Compact with the Devil: A Novel

by Bethany Maines

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Nikki, laughing. “I’ve got backup flying in; keep yourself out of trouble.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Astriz.

  “Positive. Thanks for all your help, Astriz,” said Nikki.

  “Meh,” said Astriz. “I did what I could. It should have been more.”

  “And I appreciate it,” said Nikki. “Come out to L.A. sometime. We’ll drink to Val.”

  “And spit on her grave!” said Astriz.

  “And spit on her grave,” echoed Nikki.

  “Good luck, Nikki,” said Astriz.

  “Thanks,” said Nikki. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Maybe,” said Astriz. “You never know.” The line went dead and Nikki grimaced at it.

  “Good-bye,” she muttered at the phone. “It’s not a hard word. Why do none of my coworkers use it?”

  “I need breakfast,” announced Kit from the backseat.

  “Sure,” said Nikki, rolling with the change of topic.

  “I think we should go back to the hotel,” said Kit. “Mum’s there and I want a shower. Plus, I should probably call Brandt too.”

  “Er,” said Nikki, glancing at Duncan, who was staring through the windshield. Nikki ran through a dozen possible lies; none of them sounded convincing. Wasn’t this the part where her training in subterfuge kicked in? Why did she suck so hard at lying? Why did she have to lie anyway? Kit ought to know about Camille and Duncan.

  “We probably shouldn’t go back to the hotel,” rumbled Duncan. “Everyone knows you’re staying there. It’s a security risk.”

  “Yes,” said Nikki, nodding fervently.

  “OK, well, the problem is that I will need my clothes for the show tonight. So eventually someone will have to go back to the hotel.”

  “I’ll go later and pick stuff up,” said Nikki, texting the girls to arrange a pickup time. “I need to pick up my friends at the airport anyway; I can swing by and grab a few things.”

  “More Carrie Mae women?” asked Duncan sourly.

  “You need all the help you can get, pal, so don’t complain,” retorted Nikki, and Duncan grunted.

  “I’ve got a friend who might be able to put us up for a few hours,” said Duncan, changing the subject and glancing at Kit in the rearview mirror.

  “You have friends? I had no idea,” exclaimed Kit. “Who is he?”

  “She,” said Duncan, correcting him. “Her name is Antoinette. And she’s a bit … Well, just don’t inquire what she does for a living, OK?”

  Nikki and Kit exchanged glances. This sounded promising.

  “All right,” said Kit. “But is it for my protection or hers?”

  “Both,” said Duncan as he put the car into gear.

  Antoinette lived in an ancient third-floor walk-up, accessed only by a twisting staircase.

  “I’ve got to quit smoking,” mumbled Kit, leaning against the railing and coughing as Duncan knocked on the door. The door opened a fraction of an inch and then sprang all the way open.

  “Duncan!” exclaimed the woman. “You’re alive!” She was a wispy blonde of about Duncan’s age. She was dressed in a long day dress and wore a beaded necklace and bangles that rattled as she rushed to embrace Duncan. “Who are they?” she demanded, seeing Nikki and Kit.

  “This is Nikki Lanier; she’s Carrie Mae. And this is Christopher.”

  “Not Declan’s boy!” she exclaimed, seizing Kit by the shoulders and looking him over. “Yes, he looks like his father.” Kit seemed suddenly frozen.

  “You knew my father?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Of course, I knew the whole family. The community was so much smaller then.”

  “Antoinette!” growled Duncan.

  She continued as if Duncan hadn’t said anything. “But we don’t like to talk about that, do we? Come in, come in. I was just about to make breakfast.”

  “Actually, I would like to talk more about that,” said Kit, following her in.

  “What?” hissed Nikki, narrowing her eyes at Duncan. “Are you hoping she’ll spill the beans and save you the trouble?”

  “No!” said Duncan. “I was looking for a place to go where we wouldn’t get shot.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Nikki, and entered the apartment. She had the overall impression of small rooms and large, looming furniture. Most of the pieces were covered in some sort of gauzy scarf; it was as if a hippie had thrown up on an antique store.

  “So you knew my father before the car crash?” Kit asked as Nikki and Duncan entered the kitchen.

