by Ranae Rose
Demon of Mine
Ranae Rose
EBooks are not transferable. This book may not be sold, copied or given away. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names and events are products of the author’s imagination and are in no way real. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Demon of Mine
Smashwords edition
Copyright © 2011 Ranae Rose
Cover Design by Ranae Rose
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
London
1801
Elsie awoke to the sight of a demon crouching on her chest. It was dark and heavy, with flickering orange eyes, leering as it choked the life out of her. She couldn’t breathe. Desperate, she swung a slender hand at its face. To her surprise, her fingers streaked straight through the creature’s wicked visage, meeting no resistance. The demon parted in a hundred grey wisps and whirled away, but the heaviness in her lungs remained.
The monster had only been smoke, but it was still suffocating her, every bit as deadly as the demon she’d imagined. And the flickering orange eyes – those had been fire, seen through a couple holes in the foul grey cloud. She rolled, kicking off her thin blanket, one corner of which had burst into flame. Coughing felt like spitting up hot ashes. She was going to die.
She rolled over, pressing her cheek against the dirt floor she slept on, seeking a cool reprieve from the searing heat that rolled through the air in waves, each one hotter than the last. She found none. The earth was hot, baked by the inferno that was devouring her home. “Mama!” she cried, digging her nails into the earth, as if she could claw her way out.
No one answered her call, but the flames crackled more loudly than ever, as if they were laughing at her. “Papa!”
Nothing. There was a heavy stench in the air, foul enough to make her retch. No food came up from her empty belly, only a little water. Her stomach heaved, the motions of vomiting depriving her of what little oxygen she’d been able to draw in.
Strong hands gripped her beneath her arms. “Papa?” Hope flared in her hammering heart. She turned her head from the floor in an attempt to look up at whoever was holding her, but the smoke was too thick. Her eyes stung and watered, forcing her to close them again as she was hefted upright. Moisture crept from beneath her lashes and rolled down her cheeks as she shuddered in her savior’s arms.
After a few steps – all that were needed to cross the single room Elsie called home – they stopped moving. A crash sounded above the roar of the flames, accompanied by the screech of rusty hinges, and cool night air touched her cheek. She tried to breathe a sigh of relief, but ended up retching again instead.
Uneven cobblestones grazed her bare feet and she collapsed onto them as her rescuer relinquished his hold on her. She braced herself against the street, coughing. Something cold hit her in the face. She sputtered as it streaked down her neck and wet her threadbare gown. It was the only one she had, and she always wore it to bed so that she wouldn’t have to take time to dress in the morning before hurrying to her shift at the textile manufactory. Now it was ruined, stained by smoke and surely singed.
“Hurry!” a voice cried. “It’ll destroy the whole bloody neighborhood it we don’t stop it now!” Feet slapped against the street, running. Elsie opened her eyes just enough to watch her neighbors sprinting toward her, wielding buckets of water. The contents of one arced over her head as it was thrown and met the flames with a spectacular sizzle.
“Faster!” someone cried.
She could see now, though her eyes still stung fiercely. She turned toward the door, the frame of which had burst into flame not three yards away. Where was papa? Something shifted in the doorway, the dark shape of a man. Before she could cry out he slipped back into the flames.
He must have gone back in to save mama. Elsie tried to suppress her coughing as she anxiously watched the doorway, waiting for him to emerge through it with her mother in his arms. But even as her neighbors tossed bucketful after bucketful of water, slowly taming the flames, no one came back out. Eventually the house was reduced to a smoldering shell, black and empty, save for ashes. She sat retching on the street, a twelve year old girl who’d just lost the only thing of worth she’d ever had – family.
****
“Here dear, wash your face.” Mrs. Peterson deftly scooped up Elsie’s damp hair with one weathered hand and held it at the nape of her neck. Missing more teeth than not, many of Mrs. Peterson’s words came out half-whistle as they escaped through the few she had left. “You’re covered in filthy ash.” She was one of Elsie’s many neighbors, the first who’d been kind enough to pluck her from the cobblestones in front of her charred house and usher her to the neighborhood spigot.
