Compact with the Devil: A Novel

by Bethany Maines

  “We’re not going back to the hotel, are we?” Nikki asked Holly.

  “No, why?”

  “I don’t suppose you checked me out and got Trista’s luggage loaded?”

  Holly winced, seeing what was coming. “Uh, no. Sorry, didn’t know I was supposed to. Angela was hurrying us all and getting everyone rounded up. She had a checklist of tour members; maybe she got Trista’s stuff?”

  “Yeah, maybe,” said Nikki doubtfully. “I’ll ask.”

  She moved up the bus to where Angela sat sorting through her day planner.

  “Hey, Angela,” Nikki started to say, but the woman held up a shushing finger and then entered a series of numbers into her iPhone.

  “Yes, Nikki isn’t it? What can I do for you?” Angela stretched her lips into an upward-tilting line that might have passed for a smile if someone didn’t know better.

  “I went over to the hospital this morning to check on Trista. I don’t suppose you collected her luggage when you checked everyone out? I was using her stuff.” Nikki maintained her calm and suppressed the urge to punch the other woman.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Everyone was responsible for their own luggage.” Angela flipped her day planner to an employee list, and Nikki saw that her name had been added and then circled.

  “But you got me checked out?” asked Nikki, suddenly aware that she was the target of a great deal of female hostility. She could tell because Angela was showing all her teeth, which were beautiful displays of the dental art, practically gleaming with a white neon glow. It was very un-British.

  “Of course,” said Angela, showing even more teeth. A couple of years ago, Nikki would have slunk back to her own seat. Angela was class president material and Nikki was the ditzy cheerleader. She knew that by all rights she should absorb the slight and go away. Instead, she found herself slightly bored. The fact surprised her.

  “So you knew I wasn’t there?” she asked, wanting to be perfectly clear.

  “I made an announcement; I can’t be responsible if you weren’t there.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, Angela,” said Nikki softly.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Angela said, breaking eye contact.

  “If you have a problem with me, I’d like to hear it,” Nikki said, marveling at the calm in her own voice.

  “You know,” said Angela, her voice rising, “I’ve looked and I can’t seem to find your hiring packet. I really think that when we get to Paris, we’re going to have to have a little discussion about your job. I don’t think I can let Kit have an unqualified replacement for Trista.”

  “Trust me, Angela, I’m the only qualified replacement you’re going to find,” said Nikki, feeling amused.

  Angela’s nostrils flared, and she tossed her hair back angrily. “Who do you think you are? I’m the tour manager and you are just some stupid makeup girl. You think just because you know Trista that I can’t have you fired, like that?” She snapped her fingers, making a sharp clicking noise. These were dire threats; even as little as a year ago Nikki would have started to panic and apologize. Instead she smothered a laugh as the woman continued, her soft features sharpening into bitterness. “We’ve been with Kit for years. If you think you can just walk in and change how things are done, and instantly become a part of the inner circle, you’ve got another think coming.”

  Nikki tried to come up with an appropriate answer. Something witty and devastating, something Val Robinson would say.

  “Hey, Nikki,” yelled Kit from the back of the bus. “Come back here. We’re going to watch Burg light something on fire!”

  “You hold that thought, Angela,” said Nikki with a smile as genuine as Angela’s had been fake. “I’m going to join that little inner circle over there, and afterward, if Kit doesn’t want to do something new and routine-breaking, I’ll get back to you.”

  “What joy?” asked Holly as Nikki made her way down the aisle.

  “None, I’m afraid. I’m luggageless once again. And it had my ‘good’ outfit from the backup dancers in it. Not to mention Trista’s phone.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. We were planning on going out tonight. Now you won’t have anything to wear.”

  “What’s this?” asked Kit, looking up.

  “Nikki’s luggage got left at the hotel,” explained Holly.

  “I swear that happens at least twenty times a tour,” answered Kit. “Do you want to borrow my phone and call the hotel?”

