The little man shook his head. “No. I do not. But I do know…things…about it. You see, Waldhar…he believed in the old ways. He was a student of German history. He believed that we, as a people, were truly descended from the gods.”
“Poppycock.”
He nodded his head toward Leopold’s marked wrist. “You, of all people, know that there is much that Man does not know about the nature of our existence and what may lie between the worlds that we see and those that we do not. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, eh? Mr. Shakespeare had it right.” He sipped the brandy. “Waldhar involved himself in experiments. And they involved…human body parts.”
Leopold jerked up in his seat.
“Ah. I see. You know.”
“Just what is it you know, Herr Professor?”
Von Spiegel set down his glass. He spread his gloved fingers on the table as he canted forward. “Waldhar experimented with unholy rituals. Rituals that brought him to the very brink of madness. He became increasingly obsessed with not only his empire of money but by one of power. Ultimate power. These rituals involved blood and death. And as you know, that is the only way to open the gateways between the realms seen and unseen.”
“He is mad,” whispered Leopold, leaning in. “Does he have any inkling how dangerous that is? If he made one simple mistake, the worlds would collide; the unholy Otherworld would crash into our own. All hell would literally break loose!”
“When a man has such single-minded philosophies, he is impossible to dissuade. And I tried, Mr. Kazsmer, I tried.”
Leopold studied the little man with narrowing eyes. “And why should I trust you? So you know about this,” he said, raising his wrist. “You could have discovered it from a book.”
“I did discover it from a book. But only after I met…well. Allow me to show you.”
He reached into his coat and withdrew what looked to be a photograph. He held it to his chest for a moment before slowly lowering it to the table.
Leopold leaned forward. There were two men in what looked like a university. They were both in robes and mortar boards. One was plainly a younger version of Von Spiegel. And the other…
“Why…this…this is my father!”
Von Spiegel touched the image of Leopold’s father with a tender stroke of his finger. “Yes. I knew Ákos Kazsmer in school. He was an amazing scholar. He could have gone far. Alas.” He fingered the corner of the faded image before picking it up, looking at it. “He chose another path for himself. He was a teacher, no?”
“Yes. He…taught in a school for factory boys. He…felt it was a calling.”
“I see. Commendable. But it could not have offered much by way of salary.” He waved his hand. “Never mind. It is merely a shame, is all. His work on the Kabbalah was without peer. If he had only continued…”
“He had a family to support, Herr Professor.”
“Yes, I had heard he married. Such an unusual match.”
Leopold pressed his mouth into a firm line, crossed his arms over his chest, and sat back. “You are speaking of my mother, sir. Have a care.”
“I mean no disrespect. It is only that it was unusual for a man of his faith and culture to marry a Gypsy.”
“They prefer Romani,” he said, raising his chin.
Von Spiegel bowed. “Forgive me. It…must have been trying, your childhood.”
“It was nothing of the kind. It was perfect. Until…” Flicking a sly look at the photo as it made its way back into the professor’s inner pocket, he longed to stop him, to see it one last time. “How did you find me? How did you know of me? Of this.” He raised his left arm again.
“At first I sought out your father. I met him again some years ago. I saw that he had the mark, though his was far less extensive than yours.” He twisted the whiskers on his chin thoughtfully. “And when I heard of his disappearance, well. I dug further. There were rumors about you. That you might have the mark as well. I am a professor of the occult. I have an extensive library at my disposal. You see, I have discovered that each practitioner who performs true magic has an individualized aura signature. He might be able to perform the same ritual, the same conjure, but never with the same magic. I knew your father would likely have the magic I needed. But failing that, the son…the son who might have the mark…why he would be even stronger.” He faced Leopold now, desperation folding his brows. “Please. I would not have sought you out as a mere fancy. I knew you and you alone could help me. Scotland Yard, understandably, does not believe me. But I know you do. Do you not?”
