Frowning, I handed him some change. He bought the paper, and I read the article on the spot.
“This doesn’t bode well, Mab.” I folded the paper and tossed it into a nearby trash can. My cell phone still read “out of range.” “This is definitely a breach of contract. I’d better call headquarters as soon as we reach the airport!”
We picked up our pace. The sights were still lovely and the air balmy, but the afternoon had lost its charm for me. What would I do if our Priority Accounts stopped honoring their word, now that Gregor and Theo were not around to oathbind them and terrify them into submission? Currently, as a stop gap, I was requiring new contracts be sworn upon the River Styx. Our meager supply of Styx water grew smaller each year, however, and some of what remained was needed for other purposes. More than once, I brought this up with Father, but he had never given me a satisfactory answer. Now he was missing, and the problem was on my shoulders.
Mephisto tripped along in front of us, kicking stones and shouting instructions to them. I could feel Mab glaring at me. He was waiting for me to tell Mephisto that we were deserting him. I figured there would be plenty of time for that on the plane. After all, I was not going to abandon him on St. Thomas.
As we reached Vimmelskaft Gade, Mephisto turned into a narrow alley that the map showed to be a shortcut, then suddenly backed out again, bumping into Mab and exclaiming excitedly, “Uh-oh!”
“Hey, Harebrain, what’s your prob . . . oh . . .” Mab trailed off, staring down the alley. He threw out a hand to indicate that I should stay back. I ignored him and rounded the corner. A shiver of dread passed through my body from the roots of my hair to the soles of my feet.
We were gazing down an alley paved with dusty yellow brick. A few palms grew on one side. There was an opening into a café, and the air smelled of fragrant spices, though I also caught a whiff of decaying flesh. In the middle of the alley, blocking the way, three demons stood shoulder to shoulder.
The first was an inky figure with sharp horns, wrapped in a billowing opera cape. His scarlet eyes matched the runes carved into the staff in his hand. Next to him, a stocky man in a robe of thick gray fur leered menacingly. His red hair stood in caked peaks that resembled a punk hairdo, though he followed a far older custom. The third, clad in moldering mummy’s wraps, towered over the other two. A gold pharaoh’s death mask hid his face, and the red-and-white double crown of the Egyptian kings adorned his head. The eyes of the mask were dark slits, so the direction of the gaze beneath could not be discerned. It was from this last figure that the stench of death wafted.
Quick as the wind, Mab pulled a container from his pocket and, deftly pouring it, formed a protective circle about us. Mab’s face was slick with sweat. Putting his finger to his lips and then drawing it across his throat, he indicated that we should keep silent if we valued our lives. Then he passed his hand in front of his eyes, while pointing toward the demons with his elbow, which I took to mean that we should avoid glancing in the direction of the splendid golden pharaoh mask, lest we accidentally make eye contact with the mind-reading Baelor.
So, the three of us stood bunched together, trying not to look at the demons while still not daring to look away, lest they catch us off guard. Mab’s precautions are often excessive, but this time I applauded his quick thinking and vigilance. The palpable malice that issued from the demons—sweeping over us and causing me to feel sullied, unclean—diminished after Mab completed his salt ward. Even so, the sensation was as frightening as it was unpleasant, for the demon’s infernal presence conjured up memories I loathed to recall.
The alley fell away, and, suddenly, I was back several centuries, following Theo and Titus into an abbey that had been visited by an incubus. The demon’s unholy get had eaten their way out of their mothers’ wombs, leaving the dead nuns lying with their entrails spread about them in pools of blood. It was the smell of Baelor of the Baleful Eye that brought back this particular memory. The sight had been terrible, but the odor had been worse, as the stench of the nuns’ rotting corpses mingled with that of the decayed matter spilled from their exposed innards.
I pulled my attention back to the present, only to again breathe in the demon’s stink and find myself transported yet again into my past: the time we found a corpse in an abandoned boneyard, its limbs spread out about the graves, the head bloated and hollowed, as if some creature had been wearing it like a mask. That one gave Logistilla nightmares for years.
