Creatures of Want and Ruin

by Molly Tanzer

  And of course there was the question of Hunter’s remaining followers—the men and women of Amityville, and from all over Suffolk County. She had seen them for what they truly were that day in the field—what they nurtured within their hearts. It wasn’t Robert Frost who had been right; it was his neighbor—good fences did make for better neighbors. Now that she knew the true nature of her neighbors it would be harder for her to live here, in this place she loved so much.

  Yet she did still love it. She always would. The people of this island weren’t only those who had shown up at that rally in the field. Her friends lived here, too, as did plenty of strangers who had refused the clarion call of hatred and bigotry.

  And the island was itself more than its people, with its forests home to willow and maple and pine and oak, sparrow and cardinal and robin, deer and fox and stoat and bat; its fields to bee and mouse, to wildflowers and crops. Its channels welcomed duck and its shores crab and sandpiper and turtle; under its adjoining waters thrived fluke and flounder and clam and crab and oyster and seal and more.

  These thoughts made Ellie long for her notebook. It had been so long since she’d scribbled any poetry in its pages . . . The last time had been just before that night on the bay when she’d run into Walter Greene. Practically a lifetime ago, or so it felt.

  Gabriel slept heavily, his relaxed body a joy to behold. Even so, she slid out of bed quietly to leave him for a little while. She’d be back beside him soon.

  Grabbing a pencil from the kitchen and the hurricane lantern, Ellie went out to the porch. The first cricket of autumn was chirping as she ducked under the mosquito bar and settled in.

  She opened her notebook to a blank page, thinking of something SJ had said just before they’d set out to stop Hunter.

  This is my island! Ellie wrote awkwardly with her left hand, the loopy letters odd and unfamiliar but nevertheless truthful and pure. I love its shifting shore. I love the wetlands and the mudflats too . . .

  From

  The Demon in the Deep

  by G. Baker

  After a year and a day Susan stopped looking for Miss Depth, but it took longer than that for her to stop hoping her friend would return. She often caught herself glancing twice at white-haired women on the street, or in shops, but every time it proved to be only a passing similarity or a trick of the light.

  It was difficult, wanting answers she knew she would never get. She understood so little of what she’d seen on the beach that day—what she had seen in her friend’s house . . . and the only person who could tell her more was absent, gone as if she had never been, leaving a hole in her life Susan couldn’t leave alone, like a little girl poking her tongue at the gap where a tooth ought to be.

  Long after Susan had grown up enough to have weathered an unsuccessful romance, and then a successful one that made her a blushing bride and then a happy wife and mother of one, it occurred to her that perhaps it hadn’t been her friend who had written her the note that she still kept folded in her Bible. Perhaps it had been the demon. But Susan couldn’t figure out why she would ever want to summon the demon. She had seen what it could do.

  Then one night Susan’s husband didn’t come home, and though upon his return he claimed he’d spent it at a friend’s house after a business dinner kept him late, doubt crept in at the edges of his story. She kept thinking about it for long afterward; longed to know the truth.

  She trusted him, but the temptation was there, to know for sure. She knew from experience that the truth was a funny thing. It had the capacity to destroy as much as heal.

  It was still comforting, knowing she could learn the truth if she really wanted. But whether she ever would, that remained to be seen.

  One Month Later

  Fin didn’t know how she’d missed it, as many times as she’d read this book. G. Baker might have begun writing The Demon in the Deep, but she hadn’t finished it. Something else had—something that wanted to draw in the curious with promises of seeing the truth. The message had been a flame, and young Delphine a moth . . . She’d even sought out the author herself, to receive the missing pieces of a puzzle she hadn’t known existed.

  Fin set the book down on the little table beside her favorite chair in the little solar of her house. The early mornings were getting a bit of nip to them as September rolled along, and it had been too cool to sit outside as she drank her tea. Now, though, the sun was up and the day was warming nicely. It was time to get herself together and go pick what might be the last of this year’s beach plums.

