Jenna Black: Speak of the Devil

“Like I said, the circle is just symbolic.” But even I could imagine how this could sound to a layman when delivered with proper flourish from a sharklike attorney.

“And what were you wearing when you performed the exorcism?”

“What?” I cried, giving him an are-you-crazy look. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Were you wearing a suit? Or at least dressed in business casual?”

“No! That’s not my style, and you know it.” I didn’t specifically remember what I had worn that day, but the outfit had likely included low-rise jeans. I was pretty sure I hadn’t gone with my leather look. But whatever I’d worn, it would be captured for posterity on a digital recording of the procedures.

Brian frowned theatrically. “Then you don’t really take these exorcisms seriously, do you?”

“Of course I do!” I could tell from the heat in my cheeks that my face had flushed nice and red. And my voice had grown steadily louder.

“You expect me to think you take an exorcism seriously when you don’t bother to create a circle of protection and you show up wearing jeans?”

It was all I could do not to kick the coffee table. Or Brian’s shin. “That’s just ridiculous. I told you, the circle is just for show. And what does it matter what I wear?”

Brian nodded sagely. “You’ll make a wonderful impression at your deposition when you start shouting like that.”

Okay, now I really wanted to go after his shins.

“You wouldn’t be getting so worked up if you didn’t see my point,” Brian said. “Like I said, this isn’t my specialty. Imagine what an expert can do. You need someone who can anticipate questions like these—and worse—so you can be prepared to answer them reasonably. I’m not the man for the job.”

My palms were sweating, so I wiped them on my pants legs. Yeah, he’d definitely made his point.

I blew out a deep breath, then sat beside him on the couch again. I clasped my hands between my knees and stared at them. “I don’t even want to ask how much this will cost me,” I said.

“No, you probably don’t.”

I swallowed hard and forced myself to look at him. “How much is this going to cost me?”

“Depends on how ugly it gets and how long it goes on. Your attorney will probably charge somewhere around two-fifty to three-fifty an hour, and then there will be all kinds of other expenses, like hiring expert witnesses and—”

“Just give me some kind of ballpark estimate.”

The sympathy in his eyes told me more than I wanted to know, but he verbalized it anyway. “It could easily run fifty to a hundred grand, and that’s kind of on the low side.”

I’m pretty sure my face went completely white. I’d known it was going to be bad, but not that bad. I couldn’t possibly afford that kind of money. Not even close. I was real grateful Brian didn’t start in on me about having let my liability insurance lapse. It wasn’t something I’d done on purpose. It was just that with my house burning down and various people trying to kill me and my loved ones, I’d been a little slack on the day-to-day stuff. I was lucky if I remembered to pay my rent.

“You know I’ll help you,” Brian said softly.

The gentleness in his voice made my eyes burn. I suck at accepting help of any kind, and Brian knows it. To accept that kind of money from him was absolutely out of the question.

“I don’t think you’re going to have much of a choice,” he continued, as if he’d heard my thoughts.

I really hated that he was right. Again.

I felt like complete crap after my conversation with Brian. I’d been hoping for a little action when I went to his place, but talk of the impending lawsuit had spoiled the mood.

Brian had given me the names of a couple of attorneys he thought would do a good job for me. This being Sunday, I’d have to wait until tomorrow to call one. I’d promised Brian I wouldn’t wait any longer than that, but I’m an expert at procrastination, and I was betting something would come up and give me an excuse not to.

After giving up all hope of a roll in the hay, I left Brian’s and went back to my apartment, where I busied myself with such exciting tasks as cleaning the toilet.

About the only time I’ll act all housewifey is when I’m under a lot of strain. The fact that my apartment was already spotless was a testament to what my life had been like lately.

At around three o’clock, the front desk called to let me know I had a visitor: Adam White. Adam’s the Director of Special Forces, the branch of the Philly police department that’s responsible for demon-related crime. He’s also a demon who’s into S&M, heavy on the S, and one of Lugh’s chief supporters. Too bad he and I get along about as well as your typical snake and mongoose.

The last thing I wanted to deal with was another verbal sparring session with Adam, but he wouldn’t have stopped by just for a social call. He had something important to talk to me about, and hearing him out was the only responsible option.

Because I’m completely paranoid—with good reason, I might add—I checked the peephole to make sure it really was Adam before I opened the door to let him in.

Despite the fact that I disliked Adam and that the feeling was mutual, I couldn’t help noticing how scrumptious he looked. All legal demon hosts are good-looking—the Spirit Society thinks it’s beneath a demon’s dignity to reside in someone unattractive— but Adam’s looks definitely pushed my buttons. He was the classic tall, dark, and handsome, with a super-sized serving of bad boy on top. He was obviously off duty today, wearing a pair of heavily faded blue jeans and a white oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. My inventory of his appearance came to a screeching halt when I saw the manila folder tucked under his right arm.

The last time he’d shown up at my place with a manila folder, he’d blithely shown me some of the most gruesome crime scene photos you could imagine. It had slipped his mind that as a civilian, I wasn’t used to looking at images of people whose insides weren’t inside anymore, and it had been all I could do not to hurl.

Adam chuckled softly when he saw me staring at the folder. “No, these aren’t more crime scene photos,” he assured me.

I hated that my train of thought had been that obvious, but by now I was beginning to believe I’d never learn to keep everything I’m thinking from flashing across my face like the CNN crawl.

“Glad to hear it,” I said, trying to sound casual as I gestured him in.

He nodded his thanks and headed for my dining room table, laying the folder down and flipping it open. Despite his assurances, my subconscious clearly didn’t trust him, because I had to fight my instinct to look away.

The first thing I saw was an eight-by-ten photo of a pretty, perky blond woman. I recognized her immediately as Barbara Paige, aka Reporter Barbie. Actually, I was going to have to stop calling her Reporter Barbie, because we’d established beyond a shadow of a doubt that she wasn’t a reporter, despite her claims.

She’d started following me around and asking questions shortly after the Maguire exorcism. I hadn’t seen her in the weeks since then, though I often felt like I was being watched. But again, that could just be my paranoia speaking.

Adam picked up the photo and handed it to me. “Her real name is Barbara Paget. And it turns out she’s a private investigator.”

I groaned and sank into one of the chairs. A reporter was bad enough, but a PI? “Let me guess. Hired by Jordan Maguire Sr.?”

“I don’t know for sure, but that’s a good guess. And there’s more.”

“Great.”

He pushed another couple of photos across the table to me. One of them was a family shot—mom, dad, and two beautiful teenage girls, maybe about sixteen years old. The girls looked so much alike that they had to be twins, although they didn’t go for the cutesy matching clothes some twins favored.