This memory was followed by another equally ghastly: a visit to an asylum with Erasmus and Cornelius to question inmates driven mad because some sorcerer had trafficked with a demon. The poor souls screamed horrifically, flinching from invisible foes. They gnawed on their own lips until their mouths were raw and torn. They would have done worse had they not been restrained. The first few had been found eyeless, with gnawed stumps where their fingers should have been. The would-be sorcerer was dead, his blood splattered across the walls of his house. The patients in the asylum were his unsuspecting neighbors. Their only crime: they lived too close to the wrong man.
As bile rose dangerously in my throat, I felt I could not bear much more of this. I closed my eyes and prayed.
Like a soft breath of cool freshness, my Lady’s blessing embraced me. The glaring images of mangled bodies and lives gone wrong faded from my thoughts. I felt cleansed, pure. Mab and Mephisto also raised their heads and stood straighter. Apparently, my Lady’s blessing extended to them. I thanked Her.
Ahead of us, the third demon moved. From behind his back, he brought out a tall staff topped with a winged lion. It consisted of small figurines similar to the one Mephisto had begun of Mab, strung together like a long totem pole. Birds and angels carved from pale woods made up the first two feet of the staff. Mundane creatures made of apple, cherry, and oak followed, and dangerous mythical beasts of dark mahogany or ebony made up the bottom. The jeweled eyes, set into the carven faces, winked in the bright sunlight like so many points of colored fire.
“My staff!” Mephisto darted forward.
Mab and I both lunged, grabbing him by the hair and shoulders. My brother struggled, twisting and writhing, but there were two of us and only one of him. Furthermore, his recent injuries and vagabond life had taxed his strength. After a brief struggle, he went limp and confined himself to muttering darkly, never taking his eyes off the staff.
Mab wildly glanced about us. One-handedly, he drew out his salt and fixed the circle where Mephisto had scuffed it. From his scowl, I gathered that he would have liked to redraw the ward entirely, but to do so he would have had to release Mephisto.
The stench of death was growing. I fought off the desire to gag and wished I had an extra hand to cover my mouth. I noticed my arms, were trembling from the effort of restraining Mephisto. This was not good.
We could remain here, but for how long? The sun would set soon, and the demons’ power would only get stronger as night approached. True, we had a ward, but salt was used to hold off ghosts, ghouls, and vampires. More powerful beings, such as these, could cross such a barrier if they exerted a little effort, especially now that Mephisto had scuffed it.
What other options remained? Run? If so, where would we be safe? Where could one run when fleeing demons? A properly consecrated church would offer sanctuary, but nowadays one could not rely on churches having been properly consecrated.
If we could not stay and we could not run, that left fighting. Fight with what? My flute? Lightning hurt demons, but the sky was blue, and there was not a power line in sight. On a clear day like this, raising enough of a storm to draw a lightning bolt might take as long as twenty minutes, and that was assuming I let go of my brother to play. By then, we could all be dead.
A tornado? Calling up a twister did not require a storm, and I could do it one-handed. In an enclosed alley like this, however, it would be as likely to suck up us as them, not to mention the effect upon the town.
That left us facing demons of Hell with a fighting fan, a lead pipe
, and Mephisto’s new lute—and that was assuming Mephisto would fight beside us, rather than commit suicide by lunging for his staff. Of course, it might throw the fight in our favor, if Mephisto suddenly reverted to his giant black bat-winged form. If he was not transforming now, to gain his beloved staff, then I doubted we would get help from that quarter. Besides, I did not necessarily want help from a demon, even if it thought it was my brother.
What we needed was Theo’s Staff of Devastation, or the Ring of Solomon, or one of Mephisto’s mythical beast friends. Alas, the mythical beasts were on their side now.
Seir of the Shadows spoke in soft dulcet tones. “Children of Prospero, our quarrel is not with you. Return that which has been stolen, and no harm will come to you.”
His voice flowed like music, as pleasing to the ear as his handsome sable features were to the eye. Yet, it was a repulsive pleasantness, evoking passions I did not care to experience. My Lady’s breath encircled me again, shielding me from his influence.
Mab, too, stood grimly, refusing to speak. Mephisto, however, showed no such restraint.
