what I had expected: maybe a dry, desiccated stick of an academic or the puffy savoir faire of

the professional hedonist.

Garibaldi was tall, olive-skinned, and hard-bodied, with a shock of white hair. His

features were severe, but rough-hewn, as though his creator hadn’t had time to finish

sculpting him. He moved with deliberation, giving an illusion of power rather than grace.

I glanced Guy’s way. His mouth curved cynically, watching me.

When Garibaldi had finished drying himself, he wrapped a purple silk dressing gown

around his compact body, and on cue, Guy rose. I followed suit.

“Guy, my dear,” Garibaldi greeted him. His voice was unexpectedly light. They bussed

each other on their cheeks in French fashion.

“This is Adrien English,” Guy introduced me.

“Hello, Adrien English.” Garibaldi offered his hand. He had a strong grip, but his

fingers were uncallused, his skin as soft as a woman’s. His eyes were black and intense, his

mouth flesh-colored and sensual in line. It was a face of great character – what kind of

character, I had no idea. “Guy tells me you have a small problem. Small, but interesting.”

I glanced at Guy, wondering exactly how much he had told Garibaldi. Everything – or

at least everything that Guy knew – I bet.

“I hope you’ll find it interesting. I appreciate your agreeing to see me.”

He shrugged, a Gallic gesture. His eyes followed one of the girls – the topless one – as

she rose from her lounge and dove neatly into the sparkling water. As though recalling

himself, he beckoned us to follow him inside.

We found ourselves in a long, elegant room with a black and red Chinese screen and a

marble statue of a noticeably excited satyr. The cause of the satyr’s excitement was not

visible, but the results were pretty impressive.

Garibaldi went to the carved cherrywood paneling. He swiveled one of the brass

sconces. The panel slid back, revealing a hidden bar well stocked with an inviting selection

of expensive bottles and crystal stemware.

“It was built during Prohibition,” Guy informed me as Garibaldi poured green shots

into three parfait glasses. I deduced that Guy had spent a fair amount of time visiting Oliver

Garibaldi in his mansion on the hill.

I watched Garibaldi dip a perforated spoon into a jar, then pour water from a carafe

over the white powder so that it drained into the glasses.

“Are you familiar with the green fairy, Mr. English?” Garibaldi inquired. His eyes met

mine in the etched mirror above the bar.

“The green fairy?” I felt sure this was someone I should know.

“Absinthe,” Guy informed me.

The toast of La Belle Epoque? I didn’t think that stuff was legal. Not that I wasn’t

curious to try it. I felt certain that Oliver Garibaldi drank only the best.

“Hemingway was a fan, wasn’t he?”

“Hemingway, Poe, Wilde – Aleister Crowley. You’re heard of Aleister Crowley?”

Writer, painter, mountain climber, occultist, and sexual revolutionary? The tabloids

had labeled him “The Wickedest Man in the World.” He had modestly referred to himself as

“The Great Beast 666.”

“Sort of the father of modern Satanism, wasn’t he?”

Garibaldi permitted himself a curve of his lips at this. He brought Guy and me our

drinks.

I could imagine what Jake would have to say about this, I reflected, sipping the milky

potion. It tasted a bit like licorice, but with an herbal or floral undertone. It was like nothing

I’d tried before.

I glanced up. Garibaldi was watching me with those coal black eyes. He had incredible

presence, close to animal magnetism. It was hard to take my eyes off him.

“Cheers,” I said.

He fetched his own glass, taking one of the elegant chairs across from us. I reminded

myself that he was sitting in a pair of damp swim trunks, however magnetic his personality.

“So?” His eyes held mine. “Tell me about this small problem of yours, Adrien English.”

I pulled the photo of the pentagram out of my Day Planner, handed it across to

Garibaldi. He took it, made an expression of distaste.

“Paint.”

“Yes.” I wondered how he knew that at a glance, but perhaps he assumed the obvious.

“This is a childish prank. There is no mystery here.” He seemed disappointed. I found

that I didn’t wish to disappoint him.

“There may not be mystery, but there is murder. That symbol has turned up at the

scene of three ritual slayings.”

The black eyes raised, met mine. Moved to Guy for confirmation. Guy nodded

imperceptibly.

“Ah.”

That was it. Ah. He made it sound profound.

I said, “That symbol. It’s a sigil, isn’t it, representing the name of a demon?”

He nodded, pondering the photograph.

“Would you happen to know which demon?”

He answered without hesitation. “The fifty-sixth spirit. Gremory. Also called Gamori,

Gemory, or Gomory.”“What does it do?”

“What do you know of demons?”

More than I had two weeks earlier.

“Well, I know that before Christianity, demons were considered either good or evil.

Post Christianity, they seem to be primarily viewed as malevolent. Like junior league devils.

Apparently a lot of earlier pagan deities have been dumped into the pantheon along with

fallen angels and political figures.”

Garibaldi considered this gravely. “It is better not to judge demons by human standards

of good and evil. Let us think of them as useful or not useful.”

“I actually don’t think of them as real,” I felt obliged to point out.

He fastened those jet eyes on mine. “No?”

One simple word that seemed to contain unspoken volumes.

I said, to fill the silence, “So what does Gremory do?”

“Do?”

Like, did I think he had a day job? Maybe he lounged around the pool drinking

absinthe and fooling with red-haired nymphs.

“Would he be considered useful or not?”

Garibaldi replied, “He’s a powerful Duke of Hell who commands twenty-six legions. He

appears as a beautiful noblewoman riding a great camel. It is his office to tell of all things

past, present, and future.”

My demon was a camel-riding transvestite? The Devil Wears Prada, indeed.

“That’s it? He can tell the future?”