by Devin Graham
Gabriel extended a hand to Barnes as both men approached him. Barnes took his hand in a firm grip. Gabriel did not allow the handshake to extend past a couple seconds, before withdrawing his hand. Noblemen were hesitant to touch commoners for any length of time—apparently, they thought them unclean. However, a brief handshake was in order for any lord meeting a renowned businessman, such as Lannister Barnes.
“So I told your little employee, here,” Gabriel said, shooting the custodian a sharp glance. The poor man seemed to be sweating. Sorry, I have to act the part. Gabriel turned his eyes back on Barnes. “It is a pleasure.”
“Likewise, my lord,” Barnes said, excitedly. “Please, follow me. If you wish it, my employee here will take your...” Barnes glanced down at his one suitcase and cocked a brow, “thing...from you.”
Gabriel shook his head. “Many thanks but I shall carry it myself.”
Barnes frowned as if to say, You are not a very convincing lord. Was it really necessary to be convincing at all times, especially when speaking to one of the underground's leaders? Gabriel did look forward to those brief, increasingly rare moments where he could just be as close to normal as was possible...before taking up the role of the demon-slaying nobleman again.
With half a mind, Gabriel wondered if the underground bosses paying him to kill demons would start paying him less if they found out he could not actually kill them. Or try to kill me...
“Very well, sir,” Barnes said, after a moment. “Right this way.”
The older man strode away, down the main corridor, then turned right—along a dimly lit, much narrower corridor—mid-way through. Gabriel followed behind, warily. He could never bring himself to fully trust any member of the underground, being that their business consisted of a lot more than just getting rid of demons; and those things were mostly of an illegal nature.
And to think, I wanted to be a lawman. Gabriel paused. I wanted to be a lawman?
He shook his head and continued behind the man. Whatever business the underground was involved in, Barnes was an invaluable informant, having business connections with much of the aristocracy across the Southern Region.
Barnes came to a stop at a large, windowless door and took a second to pull out a set of keys. Finding the right key, he unlocked the door and opened it to a narrow expanse of stairs ascending beyond it. The man started up these, Gabriel following behind.
These stairs ended at yet another door, which Barnes unlocked with a key he had hidden in the inside pocket of his suit. He opened the door and gestured Gabriel through before him. The floorboards creaked beneath Gabriel's boots as he stepped inside, eyeing the man as he passed.
“This is to be your room, Lord Baryon,” Barnes said, still keeping up the charade.
Gabriel nodded, looking over the cramped space. A small bed, taking up an entire third of the room, was set against the far wall, under the only window—which was little more than a foot in width, as well as height. His was not a glamorous line of work.
“It'll do,” Gabriel said. “Thank you for your kindness, Barnes.”
Barnes grunted. “If you really want to look like a lord, you should have given the custodian your suitcase. Lords rarely carry their own things. And you could invest in a little more in the way of possessions, also.”
Gabriel sighed, turning to face Barnes.
“I have all the faith that you employ some of the finest individuals here,” Gabriel said. “But, honestly, I don't have the luxury of trust, especially when it comes to the handling of my personal affects.”
Barnes just shrugged in a way that said, Being stupid is your choice. Gabriel waited for the man to exit. Barnes remained where he was by the door, however.
Right, Gabriel remembered, payment. The underground bosses paid him to kill demons, while another robbed him of half of it for a room the size of two closets and a party invitation. Reaching into his duster coat, he retrieved a rubber banded bundle of bills. The price for getting one invited to a ball was a hefty one, indeed. Apparently, even when they're the ones employing you, Gabriel grumbled inwardly.
Barnes reached for the money and Gabriel withdrew the bundle slightly, making the man pause. “Before you're off,” Gabriel said to the man's agitated stare, “answer me this: Why do you help? Why do your people expend some of your funds paying me to hunt demons? I can't see how it helps you, seeing as nobody knows.”
“We love this world as much as any, Lord Baryon,” Lannister answered. “It is by cheating it that we are paid, after all. Using a portion of our resources to eliminate any potential competition secures our own business.”