Leopold clutched his empty glass, staring into it. “What do want of me, then?”
“Waldhar is creating something. It took me a long time to discover what it was. A strange device, some sort of gateway that needs these occult means to open it.”
“What exactly does this gateway open?” Leopold knew of many kinds. The kind he often opened, for instance, that allowed Eurynomos through was relatively benign, only allowing one creature to pass its threshold, the one he requested. But there were others that any sane man would not dare touch. Gateways that would allow every malevolent being in from every world. Such a thing would wreak destruction across the entire planet…and on planets beyond. Leopold shuddered at the possibility.
“I feared what it was, what it might be,” said the man. “I demanded he stop and when he did not, I left his employ before I could discover all, but I made my own enquiries and now I know. Waldhar intends to open this gate to the Otherworld, to use the power of these daemons to create an unholy army of golems, soulless dull-witted creatures, to take over every corner of the globe…under his command.”
Leopold blinked, heart pounding. Could he have heard that right? No wonder Scotland Yard had turned the man away. It was mad, but Leopold knew that it could also be true.
Who was this Manfried Waldhar?
“I knew you would understand the gravity of the situation,” said the old man solemnly. “I have been working for several months on this very problem. In order to counteract his ‘Daemon Device,’ I have devised a ‘lock’ that will keep the gate closed.”
Thinking furiously, Leopold came back to himself on the man’s last words. “A lock?”
“Yes.” Von Spiegel wiped his forehead with his gloved fingers. “This is all very distressful. It has taken me a long time to find you.”
Leopold rolled the glass in his hand and gazed into the fire. He had never shared his obsession in the occult with another human being. He couldn’t trust anyone, had never been close enough to anyone to even try. Dispenser Thacker came close but Leopold could never envision just how that conversation might proceed. He had shared this secret life with none all these years but Raj and Eurynomos. And now here was this man. This strange little man who seemed to know too much. Dare he trust him? Did he have a choice when the consequences were so dire? “Yes. I believe you. It is too dangerous not to.”
The man nodded, eyes closed. He seemed relieved that Leopold was at last on his side. “Your expertise with devices—oh, I know you employ them in your magic show,” he said, whispering the last, “and your unique ties to the Otherworld made you the perfect candidate. In fact, it makes you quite the only candidate.”
“So this lock. You have a means to make it?”
“Well, somewhat. But I need your skill. I have the plans and the rituals and we can go over them as soon as we may. I fear we haven’t much time. I know that Waldhar needed a planetary alignment to open the gateway. Such an alignment offers the best possible chance to open the gate at all. Ten days.”
“Yes, yes.” He tried to sip but found the glass empty. He stared at the bottle, wondering if he should pour himself more when von Spiegel stood. Leopold stood in turn.
The man took his hat and coat from the peg. “I must go. Shall I return to bring the plans to you? May I…may I call upon you at your lodgings or…?”
“No, not my lodgings. The warehouse is a good place. Plenty
of room.”
“Ausgeziechnet. Then I shall see you on the morrow. Afternoon?”
Leopold nodded. “Yes. The afternoon.”
“Good night, Mr. Kazsmer.”
“Good night, Professor.” He watched the little man affix his hat upon his head and settle his coat over his shoulders, nod to Leopold, and shuffle out the door.
Leopold sank to his chair once more, thoughts awhirl. It was sometime later that he found a cab to take him back to his lodgings on Regent Street only to find a note from Thacker, that read, “Meet me at London docks. Hurry!”
Chapter Seven
LEOPOLD SEARCHED THROUGH the heavy fog. His lamp did little good but it served to give him confidence of his footsteps on the deserted wharves. A lonely buoy tolled as it bobbed in the waves, and the creak and sway of the ships harbored nearby and the lapping of the brackish Thames against the jetty provided the only sounds.