  “Car crash?” repeated Antoinette as she pulled out a cast-iron pan. Duncan cleared his throat significantly. “Absolutely,” said Antoinette. “The car crash. Such a tragedy.”

  Kit looked from Duncan to Antoinette suspiciously.

  “Time for breakfast!” she said cheerily.

  “Yes, please!” said Kit. “I’m starving.”

  “You don’t have to cook for us,” said Duncan.

  “Christopher said he was starving,” said Antoinette, pulling ingredients out of the cupboards. “I was thinking omelets.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got any bacon?” asked Duncan, sounding hopeful.

  “In the icebox,” she replied. Duncan began to root around in the minifridge as Antoinette turned on the tiny gas stove and set a knob of butter to melting in the pan. “So,” she said brightly, turning around to survey the room, “what brings all of you to my humble home?”

  “Someone’s trying to kill me,” said Kit cheerfully.

  “Oh dear!” exclaimed Antoinette, raising her eyebrows. “How vexing!”

  “I think it’s Antonio Cano,” said Nikki.

  “Ah,” said Antoinette. “Yes. He escaped. Someone called to say.”

  Now Kit looked from Nikki to Antoinette. “Why do I feel like everyone here knows something I don’t?”

  “How about those West Ham boys?” said Duncan, interjecting “What do you think their odds are against Leeds this season?”

  “I am going outside for a smoke, so you can all talk about me,” said Kit with a bitter smile, stepping grimly from the room.

  “You had to bring up Cano?” demanded Duncan.

  “You had to bring him here,” retorted Nikki. “He’s out on the balcony. Why not just go tell him the truth?”

  “Yes,” said Antoinette, cracking eggs. “He should be told. I am not ashamed of what we did.”

  “You may not be,” said Duncan, “but I damn well am. Declan was right. We hurt people. True change cannot be brought about through pain.”

  “Viva la revolución,” she said, smiling sadly. “Things change. Even us.”

  Duncan grunted and slapped the bacon down onto the counter. “Be right back,” he muttered, following Kit.

  “They’re probably going to be a while, aren’t they?” said Antoinette, looking at the eggs in her pan.

  “I’m still hungry,” said Nikki.

  “Me too!” said Antoinette cheerfully.

  Nikki leaned back in her chair, trying to catch a glimpse of Duncan and Kit out on the balcony. At least they were talking. Antoinette buzzed around the small kitchen, setting the table and adding ingredients to the pan.

  “What did you say your name was again?” asked Antoinette, setting down the plates and returning with glasses.

  “Nicole Lanier.”

  “Lanier? That seems familiar.” She squinted at Nikki as she set down a jug of orange juice. “Do I know your mother?”

  “I doubt it,” said Nikki, smiling. “My mother doesn’t really like to travel.”

  “Hmm,” said Antoinette, looking puzzled. “Still sounds familiar.” The toast popped and Antoinette brought it to the table. She filled the plates with omelet and sat down, crossing herself in silent prayer before she picked up a fork. “Lanier!” she exclaimed just as Nikki was taking her first bite of omelet. Nikki began to choke, and she reached for the pitcher of orange juice and a glass.

  “I knew I remembered Lanier from somewh
ere. Redheaded, too, come to think on it.”

  Nikki continued to pour orange juice into a glass, pleased to see that her hand wasn’t shaking.

  “It was back in my gun-running days,” said Antoinette, smiling reminiscently. Nikki gulped the orange juice. “He used to run a boat up the Congo. Good smuggler—really professional. A Frenchman I think.” Antoinette looked lost in the past, and Nikki held her breath.

  “What was his given name? Paul?” Nikki breathed out. “No. It was Philippe, practically positive,” she said at last as Kit opened the door and stepped inside. The two women eyed him cautiously for signs of fracture.

  “Need toast,” said Kit, putting bread in the toaster, staring blankly at the machine. Nikki reached over and pushed the lever down. Antoinette handed him a glass of orange juice, which he drank reflexively. The toast popped eventually, and Kit slathered it with butter, added a slice of the ham-sized bacon, and turned it into a sandwich as he returned to the balcony.

