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  “But this demon…uh, got upset?”

  “The demon physically attacked the opera company manager, trying to hit him with a glass paperweight,” I said, recounting the heated scene without emotion.

  She gave me the same look Gayle had the other day, as if I was deliberately making up an entity in order to escape my own guilt over bad behavior. Unlike Gayle, Hannah Lochte didn’t challenge me. She merely made a note and returned to the list of questions, asking if I had trouble focusing, concentrating, or remembering.

  Hardly. Every performance required me to memorize large quantities of music and then concentrate and maintain my focus, singing my best, all while acting in character during a dramatic performance that lasts for hours. I didn’t bother to explain. I simply shook my head. I denied all the questions about sadness, lack of interest, lethargy, all the questions suggesting depression.

  “My difficulty in functioning in my life is not due to depression. It is the consequence of the negative behaviors the demon forces on me.” I said it firmly, with conviction.

  She didn’t react to my statement. She made notes and continued with questions about bipolarity. I’d researched the condition online after Ralph suggested it as a cover story. “No, no mood swings. No acting as if I were high on drugs, thinking I was a genius who had discovered the secrets of the universe.” I leaned forward in the chair. “My moments of elation come from my career. From singing. From acting a character and making people believe in that character.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” She made another note and shuffled her papers. Returning her gaze to me, she said, “Now we come to the interesting part. Do you have hallucinations or delusions?”

  “Only if you consider knowing a demon is inside me to be a delusion.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Have you ever seen the demon?”

  I considered. “Once. During a demon manifestation, I saw myself in a mirror, but did not recognize myself. The demon had so taken over my behavior, it was as if I were seeing a completely other person.”

  “Tell me why you say that.”

  I took a deep breath. “When the demon takes over my body, it pushes me into insanely hostile behavior.” I shifted my position in the comfortable chair. At her encouraging nod, I continued, describing the most recent incidents. I detailed the physical attacks and the sly maneuvers such as upstaging another singer and holding my last note beyond my partner in a duet.

  Hannah asked, “Did you do those things because you don’t like these people?”

  “It is sheer viciousness caused by the demon. It wants to destroy me.” I wiped at the perspiration that had suddenly popped out on my brow. Why was it so hard to talk about? “I do not cause these incidents. The demon takes me over.”

  “Why do you believe you are possessed by a demon?”

  “What other explanation is there? I have always been calm and centered. There was stress, but I was supportive of other singers. Now these scenes happen. The demon started out nasty and mean. Now it is violent.”

  The therapist said, slowly, “Sometimes people like to ascribe their personal failings to some agency outside themselves. Then the individual is not responsible for the behavior. Is that how you feel?”

  The same idea Gayle had proposed, that I was making excuses. “No.” I said it emphatically. “I feel a definite moment when another entity rises within my body and takes over my mind and my actions. I observe myself as if from a distance and I am no longer in control of my behavior.”

  Hannah wrinkled her forehead, thinking about what I’d said. “There is usually more than one explanation for any disturbing event.”

  I sat still, waiting to hear where she was leading. A nervous gesture might have been comforting, but I had trained myself to avoid all common nervous gestures. When I acted a part on stage they could destroy the illusion of the character I played.

  Hannah asked, “Can you explain why you think an outside force is responsible?”

  “The demon is not an outside force. He is within me, and I want to get him out.”

  She paid me the courtesy of not arguing over the existence of the demon. “I’m interested in why you perceive the influence to be malign. Can you explain your thinking?”

  I sat ramrod straight. “The demon intends to destroy my career with these bouts of extremely unprofessional behavior.”

  “So you wish to stop them? Or are they in any way positive?”

  “They are completely negative. They must stop.”

  A small chime sounded. Hannah said, “Unfortunately, our time today is up. Do you wish to make another appointment and continue this process?” She picked up a computer tablet.

  “I want a referral to an exorcist. That is why I am here and why I have answered all your questions,” I said.

  “Until I can complete a thorough screening, I can’t refer you further.”

  I attempted to rein in my frustration. “I do not think you grasp the urgency of my situation.”

  “You can speed up the process by scheduling a complete physical before we see each other again.”

  I waved away the idea, but she continued, “Sometimes, a tumor growing in the brain can affect a person’s behavior quite dramatically. You should get that possibility ruled out.”

  My eyes went wide in shock. “You cannot be serious. I am completely healthy.”

  The therapist looked down at the questionnaire I had not filled out. “I’m not a doctor, but I often send clients to see their doctor to rule out physical causes of mental problems.”

  “I do not need a doctor, and I do not have a mental problem. Are you still refusing to put me in touch with an exorcist?” My voice rose in exasperation.

  “It wouldn’t be ethical to do so until you’ve passed a routine physical examination.”

  I stood, fire in my eye, and looked down my nose at the woman. “I shall not trespass on your time further.”

  I swept out of the office and left the building quickly.

  ***

  Gayle called me later that day. “How did it go?”

  “I walked out.” I explained why.

  She said, “I think the shrink has a good idea. You can’t self-diagnose whether you have a brain tumor by taking an online quiz. You should see a doctor.”