It was barely dawn, and Elsie’s house was still smoking. She stared down into the half-full bucket of water Mrs. Peterson had plunked down onto the ground. Less than an hour ago it’d been used to douse the inferno that had consumed her home and her parents. Her reflection stared back at her, black, save for where a few tears she didn’t remember shedding had trickled through the layer of grime. Her chestnut hair, which Mrs. Peterson had just helped her to wash, was the only clean thing about her. It hung limp and dripping over her shoulders instead of in the waves it would assume when dry. Her olive-green eyes blinked back at her, their whites looking stark and out of place against the mask of filth that had darkened her normally fair complexion.
“You’ll feel better once you’ve washed your face,” Mrs. Peterson said in what seemed to be an attempt at a soothing tone. The fact that she even tried was a mark of how badly she must feel for Elsie – she never addressed any of her own half a dozen children in anything softer than a shout.
Feeling better seemed unlikely in any case. Her parents’ deaths had settled into the core of Elsie’s being, a hollowness more real than even the dull hunger that constantly gnawed at her. Still, she reached into the bucket, cupped her hands and splashed water over her face. It streamed down her arms and dripped off her elbows, so grey it was almost black. When she looked down at her reflection again, she could see the faint freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose.
“Has anyone seen my father?” Elsie asked, staring dispiritedly at the grimy puddle that was forming around her knees. The wash water was soaking her skirts, but it hardly mattered – they simply couldn’t get any dirtier.
“No,” Mrs. Peterson replied, brushing an errant wisp of hair out of Elsie’s eyes. Her voice had climbed an octave, but it was still far short of her usual squall. “Your parents were both burnt in their bed, dear. T’was a kinder way to go than you might imagine – they never knew what was happening, and they woke in Heaven, to be sure.”
If only that were true. It would be better than thinking they’d come to like she had, to feel the life being choked and singed out of them. Elsie knew better. “My father woke up. He saved me.”
Mrs. Peterson tsked. “He couldn’t have, dear, though I’m sure he would have if he’d had the chance.”
Elsie shook her head, sending dirty droplets of water flying. “He picked me up from my bed on the floor and carried me out into the street. I’m sure of it.”
“Maybe t’was an angel,” Mrs. Peterson replied, pulling the bucket away as Elsie scrubbed at her freshly washed face with a sleeve. Too late, she realized she’d just smeared her face with fresh ash. She washed it away under Mrs. Peterson’s watchful eye. “Your father’s angel, perhaps,” she continued. “Isn’t that a nice thought?”
It wasn’t nea
rly as nice as thinking that her father might still be alive, or even that he’d saved her and died in the attempt to rescue her mother as well. But if his body had truly been found lying in his bed, who’d rescued her? Elsie pushed the question from her mind and shuddered. What really mattered was one sure fact – her parents were dead. It wasn’t right that they’d been reduced to bones and ash when they’d been so alive just hours before. It wasn’t fair that their lives had evaporated like water dashed against a hot skillet. She hadn’t cried in earnest yet, but now seemed like a good time.
“Keep your chin up, dear,” Mrs. Peterson admonished, “we’ve got a rare visitor.”
Elsie blinked back the tears that were threatening to escape and turned toward the sound of horses’ hooves. It wasn’t something heard often in her neighborhood, where London’s factory workers crowded filthy, narrow streets that rarely saw anything other than foot traffic.
“An agent of Mr. Remington’s, no doubt,” Mrs. Peterson remarked. “I expect he’s come to see the damage.”