  “Philippe is my father’s name,” said Nikki, watching as Kit gently shut the door and turned to say something to Duncan. “He was French-Canadian.”

  “Maybe that was him then!” said Antoinette blithely.

  “Maybe,” said Nikki.

  Duncan came in next, mopping his brow as if he’d been sweating.

  “How’s it going?” asked Antoinette, pushing a plate his way.

  “I dunno,” said Duncan. “He’s being so damn calm. I’m just not sure if it’s sinking in.”

  PARIS XI

  La Vie en Rose

  Nikki surveyed the dressing room. Trista’s equipment had been set up in orderly rows and columns. Nikki warmed up the airbrush and plugged in the bottle of premixed paint. She tested it a few times on a magazine with Kit’s face on the cover. She gave him devil horns and then a mustache, goatee, and glasses. She stepped back and surveyed the results with satisfaction. She might not be as smooth as Trista, but it wasn’t bad.

  Nikki arranged her brushes and sponges from biggest to smallest and, in a Z’ev-like fit of straightening, arranged the tubs of stage makeup from biggest to smallest as well. She had the makeup sketches taped to her mirror and a list of instructions from Trista just below it, but she was pretty sure she had the sequence down. Nikki had the pattern for the evening set in her head, but she went over it again anyway. She started with the dancing girls, did basic stage makeup for the rest of the band, then Kit, and then everyone went onstage. They did their song and dance—three songs, to be precise, from eleven fifteen to eleven forty-five. Duncan would have the car waiting. She would send Jenny off with them while she, Ellen, and Jane got down to the business of men with guns. She had the feeling that Kit wasn’t going to like being sent away, but she had to have him safe before she went to work.

  Her phone calls with Astriz and Mrs. M had been reassuring. The multiple security checks on the way into the opera house had been reassuring. Even Kit’s blind cheerfulness was reassuring. She counted up her reassurances and wished the list were longer.

  Nikki struggled to feel in command. Yesterday, she’d been a little off. Z’ev had thrown her for a momentary loop, but she was not thinking about that. She was thinking about how to keep Kit safe for the next—she checked her watch. It was noon now, and they were flying out directly after midnight, so, the next twelve hours.

  Kit came in, with Duncan a solid shadow only inches behind him. He slumped directly into the makeup chair by Nikki. He seemed drained. A million miles away from the morning’s devil-may-care Kit. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to tell him that Duncan was his uncle. He’d been silent since then.

  “Ahhhh, freak out?” asked Nikki.

  Kit looked up, confused, and then smiled. “Maybe a little; le freak, c’est chic.”

  “Well, hey,” said Nikki, “on the bright side, now you can move up to ‘We Are Family.’” Kit snorted through his nose, and a sparkle appeared in his eyes as he began to sing the refrain of the disco hit.

  “What the hell is this—a free concert?” asked Brandt, striding into the room. “Look, sweetie, you’re here to do makeup. Let’s go, chop chop.” He snapped his fingers at Nikki, who ground her teeth.

  “Brandt,” said Kit uncomfortably, “please don’t talk to my friends that way.”

  “Your friends? Come on, Kit! No offense, love,” he said, sparing a glance at Nikki, “but she isn’t your friend. She’s your employee. I’m your friend. Besides”—he checked his enormous watch—“we have a limited amount of time for practice here. We don’t have time to mess around.”

  Kit frowned but said nothing as Brandt flopped into a chair and pulled a small black case from his pocket and took out a cigar. He efficiently snipped the end off with the little cigar guillotine that was too close to finger size to make Nikki comfortable.

  “Brandt, I have to sing tonight,” said Kit cajolingly, but Nikki heard the underlying seriousness in his voice.

  “I just said that,” said Brandt, the cigar between his teeth as he fumbled for a lighter.

  “Well, I have to sing, so do you mind not smoking that thing?”

  “Oh, come off it, Kit, you smoke like a chimney. Have done for years.”

  “And it messes up my voice. I’ve decided to cut back.”

  “You’ve cut back?” said Brandt incredulously.

  Kit looked a little embarrassed. “No smoking the day of a concert.”

  For a moment Nikki thought Brandt was going to tell Kit where to get off, but he abruptly tucked the cigar away and stood up.

