Heart of Perdition

by Selah March

  “Which does not mean I am uninterested.”

  She let the microscope drop with a thud. Her hair was disordered and her bodice covered with cobwebs. Although it was both cold and damp in the basement laboratory, her face glowed pink with exertion.

  “I have shared all I intend to on the subject, my lord.” Her words held a note of glum finality that challenged him. If she would not discuss this imaginary curse—and why should she, after all, when it was wholly imaginary and not a fit topic for any but the inmates of an asylum?—then perhaps he could draw her out on a related subject.

  “What do you know of the actual artifact to which this supposed curse is attached?”

  This time she did not freeze, but the lines of her body grew tense. When she spoke, her voice had a flat quality that fell harshly on his ear.

  “The object is Sumerian by provenance, and therefore quite ancient. The lore surrounding it suggests it is the distilled essence of the demon Xaphan, a fallen angel whose breath fans the flames of perdition.”

  James stifled a sigh. “Yes, I’ve read your father’s notes. I am interested in the artifact’s actual, physical form. You’ve seen it, I assume?”

  “No, my lord. My father always kept it packed away, lest it fall into the wrong hands.”

  Wrong hands? If the object is the vessel of such potential power, then whose hands are the right ones?

  He shook off the phantom voice of doubt and applied himself again to the task of drawing out his hostess while she searched. “If your father’s final invention proves itself viable, his name will be on the lips of every medical man in Europe.”

  Miss Shaw lifted another crate and set it aside. “What a shame he isn’t here to enjoy the fruits of his labors,” she replied distractedly.

  “Are you not interested in this invention of his? The one that may save my life?”

  “If you wish to divulge my father’s secrets, feel free, my lord. I will listen with an avid ear.”

  He suspected she was mocking him, and didn’t care. “Are you familiar with electrochemical theory as it applies to the workings of a zinc-carbon battery?”

  “I am. Zinc and carbon provide negative and positive terminals, respectively. The zinc erodes in an electrolyte paste, resulting in the flow of electrons and the production of electricity.”

  He blinked at her. “I say, very good!”

  She didn’t trouble herself to hide her laughter. “Did you truly think me so feeble in understanding? I am Aurelius Shaw’s daughter, after all.”

  James’ ears burned, and he knew he deserved her scorn. “Forgive me, good lady, for underestimating you. It shan’t happen again.”

  They regarded each other a moment, the air between them charged with something James recognized as animal attraction—not so different from the electrical variety, ironically. Then Miss Shaw appeared to remember herself, and turned again to her work.

  James cleared his throat. “What your father has proposed is the use of this artifact—this distilled essence or whatever it may be—to replace the electrolyte paste in a dry-cell battery. This battery will then power a clockwork device of his invention that will regulate the rhythm of my heart.”

  “You will carry this device within your chest cavity?”

  “That is the general idea, yes.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve seen a dry-cell battery, my lord. I’m certain what you’re suggesting is impossible.”

  Warming to his subject, James rose from his stool. “The advantage of the newly formulated electrolyte paste is that it magnifies the voltage even as it slows its conduction. If your father’s theory is to be believed, a battery the size of a thimble would be sufficient to last one man several lifetimes.”

  For some reason, Miss Shaw looked appalled. “By what mechanism is this magnification accomplished?”

  “Your father’s notes were unclear on the particulars.”

  Miss Shaw’s face appeared to draw in on itself. For the first time she looked all of her eight and twenty years.

  A high-pitched cry made James turn toward the door of the laboratory. A moment later, a gray tabby cat sauntered into the room, moved directly to Miss Shaw’s side and began to rub itself against her skirts in an obvious bid for attention.

  Fully aware he was broaching a closed topic, James couldn’t help but comment. “Look at that beast. The proof your curse is a sham, Miss Shaw, is purring at your feet, for how can you say he does not adore you…and yet he lives?”

