Mephistopheles sang backup.

  You can’t hurry woe

  No, you just have to wait

  Gloom will come easy

  and soon their hope will suffocate. . . .

  I parked the car seven blocks away from the club. Even our powers were not such that we could get a decent parking space on Dupont Circle on a Friday night.

  The crowd parted subconsciously as we strode down the sidewalk. Outside a shoe store, a group of window-shopping young women turned and stared at us with a faint glimmer of familiarity. I smiled at the tall brunette, the one I’d entertained months ago.

  “July, wasn’t it?” Mephistopheles asked.

  “July Fourth,” Beelzebub said. “We met them that day on the Mall and then fucked during the fireworks. On your balcony, right, Lou? Man, what a view that was. I love this city.”

  As we walked past them, the women only blinked at us, as if they didn’t remember our liaison, which of course they didn’t. After a casual incursion into the life of a human, we would leave him or her only with a vague disturbing fascination, but no memory.

  We came upon a sandwich board outside an alley. On the board was a handwritten poster that read, PLAYING TONIGHT AT THE GROTTO: “THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO THE BLUES.” An arrow pointed into the alley.

  “Wait,” I said.

  Beelzebub hopped from foot to foot.

  “Lou, come on. We’re late already. Right now my tongue should be down the throat of some drunk girl who can’t remember her own name.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.” I left them behind and strode down the alley. I stopped in front of the Grotto’s door, my hand an inch from the knob.

  Beelzebub appeared at my side. “What’s up?”

  “I don’t know. This place . . . there’s something odd here . . . maybe the musician I’m looking for.”

  “You’re such a wack job sometimes, I swear.” Beelzebub turned the knob. “Let’s just go in, okay?” He pulled the door open and waited for me to enter.

  The smoky, shabby bar was only about a quarter full. I moved inside and edged around the cigarette machine to get a better view of the place.

  We were the youngest-looking inhabitants of the bar by at least ten years. Two of the burly men next to the decrepit pool table leaned on their cues and glowered at us. No one else turned to look our way. Early rhythm and blues squeaked from the tinny speakers in the ceiling. A flickering black-and-white television on the edge of the bar displayed a silent, grainy image of a hockey game. A neon BEER sign glowed in the window.

  “How did this dive land in this neighborhood?” Beelzebub said.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I think I like it.” I sat down at the bar and ordered a whiskey from the gruff, muscular bartender. Beelzebub and Mephistopheles stood behind me.

  “Think they got any microbrews here?” Beelzebub asked.

  “Doubt it,” Mephistopheles said.

  “What a waste of time.”

  “Shhh. Bub, let’s just hang out ’til Lou figures out what he’s here for. I trust his instincts, even if they are coming between me and a nice piece.”

  “There aren’t even any women here, did you notice that?” Beelzebub tugged at my shirt. “I said, did you notice that?”

  I pushed his hand off my sleeve. “Shut up and go away.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” I said. “Go cast your lines into the slut pool at the Attic. I’m not in the mood.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Mephistopheles said. I glared at him, and he backed away, holding up his hands. “Okay. It’s cool. We outta here.”

  Beelzebub followed him, shaking his head. “We’ll be back to get you later, bud.”

  “Whatever.” I slouched over my drink, which was all the company I wanted. A cymbal rang on the far corner of the bar as the blues band began its set. I stayed where I was so I could hear, but not see, the piano player. Whoever it was, was good. Not much technical prowess, but there was a rawness of emotion, with a touch of torment. A squeaking, purring harmonica played a few bars, then stopped. It was time to take a peek. I moved to the end of the bar just as the singer stepped into the light.

  I stared at her for the entire first verse before realizing I hadn’t blinked. She didn’t open her own eyes until after the first chorus. When she did, she looked straight at me. She smiled for half a second, then slid back into her world of voice.

  Not a single note was on key, but she sang like she didn’t care. Her conviction was so potent that it seemed as if the musicians were the ones who were tone-deaf. Every inch of her body believed in the music.

  Cold water splashed onto my fingers. I looked down and saw that my hand was trembling so violently that the ice in my drink had leapt out of the glass. I placed the glass on the small table in front of me and sank into the chair, never taking my eyes off of her. The piano player was long forgotten.

  When the song was over, she cast a grim smile at her band and tucked her chin-length black hair behind her ears. Tepid applause trickled through the room, and I stood up to clap, tipping my table but catching it before it fell over.

  She looked at me, then at the rest of the inattentive bar, and back at me again. The band began to play an even slower, more hypnotic song. The world’s most perceptive bartender set another whiskey in front of me, along with a large glass of ice water. I handed him fifty dollars.

  Her almond-colored eyes lay under thin, arched eyebrows. Her angular face looked as if it had been carved by hand while all other faces had been hacked out of some generic human mold. A long-sleeved velvet dress cleaved to her thin body and was a deep, delicious red that made my eyeballs feel drunk. I fought to remember who I was and to maintain an aloofness appropriate to the second most powerful being in the universe.

  I wasn’t successful.

  When she stepped off the stage after the set, I pretended to study the graffiti carved into the table.

  “I can’t believe they let you in here.”

  I looked up. She stood before me, her right fist planted on her hip.

  “What?”

  “You must have a really good fake ID,” she said. “Either that or a note from your mom.”

  “Do you always introduce yourself by insulting people?”

  “It’s a defens
e mechanism.” She slumped into the chair across from me and rested her chin on her knuckles. “Thanks for paying attention while I sang. Most people are too embarrassed to actually look at me.”

  “It was easy. You were good.”

  “It wasn’t one of my better performances.” She winced. “Actually, it was one of my better performances. That’s the problem.” She chuckled and fluttered her hand. “Oh well, it’s fun, in a sick, sad sort of way.”

  I beckoned the bartender, who was now in my thrall. He appeared in a moment. “Would you like a drink?” I asked her.

  “Shot of Jameson’s. Thanks.”

  “My name’s Louis.” I extended my hand. She took it. Her fingers were long and strong and soft.

  “Hi, Louis. I’ve never seen you here before.”

  “I never knew this place existed before tonight. I was on my way somewhere else with some friends when it caught my eye.”

  “Where were you going?”

  “The Attic.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s one of those preppy sleazeball dance clubs,” I said. “Not really your type of place, I imagine.”

  “Doubt it. Call me impudent, but you don’t strike me as a preppy sleazeball.”

  “That’s why I’m here and not there.”

  She looked around. “Guess what? You don’t exactly fit in here, either. Then again, neither do I.”

  “So tell me where we’d fit in, and let’s go there.”

  “Nah, I’d rather stay here and stand out.” Her drink arrived, and she grabbed it. “Oh, thank God. This is just what I need after making an ass of myself onstage.” She held up her glass. “What should we drink to?”

  “Let’s drink to . . .” to the long night of blistering sex ahead of us “. . . to spontaneous changes in plans.”

  “Hear, hear.” She downed her shot in a gulp. “Louis, it’s been nice talking to you, but I gotta go.”

  I nearly snarfed my whiskey.

  “Go? It’s early yet.”

  She stood up. “Maybe for you, but I’ve been up since five a.m.”