A fine black carriage rolled down the street, pulled by a pair of large dappled horses. The opulence stood in stark contrast against the rickety factory workers’ dwellings, which were crammed side-by-side like too many crooked teeth in a small mouth. Surely Mrs. Peterson was right – nobody so wealthy would come into this neighborhood unless they had to. Normally Elsie would have been in awe of the gleaming carriage with its plum-colored velvet curtains and great, shining wheels. Today, the sight seemed like salt in her wounds.
Her parents had worked themselves half to death in one of Mr. Remington’s factories, only to perish in the shabby housing they’d rented from him. And now he’d sent someone to assess the damage…to the building, surely, not to its inhabitants. Life was unfair. She’d known that for a long time, but never had it seemed more true.
The carriage door swung open, and out stepped a man in a long black coat and a fashionably tall hat. He was tall and lean, exceedingly fair of skin but dark of hair and eye, and surprisingly handsome. Attractive or not, he looked absurd, standing on the dirty streets against the charred remains of Elsie’s home. As he shook a bit of filth from his shoe, a second person descended out of the carriage. He was young – a few years older than Elsie, perhaps. His creamy skin, high cheekbones and ebony hair identified him as the first man’s son.
Mrs. Peterson clapped a hand down on Elsie’s shoulder, squeezing. “That’s him! That’s Mr. Remington!” she whisper-shouted in Elsie’s ear.
“You’ve seen him before, Mrs. Peterson?”
“Yes, he came through the factory once for an inspection while I was working.”
A spike of curiosity pierced Elsie’s veil of grief as she studied the man. So, this was the famous Mr. Remington, industry mogul and owner of nearly half the city’s most profitable factories. She’d been working in one of his textile manufactories since the age of six, but had never laid eyes on him until now. Though he wasn’t the ugly old codger she’d always imagined him to be, his face was a mask of indifference that caused her stomach to churn. How could he stare at her parents’ frail, smoldering tomb as if it were merely an expense, a bit of annoying paperwork?
Elsie clenched her hands into fists at her sides. Mrs. Peterson was still crouching beside her, gaping at the handsome pair who’d stepped out of the carriage. “Bloody hell,” someone nearby said softly. “It’s bloody Mr. Remington himself, innit?”
“Shut up before he hears you,” a woman hissed. “The man is as cold and cruel as a January night. Everyone knows that!”
“He’s a bloody demon, is wot he is,” another man grumbled.
The neighborhood’s residents had all crept out of their shoddy homes and were crowding the street, eager for a second round of excitement after the fire fiasco. Some of them would surely be late for their shifts in the factories because of it. A shiver ran down Elsie’s spine as she imagined the punishments they might endure for daring to be tardy. She’d suffered her fair share of strappings at the hands of a supervisor and had even been dunked in the water cistern once as punishment for falling asleep. Doubtless her neighbors would say they had been busy putting out a fire, but that was unlikely to earn them any mercy.
Not that any of it really mattered to her. She wouldn’t be showing up for her shift at the textile factory today. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do, what she could do, but she couldn’t possibly stomach twelve hours of working her fingers raw in the sweltering factory, only to come home to a pile of ashes. Not while the stench of her parents’ burnt bodies still teased her nostrils, launching her stomach into upheaval at random intervals.
Mr. Remington’s voice carried across the narrow street as he spoke. “Are there any survivors?”
“Just a girl, sir,” said a simpering man Elsie vaguely recognized as another of her neighbors.
A second shiver raced down her spine as Mr. Remington turned and fixed his gaze upon her. She was still crouching, unprepared for his attention.
The younger Remington turned too, fixing her with exquisitely dark eyes. Though they were the same color as his father’s, they seemed somehow warmer. Elsie was surprised to find her heart skipping a beat as she met his gaze. “Hellspawn,” someone muttered behind her, barely audible.
Mr. Remington looked away, no doubt already forgetting about Elsie.
His son looked away too, breaking eye contact with her and meeting his father’s gaze instead. “What will she do, father?”
Elsie’s heart seized as the younger Remington spoke, and she felt filthier than ever in her dingy dress when his father shot her a quick glance. “That is none of our concern. Doubtless one of her neighbors will take her in.”