“Competition?” Gabriel asked. “From demons? I doubt they're interested in the things the many undergrounds do.”
“I did say any potential competition.” Barnes raised an eyebrow at Gabriel's still-questioning look. “Our money primarily comes from the wealthy—lords looking to upend another, merchants trying to rid their rivals of supplies—, and we get paid by making those things happen. If the demons are killing the lords, essentially our money, then we in my business have a major problem. Now, I think I will have my money. Or have you anymore question regarding the business?”
There was a dangerous edge in Barnes's eyes and Gabriel was quick to hold the money out for the man again. Lannister Barnes accepted the money gladly and turned to leave. He paused in the doorway, however.
“You would do well to work on thinking more like a noble yourself,” the man said over his shoulder. “I think you'd find many of your questions answered, merely by using another person's head.” With that, he left Gabriel to himself.
Gabriel leaned his cane against a wall and set his suitcase down on the squeaky bed, unclasping the fastens.
Time to save a lord.
Chapter Two
Tall lampposts stood on either side, illuminating the cobbled drive leading to the Bawdlin mansion. The even-glowing electric lights were far more practical than the oil lamps still used by some of the smaller towns. Being still a relatively new technological advancement, electric lights were often the center of conversation among the nobility. Pragmatic as they were, how anybody managed to hold entire conversations about the things was beyond Gabriel.
Gabriel paid little heed to the lights as his coach made its way along the drive. Although they were quite intriguing, he found that change frightened him more than he would probably ever admit. His coach rounded the circular drive before the mansion, giving Gabriel a view of the massive structure from his seat in the coach. He looked out the window, raising an eyebrow. The Bawdlin mansion towered three storeys high, beautifully designed statues erected from the corners of the building at each storey.
Gabriel reached to push the coach door open as the coached rolled to a stop, then pulled his hand back. Tapping his cane impatiently against the floorboards, he waited as “his” coachman—or, rather, the coachman provided him by his underground contacts—came around to open his door, then stepped out. It was difficult being a lord; after all, one required a great deal of patience when waiting for others to serve him.
Gabriel had long ago determined he could never endure the task of being a full time lord. There was simply too much waiting involved.
He stood rooted for a moment, tall and regal...lordly..., before strolling forward, his mahogany cane clicking against the cobblestone beneath him. Lords liked to carry canes, even when they did not need them. He had only just discovered this at his latest ball at the now-deceased Lord Placent's.
Regardless, he quite liked the new fad, as it allowed for him to bring a rapier, concealed in the sheath of his cane along with him—of course, the previous fashion had been wearing an actual sword. It was short-lived, apparently making the lords, with all their enemies, nervous. Still, many of the noblemen probably did the same as Gabriel, concealing some kind of blade or another in their canes.
Gabriel strode up the few steps and into the colorful limelights, which were fixated upon the rooftop to shine down on the entrance.
On the front patio, a few nobles stood to the side chatting amongst themselves. The one noblewoman in the small group—probably the wife of one of the men, by the wedding ring she wore—fixed hungry eyes on Gabriel and smiled innocently. Then, not so innocently, she perked up her breast and gave him a low curtsy, revealing an egregious amount of skin, her plummeting neckline doing little as far as concealment was concerned.
Perhaps, not the wife of one of these noblemen, then.
Gabriel—or Lord Baryon, as he would be called this night—ignored the woman as he walked past the chatty nobles, two guards opening the towering entrance doors as he approached. He had a feeling the glimmering ring she wore on her finger meant very little to her. This time, he caught himself reaching for the wedding band which was no longer on his finger and stopped himself.
Shaking his head to himself and drawing himself up with a lordly haughtiness, Gabriel strode in through the doors, pausing as a man stepped in front of him, performing a sweeping bow. His plain grey waistcoat and white-gloved hands marked him as a steward.
“This way to the ball, my lord,” the steward said with as much poise as his bow.