  She bent and fetched the cat up in her arms. It instantly began kneading the bodice of her dress in a most provocative way.

  “I’ve asked myself the same question. But one must recall that a cat, like a shark, is the perfect predator. Unlike a dog, for example, it is doubtful they feel affection outside their species.”

  “That animal certainly feigns it well.”

  “He knows the going price for a warm bed and a bit of fish.”

  “You are cynical.”

  “I am a naturalist.” With a final pat, she set the cat down. “Keep your cogs and wheels and levers—and electrochemical equations. Give me leaves of grass, the birds of the air and the fish of the sea. Give me a tree, my lord.”

  “I would happily do so, but there were none in evidence where we landed.”

  “True enough. No trees grow on St. Kilda. The climate won’t allow it.”

  “Life here is harsh.”

  “There are compensations.”

  “Such as?”

  Rather than answer, she insinuated herself between the far corner of the laboratory and a tall, narrow crate. She gave the container a singularly vicious shove. Its front panel dropped away and crashed to the floor. A human skeleton followed, its yellowed bones falling in pieces at their feet. The skull rolled some distance and came to rest near the stool upon which James had been seated.

  Miss Shaw appeared unaffected, too busy examining the patch of wall revealed by the crate’s displacement to notice James’ sudden recoiling. As he watched, she reached out and rapped on the wall. The sound produced by this action had an unmistakably hollow tone.

  “I believe I’ve found it.”

  * * *

  The object rested on her father’s desk in the library, drawing Elspeth’s gaze again and again, despite her intention to ignore its existence. Lord Falmouth sat at the desk in his wheelchair and examined the item in question.

  “Such an odd shape,” Falmouth said, the note of wonder in his voice betraying his excitement. “Twelve surfaces, with each surface having five sides, and each sporting a five-pointed star.”

  “It’s a dodecahedron,” Elspeth said, compelled to share what she knew despite herself. “An ancient symbol for the totality of the world, known and unknown. The stars are likewise symbols of the occult. The box itself appears to be made of ebony and the scorched wood of a linden tree.”

  “Hmm. Well, the container is certainly of less import than its contents.”

  He fumbled with the tarnished brass catch. The box sprang open in his hands, revealing a bed of mold-spotted red silk surrounding a small vial made of pitted green glass. Falmouth lifted it from the box and held it up to the lamplight. The vial, in turn, contained a fine-grained black powder.

  “Looks remarkably like coal dust,” Falmouth muttered. “Shouldn’t open it now, I suppose. Should wait till I get it in the proper environment, where it can be studied. But I see clearly what your father intended—the ease with which this substance will be made into a paste fit for the conduction of electricity.”

  Elspeth rose from her chair near the fireplace and crossed to stand before the desk. Falmouth dragged his gaze away from the vial and looked up at her from his seated position, his brows raised in a silent question.

  “I implore you, my lord, to listen to reason. The manner in which you propose using this…this artifact is reckless in the extreme. I fear it may mean the end of you.”

  In response, he replaced the vial in the box and snapped shut the latch
. Then he wheeled himself ’round the desk till he was close enough to touch her. Without warning, he reached out and grasped her hand, pulling her forward till her palm rested on the center of his chest.

  “Do you feel that, Miss Shaw? That is the off-tempo spasm of a dying heart. You fear I will meet my end if I am reckless. I know I will meet it if I am not.”

  She disengaged her hand and stepped back. “But are there not worse things than death, my lord? My father never feared offending the Almighty with his hubris, but can you not see the folly?”

  Falmouth laughed. “You believe in the Almighty?”

  “I believe in a Creator, and I believe we owe Him some sense of duty, not unlike that which we owe our earthly parents.”

  “But you do not feel the warm embrace of that Creator, do you, Miss Shaw? Your faith in His existence does not bring you comfort?”

