The Devil Knows Her Name

by C.N. Vair

Genres: Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; General Fiction; Horror; Thrillers; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

A hundred years ago, a witch sold her soul to save her life—but now she must stop the devil from collecting his due in this gripping and nuanced debut horror novel.

The devil was as my mother and grandmother had always described him: polite enough that you might forget yourself, so beautiful that you’d want to, so dangerous if you did.

Attacked by the man she desired and at the brink of death, Tess Wynne vowed she would do anything to live—and the devil heard her. Their bargain meant she would remain ageless and tethered to the land she nearly died on, at the edge of the isolated Appalachian town of Burrsville. Her home is now a wildlife sanctuary, and the spells she’s woven keep the land and community safe.

But then Tess rescues an orphaned fawn with unnatural appetites, and her instinct to protect this strange creature puts her at odds with Burrsville’s residents. And when a new pastor comes to town and begins chipping away at the trust she’s gained, threatening the sanctuary and its animals, the careful edges of Tess’s world begin to fray.

The devil whispers in her ear that he can save the sanctuary if she’ll just pay his price, and Tess must decide if she’ll trust in her own magic to save what she loves—or surrender to his will.

Release date: August 25, 2026

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter

1

The devil came on the autumn equinox, as he always did.

I was in the cutting garden, a sharp pair of shears in one hand, a bucket of flower stems in the other. The toes of my boots were dark with dew and my sleeves were damp with it; I might have waited for the sun to dry the grass, but early morning was the best time to cut flowers. The dahlias were at their peak, each bloom larger than my splayed hand, and beside their bed my mother's rose rambled its luxurious way up the side of the house, slaughterous red blooms turned carmine by the golden light.

When I saw him emerge from the woods, it was through a cluster of foliage. I made my cut, the close of the shears a satisfying snick in my hand, and extracted myself and the flower stalk from the bed. I stripped the leaves from the stem and placed it in the bucket, trying to ignore the uptick in my pulse. It was always a shock, at first, to see the shape of a man pull free of the shadows of the trees-but it was only the shape of a man, after all.

He made his way across the meadow, unhurried and familiar. There was no explosion of birds from the long grass, no flick of telltale white from fleeing deer; the wild things never seemed to notice him. He was barefoot, wearing a pair of loose-fitting pants that were soaked to the knee and a shirt that had been washed so many times the color and form had gone out of it. His dark hair straggled to his shoulders and fell into his pale eyes. He looked, of all things, like a young hippie about to pull out a guitar and play me a song.

But he was nothing so innocent, and I no longer took gifts from the devil-not even songs.

I left my bucket and shears and went down to the gate to greet him. He paused a few feet away, as he always did. He was as my mother and grandmother had always described him: polite enough that you might forget yourself, so beautiful that you'd want to, so dangerous if you did.

"Happy Mabon, reaper," he said.

It was an old joke between us. My mother had named me Teresa, the harvester, perhaps hoping to imbue me with the merry generosity of an autumnal goddess. The devil delighted in calling me for the darker side of the coin, and I simply went by Tess.

"And to you," I answered. "How was your walk?"

"Longer than I expected-you've grown your borders since I was here last."

He sounded pleased, as though it was for his benefit. I smiled, trying not to read too much into it. "Yes, on the solstice. Will you come in for a while? I was just about to make breakfast."

That was a lie, of course; I'd been up since before the sun rose, and the mug of black coffee I'd gulped down between mixing milk replacer and thawing mealybugs would've normally lasted me until noon. But my grandmother said I should always be polite to the devil, though I shouldn't let him stay too long, lest he use it as a foothold in the world and bring the darkness with him.

"If you don't mind," he said.

"Of course not." I swung the gate open for him, and we went up the little flagstone path to the porch, his feet leaving damp, six-toed prints on the stone. I paused only to collect my shears and bucket of flowers, and then I opened the door for us both.

As we stepped inside, I was conscious of the smell of sawdust and animal musk. It was faint, only noticeable in a few places in the house, and it was an unavoidable part of being a wildlife rehabilitator, so I didn't apologize. He said nothing of it, and I motioned to the spare chair I kept at the table for times such as these. "Coffee?"