Gabriel followed the man through the impressively capacious antechamber and into the even more extravagant ballroom. Moonlight and limelight alike beamed in through the skylights above, illuminating the bustle of the floor. The smell of perfume, sweat, and scheming dusted the air.
Gabriel had only recently begun finding it interesting to see diversity even among the aristocracy, for he had only recently realized it existed. When looked upon briefly by one of lower birth, nobles would all most likely appear to be the picture of perfection and poise expected of them. However, when one dwelt among their ranks for a time it became clear that—just like any other—, when compared to the poshest of nobles, there were a group of nobles that would seem rambunctious among their class. Drunkards and slackers existed among nobles and non-nobles all the same. Noble drunkards merely slurred larger words, and in a more refined manner.
“And who may I say has arrived?” the steward asked, drawing Gabriel's attention from the floor.
“Lord William Baryon, of the noble House Baryon,” he said, handing the man his overcoat. The steward hesitated, eyeing his cane in silent questioning. Gabriel frowned. Why would he want my cane? Sweeping his gaze across the ballroom, he noted, with dropping spirits, that only the old or crippled seemed to be bearing canes around. He cringed inwardly when he noticed a few of the younger nobles eyeing his cane with amused expressions. A few of them laughed to each other.
Gabriel leaned in closer to the steward. “Tell me,” he said in a low voice, “are canes no longer...in.”
The steward flushed, his eyes flicking nervously to the side. He looked as though he suddenly wanted to be away.
“Of course, they are quite fashionable, my lord,” the steward said. Was he supposed to correct a lord, after all?
“You can be honest with me,” Gabriel pressed, giving the man what he hoped was a disarming smile. The steward looked as if Gabriel had revealed a mouth full of fangs.
“Well...er...they are quite fashionable...mostly for elder folk, I believe, my lord,” the steward finally stammered out. “Pardon me, my lord.” The steward flushed again.
“No harm done, good man,” Gabriel replied, handing the man his cane with some hesitation. It's been a week and already they changed the fashion? Nobles, Gabriel thought with a sigh. Little more than very tall children with constantly shifting tastes. He still had Retribution, at least, tucked away in the hidden holster built into his suit jacket. Although, in this place, he would never be able to hide the fact that he was the one to fire a gun. That was, if he managed to catch the demon before it was able to take another host's life.
“What,” Gabriel began again, “is considered fashionable now? You're always around nobles, so I'm betting you know. They always change things on me, these other nobles.”
The steward laughed awkwardly, obviously unsure of how he was supposed to respond. Was Gabriel toying the steward for his own gain, somehow? The poor man looked on the verge of faint. “Cravats,” he squeaked. “I believe it's colorful cravats, my lord.”
“Cravats,” Gabriel said with a wince. “Why, that's absurd. Who could conceal a wea...er...a well deserved bottle of liquor in a cravat?”
The steward stood in confused silence, sweat trickling down the sides of his face. Apparently, this man was not accustomed to having a lord engaging in any sort of conversation with him. His eyes flicked to Gabriel's cane in his hand. His expression said: And you can hide a bottle of liquor in this?
Gabriel shrugged as if to say: I have my ways, then patted the steward on the head. “Thank you, friend. I shall allow you to get back to your announcement of me, before you soil yourself.”
Gabriel turned back to the commotion of nobles again—the steward announcing his presence in a stumbling voice—, noticing the bright cravats around the necks of nearly every nobleman, for the first time. Fortunately, Gabriel wore a dark green cravat with his black suit—a white shirt underneath—, the buttons of his tailcoat a gleaming gold...fake, of course. His cravat was not nearly as bright and extravagant as the others', but at least he was wearing one.
And I still have my looks to get me through the night, Gabriel thought as he started forward, quickly taking in his surroundings as he sauntered among mingling clusters of men and women. The room was circular with a lofty ceiling, from which three golden chandeliers, with a myriad of crystals, hung. Their many electric lights did little to illuminate the massive space, that duty left mainly to the skylights, but a rainbow of colors did reflect off the crystals of the chandeliers and bounce around the space.