  She had asked for Ellie’s mother’s recipe before leaving Amityville for the little house she’d bought in East Hampton, right on the water. She’d picked it not just for its picturesque view, but for the good stand of beach plums that lurked in the bit of wooded area on the outskirts of the property. She’d already successfully canned some of her own jelly, though she had never done such a thing before in her life. It really wasn’t so hard as she’d first thought.

  She’d gotten a taste for seeing the truth of the world. It had helped her get this house at a fair price in spite of being a single woman, and had helped in her conversations with her lawyer regarding what it would take to obtain a divorce without losing anything, among other feats.

  It took hours to get to Amityville either by car or by train, much less the city, but that was how Fin wanted it. She didn’t want to see anyone; what she craved was solitude. Ellie had come to visit once, but Fin hadn’t returned the favor. The sounds of the wind and the trees and the water were so soothing, and she preferred visitors that scurried and flew rather than marching up the walk in loud leather shoes.

  It had been hard, to cultivate distance between herself and Ellie . . . She liked her friend so much. But that’s why she’d done it. With their task of saving Long Island complete, her days were now a countdown until the demon took her for its own.

  She’d preferred to say goodbye on her own terms. It wasn’t as if the demon had told her how it would claim possession of her. Perhaps it would be all at once, and she’d be left a spectator in her own life once again . . . Or perhaps it would be a more gradual shift, until she was no longer sure what parts of herself were native and which were the demon. She’d tried asking, too, by eating a lot of the jelly all at once to try to gain an audience. But all she’d gotten for her trouble was a stomachache and the clear understanding that the truth was it didn’t matter how it would happen, just that it indeed would happen, whenever the demon felt like it.

  The important thing, Fin had decided, was to enjoy her remaining days . . . though it had occurred to her that it was already too late, and her mind was already more demon’s than woman’s. It was true that she’d never in her life wanted to buy a house far away from everyone she’d ever known or cared about to live with the gulls and the waves and her own thoughts. Or at least what she thought were her own thoughts.

  One thing she felt certain of was that the choice to move out here had been hers and hers alone, for she’d made it the night they’d stopped Hunter. The demon had said it would take possession of her no sooner than ten days after she’d summoned it, and something told Fin it could not do so before that term was up. That’s why she’d acted so quickly, contacting her lawyer and buying this house. She wanted to be sure she was the one doing everything, so when she changed her mind—if she changed her mind—she could take stock and assess whether it was really her decision, or some outside impulse.

  For now, it felt good, living where she wanted, in the manner she desired. For the first time in a long time, she was actually happy.

  And it seemed as though the demon—her demon, not the one they’d thwarted—was happiest near the sea, for whatever reason. Maybe it would let her stay here. It had, after all, helped her save this place, and she did feel a deeper connection to the island ever since that night. Living here—knowing it was her choice—made her proud to say Long Island was her home.

  As to whether she always would, that remained to be seen.
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  Acknowledgments

  This book is dedicated to my grandmother, Harriet Elizabeth West Ketcham, whose poetry and love of the Great South Bay inspired the character of Ellie West; and to my mother, Sally Jane Tanzer, who took me to Amityville for a week or so every summer when I was a girl. Those library trips and long summer evenings we spent playing pinochle with my grandmother and grandfather are remembered here. There are, of course, a few others I wish to thank for their contributions to this book: my aunt and uncle Diane and Terry Ketcham in particular; Diane’s book Long Island: Shores of Plenty (Windsor Publications, 1988) was a great help to me, as were our many trips on their boat, sometimes just out on the bay for a cruise, sometimes over to Fire Island to swim in the ocean. I’d also like to thank William T. Lauder, Seth Purdy, and Patricia Cahaney of the Amityville Historical Society, and my friends Andrew Liptak and Adam Scott Glancy for their help with other aspects of my research. Patricia’s stories in particular added some excellent local flavor to the novel, for which I am very grateful, and Andrew and Adam actually know stuff about military history, which I really, really do not. Many thanks as well to my editor, John Joseph Adams, for believing in this book and helping me through a few rough patches in the writing of it; and my agent, Cameron McClure, who remains my artistic and emotional bedrock; my copy editor, Deanna Hoak; and of course my whole team at HMH. I am also grateful, as always, for the support (and forbearance) of my friends and family. You are all appreciated more than you can possibly know.