  “I’m too busy. You know my schedule. Once I’m done with Carmen, I’ll be singing all over the country. The whole summer. Then I go into rehearsals in Vienna.”

  “Daylia.” Her chiding tone of voice told me Gayle thought I was making excuses.

  “No,” I said. “I need an exorcist.”

  “Girl, you should go with the flow sometimes. What can it hurt to see a doctor? You think about it. See you Thursday.”

  ***

  The week sped by. On Thursday night, Gayle and I primped at my condo before going to the charity ball. Although no one had directly asked me about the debacle on Saturday night, I had been tense at every rehearsal session. No explosions from the demon so far, but I knew it would surface again unless I could get help.

  Tonight, I could push it all aside and relax into my persona as a star artist. My gown had nothing restrained about it. As a well-known mezzo-soprano, I was a public figure in Washington, DC. Bright orange silk complemented my coloring and would make me stand out in the crowd. The cut was daring around my shoulders and breasts, and highlighted by thousands of hand-sewn Swarovski crystals. Lavish flounces made of real feathers sprinkled with more crystals made the tiered skirt a knockout. An up-and-coming designer had loaned me the gown, but the long diamond pendant earrings and ruinously expensive designer evening purse encrusted with more crystals were my own. I put a jeweled comb in my hair, a heavy pavé diamond cuff on one wrist, and a large diamond dinner ring on my right hand. For an opera diva, my appearance was nowhere near over the top. Following fashion, my neck was bare, emphasizing the smooth skin of my shoulders and breasts and the cut of the gown.

  Gayle, as usual, wanted to project a conservative style, as befitted
her aspiration to be a judge one day, not merely another assistant D.A. She’d chosen a simple black crepe with clever draping around the hips, accessorized with sapphire ear bobs and a thin gold necklace with a small sapphire pendant.

  The car hired for the evening took us from my Anacostia condo deep into the heart of Chevy Chase, Maryland, where rich homeowners had the space to build ballrooms in their own houses. This one was opposite a golf course. Although the swanky affair wasn’t in a downtown hotel, some press would be allowed in, and the event would be covered in the local news media.

  All the way there, Gayle and I argued about demonic possession. Whether it existed for real. Whether anything could stop it. Whether what happened to me lately was demonic possession or a medical condition.

  “I’m completely healthy,” I insisted. “You know I’m very careful about what I eat. I exercise. I don’t need to see a doctor.”

  “But you haven’t been to one in years. Something might have changed.”

  “What has changed is that I have grown more and more tired of the people around me telling me what to do.” To take the sting out of my words, I smiled at her. She’d been my bestie since the third grade. “You’re the exception, of course.”

  Gayle sighed and smiled back. “Okay, I’ll drop it for now. We’ll have some fun tonight. I hear there are some interesting gentlemen among the donors. Lawyers wanting to make a name for themselves in DC. And doctors.”

  “And real estate moguls.” We smirked at each other, remembering a past encounter with a self-made billionaire who had wanted to give me a house.

  “What would I do with a house?” Gayle and I chanted at the same moment. We dissolved into laughter.

  ***

  “Who is that fine man?” I wished I had a fan to hide my words behind, as I did in so many operas. I had practiced my fan work in Carmen this week for the dance routine in Act II.

  Gayle had wandered away to greet others in the legal profession, but returned at the perfect moment. “I don’t know him.”

  We huddled and gazed as surreptitiously as we could at the handsome man.

  “Lots of women around him,” she noted.

  “He wears a tux as if he was born for it.” I approved of a man who was comfortable in formal clothing. He was tall, with dark hair and a well-proportioned body. That was all I could see, although it was enough. Women of all ages surrounded him.

  “Is he the presenter tonight? I’ve never seen an attractive man openly mobbed like that.”

  “Private school background. Sidwell Friends?”

  “More likely, if he owns this house, St. Albans.”

  The man we watched suddenly broke from his crowd of admirers and went to the area demarcated as a stage with pots of flowers at each side and a standing microphone in the center. He turned on the mic and smoothly called for our attention.

  “Hello, everyone. I’m Dex Morgan, your chairman. I hope you’re enjoying the food and the hospitality of our hostess, Jackie Adams. In a little bit, we’ll have some special entertainment. But first, I want to talk about why we’re all here tonight.”

  With a charming smile, he led into an affecting speech about helping children afflicted with juvenile retinoschisis, the rare degenerative eye disease whose cure this charity supported. He ended with a shameless, completely self-aware pitch for money. “Research dollars are what we need. We want to fund more treatment trials now, and save the eyesight of an entire generation of kids. I hope you’ll each feel generous tonight so we can reach our goal.”

  With another charming smile, he introduced an older woman and turned the mic over to her. She wore an elaborate green gown and a massive, old-fashioned necklace that looked like genuine emeralds. She began to sing. Hideously.

  I looked at Gayle and rolled my eyes. “What on earth—?”

  “I know who she is,” Gayle whispered. “Those emeralds are real. She’s very rich. Very connected.”

  “Extremely lacking in talent.” After a few minutes, we edged away from the spectacle. When we were a good distance away, I turned to Gayle. “This is deadly. How long must we stay?”

