Callaway followed me, his loafers making little thwacks on the boards of the floor.
It would be very opportune if Jason arrived right now for his sweet potato casserole, or if Dermot came home for supper, but I wasn't going to count on their help.
"So you did open the bag? You looked at it?" I said over my shoulder. "I don't know why Gran left me an old powder compact, but it is kind of pretty. Gran was sort of a crackpot; a sweet old lady, but real imaginative."
"So often our elderly relatives love things that don't really have much intrinsic value," the antiques dealer said. "In your case, your grandmother left you an item that is of interest only to a few specialized collectors."
"Really? What is it? She called it something crazy." I was still leading the way. I smiled to myself. I was pretty sure it wasn't a very pleasant smile.
He didn't hesitate. "It's a turn-of-the-century Valentine's Day present," he said. "Made out of soapstone. If you can open it, there's a little compartment for a lock of the hair of the person giving it."
"Really? I couldn't open it. You know how?" I was sure that only the intention to use it could open the cluviel dor.
"Yes, I'm pretty sure I can open it," he said, and he believed that-but he'd never tried. He hadn't had time that day, had had only a quick glance at the cluviel dor and at the letter. He assumed that he'd be able to open the round object because he'd never been thwarted when he'd tried to open similar antique items before.
"That would be real interesting," I said. "And how many people are gonna bid on this old thing? How much money you think I could make?"
"At least two people are involved," he said. "But that's all you need, to make a little profit. Maybe you'd make as much as a thousand, though I have to take my cut."
"Why should I give you any? Why shouldn't I contact them myself?"
He sat at the kitchen table uninvited, while I went to the stove to check the sweet potatoes. They were done. All the other ingredients- butter, eggs, sugar, molasses, allspice, nutmeg, and vanilla-were arranged in a row on the counter, ready for me to measure. The oven had preheated.
He was taken aback by my question, but he rallied. "Why, you don't want to deal with these people, young lady. They're pretty rough people. You want to let me do that. So it's only fair that I get a little recompense for my trouble."
"What if I don't want to let you 'do that'?" I turned off the heat, but the water kept bubbling. With a slotted spoon, I scooped out the sweet potato chunks and put them in a bowl. Steam rose from them, making the kitchen even warmer, despite the air conditioner rumbling away. I was monitoring his thoughts closely, as I should have done the day he'd been here working.
"Then I'll just take it," he said.
I turned to face him. He had some Mace and a knife. I heard the front door open and shut, very quietly. Callaway didn't hear it; he didn't know this house like I did.
"I won't give it up," I said flatly, my voice louder than it needed to be. "And you can't find it."
"I'm an antiques dealer," he said with absolute assurance. "I'm very good at finding old things."
I didn't know if a friend had entered or another foe. Truth be told, I had little faith in the wards. The silence and stealth the newcomer employed could indicate either one. I did know I wasn't going to give up the cluviel dor. And I knew for sure I wasn't going to stand passively and let this ass**le hurt me. I twisted, gripped the handle of the pot of hot water, and pivoted smoothly, flinging the water directly into Donald Callaway's face.
A lot of things happened then, in very rapid succession. Callaway screamed and dropped the knife and the Mace, clapping his hands to his face while water flew everywhere. The demon lawyer, Desmond Cataliades, charged into the room. He bellowed like a maddened bull when he saw Donald Callaway on the floor (the dealer was doing a little of his own bellowing). The demon leaped onto the prone dealer, gripped his head, and twisted, and all the noise stopped abruptly.
"Shepherd of Judea," I said. I pulled out a chair and sat in it to forestall falling down on the wet floor with the body.
Mr. Cataliades picked himself up, dusted his hands together, and beamed at me. "Miss Stackhouse, how nice to see you," he said. "And how clever of you to distract him. I'm not yet returned to full strength."
"I take it you know who this is," I said, trying not to look at the inert figure of Donald Callaway.
"I do. And I've been looking for a chance to shut his mouth forever."
The bowl of sweet potatoes was still letting off steam.
"I can't pretend to regret he's dead," I said. "But this whole incident is kind of shocking, and it's taking me a minute to collect myself. In fact, I've been through a lot of shocking stuff lately. But what else is new? Sorry, I'm babbling."
"I can quite understand that. Shall I tell you what I've been doing?"
"Yes, please. Have a seat and talk to me." It would give me a chance to recover.
The demon sat opposite me and smiled in a cordial way. "When last you saw me, you were giving a baby shower, I believe? And the hellhounds were pursuing me. Do you mind if I impose on you for a glass of ice water?"
"Not at all," I said, and rose to fetch it. I had to step over the body.
"Thank you, my dear." The lawyer finished the glass in one long swallow. I refilled it. I was glad to return to my seat.
"You look kind of beat up," I observed, for I'd watched him as he drank. Mr. Cataliades was usually very well turned out in expensive suits that could not hide his round figure but at least made him look prosperous. The suit he had on had certainly looked much better when he'd bought it. Now it was marred with snags and holes and frayed spots, and spotted with stains. His once-polished brogans could not be salvaged. Even his socks were in tatters. The tonsure of dark hair was full of debris, leaves and twigs. Could it be he hadn't had a chance to change clothes since I'd last seen him sitting here in this kitchen, taking a time-out from his pursuit by four-legged streaks of darkness?
"Yes," he said, looking down at his condition. "'Kind of beat up' is a gentle way to put it. Those streaks of darkness were hellhounds." It was no shock to me that he could read my mind; my own telepathy had been a birth present from Mr. Cataliades. He'd always been very good at concealing his own gift, never betraying by so much as a glance that he could read human minds. But I'd figured he must have it, if he could give it away. "The hellhounds pursued me for a very long time, and I had no idea why. I could not fathom what I had done to offend their master." He shook his head. "Now, of course, I know."