She’d taken the phone off the hook an hour after sunset because she was tired of listening to it ring.

Kitty’s first phone call about the diary had been mewing; her second had been whining; her third had escalated to threats, so Kristal had hung up within seconds instead of minutes. She’d wondered whether she was going to hear a knock on her door from Jean-Paul that night, but apparently Kitty valued her son’s career on the police force.

The diary was everything Kristal had hoped, contained the very entry she’d been looking for. There it all was, in black and white on paper to present to Father Perez — a detailed description of what Madame Gwenoelle Duday was, what she had done, who she had done it to. She’d felt appalled as she read it, but also vindicated. This account along with Kristal’s own written testimony, would be sufficient.

Now she was adding a brief note to Father Perez. “…I can assure you of your ability to take any measure you require so long as a reasonable level of discretion is maintained. My friends in our Island police department have been instructed to offer you and all your associates more leeway than is usual.”

“I have also contacted Mr. Bickerstaff at Ellen Reckoner Airport and he has promised to keep a small plane at the ready and well fueled at my own expense…”(She thought for a second, then underlined “at my own expense”) “…for as long as we may require it. That way, you may take as much time as you need in preparing for any flight at any time at all. This, I am sure, will relieve you of a significant burden and expense and enable you to make any spur-of-the-moment travel plans without undue worry.”

She paused. Better not to write down what she was thinking. That would have to be imparted to Father Perez face-to-face.

Judy Scardino. Brigitte’s daughter, Tel’s granddaughter. She’d been one of the girls in Dierdre’s physical education class that day.

Ordinary as white paint, of course, no prize to be carried off to Spain, but still vulnerable. Even if the Dudays kept up wards around her for months, they could not keep her constantly secure without actually moving her into Tel’s house, and Brigitte was unlikely to allow that.

Tel might very well hand over his mother, his brother, his sister or son, to get his granddaughter back. He might even offer himself and put his own hands in the crusher.

Why was it suddenly so quiet? The crickets had stopped.

She told herself she wasn’t surprised. Not really. But it was still too absurd to see the woman standing there, as solid as a bookshelf, in her bedroom.

***

He was awakened by something walking across his legs. It felt like a cat, and for a moment he imagined he was at his mother’s house in Valencia. Her old, flea-bitten Poco was always climbing into people’s beds.

Then he remembered where he was and bolted upright, pulling his legs up, and feeling around the foot of the bed.

Nothing was there.

It was dark. So dark he could see almost nothing. And so close, so strangely silent. All creatures of the night had gone quiet. Was it about to storm? He tried his bedside light. the electricity wasn’t working.

There should be at least some flickering from his votive. The candle must have gone out. Ignacio carefully stepped onto the floor and, his hands before him, felt his way to where he thought was his shelf with his small shrine.

Yes, there was the shelf, just level with his chest. He felt for the little box of matches. He touched the still warm glass of the votive, the base of his statue of the virgin, but no box. They were nowhere to be found.

Perhaps he’d set them on the shelf overhead? He reached above his head, standing on tiptoe. His fingers brushed what he thought was the box,

but when he grabbed for it his hand bumped against a hard, curved surface that tipped foward and fell, striking his shoulder and sloshing something pungent over him before breaking on the tiled floor near his feet.

Very gingerly, he bent down and felt. His fingers touched what felt like broken crockery too quickly. He winced in pain as something stung his hands. Over his head the candle suddenly flickered back into life and he found himself looking down at the remains of a broken brown jug.

He could smell alcohol, molasses, and a touch of ammonia. This must be that liquor illegally brewed on the Island. Cravey, it was called.

God only knew how long it had been up there on that shelf. There hadn’t been much, just enough to soak into his pajamas, which stank now like a still. He rose to his feet and examined his hands. They were bleeding. The palm of one hand had two small puncture wounds, but there was also a cut across the back of his other hand that puzzled him.

Then he noticed the cat.

***

She turned to take something from her desk. A letter opener.

Though she hated to admit it, Kristal had half expected to see an empty room when she turned back around.

An old woman, she told herself. But Madame Duday looked like a very strong, hale old woman. And Kristal could remember that horrible, horrible moment, all those years ago, when she stood before Madame Duday and realized she could not move.

It was not just the sight of it standing there in her path, as solid and as wrong as the sight of Madame Duday in her bedroom. It was the rank smell that hit her, of fur and saliva, the low rumbling snarl that filled the corridor.

The black lips pulled back from its fangs, the yellow eyes glaring up at her with terrible hatred and intelligence.

Kristal was not afraid of dogs, but this was plainly not merely a dog. And she was facing it armed with nothing but her letter opener.

Her silver letter opener.

***

He had seen many things in his pursuit of demons. He had heard a being in the shape of a woman scream obscenities in a man’s voice, a being in the shape of a boy display superhuman strength against his bindings,a being in the shape of an old hag inspired by Satan to bite her own tongue off… This flickering shape, however, was his first experience with the spectral.

It was holding something in its mouth. A mouse?

No.

A tuft of black hair. His hair.

He had to remain calm, he had to remain faithful, but most of all he could not let this creature escape with that small bit of himself in its mouth. Ignacio reached behind him towards the little shelf under the candle, and his fingers closed around the small vial of holy water.

“Lord Jesus, I bind all evil creatures…”

The rest was drowned out as the creature growled and cringed back from the drops of holy water he’d flicked towards it.

“In Christ’s name I command you to…” It backed away, its eyes wild.

Then turned and fled, slipping through the half-opened door of his room.

Ignacio followed.

The bedside light flicked on at last.