by Devin Graham
The man folded his arms, taking Gabriel in with those stoic eyes. The fingers of one white-gloved hand drummed against the man's upper arm. He wore a ring on this hand. Why did he wear a ring over his glove?
“Give us more blood,” the man said in a steady tone, his voice muffled by the mask.
Gabriel felt cold and suddenly very weak.
“Give us more blood,” the man said again. “We need more blood.”
More blood, Demon-Eater, the voices inside mocked.
“More,” the man continued. “We always need more. To make her better.”
Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. I am in a ballroom, he told himself, trying to gain control. There is music playing.
More blood, the others growled in defiance of him.
I am in a ballroom. I'm here to save the duke, Hort.
No, the others said. You are in the place where she died. You are facing her murderer! What are you going to do, Demon-Eater? Tell us.
I am in a ballroom! he shouted in his thoughts. There is music playing. I am here to save Duke Hort.
Tell us, Demon-Eater. What are you going to do?
Stop it! I am in control. You are trying to break me, because you fear me. But I am in control. I will breathe in every last one of you. I will find a way to make your kind bleed. And I will wipe your existence from the face of my world.
A fleeting weight lifted from his mind at once, and he opened his eyes to the sound of music and the sight of dancing. He looked down at his hands, realizing he was clutching the side of the table in a white-knuckled grip. He forced his hands to relax and released his pent up breath. Carefully, he swept his gaze about the ballroom. None of the other nobles seemed to have noticed anything had gone amiss with him.
Gabriel leaned back in his chair, breathing heavily.
Come and get us, Demon-Eater.
He cracked a smile. That was a challenge he wholly accepted.
First thing's first, however. He needed to get information about the duke, before trying to talk his way onto whichever balcony Duke Hort was on—research he probably should have conducted before the ball.
No time to waste, then, he thought, rising from his chair and taking a gulp of his wine. He picked a path leading to the other side of the ballroom and began zigzagging his way between small groups of conversing noblemen and women. He made sure to skirt close enough around the groups so that his ears could pick up snatches of conversation.
“...haven't found poor Placent's killer yet,” Gabriel heard as he passed by one group.
“You know, I am acquainted with the fellow who patented these light...” another was saying.
“...a demon shrine?” someone in another group laughed. Gabriel paused, his ears perking up. “That's what you heard the Great Railroad was built around?”
“That's why it splits into the eastern and western tracks for no other foreseen reason. Or, that's what I heard. And they could not say for certain who the shrine was to. And, anyway, who can really say with utmost confidence that there is truly even a shrine there.”
Gabriel frowned and continued on. A demon shrine?
“This is certainly one of Hort's better balls,” Gabriel heard as he drew close to another group. “I wonder what's got him so busy, he can't even mingle with the other lords.”
Here we are.
“I heard the duke's making quite a few deals tonight,” Gabriel lied, as he slowly made his way past the group of four noblemen. From his periphery, he saw them turn there heads to regard him, and he slowed to a stop, turning around and facing them.
“Well, that is no news at all,” one of them, a tall, just-greying man replied, then chuckled softly. He was a pretty fellow, despite his slightly crooked nose. “Why, Duke Hort is always making deals. And—terribly sorry—, but I don't believe we have yet met...”
“William Baryon,” Gabriel said, giving the man a cordial nod. “I am Tulius's brother—or half-brother, rather.”
“Oh yes,” the man said, half-grinning, “the viscount... I am Thadias Lockre, the count of Lemrich and those few small towns surrounding it. This is Jimothy Booker, Stial Hessen, and Mahre Sep.” Thadias pointed to the other three in turn.
“I heard the entire reason for this event is so Hort can see to it his daughter finds a suitor,” Booker, a shorter, hard looking man, said. “Perhaps, the duke is merely using his time to speak with the potential suitors himself.”
“Suitors?” Gabriel said, thoughtfully. So Duke Hort wanted to see his daughter find a potential husband, then. Perhaps that would be enough for him to use to get onto whichever balcony the duke was on.
“The duke has been growing anxious in that pursuit of late,” Thadias nodded.
“Placent—Father Truth rest his soul—told me only just a few weeks ago that the girl simply refuses to marry,” another nobleman—Mahr?—spoke up. “He will likely choose for her tonight, if he does not give her another chance to choose for herself.”
“Yes,” Thadias said, sounding amused, “she is quite stubborn. Everyone I know says so.”
“Where is this daughter of the duke's?” Gabriel asked and four amused eyes turn on him. They seemed to imply Gabriel's motives for him.
“Just look for the table encircled by swooning noblemen, good man,” Thadias said, wearing that half-grin of his again. “There are many seeking to romance the young lady this night.” His tone seemed to say, Many from greater houses.
Thadias nodded his head in the direction just over Gabriel's shoulder and he turned to see a flock of young men gathered around a table which was set apart from the rest, like vultures. Between the nobles, Gabriel caught a glimpse of the one young woman sitting at the table, her stewards surrounding her like an honor guard might the king.
Gabriel only had a glimpse of her, but—with her chin resting atop her hands as though to keep her head from banging against the table—she looked miserable.
“And her name?” Gabriel asked, turning back to Thadias and the others.