  1

  Hawkshead, England

  1945

  Miriam took a steadying breath before turning the knob of the old farmhouse’s back door and stepping outside to feed the chickens and the geese. It was not the darkness, nor February’s biting cold that made her hesitate, nor was it fear of predators that might be slinking through the gloaming—at least, not animal ones. Foxes and weasels did not frighten her; it was the threat of who might be out there, not what, that caused sweat to prick at her neck and under her arms even in the predawn chill.

  She knew her fear was absurd. There were no Nazis prowling the yard. Nor were there any in the fields and rocky hills of Cumbria beyond the fence. No Nazis were hiding in the neighbors’ barns or in the picturesque village of Hawkshead, down the lane. Here in the north of England she was safe, had been safe for years, and yet every morning she had to remind herself of that.

  “Who’s the real goose here?” muttered Miriam, as she let herself into the barn. The truth was, if Nazis ever did intrude upon their privacy, her “Aunt” Nancy, whose treasured flock pecked at Miriam’s shoes, would know. Nancy was a diabolist—one of the most educated diabolists in the Société des Éclairées—and as the Société’s Librarian, she had many wards to guard her home and the books therein. Not only that, but as her apprentice Miriam was not helpless either.

  And one day, Miriam would summon a demon of her own.

  Miriam rubbed at her numb and dripping nose before scooping up some grain to feed the poultry. She had been thinking quite a lot about demon-summoning of late, but that was for master diabolists. As an apprentice, she was limited to learning how to concoct potions, pills, and powders—armamentaria, as diabolists called them—with small amounts of diabolic essences. But, during all of her copious reading over the years, Miriam had naturally come across references to specific demons and the powers they granted their hosts.

  Some demons let diabolists control others with a word, or heightened their senses, or endowed them with unnatural strength. Miriam was certain she would choose a demon like the latter—one that would help her move through the world with more confidence.

  She’d tried and failed to overcome her fears. But in Nancy’s laboratory, Miriam had created a potion that let her run more swiftly, in case she had to escape a dangerous situation. Putting a bottle of it in her pocket helped when she needed to go into the village, but it wasn’t a real solution. Apprentice recipes, intended to educate, wore off quickly. Truly powerful armamentaria—the kind a master might make—needed more demonic essence than Miriam was capable of obtaining.

  As she scattered grain on the ground, Miriam’s mind strayed to a different farm where she’d fed poultry. Her aunt—her real aunt, Aunt Judith—had also kept geese, and goats too, on her farm outside Rotterdam. As a child, Miriam had loved to watch them play, especially the kids; she’d been less enamored with them when she’d hidden in that barn before fleeing the country. One goat had bitten her, tearing her dress. It had been so cold, but she hadn’t any other clothes; she just had to make do until she’d crossed the border, but even then . . .

  Miriam willed herself not to think about that. She couldn’t risk having one of her attacks, not today. There was so much to do in anticipation of the arrival of another “aunt”: Aunt Edith.

  “All that happened a long time ago,” Miriam said to the chickens and the geese as they nibbled at the grain she’d given them.

  Edith was Nancy’s sister. She too was part of the Société, though not one of its elected officials. The position of Librarian meant living in the Library, which was here, in rural Hawkshead, even though the Société itself was based in Paris. Why the Library was in Hawkshead no one knew, but it had been there in various forms long before the Société existed, and there it would remain.

  Miriam liked Edith, but she didn’t much like it when Edith came to visit, for a few reasons. Edith lived abroad and always brought news from Europe. That was hard—even when she had good news to share, it wasn’t the news Miriam wanted.

  It wasn’t news of her parents.