“Stolen? You stupid Inkie! We’re not the thieves, you are! Or at least that Irish Setter guy with the Celtic hairstyle is! He stole my staff. And look. It’s right there! King Tut is holding it in his hand! Do something, Miranda! Make them give it back!” Mephisto stamped his foot.
He had begun to squirm again, and I feared Mab would deck him, or worse, let him go and abandon him to the demons.
Seir replied courteously. “Long ago, Dread Prospero stole nine books that were in his trust. We, the Three Shadowed Ones, are the guardians charged with their return.”
“Daddy didn’t steal anything!” Mephisto cried. “Unless you count grumpykins Mab here, who wasn’t stolen, just compelled; so he still didn’t. Besides, we don’t even know where those books are!”
Seir gestured with the Staff of Darkness, then pointed it at the Staff of Summoning. “Two we have already retrieved. A third, the lady Miranda holds in her slender hands: the eldritch flute known as the Staff of Winds.”
His words made no sense, even to Mephisto, who cried out impatiently, “Those aren’t books!”
“Great Prospero altered their form, but we are not deceived.”
Was this true? Could that be what Father meant by they have been put to a greater purpose from which they cannot now be retrieved? I dared not let the question distract me now.
Osae the Red cocked his head and leered at me; his gaze traveled over my pale peach sundress in a fashion that turned my stomach and caused a frisson of fear as I realized I was not wearing my enchanted tea dress. He rasped, “Just give us the flute, and there won’t be any trouble.”
“Are you crazy! No!” Mephisto put his hands on his hips, even though we were still holding his arms, and stuck out his tongue. “What’s with you guys, anyway? Are you culturally challenged? Shouldn’t the guy with the Irish name do his hair like a Celt, and the goofy shapechanger wear the mask? With a name like Baelor, if you want to hide your face, you should paint it with woad!”
The tall Egyptian figure touched two fingers to the golden lips of the pharaoh mask and pointed them at Seir. The incubus’s face went slack, and his body became rigid. A deep, jarringly inhuman voice issued from his mouth. The voice made my hackles rise.
“Puny mortals, vile flesh worms. I know the secrets of your innermost thoughts. I know your insatiable desires, your pathetic hopes, your private fears. I know why the once proud Prospero Family has grown twisted and warped; why Theophrastus’s wrath leads him to embrace death, and Titus grows too slothful to maintain his vigil; why Logistilla is consumed by envy, while despair gnaws upon the innards of the once-proud sorcerer. I know your petty secrets, too, Prince Mephistopheles, and yours, O Maiden of Ice, and I spit upon you both in my contempt.”
Mab stiffened, and I felt my heart beating in my throat. What did Baelor—I assumed this was Baelor somehow speaking through the incubus—mean? Was there a reason for all this madness that had been afflicting us, an explanation?
I longed to cry out, to beg him to tell me, but, of course, he was a demon. Anything he said would most likely be a lie. This did not mean his boasts were empty. Demons were notorious for telling just enough truth to lead men astray.
Seir continued in his inhuman voice, “I know you as well, Caekias Boreal, who currently plays at a guise called Mab. Why do you allow yourself to be enslaved by these mortals, born but what must die? I know your inner nature. It is akin to mine, filled with wrath and boiling desire. Why do you aid their efforts to oppress you?”
Mab had remained granite-faced since completing the ward, but I saw him wince when Baelor called him by his ancient name. Was it a name of power, by which Mab could be compelled? Or was he merely reluctant to be reminded of his past?
Before the demon could continue, Mephisto begin to shout. His voice rose in panic, but I noticed a subtle gleam in his eye.
“Come on, Miranda! Detective! Do something, or they’ll use it! If they use my staff, we’re doomed! All kinds of horrible things can come out of my staff. We’ll never get away!”
I shook my head, embarrassed for him. Even demons could not be that stupid. Mab must have felt similarly, for he muttered very softly, “Oh, great one, Harebrain. What you going to do next? Ask them to throw Br’er Rabbit in the briar patch?”
“I give you one last chance, vile vessel of clay,” the deep voice of the mind reader spoke through the incubus’s sable mouth.
