The Bandalore

by D K Girl

  ‘I rather need to piss.’ He stood. ‘Touch a single morsel upon the tray and I will know about it.’ He spun on his heels and lowered his face close to Silas’s ear. ‘My nightmares are my own, Mr Mercer, and you’d do well to stay out of them, for I am no witch, nor sorcerer.’ He drew closer, their cheeks brushing. ‘You are right to suppose that all manner of things exist, and you can count daemons among them.’

  He brushed his lips to Silas’s cheek, and stepped away, winking as he stepped through the door.

  The air rushed into the compartment once again. Silas’s knuckles were whitened by their fast hold upon the arms of the seat. Did Pitch toy with him? Silas reached for his wine, trembling every bit as hard as the attendant had. This was exactly the type of taunt that Pitch adored, one that had a man near to loosening his bowels with fear. Slugging back the remainder of his wine, Silas eyed the bottle. A daemon. Was it impossible? A small and uncomfortable voice echoed back at Silas. He himself had been raised by a death god, what was not possible? But damn Mr Ahari if it were so. To be sent off with such company without warning was abhorrent. If they had kept the truth from Silas for fear of terrifying him, then they had been astute in that at least. Silas was not sure how much more of this peculiar world he could bear.

  The minutes stretched into an hour, and Pitch did not return. The wine bottle sat empty now, its contents relaxing Silas enough that he now eyed the cart and its remaining delights with some fervour. Two of the six plates still held desserts: a chocolate cake with glistening frosting, and a small bowl of trifle.

  Did he dare?

  Silas grabbed the tiny silver fork alongside the cake, and dug into the thick, rich depths, cursing Pitch. Cursing the daemon, if that was his real nature. But in truth it was not hard to imagine that a man so prone to cruelty and rage might be the very devil himself. A low anger built within Silas at his predicament. He had been partnered with a sinister creature, his choice in the matter non-existent. Well, both Mr Ahari and Pitch be damned. He raised the forkful to his mouth. If Tobias Asteroth would kill him over such a thing as the eating of a dessert, then best this whole predicament be done with now. Silas shoved the cake into his mouth, one eye still upon the door. The chocolate clung to his tongue and buried in between his teeth. Utterly divine, and decadent. Before he knew it he had consumed the entire slice, his gut now turning for a very different reason. He had purposely set out to goad a daemon. What bloated, sugar-rich fool was he?

  But he need not have worried about Pitch’s return, for there was no sign then, nor fifteen minutes later, of the man. Another attendant returned to remove the cart a short time later, a woman this time. Just as well Pitch was absent, for Silas could not imagine what he might have led the young woman to do.

  ‘We’ll be arriving at Leicester London Station very shortly, sir,’ she advised. ‘I’ll have your cases seen too.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you.’

  The attendant backed out with the trolley and rattled off down the corridor. Some ten minutes later the train slowed, and the call went down the carriage that Leicester London station was imminent. Silas stood, gathering his coat and hat, once again reassuring himself that the bandalore was still upon his person. Ever more comforted by the disc of wood since Pitch’s revelation. The scythe, or a at least the bandalore it hid in, had very ably protected him from Pitch whilst the daemon was in the throes of a berserk rage. That reason alone was reason enough to covet it now. A porter arrived at the cabin to collect their luggage, just as a scream of whistles announced their arrival. The carriage shuddered to a stop. The platform was not quite as crowded as St Pancras, but there were people enough. Perhaps, Silas mused, he could lose himself in their midst. Step off the train and vanish into the everydayness of life around him. Run far, far away from lost souls and teratisms and darkness rising from the heart of the earth. Run far away from his partner.

  ‘I’d locate you, you know.’ Silas whirled to find Pitch in the doorway, the heady waft of cigar smoke coming from him. ‘You rather stand out. And I’d be as unhappy about you attempting to run away, as I am that you ate the chocolate cake.’ His voice sank lower. ‘I’ll punish you for that later, you know.’

  ‘You’ll, you’ll…what?’