"If you have some made."

"I was about to make another pot for myself anyway. It'll take just a minute."

He moved carefully into the space, ducking the bunches of dried calendula and lavender that hung from the ceiling beams, and eased himself into the chair. I washed my hands in the sink and filled the reservoir for the coffeemaker, taking a quick look around to ensure I hadn't left any cartons of worms or rat livers in plain sight. Thankfully, the only things covering my counters were apples, early pumpkins, and the half-finished leaf and acorn charms I was preparing for the night's table decorations.

I preheated the oven and began to slice up a few of the apples, conscious of his eyes on me as I did so. "Did you miss me?" he asked, teasing. "You must get lonely up here by yourself."

I glanced up, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the window; the playfulness in his voice did not reach his face. "I'm so busy I hardly have time to be lonely," I said lightly. "Besides, my friends come to visit me."

I spread the apples in a baking dish, covering them with cinnamon and nutmeg and golden squares of butter. He reached for one of the table decorations-the white candle in the set of three, its red and black siblings just out of his reach. He handled the soft wax delicately in his long fingers, and yet I found myself wishing he would put it down. "Are you celebrating with your friends tonight?"

"Yes, they're all coming."

"They know the old ways?"

"Well, no." I bent down to slide the dish into the oven and straightened again. "But they're like-minded enough."

I didn't say what I really meant, but the line of his mouth curved sharp and wicked nonetheless. He studied the pattern in the sealed wax a little more closely, and I knew he would see the truth of my intention there. I made myself busy, sweeping the apple leavings into the compost and taking a few of the pumpkins to the larder so I had a bit of elbow room.

"You said you moved your boundary line on the solstice?" he asked finally. "The first time in a while, isn't it?"

I shrugged, brushing off the defensiveness that rose to the surface. "Three or four years, I think. I can't go too quickly or it'll draw attention. Besides, like I said-the day-to-day keeps me busy."

He inhaled as if to speak, then seemed to think better of it. After a moment he changed the subject, and we talked about the weather and the roads until the timer went off. I served him the apples dripping with cream, and he ate slowly, as if this was the first meal he'd had in some time or might be the last for a while. For all I knew, both could be true; without a foothold in the world, his time here was limited and his energy finite.

The meal was interrupted by a squawking cry from the nursery, and I got up quickly. "I'll be right back."

My house was not large, all rough-hewn logs and easy angles. The kitchen and living room were one large space, and the upstairs loft contained only my bedroom. My washer and dryer were in the kitchen, so the only enclosed rooms were the bathroom and what the person who built the house may have planned as a nursery. I'd made it into another rehab space for the youngest and most fragile animals, while the adults were kept in the converted barn. There were a few indoor-outdoor pens that served as transition spaces, and once animals had recovered their full strength or gained independence, I released them into the sanctuary. The paperwork to register it as a proper nonprofit was sitting somewhere in my desk, half filled out and buried under a decade's worth of junk mail, but it didn't matter; my land was a sanctuary in the truest sense.

The cry in question had come from one of the litter of squirrels. Their eyes weren't yet open but they were starting to become mobile, and this one had squirmed and wriggled its way off its pile of siblings and out of the makeshift nest.

I opened their bin and gathered the little lost adventurer carefully in my hand, feeling velvet skin and soft bones roll beneath my fingertips. I deposited it back into the nest and its squeaks ceased as it nosed its way among its siblings, who were still sleeping off their latest meal.

Squirrels were one of the few animals with young at this time of the year, so the nursery was otherwise empty save for one young raccoon who had come in so weak and emaciated I'd had to tube-feed him. He was strong enough to eat on his own now, and was still nibbling away at his breakfast.

I went back out to the kitchen and washed my hands. My guest had finished eating, so I cleared his plate and took down two mugs for coffee. "Cream or sugar?" I asked, although I knew the answer.

"Just black is fine."

I set the mug in front of him and settled back into my own chair, and we talked and joked about nearly nothing for a while. I could never truly feel at ease with him, wolf that he was, but I could pretend well enough.

In a lull, he asked, "Are you worried about them getting suspicious?"