The incubus relaxed, glanced about alertly, and spoke in his own sweet voice. “Lady Miranda, will you surrender the Staff of Winds?” When none of us replied, he continued. “Then, as Prince Mephistopheles suggests, his own handiwork shall bring about your demise.” Seir tilted his head, his scarlet eyes regarding Baelor, who raised the Staff of Summoning.
They had fallen for it. I could not believe it.
The masked mind reader placed his long gold-clad fingers upon the jeweled eyes of one of the figurines, and tapped the Staff of Summoning upon the ground. A trick of the light made the pattern of shadows on the hot bricks look remarkably like some great beast.
Then, a real great beast crouched in the alley. The creature had three heads: an enormous lion with a thick tawny mane, a goat with huge curving horns, and a dragon with a mouthful of cruel teeth. Behind these came the agile body of a goat. Its tail, which was curled up over its shoulder, ended in a great orange stinger, shiny with poison. As the creature stalked toward us, it opened its sharp-toothed serpent mouth and breathed curling bursts of hot, fetid fire.
Mab let go of Mephisto and gave him a push toward the thing. Then, he stepped back and put his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, frowning. Reluctantly, I released my brother.
From beyond the beast came Osae’s breathy laughter. Seir’s soft voice followed. “Surrender the Staff of Winds, and we will call off the chimera.”
“Death first!” Mephisto called back, grinning widely.
Seir’s voice floated over the back of the monster. “As you wish.”
The chimera growled and charged, its steel hooves throwing up sparks as they thundered against the yellow bricks. Fire curled about the green scales of its serpent snout, smelling of brimstone. Mephisto rushed forward. Stopping abruptly in front of the thing, he spread his arms and yelled at the top of his lungs,
“Hello, Chimie! Don’t you recognize me?”
The great beast piled forward, ignoring the greeting. Too late, I remembered Mephisto’s words when his lute broke: My friends don’t recognize me. Horrified, I watched as the creature set upon my brother, knocking him to the ground and opening its giant lion maw to swallow his head. My mad brother was about to meet a very unfortunate, yet sadly fitting, end, eaten by his own chimera. I leapt forward to help him, but the dragon head breathed fire at me. Jumping back, I patted out the flames on my skirt.
“Damn,” whispered Mab. “We’d better run for it. Maybe, if we run out into the traffic, the mythical beast’ll
get hit by a car.”
“If we’re not hit first.” I drew back slowly, my hand gripping my flute tightly in one hand and my fan in the other.
“Hey . . . wait a second.” Mab paused. “Well, would ya look at that!”
The chimera had halted. Slowly, the lion released Mephisto’s head and sniffed him with its huge wet nose. Mephisto lay absolutely still, his dark locks singed. From where I stood, I could see his eyes were squeezed tightly closed. Perhaps, he was praying.
The chimera’s three heads sniffed Mephisto. The lion’s great pink tongue slipped out and licked Mephisto’s cheek, its goat head butted his stomach, and the serpent head began to rub against his leg. My brother opened one eye and then the other, an expression of unadulterated joy spreading across his face. Reaching up, he scratched the lion head behind the ears. From its body came a rumbling noise. Could the chimera be purring?
“Hi, there, Chimie,” Mephisto cried. “It’s me. You know me! Your boss? The guy who loves you and feeds you? The one who is supposed to own that staff?”
Peering under the scaly serpentine tail, Mephisto called to the Three Shadowed Ones. “Pity that staff doesn’t let you command the things you summon, isn’t it, guys? Oh, well. Your loss!” To the chimera, he said gaily, “Get ’em, boy!”
The chimera leapt toward the Three Shadowed Ones, flame spurting from its serpent mouth. Immediately Seir of the Shadows winked out like a snuffed candle.
I caught a whiff of freshly-struck matches. Then, a silky masculine voice whispered in my ear, laughing. “Give me the Staff of Winds, my dearest love, and I shall not trouble you again.”
With a single motion, I whipped the mirrored fan of Amatsumaru behind me and slashed his throat. Turning, I saw my blow had fallen short, merely drawing a razor-thin line across his windpipe. A tiny ribbon of crimson blood appeared across the black satiny skin of the incubus’s neck. It matched his eyes.
“Ah, my mistake,” he said politely and vanished. Reappearing between his two companions, he threw an arm about them both.
Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I Page 28