  Elspeth pivoted away from him and began to pace. “What do all the great religions have at their core, after all?” she asked him as she tread the perimeter of the room, dodging in and out of the shadows. “A simple credo—if you would love your god, love others first.”

  He made an assenting noise, and she turned to face him. “But my experience of love has been nothing short of catastrophic. It is only natural that I distrust the entire notion.”

  “Surely the only natural thing in this place,” he murmured, scarcely loud enough to be heard. She saw his gaze drawn back to the object on the desk, and knew the desperation of imminent defeat.

  I am losing him. He has his prize. Now he’ll go away forever, and I’ll never know what becomes of him.

  This thought, even more so than her fear for his life, moved her to try again.

  “You are correct, my lord. I am unnatural, my father always said so.” She crossed to stand between Falmouth and the desk, blocking his view. “A woman is built to be loved—to be a wife, a companion and a helpmeet. In that regard I am now, and ever will be, a failure.”

  “You speak as if there were no hope.”

  “None whatsoever.” And never before had she felt the lack of it so keenly as she did in this moment.

  He inclined his head and offered her a crooked smile. “Perhaps the domestic bliss you envision isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The uncle who raised me always said the only difference between a wife and a whore is the fee for services rendered.”

  It was a shocking and wholly inappropriate comment—one he would never make in the presence of London’s debutantes, wives and spinsters. Elspeth knew she ought to be offended, but she could only laugh. They laughed together, in fact, their voices loud in the dim room.

  Falmouth reached for her hand again. This time, he merely gave it a gentle squeeze and let it fall. “Tell me, Miss Shaw, the rest of your tale, for I know there is more. Do not let it fester within you like an infected wound. I will listen with careful attention, for I should like to know you better.”

  Before she could reply, his face twisted in pain and he pressed his fist to the center of his chest. When she exclaimed in alarm, he waved her off with an impatient gesture. She crossed to the cold, ash-filled fireplace and waited there till his spasm passed, using the time to collect her thoughts and reinforce her resolve. Above her head, the clock on the mantel tolled four times.

  When Falmouth had recovered, Elspeth said, “The hour has grown from late to early. If you are to embark for London on the next airship, you will need rest.”

  “But—”

  “I insist, my lord. But before I see you to your room, I should like to make a final attempt to convince you of the danger you face in testing my father’s theory of the artifact.”

  Without waiting for his answer, she reached up and yanked off the length of black muslin in which the clock was draped, exposing its face to the dim lamplight. Even knowing what to expect, she recoiled at the sight of it.

  “Hideous,” Falmouth whispered. “Extraordinarily so. Who built the thing?”

  “A clockmaker in Switzerland, I believe. When my father acquired it, it did not appear as you see it now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, my lord, that my father removed a small amount of the substance from that vial,” she said, pointing to the object on the desk, “and used it in fashioning new inner workings for this clock. Since then, the thing never runs down. It never needs winding, and its gears never need a draught from the oil can.”

  “Perpetual motion? Impossible.”

  “Do you believe I would lie to you at this juncture?”

  He looked from her to the clock and back again. The clock stared down at them with its grotesquely humanoid face, smugly superior and ravenously hungry by turns.

  “You say he only replaced its inner workings? He didn’t alter the exterior in any way?”

  Elspeth nodded. “He set it on the mantel, and within twenty-four hours its appearance had transformed into what you see now.”

  “And it has no other special properties?”

  “Oh, it’s always run ten minutes fast, no matter how Father tinkered with it,” she said. “I refuse to touch the thing. My solution is to set all the other clocks in the house at times that vary by several minutes in either direction. When I walk among the rooms, I call it time travel.”

  He gave her an odd look, as if he weren’t quite sure whether she was joking. “I can’t say I blame you for covering the thing. Why don’t you get rid of it altogether?”

  “Because it is my father’s creation,” she replied. “Not unlike the automated staff, and the house itself. Not unlike me.”

  “See there? That is not the behavior of a merely dutiful daughter,” Falmouth said, his tone accusatory. “You loved him.”

