The Mephisto Club (6 page)

SEVEN

July 15, Wednesday. Phase of the moon: New.

These are the rituals of the Saul family.

At one
P.M
., Uncle Peter comes home from his half day at the clinic. He changes into jeans and a T-shirt and heads for his vegetable garden, where a jungle of tomato plants and cucumber vines weigh down their string trellises.

At two
P.M
., little Teddy comes up the hill from the lake, carrying his fishing pole. But no catch. I have not yet seen him bring home a single fish.

At two-fifteen, Lily’s two girlfriends walk up the hill, carrying bathing suits and beach towels. The taller one—I think her name is Sarah—also brings a radio. Its strange and thumping music now disturbs the otherwise silent afternoon. Their towels spread out on the lawn, the three girls bask in the sun like drowsy felines. Their skin gleams with suntan lotion. Lily sits up and reaches for her bottle of water. As she lifts it to her lips, she suddenly goes still, her gaze on my window. She sees me watching her.

It is not the first time.

Slowly she sets down the water bottle and says something to her two friends. The other girls now sit up and look in my direction. For a moment they stare at me, as I am staring at them. Sarah shuts off the radio. They all rise to their feet, shake out their towels, and come into the house.

A moment later, Lily knocks on my door. She doesn’t wait for an answer but walks uninvited into my room.

“Why do you watch us?” she says.

“I was just looking out the window.”

“You’re looking at us.”

“Because you happen to be there.”

Her gaze falls on my desk. Lying open there is the book my mother gave me when I turned ten years old. Popularly known as the Egyptian Book of the Dead, it is a collection of ancient coffin texts. All the spells and incantations one needs to navigate the afterlife. She moves closer to the book, but hesitates to touch it, as though the pages might burn her fingers.

“Are you interested in death rituals?” I ask.

“It’s just superstition.”

“How do you know unless you’ve tried them?”

“You can actually read these hieroglyphs?”

“My mother taught me. But those are just minor spells. Not the really powerful ones.”

“And what can a powerful spell do?” She looks at me, her gaze so direct and unflinching that I wonder if she is more than she seems. If I’ve underestimated her.

“The most powerful spells,” I tell her, “can bring the dead back to life.”

“You mean, like in
The Mummy
?” She laughs.

I hear more giggles behind me and turn to see her two friends standing in the doorway. They’ve been eavesdropping, and they look at me with disdain. I am clearly the weirdest boy they have ever met. They have no idea how different I really am.

Lily closes the Book of the Dead. “Let’s go swimming, girls,” she says, and walks out of the room, trailing the sweet scent of her suntan lotion.

Through my window, I watch them head down the hill, toward the lake. The house is now quiet.

I go into Lily’s room. From her hairbrush, I pull off long brown strands of hair and slip them into my pocket. I uncap the lotions and creams on her dresser and sniff them; each scent brings with it the flash of a memory: Lily at the breakfast table. Lily sitting beside me in the car. I open her drawers, her closet, and touch her clothes. Clothes that any American teenager might wear. She’s just a girl after all, nothing more. But she needs watching.

It’s what I do best.

EIGHT

Siena, Italy. August.

Lily Saul bolted awake, straight from a deep sleep, and lay gasping among twisted bedsheets. The amber light of late afternoon glowed through the crack between the partially closed wooden shutters. In the gloom above her bed, a fly buzzed, circling in anticipation of a taste of her damp flesh. Her fear. She sat up on the thin mattress, shoved back tangled hair, and massaged her head as her heartbeat gradually slowed. Sweat trickled from her armpits, soaking into her T-shirt. She had managed to sleep through the worst heat of the afternoon, but the room still felt suffocating, the air thick enough to smother her. I can’t keep living this way forever, she thought, or I’ll go insane.

Maybe I’m already insane.

