Genre Fiction
![Stephen Lloyd - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B001JS5RD2.jpg)
Friend of the Devil
High school can be hell. Literally.
A demonic detective novel best devoured in a single sitting--from acclaimed TV writer Stephen Lloyd.
Welcome to Danforth Putnam, boarding school for the elite, sprawled across its own private island off the coast of New England. Sam, a war vet who feels sure he's seen it all, has been called here to find a stolen rare book. But as he corners D&D nerds, grills steroid-raging linemen, and interviews filthy-rich actresses, he soon senses that something far stranger-"witchy", in fact-is afoot. When students start to meet mysterious and gruesome deaths, Sam realizes just how fast the clock is ticking.
After joining forces with plucky, epilepsy-defying school reporter Harriet, Sam ventures into increasingly dark territory, unravelling a supernatural mystery that will upend everything he thinks he knows about this school-and then shatter his own reality.
Toss Dracula into a blender, throw in a shot of hard-boiled detective fiction, splash in a couple drops of Stranger Things, and pour yourself a nice tall glass of Friend of the Devil.
A demonic detective novel best devoured in a single sitting--from acclaimed TV writer Stephen Lloyd.
Welcome to Danforth Putnam, boarding school for the elite, sprawled across its own private island off the coast of New England. Sam, a war vet who feels sure he's seen it all, has been called here to find a stolen rare book. But as he corners D&D nerds, grills steroid-raging linemen, and interviews filthy-rich actresses, he soon senses that something far stranger-"witchy", in fact-is afoot. When students start to meet mysterious and gruesome deaths, Sam realizes just how fast the clock is ticking.
After joining forces with plucky, epilepsy-defying school reporter Harriet, Sam ventures into increasingly dark territory, unravelling a supernatural mystery that will upend everything he thinks he knows about this school-and then shatter his own reality.
Toss Dracula into a blender, throw in a shot of hard-boiled detective fiction, splash in a couple drops of Stranger Things, and pour yourself a nice tall glass of Friend of the Devil.
Editorial Reviews
"Horror and noir collide in this blazing tale of a badass investigator and a case of otherworldly crime. Stephen Lloyd makes a hell of a debut with Friend of the Devil."-Chuck Hogan, co-author of The Strain and The Hollow Ones
"Friend of the Devil is a whip-sharp, fast-paced tribute to slashers, fiendishly delicious in every way. Clever, funny, and blood-splattered..."−Alma Katsu, author of The Fervor and The Hunger
"In this compelling horror thriller with very wide appeal, Lloyd builds a strong sense of place, claustrophobic and unsettling, that draws readers into the disturbing mystery before unleashing a stunning, sinister, and thought-provoking twist that will devastate readers and leave them begging for another Sam and Harriet adventure."−Library Journal
"Lightning-paced and undeniably weird…Friend of the Devil's unusual brand of gore and laughs is wildly, wickedly entertaining and positively unforgettable."−Shelf Awareness
"A demonic thriller that keeps you on the edge of your seat…A good novel to start off your summer reading season."−Red Carpet Crash
"Friend of the Devil is a whip-sharp, fast-paced tribute to slashers, fiendishly delicious in every way. Clever, funny, and blood-splattered..."−Alma Katsu, author of The Fervor and The Hunger
"In this compelling horror thriller with very wide appeal, Lloyd builds a strong sense of place, claustrophobic and unsettling, that draws readers into the disturbing mystery before unleashing a stunning, sinister, and thought-provoking twist that will devastate readers and leave them begging for another Sam and Harriet adventure."−Library Journal
"Lightning-paced and undeniably weird…Friend of the Devil's unusual brand of gore and laughs is wildly, wickedly entertaining and positively unforgettable."−Shelf Awareness
"A demonic thriller that keeps you on the edge of your seat…A good novel to start off your summer reading season."−Red Carpet Crash
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
Danforth Putnam
A Wham-O Frisbee with a spinning yin-and-yang symbol sailed over the quad, disappeared for a moment in the sun, then wafted downward until a leaping Rottweiler dragged it to earth in its jaws. A gaggle of barefoot teenage boys with facial hair dyed unnatural colors and twisted into pitchforks or pincers tousled the Rottweiler's head. A dozen starved-looking kids from the cross-country team, punished by the unfairly warm October day, sprinted past in a glistening blur of Dolfin shorts. An Asian boy with an orange Mohawk wearing a sleeveless Black Flag T-shirt, camo pants, combat boots and a dog collar dabbed at fresh piercings with a Union Jack bandanna he moistened in rubbing alcohol. He scuttled between a pair of glossed and pretty teenage girls who shared grimaces and "Icks" with their glossed and pretty teenage boyfriends, the four of them tall, blond, tanned and sockless in Top-Siders, khakis and pastel Lacoste tennis shirts. A tall, pimply kid wearing a navy blazer and a Ronald Reagan button the size of a hubcap marched up to a small girl with a crewcut and dressed in a flannel shirt who was waving a pink triangle poster. He attempted to rip the poster, but she smacked his glasses off and called him a Nazi, and he skulked away, cursing.
