Free The Devil Dances by K.H. Koehler Page A

don’t speak much. My mother… she went away when I was pretty young.” To change the subject, I said, “Do you have any cause to believe anyone would want to hurt Caleb? Maybe someone here? Someone with a grudge against him?”
    “You would need to speak to Isaac about that. Isaac Schroder. They were friends, and he knew Caleb best. All his secrets.”
    “Big kid, about twenty? Glasses?”
    “That be Isaac…”
    There was a crash from upstairs like a chair had been kicked over, then some running of feet and voices as several people began shouting in distress at each other. Mrs. Knapp flinched, then looked toward the ceiling with such a look of despair, I felt my heart skip a beat. “I hope this information is useful to you, Nicholas. Now, I have a favor to ask.” She turned to me and fixed me with her wise, grim eyes. “You said the demonic hosts are under your dominion. Did you lie?”
    “I may not be worth much to most folks, but I guarantee I’m the best damned exorcist in Pennsylvania, ma’am.”
    “Yah, good.” Mrs. Knapp nodded. “You must cast the demons out of my granddaughter, Sarah.”

    I followed Mrs. Knapp upstairs. At the end of a long hall we came to her granddaughter’s bedroom. It was decorated simply and tastefully, with muted colors. Handmade stuffed toys were clustered on a window seat, and there were books on a shelf along one whole wall—Bibles and classic literature, of course, but also the type of modern teen romances you see everywhere. The windows were all open, but the room was damp and summer-muggy, and the vague stink of urine and vomit—sick smells—hung over the place like a noxious cloud.
    A Shaker bed dominated the room, and a handmade quilt covered Elsie Knapp’s nine-year-old granddaughter, Sarah, who was shivering like a little girl with a fever. Her family hovered on both sides of the bed like mourners at a funeral. I saw the woman with the Sight from the side of the road, Sarah’s mother—Mrs. Knapp’s daughter-in-law. She turned her back on me as I followed Mrs. Knapp to the foot of the bed. The men stayed stoic, sitting in chairs arranged around the perimeter of the room, or hovered, standing, in corners as they looked on helplessly at the suffering child.
    Mrs. Knapp introduced me to them all, each in turn. They were her sons, or her grown grandsons. The men nodded at me, but didn’t stand or offer their hands to shake, not that I expected them to. Actually, I was rather impressed with their resolve in tolerating my presence, but maybe they were only doing so because they were so desperate. “This is John, Sarah’s father, and my second eldest son,” Mrs. Knapp said. He was the only man with the courage to step forward.
    He was lanky, like so many of the men here, sinewy and work-hardened, but small. He had a severely pinched face and hard eyes that said he’d been around the block a few times. Otherwise, he was remarkable in his sheer, unremarkable plainness. Brown hair, medium-brown eyes, nearly trimmed beard. If he hadn’t been born Amish, he would have made a great cop or FBI agent. “I’ve no grievance with you, Daemon, but if you can heal my Sarah, I will be very grateful to you.”
    “I’ll do my best, Mr. Knapp,” I told him and went to sit on the edge of Sarah’s bed. The others muttered in Pennsylvania Dutch, probably talking about me. I ignored them and set my hand on the forehead of the young girl squirming under the quilt. She was thin and blond and damp with sweat, but she felt cool to the touch, like her skin was made of lifeless porcelain. The stink of the other-creatures clung to her like a psychic funk.
    She immediately stopped writhing and opened her eyes. They were not the eyes of a nine-year-old girl. They were too sly and worldly for that. They were a deep set, cornflower blue, with unhealthy dark rings lurking beneath them. “Prince Nicky,” she said. Her voice was raspy and dry like she’d been screaming for hours. “How