Demon Child

good girl?”
        “No.”
        “I find that hard to believe.”
        Freya said nothing.
        “Can you explain to me why you're not a good girl?”
        “I'm a demon child,” Freya said.
        “Is that so?”
        “Yes.”
        “Do you trust me, Freya?”
        The small girl squirmed just the slightest on the couch, as if she wished, for the first time, she could wake up. “Yes,” she said.
        “If I could prove to you that you aren't a werewolf, would you believe my proof?”
        There was a long pause.
        Feet clacked by the library door in the corridor beyond.
        At last, Freya said, “Yes.”
        “Remember when the wolf killed Hollycross?” Hobarth asked. “Do you remember what night that was?”
        “Friday night,” Freya said.
        “Very good. What were you doing then?”
        “I was in a coma,” Freya said. Her voice sounded much more mature than the voice of a seven-year-old. “I went out while I was in a coma-and I killed Holly-cross.”
        “No,” Walt said. “And I'll show you you're wrong.” He did not speak hostilely, but with warmth and Mend-ship.
        “You can't show me that,” Freya said. “Because it's true. I really did tear out Hollycross' throat.”
        She said it dryly, coolly, matter-of-factly. Her tone made Jenny unconsciously hug herself against the chill that had invaded the library hi the last few minutes.
        “You wait,” Walt said. “I'll show you that you're wrong.” He paused a moment, collecting thoughts. “What day is today?” he asked Freya.
        “Monday.”
        “Let's go backwards through time,” Hobarth said. “Let's just melt back and back through the hours. See, it's Monday morning now, and you're just getting up. What color pajamas are you wearing?”
        “Yellow,” Freya said. “With blue buttons.”
        “You're yawning and stretching,” Walt said, putting a yawn into his voice. “You rub your eyes and get out of bed. You look at the clock. What time does the clock say?”
        Freya's voice had grown sleepy, as if she indeed had just climbed out of bed. “Ten minutes until nine.”
        Hobarth continued swiftly. “That reminds you of when you went to bed Sunday night, doesn't it? You were really tired, weren't you? What time is it Sunday night when you go to bed?”
        “Aunt Cora puts us to bed at eight-fifteen.”
        “How do the covers feel?”
        “Warm. The middle cover is scratchy, though. It's made of wool, and I don't like it.”
        “You're talking to Frank in the dark, aren't you.”
        “Yes.”
        “What are you saying to him?”
        And that easily, he had taken her back to the previous night. With great care, he worked her back to supper time Friday evening, to the point where she passed out on the upstairs hallway floor.
        “What was it like?” he asked.
        “Dark,” she said.
        “You were asleep?”
        “Yes. Waiting.”
        Walt frowned. “Waiting for what?”
        “For the spirit to congeal inside me.”
        “What spirit?” he asked.
        “The demon.”
        “There is no demon,” he said softly.
        “The wolf demon.”
        Hobarth looked at Jenny, shook his head. It seemed that he had not been expecting this either. He pulled at his nose with the fingers of his left hand, trying to think. A few moments later, he said, “There wasn't any such thing. You were asleep. There was nothing more than darkness, was there? Don't fib to me, Freya? There wasn't any wolf spirit, was there?”
        “Yes, “Freya said.
        Again, he collected his thoughts, decided to play along with the child to see where she was taking him. “Tell me about this wolf spirit, Freya. What was it like?”
        “It was inside me,” she said. “It was all wound up in me. But when I was sleeping, it unwound. It crawled out of me. You couldn't see it if you were there. It went out of the house, and part of me went with it.”
        “Where did you go?”
        “The woods. In the woods, in the darkness, it grew a coat and a face and feet to run on.”
        “Grew them? Out of what?”
        “Out of the fog,” Freya said. Her voice was tiny, desperate, echoing from deep inside her.
        “That's silly, isn't it?” Walt asked. He chuckled to set the mood he wanted.
        Jenny thought he was positively marvelous. He was able to handle anything, no matter how