“And what if they cannot afford to do so?” The young Remington glanced around at the squalor that surrounded him, frowning as if aware that none of Elsie’s neighbors could afford another mouth to feed.
“Then it is still none of our concern.” Mr. Remington turned as if to climb back into the carriage.
His son laid a hand on his elbow. “Mother was just saying the house needs a new scullery maid. Perhaps she’d find this girl suitable.”
Mr. Remington frowned, shrugging as if to rid himself of the annoying matter. “Very well, if that’s what she wants.” He eyed Elsie again for the briefest of seconds, somehow managing to look both doubtful and disinterested at the same time. “Ask your mother when we arrive home, and if she desires, have a carriage sent for the filthy urchin.”
And then they were gone, the carriage horses’ hooves clapping against the cobblestones and the large wheels shining in the sunlight as they spun. Elsie remained kneeling in a puddle of dirty water, not daring to hope and unsure of whether she should.
Seven Years Later
Chapter 1
Elsie glared at Mrs. Remington’s finest bone china, daring it to tremble on the silver tray she was carrying. She’d already broken two of the exquisitely painted cups last week, and she didn’t dare ruin another. Mrs. Remington was fond of them. When she was satisfied with the steadiness of her hands, she pushed open the antechamber door with a hip and carefully carried the tea tray inside.
Mrs. Remington was sitting on a burgundy damask sofa in the middle of the room, her posture straight and perfect, as usual. Her long copper hair was arranged in an elaborate knot, and several loose locks streamed over her shoulders and maroon gown in perfect array, framing a heart-shaped face that might have belonged to a younger woman. She lifted a delicate eyebrow at Elsie as she entered.
A second too late, Elsie realized that the tray had begun to tremble. The fine china wobbled against the gleaming silver, making it sing. Her stomach plummeted as a spoon careened off the side and to the carpet below. She set her jaw and willed her hands to be still.
They rebelled, and the tremors shook her elbows, climbing all the way to her shoulders. Her knees were suddenly weak. The feeling was dreadfully familiar, and she knew all too well what would happen next. Unfortunately, there was nothing sh
e could do about it.
Jenny, a fellow housemaid, swooped in seemingly out of nowhere. The curtain that fluttered in the corner of the room seemed to suggest she’d been repairing it, and the needle she held caught between her lips supported the notion. No doubt Mrs. Remington’s beloved cat – a notorious destroyer of curtains – was responsible for the damage. Normally, Elsie cursed the creature for creating so much extra work, but it couldn’t have put Jenny in the room at a more convenient time. Jenny snatched the tray deftly from Elsie’s hands, saving the assortment of fine china it bore from probable ruin.
Elsie collapsed onto the floor as soon as she was relieved of the burden.
Whirling skirts clouded her vision as Jenny and Mrs. Remington towered over her, exclaiming. “Elsie!” Jenny knelt, lifted Elsie’s head into her lap and brushed a wayward lock of wavy chestnut hair out of her friend’s eyes.
Elsie tried to steady her still-trembling hands as she gazed up into Jenny’s large blue eyes, which stood out all the more for her fair complexion and fiery red hair. “I’m fine,” Elsie breathed, even though it wasn’t true. “Just give me a moment. I’m sorry, I—”
“Have you been following the physician’s orders?” Mrs. Remington interrupted, her voice cool and faintly musical, though it was clear she was upset. Her alabaster brow furrowed into lines – a rare sight, despite the fact that the woman was well into her middle years. She was a shade fairer than even Jenny, and her complexion was the envy of London, even among women half her age.
“Yes.” Elsie frowned as she thought of the foul beef tea and herb mixture she drank every morning and evening at the physician’s insistence. A dull pain in the crook of her elbow reminded her of the weekly bleeding sessions the same man subjected her to. Unfortunately, both treatments had yet to help her strange symptoms.
