Page 44 of What Happens at Nightfall

He’d picked up that particular verbal locution by watching a strange new device called YouTube, by which people could project themselves onto screens in other peoples’ hands. There was potential for havoc there, if only Belfagor could figure out how to use it, as well as this thing people called social media. It was brilliant—no more whispering in one ear at a time, corrupting soul by soul. He could lead thousands astray at a time!

Oh yes, there was something to be said for this strange new century.

But first he had to free himself from that thrice-damned Vanderwilt family. Just when he was enjoying himself, there it was, that blasted bond, yanking Belfagor back from his amusements to Brooklyn—Brooklyn!—to a room that smelled like socks.

Plague, now there was a perfume for you. But socks? It was just insulting.

Never work with amateurs. A real diabolist, now they knew better than to try to bind a demon to their issue in perpetuity. But you work with an amateur . . . Blood in perpetuity, that had been the bond.

This boy with the gym socks was his new master, whether the child knew it or not.

It was incredibly infuriating.

Belfagor should never have let himself be lured by that chicken, even if it had been there on the altar, all raw and bloody and tempting. One chicken and some chanting and a contract signed in blood and fire and here he was, 150 years later, trying to figure out how to maximize the evil potential of an eleven-year-old.

An Eastern European dictator, that Belfagor could work with. A corrupt politician, now there was potential for mayhem. (Did they still have Tammany Hall? Belfagor made a note to investigate.) But a schoolboy? What was he going to do, goad the boy to kill his Latin teacher? Hmm, there was a possibility. But no. What was needed was the complete eradication of the Vanderwilt line. He couldn’t be bound by something that didn’t exist, could he?

Possibilities began to glimmer at the edge of Belfagor’s consciousness. An act of mass destruction—he did so enjoy a good act of mass destruction. He could obliterate the boy, his whole family, and at least one borough. Make that two boroughs. He could throw Staten Island in for good measure. He just had to figure out how. . . . Ah, this was the part of the job he loved.

From his hiding place in the smoke above the grill—oh yes, those people who had just put in their order would find their evening blighted by overdone burgers and rubbery eggs; Belfagor wasn’t one to neglect the details just because he was pursuing the big picture—Belfagor examined the sad little group he had faced at the Vanderwilt tomb.

The man. Not corruptible, Belfagor decided reluctantly. The man was warded by something. Belfagor flamed at the remembered indignity of being driven off by a bunch of foliage. Nature. He hated nature. All those hideous living, blooming things. But it wasn’t just the pollen making Belfagor itchy. No. The man reeked of human kindness. Damn these virtue allergies. He’d had the same problem with Shakespeare; there was just no getting to that man. Belfagor had sneezed his way through London and had to content himself with Kit Marlowe.

The blond wench with the alchemical symbol on her arm—now she would be no trouble at all. Her attempts to call and entrap him had been laughably flawed. She knew just enough not to realize she had no idea what she was doing. Those were the most entertaining, the ones who thought they had you until they suddenly realized they didn’t. So delicious. So corruptible. She’d be his for the price of a university position.

That third one, though—Belfagor scowled, creating static in televisions for a three-block radius. He’d met her before. But where? She was trouble, that one. That light she’d called—he hadn’t been able to break through it. It had encircled him like a glass orb.

Oh no. Belfagor wasn’t doing that again.

He’d have to deal with the woman first.

But before that, Belfagor decided judiciously, he’d let them wallow in their own fear. Every bit of terror only made him stronger. Besides, he wanted to take in another Broadway show, snarl traffic in Times Square, and stop by St. Patrick’s Cathedral to admire the carving and corrupt an altar boy or two.

Belfagor flashed that blue furry creature on the screen, just for fun. “Me eat souls!” he growled, and watched them panic.

Slurping down their fear, Belfagor let the screen lapse back into the running men with the strangely shaped projectile. Let them enjoy their regularly scheduled programming while they still could.

He’d be back.

Chapter Fourteen

Jess stared at the screen as the Cookie Monster of her nightmares crackled back into static, replaced by tiny men running on a big green field.

“Those kids watch some weird shows these days,” said one of the football watchers in disgust. “What was that, YouTube?”

For a moment, Jess cherished the daydream that this was just some bizarre YouTube short. Kimmy’s youngest watched weird videos on YouTube all the time: dinosaur ranches and Thomas the Tank Engine vs. Batman and a very strange soap opera acted out by various iterations of Godzilla. Kimmy complained she had to watch him like a hawk to make sure he didn’t stray into deeply inappropriate territory; people did really terrible things with innocent children’s toys. So why not evil Cookie Monster?

But Jess knew she was just kidding herself. This wasn’t just any evil Cookie Monster.

“I need to go back to the house,” said Adam. He dug his wallet out of his pocket and threw a wad of twenties on the table.

“I shouldn’t have said his name,” whispered Ingrid. “I should have known better.”

Jess glared at her. “So what were you doing sacrificing a parrot to him?”

“I wasn’t sacrificing the parrot,” said Ingrid with dignity. “I was casting his consciousness into the parrot.”

“So we’d have a demon parrot flapping around Green-Wood? Not that I believe in it,” Adam added quickly. “But still.”