Tall, narrow windows circled the entire room, set into the wall higher up. Although, these were more for decoration than anything else, with beautiful designs painted on them in intricate detail. The place was, indeed, filled with enough color and light to send one into a daze.
Balconies jutted from the wall in a few places, on which the most important of nobility would be conversing. Undoubtedly, the host of the ball, Hort Bawdlin, would be on one of them now. Duke Hort was one of the most powerful men in all the South. It would prove difficult for Gabriel to get close enough to the man to protect him.
He took a seat at an empty table, waving for a steward carrying a wine tray. A glass of sparkling red wine was set in front of him a moment later, the liquid sloshing back and forth like blood. A few drips were carried over the brim, trickling down the side of the glass. Three crimson droplets fell to the white tablecloth.
Like... An image flashed in Gabriel's mind. The smallest fraction of a memory. Of a bandage stained red. Blood.
Gabriel shoved the image away, clenching his jaws. He could not let his head affect him this night. There would truly be blood shed at this event, if Gabriel was unable to get to the host in time. It was always the host the demons slaughtered, as if to make some kind of show of their murder. Two lords had already been slain, and whispers of mad lord-killers had begun to buzz throughout the Southern Region already.
No one wanted to speak aloud the existence of demon-kind. They wanted to forget about them completely. Most these days were probably completely unaware of them ever having existed. People ignored the demons and the demons' discreet killings were written off as “undeterminable deaths.” Or, at least, that was how it had been for as long as Gabriel could recall. So why would the demons suddenly want to draw attention to themselves?
Gabriel sat back in his chair, wineglass in hand, musing over his plan to get the attention of those atop the balconies. How had he decided he would gain passage to the balconies? He sighed. Right, there is no plan. I must have forgotten to think that part up. Sounding off his gun would certainly get their attention—perhaps even get the nobles to clear the entire place, thus saving the duke—, but it was not necessarily the sort of attention he was looking for.
Save one man, to get hanged later for firing a weapon in a ro
om full of nobles? he thought. It was absurd. Even if he could get out of being hanged—and, being a fake lord, he probably could—he definitely would not be invited to many balls after such a stunt. Which meant, in the future, he would have a flaming difficult time saving the targeted lords.
Let the lords die, he thought. I'm hunting demons, not hero points.
He paused. That seemed the wrong thought.
Gabriel took a sip of his wine, watching the couples dance on the slightly raised dais at the center of the room, designated for the purpose. He closed his eyes and listened to the song of the musicians, who were sectioned off in their own area near the dais. For a moment, he could imagine they were playing a faster tune and he was dancing the haymaker's jig. With her. She had loved to dance.
She's dead, voices hissed at him. He opened his eyes, looking around for the voices, before realizing it had come from the others. He did not like to call them demons once they were inside his head—or wherever they actually were. He found that his control over them seemed a great deal more fragile, when calling them demons.
Do you remember how she died? the voices went on in unison, a hundred whispers coming together to form one low groan of thunder. Tell us, the others said in pleading voices. Oh, tell us how she died, please! Tell us, Demon-Eater. Tell us!
The music of the ball faded, until it was no more. He heard footsteps in the silence, pattering passed him on one side, then the other. None of the nobles were near him. One eye-blink later and the ballroom, with all its denizens, was gone, replaced by a long, narrow, sheer-white corridor. Gabriel stood on one end, facing a door which seemed a mile away.
Figures dressed in white scuttled to and fro, moving around him like water around a stone. Gabriel found his breath choked up. The brightness of the light, the people all clad in white, the door... He did no want to be here.
After a few moments, like an echoing shout in an empty building, the people blurred around the edges, faded to near transparency, then disappeared from the corridor. Gabriel's heart drummed heavily as he stared forward, into dead eyes. One man stood before him, all clad in white, wearing a mask covering his mouth and nose. Gabriel felt sick.