  “You’re welcome to leave the moment you hand me a check.”

  The words came from behind me. I pivoted, flushed with embarrassment, and found our host, Dex Morgan, eyeing me with something like disdain.

  Chapter 3

  Dex Morgan asked, “Are you annoyed that I asked for donations? It’s a good cause.”

  Strangely flustered because he was so close, invading my space, I said nothing. His eyes were dark brown with flecks of gold.

  “Tell me why you would attend a charity ball without expecting to be asked to give to the charity.”

  I was not usually at a loss for words, but his intense gaze made me lose my train of thought. Was he angry at me? I retreated into my usual way of dealing with baffling encounters. I drew myself up and fixed a haughty expression on my face. Easy to do with all the princesses I had played. “We have not been introduced. My name is Daylia Fedora. Who are you?”

  His expression changed to one of cynical humor. “You heard me tell everyone my name. Don’t you mean, ‘Are you important enough to talk to me?’”

  I inclined my head. I was on surer ground now. “The thought had crossed my mind. When one is a very busy person, one does not want to waste social time.”

  “Is this social for you, not charitable? Or are you prospecting?”

  How offensive. “You must be joking.”

  He shook his head slightly. “This is the DMV. Everyone is on the make, one way or another. What’s your angle?”

  My eyes searched for Gayle, who had tactfully melted into the crowd. Cornered, I finally said, “I thought a night out meeting the people who possibly can afford to donate to the arts would be pleasant. I was wrong.”

  “You came here to my charity event to hustle for donors to your own?”

  I wanted to look down my nose at him, but he was taller than I. I hoped my expression showed my scorn for his crass summary of my motives. “I do not have a specific charity. When in public, I try to promote goodwill for the arts, and for opera in particular. That is all,” I said coldly. Cold was not what I felt, however. Being this close to Dex Morgan created a heated reaction in my body.

  “You’re splitting hairs.” He shrugged. “Disingenuous like all the rest.”

  I couldn’t leave the event and strand Gayle here, but I didn’t have to tolerate Dex Morgan another minute. “I doubt that. Excuse me.”

  I walked away from him. He probably seldom experienced anyone doing so. As soon as I got a few feet distant, a tidal wave of women rushed past me, toward him. Meanwhile, the hideous yodeling continued in the main part of the ballroom.

  The spring weather had turned balmy and French doors leading to a parterre were open at the end of the ballroom. Other Washington area neighborhoods were more grandiose than Chevy Chase, but even so, this beautiful, very expensive setting grated on me. My own upbringing had been solidly upper middle class. I should feel an affinity for this level of comfort and wealth, yet I couldn’t help thinking that only a few miles from here, many poor people struggled in dismal neighborhoods.

  What strange, wayward thoughts I had tonight. How could I scorn the rich when my profession was made possible by wealthy patrons of the arts? In Europe and elsewhere, opera was largely supported by the state, but in my own country, wealthy donors were what kept the doors open. I knew better than to antagonize even one man who might be persuaded some day to donate substantial amounts of money to an opera house, or to training opera singers, or to funding orchestras.

  Not that I intended to apologize to Dex Morgan for showing my disdain of his singer. She was dreadful. He had been rude to confront me over words I had addressed only to Gayle. Anyway, I had not said anything negative about the charity. I would write a check and that would mollify him, no doubt.

  I paced the elevated terrace. This was an impressive house, almost a fairytale palace. It could have been
the exterior of the prince’s palace in the fairytale opera, Rusalka. I never got to sing the starring mermaid role, though. Her notes were not within my tessitura. As nonmusical people called it, my comfort zone. My range.

  Singing opera was so specialized. If anything more practical had called to me, my mother would have been more enthusiastic. Had I become an attorney or a doctor, for instance. Yet I knew she was proud of me. I must continue to make her proud.

  “There you are.”

  I recognized that voice. My heart sped up. I turned, and as I did so, I measured the distance between where I stood and the nearest French door. The man who confronted me was taller and stronger than I.

  “Why don’t you answer my emails?” Michael Rather asked. He wore a tux, like the other men at the charity ball. Like them, he pretended to be civilized. But I knew all too well that Michael was a savage.

  “I have nothing to say to you.” I spoke coldly. Had he followed me all the way from my condo? How had he gotten in here? Did he keep a tux at the ready in his car? The idea would be ludicrous if he weren’t so threatening.

  “We have to talk. We must talk.”

  “No. Whatever was between us is over.” I said it firmly, but inside I trembled. At any moment, Michael might erupt in violence, as he so often had during our very short affair. I edged toward the nearest escape route, the door to where the party and people were.

  He moved closer to me. The moon lent his expression a satanic cast, but he was no demon. Michael’s power was all in being physically stronger than me.

  “We were meant for each other.”

  His insinuating tone no longer worked except to disgust me.

  “No.” I made my voice as flat and emotionless as possible. Michael lived on his emotions. I knew better than to feed them by showing any feelings of my own.

  “You belong to me.” His passionate declaration rang out on the empty terrace like a clarion cry.