She rose from the bed and crossed to the window. Even the ceramic tiles beneath her feet radiated heat. Throwing open the shutters, she gazed across the tiny piazza, at buildings baking like stone ovens in the sun. A golden haze leafed domes and rooftops in umber. The summer heat had driven the sensible locals of Siena indoors; only the tourists would be out now, wandering wide-eyed through narrow alleys, huffing and sweating their way up the steep incline to the basilica or posing for photographs on the Piazza del Campo, their shoe soles melting and tacky on the scorching brickwork: all the usual tourist things that she herself had done when she’d first arrived in Siena, before she’d settled into the rhythms of the natives, before the heat of August had closed in on this medieval city.

Below her window, on the piazzetta, not a soul moved. But as she was turning away, she spied a twitch of motion in the shadow of a doorway. She went very still, her gaze fixed on the spot.
I can’t see him. Can he see me?
Then the inhabitant sheltering in that doorway emerged from its hiding place, trotted across the piazzetta, and vanished.

Only a dog.

With a laugh, she turned from the window. Not every shadow hid a monster.
But some did. Some shadows follow you, threaten you, wherever you go.

In her tiny bathroom she splashed lukewarm water on her face, pulled back her dark hair in a ponytail. She did not waste time with makeup; over the past year, she had shed any habits that slowed her down. She lived out of one small suitcase plus a backpack, owned only two pairs of shoes, her sandals and sneakers. Jeans and T-shirts and sweaters took her from the heat of summer to the sleet of winter. When you got right down to it, survival was all a matter of layering, whether it was with clothes or emotional defenses. Keep out the elements, ward off attachments.

Stay safe.

She grabbed her backpack and stepped out of the room into the gloomy hallway. There she paused, as she always did, and inserted a torn bit of cardboard matchstick into the lower jamb as she closed the door and locked it. Not that the ancient lock would keep anyone out. Like the building, it was probably centuries old.

Bracing herself for the heat, she walked outside, into the piazzetta. She paused, scanning the deserted space. It was still too early for most locals to be out and about, but in another hour or so, they would stir from their meal-induced naps and start back to their shops, their offices. Lily still had some time to herself before Giorgio expected her back at work. It was a chance to walk and clear away the cobwebs, to visit her favorite haunts in her favorite city. She had been in Siena only three months, and already she could feel the town slipping away from her. Soon she’d have to leave it, as she’d left every other place she’d loved.

I have stayed here too long already.

She walked through the piazzetta and headed up the narrow alley leading to Via di Fontebranda. Her route took her toward the town’s ancient fountain house, past buildings that once housed medieval craftsmen and later slaughterhouses. The Fontebranda was a Siena landmark once celebrated by Dante, and its waters were still clear, still inviting, even after the passage of centuries. She had walked here once beneath the full moon. According to legend, that was when werewolves came to bathe in the waters, just before transforming back to their human forms. That night, she’d glimpsed no werewolves, only drunken tourists. Perhaps they were one and the same.

Moving up the hill now, her sturdy sandals slapping against griddle-hot stones, she walked past the Sanctuary and House of Saint Catherine, the patron saint of Siena, who had survived for long periods on no other food but the Blessed Sacrament. Saint Catherine had experienced vivid visions of Hell and Purgatory and Heaven, and had lusted for the glory and divine agony of martyrdom. After a long and uncomfortable illness, all she’d managed was a disappointingly ordinary death. As Lily labored up the hill, she thought:
I have seen visions of Hell, too. But I want no part of martyrdom. I want to live. I’ll do anything to live.

By the time she climbed to the Basilica di San Domenico, her T-shirt was soaked with sweat. She stood panting at the top of the hill, gazing down upon the city, its tiled roofs blurred to soft focus in the summery haze. It was a view that made her heart ache, because she knew she would have to leave it. Already she’d lingered in Siena longer than she should have, and she could now feel the evil catching up to her, could almost smell its faint, foul odor wafting in on the wind. All around her, doughy-thighed tourists swarmed the hilltop, but she stood in silent isolation, a ghost among the living.
Already dead,
she thought.
For me, this is borrowed time.