All four of them cocked brows nearly to their hairline, looking dumbfounded by the question.
I really should do more research, Gabriel told himself.
“That is the Lady Renette,” Thadias said, eventually in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Thank you.” Gabriel gave the group one last nod and started away.
“This should be interesting,” one of them said from behind, as he strolled toward the table set siege by noblemen.
Gabriel skirted around the outside of the crowd of hopeful noblemen, all speaking to one another in haughty, overly-loud voices about their feats or financial holdings or—quite simply—their eligibility, in an attempt at capturing the attention of Lady Renette. Gabriel peered between the other lords, catching another glimpse of the wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked lady, who was doing well to look everywhere but the crowd built up before her.
She ran a hand though her raven black hair, which had partly fallen loose from the bun it had been styled in, before adopting her poised posture again. With tired eyes, and a bored expression on her face, it seemed keeping her back straight and her head up had become quite a task. She looked undeniably stressed, bored, and not open to conversation at all.
Inside, Gabriel cringed.
Tick-tock, Demon-Eater, the others whispered. Tick...tock.
Gabriel set his jaw. He would have to be blunt, then.
He took a calming breath, as he maneuvered through the mass of assembled noblemen, choking the air with the scent of their perfume. They all stood a short distance from Lady Renette's table, but none of them approached, for to do so without being called forth by one of her servants would be highly improper and offensive. Gabriel had never really been one to follow lordly tradition—which was acceptable, being that he was a fake lord—; however, to ignore it now could save Duke Hort, or—if Renette was offended and turned him away—could lock the duke in his ill fate.
Gabriel approached the table.
The lady's stewards
looked to one another with disbelieving expressions, clearly unsure what exactly they were to do if a lord broke protocol. Of course, being stewards, they did no more than continue with their incredulous stares.
Lady Renette frowned deeply, somehow managing to take on an even more rigid posture. She was rather pretty, despite the fact she had not yet quite grown into her woman's body.
“I'm sorry, sir,” she said in a firmness that seemed to contrast her youth and petite figure, “but I do not believe you were called for.”
“No,” Gabriel said, trying to think out his next words carefully. “However, there is something rather pressing I need to discuss with you, my lady.”
“You do realize, you are perhaps the half a dozenth person to say that very thing tonight,” Lady Renette said. “Admittedly, you are the first one to have the gall to say it to my face, instead of through the ears of my servants.”
A slight smile touched Gabriel's lips.
“If it weren't important,” Gabriel began, “would I have risked my image of propriety and bypassed your stewards?”
The lady pursed her lips at him, looking him over. Then her eyes passed to the crowd of noblemen behind him.
“Sit,” she said, finally.
“Thank you,” Gabriel said, taking a seat.
Lady Renette cracked a sly smile. “No, thank you.”
Gabriel furrowed his brows. When, after a few snide remarks, the lords began to disperse from the table, he realized he had been used to ward off the other hopeful nobles. To them, Lady Renette had made her choice and it had not been them.
Father Truth, Gabriel thought, she's known me for less than a minute and she has already used me for her gain. A true noblewoman, indeed. He found himself more amused than upset.
She stared at him for a few moments, but did not immediately move to send him away, and so Gabriel relaxed a bit.
“I am William Baryon of House Baryon,” he said, glancing back at the still dispersing assemblage of noblemen, some of them turning their noses up indignantly toward him. Very tall children, indeed. He turned his focus back to the lady, Renette.
“I am Renette Bawdlin of this very house,” she said bleakly, as though the words had been rehearsed again and again, until they no longer held any meaning. “I suspect you will want to speak of my father's estate, Mister...William did you say?”
Renette seemed to be trying—poorly—to hide a particular emotion beneath her forced expression. Annoyance. Gabriel's smile broadened.
She doesn't believe what I said, he realized. That I actually have urgent news.
“Perhaps,” one of the stewards began, sidling closer to the table, “my lady would like to call a guard to escort the lord away...?”
Gabriel flicked his eyes toward the steward, then narrowed them on the man.
Demon. His blood ran cold as the steward—who was no more than a suit of flesh for the Skin Crawler possessing it—, stared at him with dead eyes. To be certain, Gabriel searched the steward's neck. He knew not the reason behind it, but Skin Crawlers always possessed through a slit they had made on one's neck, into which they could slither in. Sure enough, he found the scar after a moment, thin and partially masked by makeup.
“No, I can suffer a short conversation,” Renette said, completely oblivious as to what she was speaking to. “After all, he did help scare the others away for me.”
There was a demon among Lady Renette's servants. Did that mean there were two planned victims this night?
Gabriel leaned across the table, closer to Renette.
“Actually, I was honest in that I needed to speak with you, my lady,” Gabriel said in a soft voice. “But, perhaps, we should speak away from...prying ears.” Discreetly, Gabriel eyed the demon.
I dare you to move against me, he thought.
Renette laughed out loud.
“You can't be serious, Lord William,” she scoffed. “We are separated from absolutely every potentially prying ear, right here.”
“Not every prying ear, my lady,” Gabriel said, turning his eyes on her. Pointedly, he glanced to the demon disguised as a steward once more. She seemed to understand his meaning this time.