  ‘Whip you quite soundly, or throw you into a pit of scorpions. I haven’t decided yet.’ His lop-sided grin returned. The dark mood of earlier was gone without trace, Pitch’s eyes alight with amusement, a carefree air about him. Whatever he had been doing the past hour or so had served Silas well. ‘Oh come now, Sickle. Don’t pale so. Perhaps you shall not be such droll company as you first seemed. Any man who would defy me after learning who it is they defy must have an astonishingly large set of balls. And who does not enjoy playing with balls? Come now. We wouldn’t want to keep Mr Donisthrope waiting, would we? Let’s not give the Order any reason to return you to your grave.’

  He would blame the wine and excess of sugar for his reply, for it could not be helped. ‘I know you seek to unsettle me. But I’ll not have it. The Order would do no such thing.’

  ‘We are all dispensable, Mr Mercer,’ the daemon said. ‘Believe me, I should know.’

  Chapter 16

  Their employer, one Alfred Donisthrope, had sent a chaperon. A thin, freckle-faced young man with a shock of orange hair.

  ‘Gentlemen, I’m Clarence, Mr Donisthrope’s valet. Welcome to Leicester.’ He touched the tip of his fingers to his black felt hat and nodded, a jerky movement of his head reminiscent of a collared dove. ‘We are all well pleased you made the journey. This is quite the honour, to have the Order here. I don’t mind telling you, I’m thrilled by the notion.’ He tugged at one of the brass buttons on his coat, a cloth of heavy speckled brown that bunched at his shoulders.

  ‘We are at Mr Donisthorpe’s service.’ Pitch was the epitome of grace, exuding charm. It caught Silas quite by surprise, and left him to wonder once again if talk of daemons were simply a cruel attempt to frighten. ‘The Order prides itself on attending to matters with the utmost urgency wherever possible. I am Mr Tobias Astaroth, and this is my companion, the spiritualist, Mr Silas Mercer. It is he who will be attending to the bothersome spirit, I am merely here to ensure that as a novice at the task, he does nothing untoward.’

  Silas released an inward sigh. The man was not congenial at all, rather insufferable.

  ‘A novice you say?’ Clarence pinched his nose, red-tipped from the cold. Silas was mildly insulted by the note of concern in the man’s voice.

  ‘Don’t let that bother you, Clarence my boy.’ Pitch added to his charm offencive. ‘It is a very new policy of the Order that we should travel in pairs to our appointments. So new in fact, we are the first to work under these instructions.’ What Pitch thought of those instructions was evident only in the slightest tilt of his nose. ‘Mr Mercer is a rising star among the Order’s members, I can assure you. You need not look so concerned.’ He touched lightly at the man’s arm, and Clarence flinched ever so. Which Silas enjoyed very much. At last, someone who was not so easily swayed by Pitch’s charms.

  ‘It has been a troubling few weeks, don’t mind me,’ Clarence laughed with unsteady sound. ‘I apologise, Mr Mercer for my rudeness. I’m sure you are ever so good at what you do. Right this way, sirs.’

  Silas hardly knew if he was ever so good, or terribly bad. There had not been time to determine such a thing, but he accepted the apology with a genuine smile.

  Clarence led them through the station, a grand affair of quite new construction. As Silas studied the high ceiling and elaborate chandelier that threw gaslight across the open space, he sensed the stares of passers-by. Levelled at Pitch and himself in equal measure. True to form, Pitch tipped his hat, and threw out the occasional wink at those who presumably took his fancy. Which meant there was much winking being done. The coy smiles that were returned to him were not so readily on display when gazes shifted to Silas’s imposing figure. A wide berth was taken by many, and a business man intent on his paper quit
e noticeably jumped upon seeing who he had almost run into.

  ‘Did that child just hide behind its mother’s skirts at the sight of you, Sickle?’ Pitch said in an ill-concealed conspiratorial whisper.

  ‘No.’ Silas frowned, though that’s exactly what the small boy had done. ‘I should think it more likely he sensed your true form.’

  Blast it, could Silas not stifle his irritation with the man?

  ‘Oh, he’d do more than hide behind a swathe of useless material if he saw my true likeness.’ Pitch offered the child’s mother a smile that was more angelic than daemonic, and the poor woman almost tripped upon her own feet in her resultant fluster. With dismay Silas noted her childish giggle and beaming smile showing none of Clarence’s unease. Pitch certainly seduced with sinful ease.