I paused, taking a sip of coffee to stall. The devil kept his eyes on the white candle in his hands and didn't look at me, which was one of his tells; he knew when his eyes would betray too much intensity.

"Who?" I asked.

He made a vague, impatient gesture in the general direction of the village. "Your neighbors. The town. Everyone. You used to expand the sanctuary every year."

My defensiveness rose again and refused to be brushed away this time. "Yes, I used to grow it every year, and now I have to maintain everything I've taken responsibility for. If I keep taking on too much too fast, the magic won't hold."

"So it has nothing to do with them, then?" Again that dismissive gesture toward the town. "You're just not strong enough?"

There was a long, tense beat of silence. My hands were white-knuckled around my mug; I dropped them into my lap, stretched my fingers, reached for my magic even though it would surely fail against him.

"Why?" I asked. "Why do you care?"

He dragged his hand through his hair, pinched the bridge of his nose-an incredibly human gesture of frustration. "You know why, Tess. I want to help you."

"But for a price."

"Not more than you've already paid."

"But more than it's worth. You want me to give up the sanctuary, my home, just to have the burden of protecting it off my shoulders? Where would I go?"

"I enjoy your company, Tess-you could stay with me. I could make this a real Eden, and you could be its caretaker."

"Until you get bored, or resentful, or someone else makes you a better offer."

"That's an unkind assumption."

I raised an eyebrow. "So I should rely on your benevolence?"

He inhaled as if to reply, but I saw the smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. He glanced away, catching his bottom lip in his teeth to keep from laughing, and despite the tension knotting my shoulders, I found myself staring.

At last he stood. I rose with him automatically, trying not to lose ground even though he was a head taller than me. "Thank you for breakfast," he said. "Apples are my favorite, you know."

"I know."

That made him smile, and some of the tension eased from me until he said, "I'll be around, if you change your mind."

He left, making his way back down the stone path and out into the meadow, and I watched until he disappeared into the woods.




The sun was setting when my friends began to arrive, and I’d put the devil and his offer out of my mind. My table groaned under the weight of baked squashes, homemade bread, platters of grapes and berries, pumpkin pie, and bottles of wine and cider. I’d lit almost every candle I owned-some of them with runes scratched into the wax, some of them dressed in knotted thread-and the entire house glowed against the gathering gloom of night and winter. My mother and grandmother always made this night feel truly magical, and as desperately as I’d tried to re-create that feeling after they passed, I never managed to do it until I found friends.

Christine and Max arrived first, as they always did. Both retired teachers, they looked as much like brother and sister to me as husband and wife; they both had short gray hair and small rectangular glasses, and they spoke in the soft, gently curious way of people who had never stopped learning.

"You didn't do pecan, did you?" Max asked, handing me a pie and glancing worriedly at the loaded table.

"I didn't, but I don't think you can ever have enough pecan pie anyway," I said.

"I brought this!" Christine chirped, gaily waving a slim book of poetry.

They made themselves comfortable, pouring each other glasses of wine while I searched out a spare pie server, commenting on the food and asking if this or that was new.

"Here's Georgie and Evelyn," Christine said, and I heard the crunch of tires on the gravel outside.

Georgie and Evelyn went nearly everywhere together, as Evelyn no longer drove-no small feat in a town whose only public transportation was a two-run bus. She'd started working for the village as soon as she could hold a job, outlasting every good old boy who chortled and groped his way through local government. She was the only reason there was any bus running in Burrsville.

I saw Georgie the most out of the group. She ran the local feed store, one of the only independent businesses left in town, and she carried some of the less common milk replacers, insects, and seed mixes for me. She'd become a fixture of my days, and for as long as I could remember, I'd walked into her store, taken a deep, soothing breath of sawdust and fertilizer, and found her behind the counter reading a vintage Vogue. She hardly seemed to have changed at all in that time; her dark, tight curls showed touches of frost at her temples, but her skin was unlined.

The conversation picked up as soon as the two women entered the house, exchanging hugs with Christine and Max even though they'd probably seen each other earlier that week. "You started the party without us," Georgie chortled, tracing two circles on her cheeks that mimicked the twin spots of bright red that appeared whenever Christine had wine.