“Excuse me, Miss? Do you speak English?”

Startled, Lily turned to see a middle-aged man and woman wearing matching U Penn T-shirts and baggy shorts. The man was clutching a complicated-looking camera.

“Do you want me to take your picture?” Lily asked.

“That’d be great! Thanks.”

Lily took the camera. “Is there a trick to this one?”

“No, just press the button.”

The couple linked arms and posed with the view of Siena stretching like a medieval tapestry behind them. Their souvenir of a strenuous climb on a hot day.

“You’re American, aren’t you?” said the woman as Lily handed back the camera. “So where are you from?” It was merely a friendly question, something countless tourists asked each other, a way to connect with fellow travelers far from home. Instantly it put Lily on guard.
Their curiosity is almost certainly innocent. But I don’t know these people. I can’t be certain.

“Oregon,” she lied.

“Really? Our son lives there! Which city?”

“Portland.”

“Now, isn’t it a small world? He lives on Northwest Irving Street. Is that anywhere near you?”

“No.” Already Lily was backing away, retreating from these overbearing people who would probably next insist that she join them for coffee, and ask her ever more questions, probing for details she had no intention of sharing. “Have a nice visit!”

“Say, would you like to—”

“I have to meet someone.” She gave a wave and fled. The doors of the basilica loomed ahead, offering sanctuary. She stepped inside, into cool silence, and breathed a sigh of relief. The church was nearly empty; only a few tourists wandered the vast space, and their voices were blessedly hushed. She walked toward the Gothic arch, where the sun glowed through stained glass in chips of jeweled light, past the tombs of Sienese nobles that lined both walls. Turning into a chapel niche, she stopped before the gilded marble altar and stared at the tabernacle containing the preserved head of Saint Catherine of Siena. Her mortal remains had been divided and distributed as holy relics, her body in Rome, her foot in Venice. Had she known this would be her fate? That her head would be wrenched from her decaying torso, her mummified face displayed to countless sweaty tourists and chattering schoolchildren?

The saint’s leathery eye sockets gazed back from behind glass.
This is what death looks like. But you already know, don’t you, Lily Saul?

Shivering, Lily left the chapel niche and hurried through the echoing church, back toward the exit. Outside again, she was almost grateful for the heat. But not for the tourists. So many strangers with cameras. Any one of them might be furtively snapping her photo.

She left the basilica and started back downhill, through the Piazza Salimbeni, past the Palazzo Tolomei. The tangle of narrow streets easily befuddled tourists, but Lily knew the way through the maze, and she walked quickly, purposefully, toward her destination. She was late now, because she’d lingered too long on the hill, and Giorgio would surely scold her. Not that the prospect offered any sort of terror, for Giorgio’s grumblings never resulted in consequences of any significance.

So when she arrived at work fifteen minutes late, she did not feel even a hint of trepidation. The little bell tinkled on the door, announcing her entrance as she stepped into the shop, and she inhaled the familiar scents of dusty books and camphor and cigarette smoke. Giorgio and his son, Paolo, were hunched over a desk near the back of the shop, both of them wearing magnifying loupes around their heads. When Paolo looked up, one enormous eye stared like a cyclops at Lily.

“You must see this!” he called out to her in Italian. “It just arrived. Sent by a collector from Israel.”

They were so excited, they hadn’t even noticed she was late. She set her backpack down behind her desk and squeezed her way past the antique table and the oak monastery bench. Past the Roman sarcophagus, which now served ignominiously as a temporary container for file storage. She stepped over an open crate that had spilled wooden packing shavings onto the floor, and frowned at the object on Giorgio’s desk. It was a block of carved marble, perhaps part of an edifice. She noticed the patina on two adjoining surfaces, a soft gleam left by centuries of exposure to wind and rain and sun. It was a cornerstone.