  Their carriage, a rather stunning enclosed landau with contrasting light wood spokes, was led by a pair of impressive dappled grey horses. The driver tipped his hat with a gloved hand as they stepped aboard, and though he did not quite smile, Silas suspected him of having a far more charming demeanour than Isaac. The rain that had followed them most of the way from London had abated here, though the notable number of muddy puddles on the road suggested that respite may be momentary.

  They settled into their seats, Silas forced to sit beside Pitch when Clarence seated himself with his back to the driver. ‘Have either of you visited Leicester before?’

  Silas shook his head, arms pressed into his sides. With his bulk the seating was barely adequate for the two of them if they sought not to lean against one another. Despite his efforts to avoid such a thing he could not seem to achieve his freedom, and was quite certain that Pitch leaned on purpose towards him.

  ‘I’ve never had the pleasure of a visit to this…illustrious city.’ Pitch plastered his words with a sarcastic note Silas was coming to recognise, even if Clarence did not. Outside, the mid-afternoon sun made a valiant and short-lived effort to break the cloud cover. Along the roadside calls went up from the various sellers of warm chestnuts, shouting at passersby that they’d be foolish to miss out on such a treat.

  ‘It is full of industry here, with some massive factories. Mr Donisthrope owns three of them.’ The tentative man’s olive green eyes quite lit up when speaking of his employer. ‘He specialises in boots and shoes.’

  Pitch leaned his elbows on his knees, head resting in raised hands. ‘Shoes you say? Well, I never. If I’d known, I would have insisted the Order claim payment for services rendered through footwear entirely.’ He laughed gaily at his own humour, and after an initial hesitation, Clarence smiled too. Despite his earlier observation of Clarence’s reticence around Pitch, Silas had returned to believing himself and Gilmore the only ones who found the daemon’s presence so disconcerting.

  ‘Clarence,’ Silas said, ‘Might I be so bold as to ask about the hauntings we are here to deal with? I believe the household are of the mind that more than one spirit plagues the residence?’ Mr Ahari had said that much at least, but little more.

  Clarence cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Yes. That’s right. There are at least two of them, I’ve been told.’ He frowned down at his hands, not meeting Silas’s gaze as he spoke. ‘There is definitely need of you here.’

  ‘How long have you worked at…’ The name of the residence escaped Silas.

  ‘Knighton House? That would be four years now. And the strangeness of Leicester has grown with each year passing. Never more so than now.’ Clarence breathed the last few words, wringing his hands.

  ‘You do not speak only of the spirits at Mr Donisthrope’s residence?’ Silas said.

  Clarence did not answer straight away. He peered out the window where the sun had lost its battle with the clouds, though the air remained dry. As the silence continued a curl of concern rose through Silas. The man’s face had grown quite pale, quite an accomplishment considering his already pasty pallor.

  ‘Not entirely.’ He made an odd face, as though his stomach pained him. ‘You seem like a reasonable man, Mr Mercer. I must confess I have not been altogether truthful in bringing you here.’ He raised one shoulder as though expecting a blow, and Silas could not help but notice it was the shoulder nearest to Pitch. ‘I’m so sorry that I…’ Clarence’s tongue failed him, and his eyes glistened with what Silas was startled to realise were tears.

  ‘Is everything all—’ he began.

  ‘I note that you do not include me in your summation of reasonable nature, Clarence,’ Pitch said. ‘Very astute, but might I add that I detest tears and whimpering also.’

  ‘Mr Astaroth,’ Silas said, as firmly as his unsettled nerves would allow. ‘I’m not sure that is a productive line of conversation.’

  ‘If you’d allow me to continue, Mr Mercer you would know that I intended to ask him to get to the point. So Clarence, make your point before I am forced to slap some sense into you.’

  ‘Mr Astaroth,’ Silas cried. ‘That is enough. Please, Clarence, pay him no mind. Do go on.’

  Swallowing hard enough to bob his adam’s apple, Clarence bothered at his brass buttons and took a deep breath.

  ‘I confess I put the idea in Mrs Donisthrope’s head to contact the Order. I kept telling her of the marvellous seances and such that were being had in London and that maybe we needed to do the same, on account of our household ghost.’