  “Whatever you say, Kit; you’re the star.”

  And there it was. Someone had finally said what had been bothering Nikki. Kit was the Star. Everyone’s behavior was dictated by his. Their attitudes, their jobs, everything, changed at his whim. Even Brandt, who seemed the most likely to tell Kit no, still set his course by Kit’s star. It wasn’t a matter of Kit thinking their worlds revolved around him; they actually did. Nikki wondered how power-hungry Brandt felt about that. Not good, she was betting.

  “They’re ready for you now. The rest of the band is waiting onstage,” said Angela, walking into the room.

  “The band,” repeated Kit with dissatisfaction. “We really do have to find them a name.”

  “I think Richie’s still pulling for the Purple Weasels,” said Nikki.

  “I don’t know about that name,” said Kit, getting up and leading the way out of the room. “But we do need something.”

  “What’s wrong with using ‘the band’?” groused Brandt grumpily, following Kit.

  “That one’s taken,” answered Kit, winking at Nikki as he left.

  Angela was on the phone again, walking around the room, picking up and discarding objects, unstraightening everything Nikki had so recently straightened.

  Nikki checked her watch; the girls would be arriving in a bit. She could hear the distant thump of Burg on the drums. She quickly recognized the backbeat of “Devil May Care”; Kit’s songs were like musical crack. She watched Angela in the mirror. The blonde was standing near the airbrush and fiddling with it in an absentminded way while nodding to her phone.

  “You know,” said Angela hanging up the phone and picking up the airbrush, “I always wondered how these things worked.” Nikki leaned against the counter and watched her without response. Angela was being suspiciously friendly. “Do I just push this button right here?”

  Angela turned the airbrush on Nikki and held down the trigger. Nikki reached out on instinct and caught the other woman’s hand in a firm grip, but not before a gust of red paint had covered Nikki from waist to face.

  “Oops,” said Angela, sounding far from apologetic. Nikki applied extra pressure to the woman’s wrist, bending the wrist down and the hand up until the other woman buckled at the knees, then she wrenched the airbrush away. “Ow!” shrieked Angela. “What’d you do that for? It was an accident!” She jumped back and glared at Nikki, nursing her injured hand.

  “Sure it was,” said Nikki, shaking droplets o
f red paint from her hand. “Why was your phone off the day of the bus accident?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answered stiffly, trying to step around Nikki. Nikki stopped her, placing one red hand on the woman’s chest, right below the collarbone, knowing it would leave a mark.

  “Your phone is never off. And yet, when Kit tried to call you, you didn’t answer. It was, in fact, off.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Angela, nervously licking her lips, still holding her hand. “It must have been bad reception. Why would I turn my phone off?”

  “I can think of a few reasons,” said Nikki calmly, scooping red paint out of her eye and wiping it on Angela’s blouse. Angela recoiled as if Nikki were wiping burning coals on her. “That’s a Ralph Lauren jacket, isn’t it?” asked Nikki, fingering the lapel and leaving red streaks. Angela flinched again. “Tell me about the bus accident, Angela.”

  Angela was breathing hard.

  “This is complete nonsense,” she said, her voice rising. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have to stay here!” Pushing Nikki away with panicked force, Angela ran out the door, and Nikki stared after her.

  With a sigh, she turned back to the mirror and saw that she was covered in red paint from eyebrows to belt. She used the makeup remover to scrub at her face, but the paint was everywhere, seeping through her shirt and caking in her ears. This was going to take more to fix than a sponging off in the bathroom sink. Dejected, she went to find Kit and Duncan.

  “Bloody hell,” said Duncan when he saw her. Out onstage, Kit was being charmingly stubborn with the show’s director. “What happened to you?”

  “I had a run-in with Angela. I can’t prove it, but she’s in this somehow.”

  “Angela? Why would she do that? Besides, she’s not that …” Duncan trailed off.

  “Bright?” said Nikki, and Duncan nodded. “Someone’s telling her what to do.”

  “But who?”

  “Brandt springs to mind,” she said, but Duncan shook his head.

  “He and Kit have been friends for over ten years. Not to mention the fact that Kit is his top-selling artist; he wouldn’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.”