  Nikki started to shake her head and then stopped. “That would be great, actually. If you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. Call whoever you need.” He handed over the phone, just as there was a burst of flame and a cheer from the back row of seats. “Oh damn! I missed it! Do it again!” yelled Kit. He scrambled over the top of the seats to land on Richie and elbowed his way into the circle. Holly and Nikki exchanged unanimous glances of female confusion over the male fascination with farting.

  “What hotel are we staying at in Paris?” asked Nikki.

  “The Paris Hilton.”

  “You’re kidding.” Holly grinned and shook her head. Nikki shrugged and, taking the phone, went into the small bathroom. The bathroom smelled of astringent covering other odors. She sat on the sink with her feet on the toilet lid, trying to get above the smell, and dialed the international number for Carrie Mae.

  “He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought,” she quoted to the voice-recognition computer; there was a whirring click as it processed her through the switchboard. She listened to the various options and selected one for English, four for live operator assistance, and two for an unsecured line.

  “Bonjour,” said a pleasant-voiced woman, interrupting the music. “You’ve reached the Carrie Mae Foundation, Paris branch. To whom am I speaking?”

  “Nicole Lanier, Los Angeles branch.”

  “Nicole, how can we help you help the world?”

  “I need a care package,” answered Nikki, ignoring the tagline. “I’m arriving in Paris later today and I have no phone, clothes, or equipment. I’m also expecting contact from Astriz Liebenz from the Stuttgart branch and I … no longer have the phone I was using to reach her.”

  “Oh, that’s unfortunate,” the operator cooed sympathetically. “I’m sure we can arrange a delivery for you. Can we have your Paris location?”

  “The Paris Hilton,” answered Nikki, feeling a bit silly for even saying it.

  “Which one?”

  “There’s more than one?”

  “There’s the Paris Hilton and then there’s the Hilton Arc de Triomphe.”

  “Hold on.” Nikki stuck her head out the bathroom door and looked around. “Anybody know which Hilton we’re staying at?”

  “The Hilton Arc de Triomphe,” yelled Kit over his shoulder. There was a gust of flame and a strange burning smell that Nikki didn’t care to investigate.

  “The Hilton Arc de Triomphe,” she reported to the operator.

  “Ooh,” chirped the woman, “Kit Masters is going to be staying there for his New Year’s Eve show! Maybe you’ll see him.”

  “Maybe,” said Nikki. “But he might be too busy lighting things on fire.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. We’ll be getting into Paris later this evening. Can I get something by tonight?”

  “I’m forwarding your color chart, measurements, and preferred equipment list to our prêt-à-porter department. We can have a complete package together by six o’clock tonight.”

  “Great. I’ll be registered under my real name.”

  “Do you require anything particular or in addition to the list?”

  “They said something about going out later, so probably whatever one wears to a Paris club these days.”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, and if you can get me a manual on airbrush makeup techniques I’d appreciate it.” There was a pause on the other end of the line.

  “Now, when you say the airbrush manual you’re referr
ing to…”

  “Oh, uh, the real one. I’ve got a slight makeup crisis to deal with.”

  “Of course,” answered the operator smoothly, regaining her momentum. “It will be included.”

  “And I’ve been out of contact with the office for a few days. If you could include any e-mail, phone messages, or information uploads to my file that would be great.”

  “I was already adding it to the list! Anything further?”

  “Nope, I think that’s it.”

  “Very well. Bonne chance, mademoiselle!”

  “Thanks,” answered Nikki, and hung up. “Bonne chance indeed,” she repeated to herself with a small laugh. She hadn’t had much bonne luck since Colombia.