  “And if I did? Much good it’s done either of us. He died in the house of a stranger, and I will die here, alone.”

  “Entrapped by your own superstitious fears.”

  Elspeth whirled to face him. His sorrowful expression, as if he were mourning the prospect of her lonely death, forestalled her angry retort. She drew a breath, took a moment to compose herself and asked him, “Are you familiar with the sixteenth century philosopher and physician Paracelsus, my lord?”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her. “He’s been denounced roundly as an alchemist and a sorcerer.”

  Elspeth nodded. “A thoroughly disreputable fellow, no doubt. Father used to quote him at length. ‘The dose makes the poison,’ was his favorite of Paracelsus’ axioms.”

  “What is your point, Miss Shaw?”

  “Only this, my lord—it took but a few grains of the powder in that vial to transform the face of an innocent household clock into the visage of a monster. If you insist on following through with this mad scheme of yours—”

  “Miss Shaw, given your own peculiarities, I’ll thank you not to cast my very well-laid plans in such an insulting light.”

  “—then I must caution you in the strongest possible terms to use only the absolute minimum necessary to accomplish your ends.”

  “Message received, Miss Shaw.”

  “Excellent, my lord. Perhaps, as we have reached an understanding, you will allow me to escort you to your room.”

  The air between them had gone so frigid that Elspeth half expected to see her breath forming puffs of steam around her words. They stared at one another through the flickering lamplight till Falmouth’s shoulders slumped on a sigh.

  “Let us part as friends, Miss Shaw.”

  “I have never had a friend. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  The admission sounded pathetic, and she wished she could retract it—more so because it wasn’t entirely true.

  I had a friend. I watched him die. You don’t want to be my friend, James Henry Weston, Earl of Falmouth.

  But when he struggled to stand, she moved to help him, steadying his few tottering steps away from the wheelchair with a firm grip on his arm.

  “We will begin by addressing each other by our Christian names,” he said, his voice a shade weaker than it had
been just a moment before. “Highly unusual after fewer than twenty-four hours of acquaintance, but surely under the circumstances…”

  He ducked his golden head, almost as if he were embarrassed by his own scandalously forward behavior.

  “How do you do? I am called Elspeth.” She offered her hand.

  He took it a third time, and held it tightly in both of his own. “A pleasure to meet you, Elspeth. I am James.”

  Oh, Father, why did you do this? To send such a sweet natured, intelligent, handsome young man to this place, for this reason…it is an abomination.

  “How I dearly wish you would listen to reason!” she cried. The outburst took her by surprise, but she would not retract it.

  “Hush.” He pressed a finger to her lips for just the barest instant. The touch sent an unfamiliar tingle of heat down the length of her, and she gazed up at him, dazzled to silence by his beauty.

  “The world moves on without us, Elspeth. As you were built to love and be loved, I was built for adventure and conquest. If my body were only half as strong as my mind, I would bend the world to my will, and change its shape forever.”

  He whispered this like a schoolboy sharing unsavory secrets, and the warmth inspired by his touch dissolved into a chill of foreboding. Elspeth slipped her hand from his grasp.

  “As I see my warnings will not move you, I shall trouble you no more.” She started toward the door.

  “Is there nothing I can do for you in return for what you’ve given me, Elspeth?”

  She heard his approach—the uncertain footsteps, the wheezing breath. She slowed, but did not turn. “There is nothing. I must leave you now.”

  “Surely you will allow me to assist you with that dreadfully long row of buttons, at the very least.”

  Astonishment at this entirely inappropriate suggestion made her pause at the threshold. True enough, the buttons that ran down the back of her mother’s mourning frock—a musty and moth-eaten creation of black silk and crepe, but the only such garment available on short notice—were almost impossible to navigate without the help of a second pair of hands, but she’d hardly expected a gentleman to notice or comprehend the difficulty.