He swept the light’s beam across the fog, still seeing nothing. But when he pricked his ears he finally heard the sound of muffled talking. Walking forward he spied shadowy figures clustered together, some moving back and forth, backlit from a vague glow. As he approached, the figures turned out to be that of policemen gathered at one of the warehouses and he surmised he had found the place at last.
As he approached, a lamp’s light strafed across his face. “Who’s that?” said the constable behind the lamp.
“I’m looking for Inspector Thacker.”
“Mr. Kazsmer?” The copper squinted, peering over his smoking lamp at Leopold. “I was told you was coming. Right this way, sir.” Leopold followed, lowering his own lamp and snuffing it out with a breath.
He followed the copper through a crowd of other policemen, past the white cart of the public disinfectors, and toward some dockworkers with folded arms, smoking pipes, leaning against a bollard. The copper gestured Leopold forward and he found Thacker, bowler tipped back on his head, Ulster opened and flapping. Thacker looked up and though he didn’t smile upon spotting Leopold he looked a great deal more relieved.
“Have a look at this,” he said, gesturing.
Leopold trotted forward and looked down to where the inspector pointed. Another one. A naked woman with her abdomen cut open like a meat pie, with nothing within but plenty of blood without. Instinctively, Leopold reached for his spectacles, never even minding who else might be watching this time. He flipped the various filters and saw the Cloven-Hoofed One’s telltale footprints.
“Well?”
Leopold took a deep breath and was sorry he had. The metallic tang of blood was overpowering followed closely by the rotting smells of fish and cockles and the Thames itself. He slipped the spectacles away. “It’s like the others.”
“The sick bugger,” said Thacker. His intensity was fueled, as always, by spirits. Leopold smelled it on him.
“I take it you have gotten no further in your investigation, Inspector?”
“Nothing. No clues at all. No witnesses. Is it one man or more?”
“One, I should think.”
“Eh? What makes you think so?” He studied Leopold’s face. “You keep looking in them spectacles. I’ve never asked. Just what is it you see through there?”
“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
“Well, maybe I do. Maybe I want to see them specs.”
He placed his hand gently on Thacker’s shoulder and leaned in. “Spence, trust me. You don’t.”
After a moment Thacker wavered and finally nodded. “You will have your secrets.”
“Perhaps I have too many, but they are necessary.”
“Funny. We’ve known each other for more than four years but I really don’t know much about you at all. First I heard that you were a Gypsy.”
Leopold winced. He had shed that mantle years ago…or so he had thought. Maybe he never truly could. “Our relationship has never leant itself to sharing personal information. Information I prefer to keep to myself. But…there is truth to what you say. As a matter of fact, I…I do not know whether you are married or…”
“I’m not, as it happens. You’re right.” He stared hard at Leopold. “Maybe we should get ourselves a pint, eh? Get to know one another. We do work together. And crikey, we do come across some bloody awful crimes.”
Leopold smiled. “Yes, perhaps you’re right. I think we have put it off for too long.”
Thacker nodded, adjusted his Ulster, and got back to business. “Well now. What do you think about all this?” He gestured down to the body.
Leopold’s smile faded, his thoughts drifting toward Manfried Waldhar and his outrageous plans. “I think…I think…we are dealing with a madman.” That was certainly safe to say. Leopold had only to check certain books he kept carefully hidden that told of how to use these entrails, fresh and still warm, for vile rituals. A blood price had always to be paid to get daemons to do one’s will. The greater the price the greater the boon that could be demanded. Leopold had unwittingly paid that price long ago, and he wore the mark to prove it.
He could hardly tell Thacker that they were looking for Waldhar. How could he possibly verify it? Perhaps a shared pint would ease them into a conversation Leopold had long put off. Maybe it was time to let the detective know just what he was up against.
“We never did look at those Ripper files. Perhaps tomorrow, Leopold.”
“Yes, tomorrow.” His calendar was certainly filling up. “You didn’t, by any chance, meet a curious old man at the Yard with a mad story.”
“We meet all kinds there. What sort of story?”