  PARIS I

  I Love Paris

  Nikki sat across from her EU counterpart and felt blobby and gross. The girl was tall, blond, slightly younger than Nikki, and impeccably dressed in a twill skirt, coordinating pumps, purse, and overcoat. Over everything she had draped an elegantly folded scarf pinned in place with a Carrie Mae butterfly. It looked a bit as though she’d put on her older sister’s clothes, but Nikki couldn’t fault the attire, since it also looked as if she had showered recently and slept more than eight hours in the last two days. Unhampered by luggage, Nikki had gotten off the bus first and dashed into the lobby, where she had immediately recognized her contact; Carrie Mae women always attained a look that was beyond reproach. Nikki felt a stab of guilt over letting the team down with her grubbiness and winced when she saw the girl scan her sweats-and-T-shirt ensemble with a faintly raised eyebrow. Nikki pretended not to notice, and they exchanged “bonsoirs” and air kisses while the entire hotel staff made a mad dash for the tour bus.

  Svenka was Swedish but working with the Paris branch. She appeared unaware of the raucous arrival of the band but was very excited to assist Nikki. Svenka continued her introduction and delivery of equipment in rapid-fire but accented English, dragging a set of matching rolling suitcases forward. Nikki seated them behind some enormous potted palms for a bit of privacy. The suitcases were beautifully styled pieces of leather luggage that would have made any bellboy swoon, and Nikki wondered just how much paperwork they were going to cost her.

  “You didn’t have to come out yourself,” said Nikki, still confused by the girl’s excitement. “You could have just left the luggage at the desk.”

  “I wanted to!” exclaimed Svenka. “I don’t get to do the proper agent things very often. I’m new, and everyone has to start at the bottom.” She ended on a quasi-hopeful note, and Nikki frowned. There was something sort of puppy-doggish about Svenka. If the puppy were a giant blond Viking that had no idea it was going to grow up into a supermodel. Nikki wondered if Svenka had any idea she was gorgeous or could crush a man’s skull with one hand.

  “Plus, I heard that Kit Masters, the British pop star, was going to be staying here,” Svenka said, leaning forward conspiratorially.

  “I heard that too,” answered Nikki evenly, wishing she could dunk her head in a bucket of ice water to wake her brain up a little. She had a gritty feeling between her ears, as if she’d spent all day buried in beach sand.

  “I was kind of hoping that I would see him while I was here. This is why I arrived early.”

  “There’s always a chance,” said Nikki.

  “We weren’t sure what you’d be looking for in terms of luggage. We went with a classic style. This one’s for clothes.” She gestured to the suitcase on the left with Vanna White–like grace. “We included basic lingerie needs, casual wear, club wear, and dress wear, as well as four shoe styles. These include boots, heels, flats, and trainers.”

  “Thanks,” said Nikki simply; she was having trouble following Svenka’s accented English. She had spent too many hours trying to decipher Englishman’s English, and it had warped her ears. The rhythms were all wrong.

  “We picked colors from your color chart, but you didn’t have any color preferences specified, so I’m not sure you’ll like everything we pulled for you.” Svenka looked up nervously and tugged at her scarf slightly.

  “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to do that. I’m sure it will be fine,” Nikki said reassuringly.

  “The second case contains your equipment. Standard-issue hairspray, lipstick, perfume, etc., all in your scents and colors. We’ve also included some of the recent Paris branch innovations!”

  Svenka unzipped the second case and displayed the neatly organized interior.

  “The belt.” She pulled out a leather belt that had a curious stiffness to it. “The steel cable running down the center creates an ideal whip, with added weight for impact. The snakelike construction permits flexibility and added snap while still being light enough for day-to-day wear.”

  Nikki nodded, suitably impressed.

  “These are from our outdoor accessory line.” She held up a pair of gloves. “Made of a Kevlar-rubber blend, these extremely warm gloves can’t quite stop bullets, but they’re slice-proof and allow you to handle live electrical current.”

  “Because I do that so frequently,” said Nikki.

  “But now you can!” exclaimed Svenka cheerfully, packing the black gloves away into their proper spot and rezipping the suitcase.

  “Oh … good,” said Nikki. Rachel, her own techno-wizard, frequently made similar statements. Since she invariably never saw the point of, say, slice-proof gloves, Nikki never knew quite what was expected of her in response. It was her estimation that people like Rachel and Svenka had bigger imaginations than she did. For them, everything had the potential to be something else, and they never saw any reason those things shouldn’t be.