  Harder still was enduring the way Edith’s visits affected Nancy’s daughter, Jane. Jane always tended to put on airs when Edith stayed with them, and Miriam liked Jane much better when she was simply herself.

  Miriam returned to the farmhouse, stepping over the furry bulk of their loyal dog, Hercules, as she ducked back inside. Nancy was standing at the AGA, frying bacon. The smell of it was mouth-watering. Partaking always made Miriam feel guilty, but her parents had implored her to “blend in” once she reached England—and as she’d discovered, eating pork products was a surprisingly large part of that.

  “How are they this morning?” asked Nancy.

  “Snug and warm and no longer hungry,” said Miriam as she shed her coat and hat and slipped on her apron.

  “I wish I could say the same,” said Jane, as she bustled into the kitchen. “I’m starving!”

  Miriam blushed when she saw Jane’s perfectly coiffed hair—she knew how her own must look. Her “cousin” had obviously gotten up early to set herself to rights. Though only a scant half-year older than Miriam, these days Jane seemed so much more mature.

  “No need to be dramatic, breakfast is ready,” said Nancy, turning around with a tray full of bacon and fried bread, which she set down in the center of the scarred kitchen table. “My, Jane, look at you! All dressed up already. You still have to dust and sweep, you know.”

  “But I dusted and swept yester—”

  “And it could do with another going over. This time, use the dust rag instead of talking to it as if it were Clark Gable.”

  Jane looked rather miffed at this remark, though it was true that for a while now it had been Jane’s joy to see every picture she could at the theater in Ambleside.

  Miriam had never gone with her. It was five miles to Ambleside, far too far for comfort. But in a way she felt she’d seen Meet Me in St. Louis, Cover Girl, and other films. Jane liked to talk them over after she returned, doing impressions of the actresses whom Miriam had seen only in glossy stills in Jane’s magazines. Jane was good at impressions—so good she’d managed to sneak them into her everyday mannerisms after careful study of their expressions and movements.

  “Edith is supposed to arrive around a quarter past two, so you’ve plenty of time to reapply that lipstick if it gets smudged. Yes, I noticed,” said Nancy, who disapproved of cosmetics. Miriam thought this attitude a bit funny, given that Nancy was a master diabol
ist; most people would likely see diabolism as a far greater offense against nature than a bit of rouge.

  Jane seemed to turn back into a little girl as she sullenly poked at her breakfast.

  “You’ll trip over that lip if you don’t pick it up,” said Nancy, but her teasing did little to mollify her daughter. “Oh, come now. What would Edith say if she saw you like that?”

  “Mother!” That was another change—Jane had called Nancy “Mum” until lately.

  “If you’d known Edie as long as I have, you wouldn’t feel the need to make yourself up for her,” said Nancy. “She was once your age, you know—and a lot wilder and more scabby-kneed than either of you.”

  “Scabby-kneed!” cried Jane.

  Miriam stared at her plate. For some reason, Jane’s horror at this comment exasperated her. Why should it surprise Jane that Edith had put away childish things, just like anyone else?

  And anyway, diabolism was hardly the most polite profession. Master diabolists who had successfully summoned a demon saved their hair trimmings, their nail clippings, sometimes even their menstrual fluid or less polite effluvia—anything infused with the diabolic matter they regularly consumed. Such materials could be rendered for their diabolic essences to enhance the potency of armamentaria.

  Squeamishness was not for the ambitious diabolist—in fact, some had been known to pull out a tooth or cut off a finger or a toe in the service of a particularly powerful preparation. Scabby knees weren’t a patch on extracting one’s own perfectly healthy molar.

  But Miriam didn’t say any of this. She took a deep breath and pushed her feelings down, as she always did, burying them deep.

  “Oh yes. Edie played rugby with our brothers until the day she moved away,” said Nancy.

  “And she seems so civilized. I suppose there’s hope for me yet,” said Jane wryly, as she finally stabbed a piece of bacon with her fork.