  Raising his brow, Silas asked. ‘You said you were not truthful, are you suggesting there are no ghosts in the household?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. No, no. They are there alright. But truth be told, they are no bother at all, and we wish no harm to them. But I was most grateful when Mr Donisthrope at last agreed on your employment. He thinks all talk of the supernatural rather foolish, but he does not deny his lady anything.’

  ‘Rightly so.’ Pitch nodded sagely. ‘No doubt he desires not to be cast from between his wife’s legs—’

  ‘Tobias,’ Silas hissed.

  Clarence gaped. ‘I beg your—’

  ‘Please, Clarence,’ Silas said. ‘Ignore my companion, and I apologise for his rudeness. He is here as my escort certainly, but Mr Astaroth is on probation, and I shall report all of this to my superiors.’ Pitch exhaled a brittle laugh, but said nothing. ‘Now, do go on. If not the ghosts, then what is it that propels you to bring us here?’

  Clarence may well have wasted his master’s funds. Silas could barely deal with lost souls, let alone any greater mystery. His longing to return to the sanctity of Holly Village was growing with a vengeance as the horses pulled them deeper into the city.

  ‘You see, Mr Mercer, Mr Astaroth,’ Clarence leaned forward, lowering his voice, ‘There are some awful things afoot in Leicester, more terrible than a harmless ghost in the cellar.’

  ‘Wonderful. Shall there be blood shed?’ Pitch’s grin was quite unwholesome. How Silas wished he could edge further away, but he was pressed hard against the side of the carriage as it was.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ Clarence frowned.

  ‘Again, never mind him.’ Silas grew more alarmed with each moment. ‘What awful things do you speak of, Clarence?’

  The man’s gaze darted to the window, his thin fingers raised to flick at something upon his shoulder. If Silas was not mistaken, he believed Clarence had just warded off evil. ‘Black Annis is back among us. I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Black Annis,’ Silas said. ‘Who is that?’

  Clarence winced, as though the very words he spoke tasted bitter. ‘She’s a terrible thing, sir. A nasty spirit that has haunted the Dane Hills for many years. ‘Til now though, she’s not set her foul eyes upon more than the livestock. There hadn’t been true sign of her in a very long time, decades, she’d become little more than a story. Until this last year. There are those of us who are certain she skulks beyond the Dane Hills and commits unspeakable horrors.’

  Pitch crossed his legs. ‘Perhaps this visit shall not be so dull as I imagined.’

  Silas fixed his attention on the frightened valet. ‘Unspeakable horrors? Clarence I wou
ld insist that you give me more detail.’ Before Silas’s own imagination had him curled more deeply into his corner.

  ‘Around the Hills they’ve always guarded against her. You’ll see it in the windows there, with how high and narrow they are, built so as she can’t reach right in. She has nails of iron, and arms so long they scrape the ground when she walks.’ Clarence was clearly fearful, but was delivering the tale with relish. ‘Horrid long arms so as she can reach in through any window, steal the livestock straight from their pens.’

  ‘Oh do tell me she uses their bones for toothpicks.’ Pitch clapped his hands. ‘How delightful that would be.’

  Silas could not discern if he enjoyed mocking the man, or was delighted he may be correct.

  ‘Tobias, please. Clarence, do continue.’

  Clarence’s lips made a downturn, and his eyes glistened once more. ‘A walking nightmare, she is. Blue as a bruise and she sets her teeth cracking so as you know your time is coming.’ The man appeared quite unwell, and Silas wondered if they were in danger of being thrown up upon. Clarence paused to gather himself.

  ‘She sounds ravishing,’ Pitch laughed. In that moment Silas could have thumped him, daemon or no.

  ‘Anything but ravishing, sir.’ Clarence shuddered. ‘You see, until most recently, she’d only ever came for the beasts. Leaving her marks upon the walls, but content with whatever animal she got her claws into. Back in the day when she was terrible hungry it was said some houses set out a goat or a pig when they heard talk that the crack of her teeth had been heard in the area. Thought to keep her satisfied that way, you see. There are old tales that she took a man or two, but they were hunters, trying to rid the Hills of her. And its a pity they never did so.’ His voice dipped low and fragile. ‘Because her appetite is fiercer now. Gentlemen, Black Annis has come for our children.’