Her amused grin gave way to a frown. She looked worried.
Good. Gabriel stood suddenly and held a hand out to her.
“Shall we dance, my lady?” Gabriel was already bringing up the Memory of Hámon Givonni, a once-professional dance instructor, who had been possessed during Gabriel's earlier days of demon hunting. Shortly after discovering his ability to breathe in Skin Crawlers, he discovered, also, his ability to take Memories of those the Skin Crawlers had possessed.
Consume a demon who had possessed a lawman, and he could acquire snatches of Memory pertaining to the skill of gun fighting—and learn the skill for himself. Consume a demon having possessed a dance instructor, and he became rather competent on the dance floor.
Lady Renette, however, did not move to take his hand. Her frown deepened.
“Lord William,” she said, after several seconds, “if you hope to procure a meeting with my father by charming me in a dance...there is no need. I have no such power over my father. However, I will discuss the nature of his business to you, freely—as I have done for nearly every other lord of some impuissant house, seeking to better their position with a union. Rather, those I have not pointedly tried to ignore. There is no need in pretending to bear with you news of grave importance, and looking to my servants as though they were—”
“Lady Renette,” Gabriel interrupted, cursing inwardly. He flicked his eyes in the direction of the false-steward and his heart sank, when he saw the man raise a curious eyebrow. Was he piecing together who this William Baryon actually was? The false-steward smiled so faintly anyone else might have missed it.
Flames!
In his head, the others cackled gleefully.
Unexpectedly, Gabriel felt a thrilling anticipation buzzing through his veins. His fingers twitched, itching to reach for his revolver pistol, hidden in his suit jacket. He was supposed to consume every demon and one of the creatures stood a mere few feet away.
But...he was, also, supposed to save the nobles the demons were targeting. Gabriel assumed there would be another demon somewhere near Duke Hort, being that he was the host of the ball and those were always the presumed targets. Starting a fight with this demon might do little more than quicken the duke's murder. Not to mention, if he did it in the open for all to see, he would have a flaming difficult time getting into anymore balls.
Gabriel took his seat again, running a hand through his lengthy, sandy brown hair. He sat where he was a moment, contemplating. Then, he reached a hand into his suit jacket, pulled out his revolver, cocked back the hammer and shot the false-steward in the face.
The bullet dug a hole where, a millisecond before, there had been a nose and exploded from the back of the demon's head. Blood and brain and meat splattered onto the nearest stewards. There was a pause of complete silence throughout the entire ballroom, save for the ear-ringing echo of his gunshot.
I'm not here for the flaming nobles, Gabriel growled. I'm here for vengeance.
The body of the possessed steward went rigid as the paralyzing poison, which laced the bullet, began working its way throughout the body. Before Gabriel could take his first step toward the thing, however, the body went suddenly limp, collapsing to the ground at odd angles. Then, the screams started.
Gabriel cursed, as a roiling mass of blackness darted away from the body, taking on the shape of the nobles' shadows, escaping along with them. None of the nobles seemed to even notice it. Every horrified eye was on Gabriel, even as the nobles ran toward the exit. Some did not even run, merely hunkering low beneath their tables.
Lady Renette, her already fair skin having gone even more pallid shade, had not moved from her chair. Her wide eyes were fixed on the bloody corpse lying just next to her table, unmoving.
“Where's Hort?” Gabriel snapped, too harshly. He would not leave until he h
ad gotten at least one demon.
“What...” she breathed, with eyes still planted on the body, “...something came...out...of it.”
“Yes,” Gabriel said more softly, walking to Lady Renette's side. “And another one of those things will have already killed your father if you don't keep your wits about you and tell me what I need to know. Now, where is he?”
Lady Renette blinked, then shook her head as if breaking from a trance. She pointed a trembling finger to a balcony on the other side of the room. Atop it, Gabriel spotted two figures leaning over the balcony railing, regarding the spectacle below. One was smiling.
“Stay here,” Gabriel said to Renette, then sprinted toward the balcony.
A group of guardsmen with brandished swords stepped up to block his path. They did not carry firearms into balls, being that it made the nobles uncomfortable. Not a very competent choice in moments of actual distress.
“Halt!” one guard at the front called, pointing his sword straight at Gabriel.
“Get out of the way!” Gabriel shouted, still running. “He was an assassin! They're after the duke, for Father Truth's sake!”
The guardsmen hesitated and the guard at the front lowered his sword a fraction.
None of them did anything to stop Gabriel when he ran right past them. It was not like any nobleman to act so out of character; nor was it like a nobleman to assassinate his rivals himself. In Gabriel's case—being presumed Lord William—, the guards were likely to believe him. He heard the sound of following footsteps shortly behind him.
“To the duke!” one of the guards bellowed.
You truly can get away with a lot when you're a lord.
Just ahead, stairs jutted out from the wall, leading up to the balcony. Gabriel rounded the stair railing and dashed into a upward climb. He reached the top well before the guards did, to see a rather portly man—whom Gabriel guessed to be Duke Hort—, with long mustaches drooping down either side of his lips, held before a withering old man like a human shield.
