Janna got home from another long day with Puck and called her agent, Kate Matorsi, to see if she'd heard anything about the part she'd read for.
"You aren't going to be happy."
"They don't want me."
"No. Sorry, Janna. The director wanted someone with a bit more visibility. They went with someone out of California."
She stared up at her ceiling and counted to ten. "Okay. Fine. You've been saying 'Establish yourself in a regional market and have an impeccable record.' Well, I have a great record—and it isn't doing me a goddamn bit of good."
"You aren't going to get every part you want."
"Maybe not. But I should be able to expect better than this sort of response. Not even a thank you for coming in to read? Not even a personal call telling me they'd chosen someone else?"
Kate sighed. "They were doing you a favor, Janna—not the other way around. Did you send them a note thanking them for their time?"
Janna rolled her eyes, but changed her voice to one that would sound chagrined. "Oh. I hadn't thought of that."
"Think of it," Kate said. "If you don't stand out as someone who is thoughtful, professional, and pleasant to work with, people won't want to work with you, no matter how talented you are—because the field is full of talented people who are thoughtful, professional, and pleasant to work with."
Janna put a smile on her face, because she'd heard people could tell if the person on the other end of the phone was smiling from the sound of her voice. She said, "You always give me such good advice, Kate. I'll write them a note now."
She hung up the phone and muttered, "And when I make it big, they can kiss my ass and beg for every single thing they want."
Someone rang her doorbell.
She wasn't expecting company, and the men she dated knew they were never to stop by without calling first. Paul didn't listen too well, though, or he thought the thousand or so dollars he left on the counter for her every couple of weeks "to help out" bought him special privileges. If he were standing out there, she wanted to have a good excuse why she couldn't see him. She didn't want company.
But when she looked through the peephole, it wasn't Paul after all, but the devil Puck—the new, almost human Puck. Neatly dressed in a polo shirt and Sans-A-Belt slacks and tasseled loafers, looking very much like a golfer on his way to the links for a few holes after work. A golfing devil; that image wasn't nearly as jarring as it seemed it ought to have been. He carried a small wicker picnic basket with a large blue bow on the handle.
She opened the door and studied the basket for an instant, then said, "Hi."
"Hello. I'm sure you've seen about enough of me today, what with the photo shoots and the reporters and everything, so I won't take much of your time. I brought something for you." He held the basket out for her.
She took it, and felt the contents shift when she did. She lifted the cover, and a gorgeous Himalayan kitten stared back at her out of eyes as deeply blue as an October sky.
She studied the kitten, which was undeniably cute, then glanced over at Puck. He stood at her doorway smiling nervously. "I'm really sorry I ate your dog. I hope you like her—I mean the kitten . . . I didn't actually know if you liked cats, you know, but I thought she was rather elegant, you know, like you, and at the same time very . . ." He blushed. "Very pretty. So I really do hope you like her."
I can charm a devil to speechlessness, but I can't convince a couple of film assholes to cast me in a part I want. Well . . . I've heard that devils have their uses, too. Not this one, maybe—but he ought to have friends.
"It's beautiful," she said. The kitten crawled out of the basket and up her arm, tiny claws digging into her skin and catching in the cotton of her shirt. When it reached her shoulder, it attached itself firmly with those claws and began to butt the side of her face with its head.
Puck smiled. "I'm glad you like her."
"I do. Thank you so much." She paused, thoughtful. "Would you like to come in for a moment? You said you were on your way home, but . . ."
"I left Fetch down in the car. It won't get too hot for him in there, no matter how hot it gets . . . but I don't want him to be bored."
"You got a car since this morning?"
"After you left, the Chevy dealer supplied me with a nice Blazer. They thought it was sort of appropriate."
"What about a driver's license?"
"I already knew how to drive. I had to take the test, but I got my license with no trouble." He smiled, seeming quite proud of himself. He fished through his pants pocket and pulled out a wallet, and from the wallet extracted a driver's license with perhaps the worst photograph Janna had ever seen. Puck looked like someone had thumped him on the head with a bat, then waited for his eyes to cross and his mouth to gape open before snapping the shot. She sighed and handed it back to him. "You take lousy pictures."
She walked back into her apartment and he followed her in.
"I was talking when the woman took that," he said. "It didn't turn out very well."
"I noticed." She sat on the couch and pointed to one of the armchairs. "Have a seat."
"Something's bothering you," he said.
"Sharp of you to notice. I'm facing some difficult career choices right now. I just got the news back from my agent that I was turned down for a part I really wanted."
"I'm sorry to hear that. And a bit surprised. I can't really imagine anyone having the opportunity to cast you and failing to do so—or perhaps the part was for a homely woman?"
Janna smiled. "Not at all. The part was for a famous woman."
"Meaning that you weren't sufficiently well known to be chosen?"
"Precisely." Janna removed the kitten from her shoulder, where it was playing with her hair, and put it on the floor. It looked around for a moment, then scampered off to see what it could discover. She watched it, trying to figure out how best to word what she wanted to say. At last she sighed. "I guess everyone has heard about making deals with the devil."
Puck sat looking at her. He didn't say anything.
"I just want to know if there's any truth to the stories."
"What stories?"
Janna said, "Come on. The stories about selling your soul in order to get whatever you want. Signing a contract with the devil—is that possible?"
Puck raised an eyebrow. "If things are that bad, you might just want to consider a new agent."
She glared at him. "I'm not joking. I really want to know."
He said, "I'm trying to put that part of my life behind me . . . but yes. In theory, at least, it's possible. In actual fact, it isn't quite as simple as most people think. First, you have to have a soul that Lucifer particularly wants. And you have to not be headed to Hell already—there isn't much point for him in recruiting you as an officer if you're already going in as enlisted. And of course you have to have some special skill to contribute." Puck leaned back in the armchair and narrowed his eyes. "I sincerely hope you aren't considering it."
"If I were, could you help me?"
"No."
She frowned at him. "No? Just like that? No?"
"I'm doing everything I can to get out of the business."
"Could you at least tell me how to get in touch with someone who can talk to me about this?"
Puck shook his head. "Hell knows now that you're interested. If Lucifer is interested in you, a recruiter will find you."
"Hell knows . . .?"
"When you speak out loud about selling your soul, Lucifer hears." Puck stood and studied her for a moment, and she thought his eyes looked sad. "I hope you get what you truly want, Janna . . . but if I were you, I'd spend my hours alone contemplating what that was." He headed toward the door. Then he turned to her again.
"Watch the news," he said. "Someone tried to kill your friend Dan today."
Janna walked him to the door and locked it behind him. She checked the time. Almost six. She turned on the television and waited to see if Dan was on it.
Sure enough, he was. A brief interview with him and a short, plump brunette lawyer who was working to get rights for the Hellraised. A couple of well-lit scenes of the parking lot; what was left of Dan's car; Puck doing CPR on a woman; the body of a woman being hauled away in an ambulance; closing shots of WKTU and Dan.
I should have been there, she thought. It would have been a perfect photo op. Those pictures will be on every television screen in the country—and I would have been perfect as the brave-yet-frightened young actress pitching in to save the dying woman, or offering comfort to the bereaved.
She could see herself, face artistically smudged with soot, hair a little mussed, wearing something that was revealing in a sexy, not sleazy, way . . . a shirt with an extra button "accidentally" unbuttoned, or a wide-necked tee with one side of the neck slipped just off her shoulder. She could have been there, too. She's spent the better part of the day with Puck—but when the opportunity for a shot that would hit the cover of Time came along, she was home.
She decided that if she got an opportunity to sign a contract with Hell, she'd insist on a clause that would put her in the middle of prime news events.