Page 8 of Devil's Advocate
Undercover journalist?Lost soul?Either way, I wanted to know the shape of his fear, and the story that put it there.
I cut through the crowd, heading toward him.Up close, he was even more my type of trouble: lean in the way you get from farm work or a life that doesn’t let you sit down, hands clean but not soft, jaw tense.Those green eyes landed on me and didn’t know whether to flee or follow.
“Hey,” I said, letting the warmth do its work.“I’m Lucien.”
He swallowed, then nodded.“Jimmy.”
“First time?”I asked.
His mouth worked around a yes, then changed its mind.“I’m—uh—researching.”
“Of course you are.”I smiled.“Do you want a tour, Jimmy?Or do you want to hear the truth?”
ChapterThree
Jimmy
The question took me by surprise.I’d prepared for so many possibilities—locked doors, chanting, men with horns and knives, the heat of hell breaking loose under my feet—but I hadn’t prepared to be looked at the way Lucien looked at me, like he was inviting me into a conversation instead of a trap.
Up close, he didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen in the tracts Daddy kept in the church vestibule.No sulfur on his breath, no forked tongue.Just dark eyes that caught the light of the candles and held it steady, and a face too calm for a man who, by all rights, ought to have been plotting my soul’s destruction.My throat worked around an answer that didn’t come.Behind us, the room had thinned into clusters of joyful noise: the soft clink of glasses, laughter rolling across the high ceiling, the whisper of shoes on old wood.No screams or flames.No demons raking claws across the floor.
I realized I was staring.He must have seen it too, because a small smile tugged at his mouth, like he’d found something funny and didn’t want to embarrass me by saying so.He tipped his head, a prompt for me to say something, I guessed.
“I—” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat.“I’m, uh… I’m doing graduate work.On alternative faiths.”The cover story Daddy gave me fit badly in my mouth.“I came tonight to learn more about the Temple of Satan.”
“Of course you did,” he said, and the warmth in it went straight under my skin.He clapped a hand on my shoulder.
I flinched.His palm was warm through the fabric of my shirt, heavy and present, then it was gone a second later.
“I’d love to talk,” he said easily.“Give you the tour.Tell you what we’re about.”He leaned back a fraction, studying me as if I were a question he enjoyed.“Sharing the truth is my favorite part.”
Before I could decide if I’d say yes or if my silence counted as consent, a woman materialized at his elbow—wild red hair, black dress, tattoos climbing her forearms like flowering vines.Piercings winked in the light when she smiled.“Lucien,” she said, breathless, “the Charlottesville folks are dying to meet you.Can you say a few words?They drove almost two hours.”
“Sure,” he said.“Sarah—this is Jimmy.He’s researching.”
Sarah turned that bright gaze on me.I felt myself stand up straighter without meaning to.“Welcome, Jimmy.”The way she said it carried no suspicion, only open curiosity.“You picked a good night for a first time.”
My cheeks warmed.“Thank you, ma’am.”
“We’ll be right over there,” she told Lucien, pointing toward a cluster of people in vintage band tees and black jackets.Then, to me, with a softer smile: “If anyone bothers you, find me.I bite back.”
It was meant as a joke, I think.I smiled like I understood it.
“Give me five minutes,” Lucien said to me, already stepping away.“Don’t leave.I’ll come find you.”
“I won’t,” I said, and hated how it sounded—like a promise I hadn’t decided to make.
They moved off together, and the space he’d occupied felt suddenly colder.I drew in a breath and tasted candle smoke under something sugary and bright that made me think of a fairground at night.The room had shifted while we talked; the ceremony’s hush had dissolved into the start of a party.People were hugging in little bursts, heads tipped close, hands flying in animated talk.Someone dragged a rolling rack against the wall; another person lit a small line of tea candles along the edge of a table.A disco ball I hadn’t noticed before threw a scatter of fractured light across the ceiling, as if a handful of coins had been tossed up there and stuck.
I stood where I was because I didn’t know where to go.My instinct said to leave now.But that ran up against Daddy’s voice in my head, his voice curling through my thoughts: You’re the Lord’s soldier, son.Soldiers didn’t run.They held the line.
I tried to hold it.I pressed my back lightly against a mirrored column that showed me my reflection doubled—once straight on, once at a slant.Camera lights at the studio always ironed me into someone better-looking than I was.This light told the truth: lean, too pale, starched shirt wrinkling at the sleeves, a man who had stayed out of trouble by staying small.
You are here to find evil, I reminded myself.
But where was the evil?The woman nearest me was laughing so hard she wheezed, her friend rubbing circles between her shoulder blades until her breath came back.A cluster of men were arranging trays of food.The room felt kind, and the kindness made me more uneasy than cruelty would have.
Lucien’s laugh carried from across the room—low and easy and immediately answered by the group he’d joined.He had the kind of presence Daddy had, only without the pushiness.People leaned toward him like plants to a sunny window.He looked over the heads of the crowd, and for a heartbeat our eyes caught.He nodded and smiled at me, and I quickly turned away.