Young Paolo pulled off his loupe, and his dark hair stood up. Grinning at her with those earlike tufts of hair, he looked like one of the legendary Sienese werewolves, albeit a perfectly harmless and utterly charming one. Like his father, Paolo possessed not a single ounce of cruelty, and were it not for the fact that she would inevitably be forced to break his heart, Lily would happily have taken him as a lover.

“I think you will like this piece,” he said, and offered her his magnifier. “It is just the sort of thing you’re always interested in.”

She bent over the cornerstone and studied the manlike figure carved there. It was standing upright, with a skirt around its waist and decorative bracelets and anklets. But the head was not human. She slid the magnifier over her head and leaned in closer. As the details came alive through the lens, she felt a sudden chill. She saw jutting canine teeth and fingers tipped with claws. And horns.

She straightened, her throat dry, her voice oddly distant. “You said the collector is from Israel?”

Giorgio nodded and took off his loupe, revealing an older, plumper version of Paolo. The same dark eyes, but webbed with laugh lines. “This man is new to us. So we’re not sure of the provenance. Whether to trust him.”

“How did he happen to send us this piece?”

Giorgio shrugged. “It arrived in the crate today. That’s all I know.”

“He wants you to sell it for him?”

“He asked only for an appraisal. What do you think?”

She rubbed a finger across the patina. Felt the chill again, seeping from the stone to her flesh. “Where does he say it comes from?”

Giorgio reached for a bundle of papers. “He says he acquired it eight years ago, in Tehran. I think it must be smuggled.” He gave another shrug, a wink. “But what do we know, eh?”

“Persian,” she murmured. “This is Ahriman.”

“What is Ahriman?” asked Paolo.

“Not a what, a who. In ancient Persia, Ahriman is a demon. The spirit of destruction.” She set the magnifier on the desk and took a deep breath. “He’s their personification of evil.”

Giorgio gave a laugh and rubbed his hands in glee. “You see, Paolo? I told you she’d know. Devils, demons, she knows them all. Every time, she has the answer.”

“Why?” Paolo looked at her. “I never understood why you’re so interested in evil things.”

How could she answer that question? How could she tell him that she’d once looked the Beast in the eye, and It had looked right back at her? Had seen her?
It’s been pursuing me ever since.

“So it is authentic?” asked Giorgio. “This cornerstone?”

“Yes, I believe it is.”

“Then I should write him at once, eh? Our new friend in Tel Aviv. Tell him he has sent it to the right dealer, one who understands its value.” With great care, he set the stone back into its packing crate. “For something this special, we will certainly find a buyer.”

Who would want that monstrosity in their home?
Lily thought.
Who’d want to have evil staring at you from your own wall?

“Ah, I almost forgot,” said Giorgio. “Did you know you have an admirer?”

Lily frowned at him. “What?”

“A man, he came to the shop at lunchtime. He asked if an American woman worked for me.”

She went very still. “What did you tell him?”

Paolo said, “I stopped Father from saying anything. We could get into trouble, since you have no permit.”

“But now I’ve been thinking about it some more,” said Giorgio. “And I think maybe the man’s just sweet on you. And that’s why he inquired.” Giorgio winked.

She swallowed. “Did he say his name?”

Giorgio gave his son a playful slap on the arm. “You see?” he scolded. “You move too slowly, boy. Now another man will come and swoop her away from us.”

“What was his name?” Lily asked again, her voice sharper. But neither father nor son seemed to register the change in her demeanor. They were too busy teasing each other.

“He didn’t leave one,” said Giorgio. “I think he wants to play the incognito game, eh? Make you guess.”

“Was he a young man? What did he look like?”

“Oh. So you’re interested.”

“Was there anything”—she paused—“unusual about him?”

“What do you mean, unusual?”

Not human
was what she wanted to say.

“He had very blue eyes,” offered Paolo brightly. “Strange eyes. Bright, like an angel’s.”