It was a diverse group, Sam noted, in every way but one. They were all filthy rich. At least that's what Sam assumed. He didn't really know what the tuition at a school like this was, but it had to be astronomical. They had their own island, for Christ's sake, twenty square miles off the Massachusetts coast. On it were indoor and outdoor tennis courts, basketball courts, squash courts, Olympic-size pools, a soccer field, a football stadium, a hockey rink, horse stables (for the polo and equestrian teams), a television studio, three theaters and a science lab you could probably smash atoms in. Every building looked like it had been painted yesterday, and the surrounding lawns, hedge paths, rosebushes and topiaries were so meticulously groomed they made his marine buzz cut look shaggy.
Sam sparked his Zippo and lit a Kent. A squat, imperious woman leading a dozen small kids (too small to be in high school, he noted) scowled at him and sniffed at his cigarette. He smiled at her with a lascivious wink and French-inhaled luxuriously until she huffed away, her small train in tow.
"What'd the cops say?" Sam asked the headmaster as they ambled across the quad.
Thomas Arundel was a large man with what Sam noticed was a great head of hair for a guy his age. It had gone gray, some of it white, but every follicle he'd ever had appeared to still be rooted. Tom's head, Sam thought, did not match his body. Above the neck, with his distinguished silver mane, wire-rimmed glasses and unblemished skin, he was the picture of an effete academic. Below the neck, with his rough, powerful bulk and hands the size of catchers' mitts, he looked like a dockworker or a former defensive tackle.
"They sent a patrolman. Not a detective. A kid in uniform barely old enough to shave," the headmaster said. "He did a full twenty minutes of investigating, which mostly involved striking up conversations with pretty female students. Since then, I've left five unreturned messages."
The yin-and-yang Frisbee bounced off the headmaster's chest and into one of his giant hands. Several players froze, staring at him and cringing.
"Gentlemen," the headmaster said. He closed his hand and snapped the Frisbee in half, as though it were made of tinfoil, the hard plastic cracking like gunfire. "Do be more careful." He neatly stacked the Frisbee halves and handed them to a chastened lad, who silently backed away.
Sam caught himself gaping and clamped his lips around the cigarette just before it tumbled out of his mouth. "Cops know how much the book's worth?"
Tom sighed. "Danforth Putnam is technically in West Cabot County. Last year, West Cabot County had three murders, two dozen rapes, nearly four hundred aggravated assaults and eighteen arsons. I called about a stolen book. Trust me, Mr. Gregory, they don't care what it's worth. As far as anyone on that side of the Atlantic is concerned, this is an island full of spoiled rich kids with spoiled-rich-kid problems, and a stolen book, even a valuable one, fits firmly in that category."
Sam more or less agreed with those on that side of the Atlantic. "A place like this, obviously you have your own security."
"And they're very well-paid," said Tom irritably. "So far, they've turned up nothing."
"Well, wait till I get their reports before you fire any of them," said Sam. His eyes ...
