1.2DEMONOLOGY
The devil sometimes made them fall suddenly asleep; they fell to the ground and became so heavy that the strongest man had great trouble in even moving their heads.
—THEHISTORY OF THEDEVILS OFLOUDUN:THEALLEGEDPOSSESSION OF THEURSULINENUNS,DESNIAU, TRANSLATED BYEDMUNDGOLDSMID
I’d all but insisted on renting a car, but the college arranged for a driver to pick me up at the airport in Denver. He was tall and lanky with longish gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. He told me that his name was Jim and that he worked at Hildegard as a handyman. I tried to seem cheerful, but stepping out into the midday sun, I felt almost exactly as if someone had splashed hot tea in my face.
As Jim was stowing my luggage in the trunk of the big black Mercedes, I stumbled, bracing myself against the car.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I said, righting myself, “just dizzy.”
“You’re feeling the elevation?”
“Maybe. How high up are we?”
“They don’t call it the mile-high city for nothing. We’ll be going up a lot higher. Close to seven thousand feet.” He grew very serious. “Are you sure you want to go?”
I thought that was an odd question. I was here, wasn’t I?
“Yes?” I said, slightly confused.
I could have sworn my answer upset him, but he looked away too quickly for me to be sure.
“It’s important to drink plenty of water and eat lots of greens.” His accent was difficult to place.
“French?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Many of us are French in the area around the college. It is an enclave.”
That also struck me as odd. I’d heard of French-speaking areas near the Canadian border and definitely down in Louisiana, but in the middle of Colorado?
Jim got in the driver’s seat and started the ignition. When I climbed into the back, I was relieved to find that the car was air-conditioned. Through the rearview mirror, I could just make out Jim’s eyes. They were deep-set and hinted at a good sense of humor.
The car had a plush leather interior and smelled like the morning after a rainstorm. I noticed some bottled water in the seat back, and grabbing it, I unscrewed the top. It was too warm and slightly bitter, but I drank it enthusiastically. My lack of sleep beginning to catch up with me, I balled up my jacket and leaned against the window. I was out in no time, dreaming of Charles.
We’re sitting together at a picnic table beneath a blazing orange sun, eating sweet sandwiches as bees begin to swarm. He’s angry with me for leaving.
“You took everything.” He scowls. “All the research.”
He motions to a box that sits in front of us on the picnic table. A bee lands on my arm. I swat it away. I lift the top off the box, expecting to find pages, but instead, there are test tubes and syringes inside.
“I was just looking for my bluebird,” I say, swatting away another bee.
The sound of the swarm grows louder. Angry. Soon the box is filled with bees. One lands on my neck and stings me.
“I’m allergic.” I cry out in pain, looking to Charles for help, but he just laughs.
I awoke with a start and was astonished to find that in the time I’d been asleep, the landscape had changed dramatically. As we’d driven up into the mountains, the foliage had grown lush and green, and the air, though thin, was crisp and invigorating. My head was spinning from tiredness, and even the car itself seemed vaguely different, unfamiliar. I rubbed my temples and rolled down the window. A burst of fresh mountain air filled my lungs.
“You are awake,” Jim said with a smile. “You slept quite a while. We are in the mountains now. Near Hildegard. We will be there soon.”
Outside, rich, late-spring greenery blanketed the land. We were on a narrow road, and I had the feeling of being somewhere unknown, somewhere secret. It wasn’t long before the college gates came into view. They were wrought-iron monstrosities, looping and intricate, and at their center was what appeared to be a giant heart.
“What does the heart mean?”
“What heart?” he asked.