He weighed what von Spiegel said to him, weighed what he could say to Thacker, and decided against it. “Never mind. It makes no difference.” He turned away from Thacker to slip on his spectacles again. The footprints were heavy and flowed up the wall and out. Thacker had fallen behind, letting Leopold on his own, and Leopold followed the tracks and found their trail led a long way. He had expected them to disappear abruptly but they kept going over the cobblestoned lane and across the wet wooden wharf and into another warehouse.
Leopold chanced a look back to make sure no one followed him and lit his lamp with a spark from his fingers. He followed the hoof prints through a wide doorway, tall enough for a ship’s mast to pass through. The place smelled damp and moldy. It turned out not to be a warehouse but a ship’s berth, open at both ends to the Thames, sans a ship. The dark water lapped against the jetty on either side and the walls hung with thick braided rope, lobster traps, blocks and tackle, and long hooks.
But there was also a…smell. Leopold sniffed. Beneath the mold and the rank of the Thames, he could detect the merest scent of brimstone and the putrid stench of Sitra Achra. There was no mistaking that.
His neck hairs stood up and he suddenly whirled.
Too late.
The giant arm swung and slammed him in the jaw. He soared backward, the lamp flinging from his hand. It fell hard and sputtered out. Leopold landed on wooden planks and skidded to the very edge of the jetty. Another few inches and he would have been in the icy Thames.
He rolled and popped up to his feet, affixing the spectacles tighter to his face, amazed and relieved that he hadn’t lost them.
The Cloven-Hoofed One stood opposite, outrageously muscled arms hanging in a parenthetical bow on either side of his body. His skin had the same reptilian texture as Eurynomos, but the color was quite different. Where Eurynomos was a bright crimson, this one was dark, almost black. He had a set of ram’s horns spiraling up from his skull and twisting down around his foxlike ears. A pair of clawed bat wings stretched up over his back, casting dark shadows to the floor. And his head was a series of protrusions and bulges, forming cheeks, nose, chin, with tusks extending from the edges of his mouth, certainly far from the elegant visage of Eurynomos. And finally, he wore the typical ragged breechclout that seemed to be the uniform of all his fellow daemons…and demons.
He flexed his clawed hands. Stepping forward, his cloven hoof clopped on the plank floor. Th
e other was a more like a jackal’s paw, claws digging in.
Leopold looked him over curiously. He had to be careful, had to get the better of his fear, for this type of creature was not to be trifled with. “This time you are staying to watch your handiwork?” asked Leopold. He was grateful his voice did not waver. A show of confidence might put the creature off his guard.
The demon laughed, a deep gravelly sound. He continued to flex his claws.
“How many more must you kill? How many more does your master require?”
The creature frowned. “No master. I have no master, save Lucifer.”
“No? What of Manfried Waldhar? Does he not hold the puppet strings?”
This time the creature showed its sharpened teeth. “No mortal man is my master. I am Ogiel, the Polluted.”
“You don’t have to sound so proud of it.” Leopold looked him over as he touched the tender bruise to his jaw. “Hang on. Does not Ogiel mean ‘flees from God’? Sounds rather cowardly to me.”
Ogiel roared and pointed a claw at Leopold.
“Tut, tut,” said Leopold, ticking a finger. “You can’t threaten me.”
“I have torn the living organs from the bodies of these flesh creatures. What is one more to me?” He took a step forward, hoof digging into the rotting planks of the wharf.
“Because I command you to stop.” Leopold pushed down the sleeve and bared his wrist, eye facing outward.
Ogiel stumbled, staring. “The Eye,” he muttered. He looked at Leopold anew. “I know you. You are spoken of in the valleys of Gehenna. The filthy rivers of Sitra Achra run sour with burblings of your name.”
Leopold raised a brow. “Dear me. That sounds rather unpleasant.”
“I have no battle with you.”
The Daemon Device Page 6