  “Oh, and here is your phone.” She produced a phone from her pocket; it was plastic-wrapped and sealed. “We were told we could not retrieve your phone messages. Apparently, your phone is in repair? We gave you an unassigned Carrie Mae phone as a loaner. Just mail it back to us when you’re done. We also included a manual for airbrush makeup techniques.” Svenka paused, a frown wrinkling her brow. “Did you really mean to have the actual makeup manual?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got to do a bit of body-painting on some devil girls,” said Nikki.

  “Oh.” Svenka’s forehead furrowed even further. Devil girls were apparently not on the list of common problems for a Paris Carrie Mae agent. “They must give you the really difficult assignments,” she said at last. “To tell the truth, I thought you’d be taller.”

  “I get that a lot,” said Nikki.

  “Hey, Nikki,” said Kit, making a beeline toward her from the front counter. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Svenka’s jaw drop. “You’re rooming with Holly; she said that would be cool. Here’s your key. Can you come up to my room as soon as you’re settled in? I think Brandt has some plan about reporters and studios and I might need reinforcements.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Nikki. “Kit, I’d like you to meet my company rep, Svenka. She’s dropping off some clothes for me. Svenka, this is Kit Masters.” Svenka closed her mouth and mustered her composure.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Masters. Welcome to Paris.”

  “Thanks,” said Kit, shaking hands. “I guess Carrie Mae really takes care of their people.”

  “Indeed,” replied Svenka breathlessly. “We certainly try. Nikki is one of our top consultants.”

  “Oh,” said Kit, clearly unsure of what that meant. “Well, she’s certainly gone above and beyond for us.” Kit added one of the brilliant smiles that made people fall in love with him, and Nikki watched in disgust as Svenka beamed back at him. “See you upstairs, Nikki?” he asked.

  Nikki nodded. “Be up in a minute.”

  “Oh my,” said Svenka, fanning herself and dropping back into her chair as Kit walked away. “He is so handsome! I thought I was going to faint! And so nice!”

  “He has his moments,” said Nikki.

  “Wait until I tell the girls! They are never going to believe me. Did you know he’s the son of one of our very own agents?”

  “Y
es,” said Nikki dryly. “I’m aware.”

  “You are so lucky!” said Svenka. “If you need anything else from us just call the number programmed into your phone.”

  “That’s me. Ms. Lucky.” Nikki sighed. She was being grumpy. And worse than grumpy, she was feeling a wave of sniffly, self-pitying wanna-stay-home-and-snuggle-with-the-boyfriend-she-didn’t-have-anymore wash over her. She had been doing so well. This was not the time to succumb to the breakup blues.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Astriz?” she asked. If Valerie Robinson had been saddled with a partner she didn’t request who then subsequently disappeared, Val would have continued on without a second thought and certainly without stopping to collect Nikki. Nikki suspected that Astriz was not going to be any different. She was going to be on her own when it came to catching up with Astriz and Cano.

  “Not yet,” said Svenka. “But we programmed your current caseload alerts onto the phone. If she checks in, you’ll get a text. And if we hear anything about Cano, we’ll immediately contact you.”

  “What about Camille?” asked Nikki, feeling another wave of fatigue sweep over her. Dealing with rogue Carrie Mae agents seemed to be half her life. Shouldn’t she just be dealing with the bad guys?

  “Camille Masters?” asked Svenka, her head cocking to one side like a bird. “I did not know that she was in Europe. Is she visiting her son?”

  “Not sure,” said Nikki, hedging, “but she is in Europe, and I need to find her before she does something stupid.”

  “I could add her to your watch list, I suppose,” she said.

  “Thanks, Svenka,” Nikki said, making an effort. “I really appreciate your helping me out.”

  “Of course,” Svenka answered with chipper confidence. “We are Carrie Mae. What else would we do but help you help the world!”

  “Yes,” said a Teutonic voice laconically, “what else would we do?”

  Astriz dropped into the seat between Nikki and Svenka. Nikki smiled in surprise.