Danforth Putnam
A Wham-O Frisbee with a spinning yin-and-yang symbol sailed over the quad, disappeared for a moment in the sun, then wafted downward until a leaping Rottweiler dragged it to earth in its jaws. A gaggle of barefoot teenage boys with facial hair dyed unnatural colors and twisted into pitchforks or pincers tousled the Rottweiler's head. A dozen starved-looking kids from the cross-country team, punished by the unfairly warm October day, sprinted past in a glistening blur of Dolfin shorts. An Asian boy with an orange Mohawk wearing a sleeveless Black Flag T-shirt, camo pants, combat boots and a dog collar dabbed at fresh piercings with a Union Jack bandanna he moistened in rubbing alcohol. He scuttled between a pair of glossed and pretty teenage girls who shared grimaces and "Icks" with their glossed and pretty teenage boyfriends, the four of them tall, blond, tanned and sockless in Top-Siders, khakis and pastel Lacoste tennis shirts. A tall, pimply kid wearing a navy blazer and a Ronald Reagan button the size of a hubcap marched up to a small girl with a crewcut and dressed in a flannel shirt who was waving a pink triangle poster. He attempted to rip the poster, but she smacked his glasses off and called him a Nazi, and he skulked away, cursing.
It was a diverse group, Sam noted, in every way but one. They were all filthy rich. At least that's what Sam assumed. He didn't really know what the tuition at a school like this was, but it had to be astronomical. They had their own island, for Christ's sake, twenty square miles off the Massachusetts coast. On it were indoor and outdoor tennis courts, basketball courts, squash courts, Olympic-size pools, a soccer field, a football stadium, a hockey rink, horse stables (for the polo and equestrian teams), a television studio, three theaters and a science lab you could probably smash atoms in. Every building looked like it had been painted yesterday, and the surrounding lawns, hedge paths, rosebushes and topiaries were so meticulously groomed they made his marine buzz cut look shaggy.
Sam sparked his Zippo and lit a Kent. A squat, imperious woman leading a dozen small kids (too small to be in high school, he noted) scowled at him and sniffed at his cigarette. He smiled at her with a lascivious wink and French-inhaled luxuriously until she huffed away, her small train in tow.
"What'd the cops say?" Sam asked the headmaster as they ambled across the quad.
Thomas Arundel was a large man with what Sam noticed was a great head of hair for a guy his age. It had gone gray, some of it white, but every follicle he'd ever had appeared to still be rooted. Tom's head, Sam thought, did not match his body. Above the neck, with his distinguished silver mane, wire-rimmed glasses and unblemished skin, he was the picture of an effete academic. Below the neck, with his rough, powerful bulk and hands the size of catchers' mitts, he looked like a dockworker or a former defensive tackle.
"They sent a patrolman. Not a detective. A kid in uniform barely old enough to shave," the headmaster said. "He did a full twenty minutes of investigating, which mostly involved striking up conversations with pretty female students. Since then, I've left five unreturned messages."
The yin-and-yang Frisbee bounced off the headmaster's chest and into one of his giant hands. Several players froze, staring at him and cringing.
"Gentlemen," the headmaster said. He closed his hand and snapped the Frisbee in half, as though it were made of tinfoil, the hard plastic cracking like gunfire. "Do be more careful." He neatly stacked the Frisbee halves and handed them to a chastened lad, who silently backed away.
Sam caught himself gaping and clamped his lips around the cigarette just before it tumbled out of his mouth. "Cops know how much the book's worth?"
Tom sighed. "Danforth Putnam is technically in West Cabot County. Last year, West Cabot County had three murders, two dozen rapes, nearly four hundred aggravated assaults and eighteen arsons. I called about a stolen book. Trust me, Mr. Gregory, they don't care what it's worth. As far as anyone on that side of the Atlantic is concerned, this is an island full of spoiled rich kids with spoiled-rich-kid problems, and a stolen book, even a valuable one, fits firmly in that category."
Sam more or less agreed with those on that side of the Atlantic. "A place like this, obviously you have your own security."
"And they're very well-paid," said Tom irritably. "So far, they've turned up nothing."
"Well, wait till I get their reports before you fire any of them," said Sam. His eyes ...
