Jenna Black - The Devil You Know

“And you look exactly the same,” I said, because it seemed like the right thing to say at the time.

Dr. Williams patted my hand, then let go and led me into his condo. “All an illusion, I’m afraid. You just remember me as an ancient geezer, and I look the part.”

If his eyes hadn’t been sparkling with humor, I might have been embarrassed, because I suspected he was right. I followed him out into a small but cozy sunroom with a breathtaking view of the square. The room teemed with greenery, plants hanging from hooks in the glass ceiling, sitting on the floor, and adorning the many shelves set into the single brick wall. I sat in the wicker chair Dr. Williams pulled out for me, and he sat in its twin, across a glass-topped wicker coffee table.

Pride glowed in his eyes as I took in the abundance of healthy plant life that gave this room an almost junglelike feel. “I’m impressed,” I told him. “If I so much as touch a plant, it generally dies within a couple of days.”

He laughed. “Then may I request that you don’t touch mine?”

I laughed with him, though in truth it was hard to move in that room without brushing a leaf or tendril. Luckily, my assessment of my effect on plants was a slight exaggeration—but only slight.

“Would you like some tea?” Dr. Williams asked, and I belatedly noticed that the coffee table was set with a delicate china tea set, complete with a plate of lemon wedges.

I’m a coffee person myself, but he seemed eager for me to accept, so I did. He poured me an aromatic cup, then poured one for himself, flavoring it only with a wedge of lemon. I creamed and sugared mine half to death, but he didn’t seem insulted by my abuse of his offering.

The china was clearly feminine, and he wore a wedding band on his left hand. However, he made no mention of his wife, and I was left with the impression that he was probably a widower. And, based on his eagerness to make this interview into a social occasion, a lonely one at that.

My impressions could have been dead wrong, but I didn’t think so. Despite the urgency of my mission, I sipped at my tea and made small talk for a good fifteen minutes, exclaiming some more over his plants and over the beauty of the view.

I was running out of friendly chatter when he finally smiled at me and put his teacup down.

“It’s very kind of you to spend time entertaining an old man,” he said, “but I’m sure you didn’t come here solely for the pleasure of my company.”

I squirmed a bit, suddenly uncomfortable with the idea that I’d thrown any suspicion onto his shoulders. No way was this sweet little old guy part of some evil conspiracy to…Well, I didn’t actually know what the goal of the evil conspiracy was, if it even existed.

Dr. Williams leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach and regarding me with polite curiosity. “Is something wrong?”

I forced a smile and shook my head. “No. I just…have some questions for you.”

He thought about that one for a moment, and I thought I saw a hint of unease flicker in his eyes. “Ah.” He cast an almost longing look at the teapot, then seemed to decide against another cup. “What would you like to ask me about?”

I had the sinking feeling he already knew, but I tried my best to give him the benefit of the doubt. “I wanted to ask you about my bout with encephalitis.”

The corners of his eyes tightened ever so slightly, and he nodded. “What would you like to know?”

Everything. Or perhaps nothing. I swallowed hard. “I don’t remember anything about my stay at the hospital. Literally. Is that…normal?”

“Based on the medications you would have been on at the time, I’d say that’s perfectly normal.”

On the one hand, he was clearly telling me my memory loss was expected. On the other hand, he’d used an awful lot of words to say what amounted to “yes,” and that’s the way people talk when they’re lying.

“What medications were those, exactly?” I wished I’d thought to bring a pad of paper with me so I could write down his answers.

He met my eyes steadily. “I don’t know.”

I blinked at the unexpected answer, then frowned. “What do you mean?”

“As your primary care physician, I was the one who admitted you into the hospital. However, I wasn’t the one who treated you.”

My stomach felt suddenly queasy, though I wasn’t entirely sure why. “Why wouldn’t you have treated me?” I asked. One of the things that made The Healing Circle different from other hospitals was its emphasis on personal, consistent patient care, which meant keeping patients with the same physician as much as possible. They might have brought in a specialist or three to work with Dr. Williams, but he still should have been the director for my treatment.

He twisted his wedding ring around his finger absently, though aside from that one nervous gesture, he seemed mostly at ease. “On the night you were admitted, I was mugged on my way home from work.”

My stomach gave another unhappy lurch.

“I was badly beaten,” Dr. Williams continued. “I was in the hospital myself for the duration of your stay.” He patted his knee. “I’ve got enough metal in this leg to set off the metal detectors at the airport.”

If our doctor determines that she is, in fact, intractable, then other, more desperate measures may be needed.

I remembered that damning line from Bradley Cooper’s letter verbatim.

“So who was the doctor who treated me while you were in the hospital?” I asked, but a strange, uneasy premonition had settled over me.

“He’s one of The Healing Circle’s top physicians,” Dr. Williams said. “His name is Dr. Frederick Neely.”

After Dr. Williams dropped his bombshell, I got out of there as fast as I could. I had way too much to think about to concentrate on pleasantries and small talk.

What were the chances it was just a coincidence that Raphael had chosen Dr. Neely as his host? Personally, I’d put them at approximately zero. What the hell was he trying so hard to hide? I’d assumed it had something to do with the plot to overthrow Lugh, but now it seemed it had something to do with me, and with what had happened to me as a teenager.

I walked home slowly, considering my options and not liking what I came up with. Because all the evidence pointed to my brother knowing more than he should about whatever Raphael was up to.

Much as I wanted to respect his privacy, and as bad as I felt for him in his fear of Raphael, I knew now that I had to convince him to talk to me. I had a stomach-curdling suspicion I’d need to threaten him to open him up, but honestly, what choice did I have? It wasn’t just my own life I was trying to protect. According to Lugh, Dougal couldn’t be king until Lugh was dead, even if he was sitting on the throne as regent. As long as he was only regent, his powers were severely limited. But if he should become king, he’d rescind any protections his predecessors had established for humans. Demons were powerful enough to practically enslave the human race if they wanted to. And Dougal wanted to.

Maybe whatever Raphael was hiding had nothing to do with the palace coup. But my every instinct screamed it was something I—and Lugh—needed to know.

It was dinnertime when I got back to my apartment, and the guys had ordered about twelve servings of Chinese food from the nearby take-out joint. It looked like, between the four of them, they’d gone through the food like a school of piranhas. If I were even remotely hungry, I might have been annoyed. As it was, I ignored their requests for information—and Dominic’s offer to put together a plate of leftovers for me—and pointed at Andy.