“So, she meets with other demons and then rests? I don’t get it.”
“That’s just one version. In another version, she doesn’t have a name. She’s just called the Night Monster. In other versions, she’s Lilith. My rabbi said Lilith is older than Judaism. She wasaround before the Bible. Some translations call her the Night Demon. Guess what horrible thing she did?”
Jill was scribbling notes as fast as she could, but now she stopped. She felt clammy again. She didn’t want to hear what Charles was about to say, but she knew she had to. “What?”
“She devoured children.”
Jill’s gaze shifted to the shallow water directly behind her house. “This can’t be real. It just can’t. It’s totally crazy. If there was a demon swimming around, eating kids, people would know. I mean, where could she hide?”
“I asked the rabbi what Lamia looked like, and he said he didn’t know. He said there are demons calledshaydim. They’re shapeshifters. The only way you can tell they’re not human is if they take off their shoes. Theshaydimwill never take off their shoes because they have chicken feet.”
Charles let out a nervous giggle, but Jill glanced from the gray, rain-needled harbor to the bloodstained bandage on her hand. “Maybe the shapeshifters who lived on land had chicken feet,” she said. “And the demons from the water—the night monsters—had something else that showed what they really were.”
“Like what?”
Jill closed her hand and rested it over her heart. “Scales.”
21
Mrs. Smith
Mrs. Smith ushered the housecleaners into the foyer. She gave the team of women in starched aprons and sturdy shoes the once-over. They looked strong and hungry, which meant they’d be good workers.
“All the rooms on this floor require attention, but I’d like you to start in the bedroom,” she said. “When that’s clean, the items in my car need to be arranged in the wardrobe. New furniture is being delivered at noon, and I’d like the rooms prepared ahead of its arrival. There’ll be a hundred-dollar bonus for each of you if you can complete your work to my satisfaction by the end of the morning.”
The cleaners gave her a bovine stare until finally, a woman with streaks of white in her black hair stepped forward and said, “We’ll do our best.”
Mrs. Smith left them to their work and entered the kitchen. The dust-coated room was noticeably antiquated. The room had no appliances. No built-in cabinets. An antique icebox stood on one wall, flanked by a cast-iron stove and a crockery cupboard. A swaybacked butcher block on legs and a large porcelain sink occupied the opposite wall. An oak table sat inthe center of the room. The Yellow Pages was splayed open on its scarred surface next to a letter bearing the town seal.
The letter, signed by some pencil pusher named Cliff, directed her to expunge certain plant species from her property. The missive threatened steep fines or possible legal action if she failed to comply within thirty days.
She balled up the thin sheet of paper and tossed it on the floor. Soon, she would be gone, and men like Cliff would have far bigger concerns than plants.
Turning her attention back to the phone book, Mrs. Smith ran a pointy nail down the list of hair salons. An ad for Premier Salon caught her eye because it used the wordsexclusiveandelegant, which was code forpretentiousandexpensive.
She dialed the number.
When a chipper young woman answered the phone, Mrs. Smith asked to speak with the owner.
“He’s with a client right now. May I take a message?”
“It’s a personal matter, and it’s rather urgent.”
After a brief hesitation, the young woman said, “Please hold.”
Thirty seconds later, a brusque male voice came on the line. “This is Peter Jacques. Who’s calling?”
“A future client willing to pay ten times your going rate. I am making my debut in society after a very long hiatus, and I require a true master to style my hair and apply my makeup. I also require discretion.”
Having read dozens of magazines a week for years, Mrs. Smith knew that humans were enamored with fame. If this self-important coiffeur was like the rest of the herd, he’d trip over himself for the chance to assist a celebrity.
Peter Jacques lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “May I have Madame’s name?”
Mrs. Smith thought of all the names she’d been called overthe millennia. There’d been a hundred, in an equal number of tongues.
“You may call me Mrs. Smith.”
By the end of the call, the man was eating out of her hand. He agreed to come to her house next Saturday to prep her for the yacht club cocktail party. He would style her hair while his assistants took care of her nails and makeup.
