My mind spun. I saw Paul tearing out of the driveway after uttering the words that had stunned me:That’s not Mavis.
I heard my mother telling me about her many names.
And about Paul. How he’d run off.
He’s gone off and lost his head.
I felt bile rise into my throat, burning.
This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be happening.
“What was that?” Mark mumbled as I ended the call. “Is everything okay?”
But I couldn’t answer.
Things weren’t okay.
Not at all.
I stared down at my computer, still open on my lap.
I reread the first paragraph on the page I’d clicked on just before my phone began to buzz:
Azha, an ancient female demon, often depicted with the body of a serpent and the head of a bird. Greedy, cruel, and spiteful, she is said to offer great wealth, fame, whatever your deepest desire—in exchange for your soul.
“Hon?” Mark said, sitting up.
I slammed my laptop closed and let out a sob.
TWENTY-TWO
MY MOTHER WAS INthe house with the nursing assistant, getting a sponge bath. Mark had taken Olivia to dress rehearsal at the opera house. Izzy was out with Theo—they went to a matinee every Saturday with a group of friends from film club. I was in the barn, reading an article online entitled “Signs Someone You Love May Be Possessed by a Demon.” They included personality changes, violent behavior, strange speech, and unusual movements.
The person’s physical form may appear to change: they can appear older, younger, their eye color may shift, the entire structure of their face and body may appear different. The demon has the ability to greatly manipulate its host, as if the human were a puppet made of malleable clay.
I looked down at the notes I’d been taking, adding:The ability to change form. In caps, I wrote:PERSONALITY CHANGES. VIOLENT BEHAVIOR, underlining the words. On the bottom of the page was a drawing I didn’t remember doing; something I must have sketched while my mind was full of jumbled thoughts. It was Azha, a creature with the head of a bird (I’d drawn a black bird with a crest, like a shadowy blue jay) and the body of a thick black snake. In my version, a part of the creature was familiar to me: I’d given it my mother’s icy blue eyes.
My own eyes burned. I hadn’t slept much last night after the callfrom the state trooper. And when I did start to drift off, I dreamed of Paul’s accident. In my dreamscape rendering, Paul came around a corner and Azha was in the road, waiting, snake body writhing, blue jay head screechingeee-eee-eee.
I rubbed at my eyes. The back of my neck and my shoulders ached. I needed more caffeine.
I looked at my watch. It was a little after three in the afternoon. I’d been at this for nearly two hours: scouring websites and taking notes, ordering books on demons and demonic possession. They were books I’d be far too embarrassed to purchase at our local independent shop, where the booksellers all knew me by name, greeted me when I came in the door, recommended titles to me—and, of course, stressed me out no end by asking how the next Moxie book was coming along.
The deeper I delved into this demon research, the more twisted and tangled up I felt. On the one hand, everything suddenly made sense. It was almost a relief to have an explanation for my mother’s personality and behavior. On the other hand, the logical part of my brain told me this couldn’t possibly be real. Demons didn’t exist except in the pages of horror novels and the flickering glow of late-night movies.
Impossible, I told myself.
But what if it wasn’t?
“Knock-knock!” a voice called, muffled, outside the barn door.
I jumped, nearly falling off my stool.
I tried to croak out, “Who’s there?” but the words dried up in my throat.
Azha, she would hiss.
Azha who?I would ask, reciting a silly knock-knock joke, a riddle.
