Devil Take Me

by Jordan L. Hawk

  Archie attempted to lure Silas into a card game, but he declined the offer. When he trailed his uncle to one of his favorite gambling dens, he discovered Charles already there. Twice Charles covered Silas’s debts to other men before Archie could swoop in. And at a game of blind-man’s-hands, Charles appeared to purposely lose to Silas.

  After that, Archie had no doubt that Silas was blackmailing the Wedmoors. He did wonder how Charles and Agatha Wedmoor had managed to placate his uncle with mere scraps of money in place of Agatha’s dowry. Considering how utterly ruined Agatha would be if it were discovered that she’d born a child—a Prodigal child—out of wedlock, it would seem that Silas had them completely in his power.

  When Archie’s own mother, Minerva, had found herself with child, she’d used the excuse of a pilgrimage to hide away in a secluded cottage. She’d endured her labor alone, birthing him in secret. Then she’d trekked through five miles of wild forest to her family’s country estate. There, she’d left Archie in a mushroom basket, bundled in rabbit skins, for the cook to find.

  But for all her secrecy, she’d not been able to save herself from disgrace. Ten years later a gentleman fitting Silas’s description had provided several newspapermen with evidence that she’d born the bastard son of her dashing cousin. The contents of the letter she’d penned to her married lover had been widely publicized, and it sealed her fate. She’d been cast out to the mercy of the streets. (For a short time, it had seemed that Algernon—heir to the Granville title—would be disinherited as well. But he had been a charming man and already married into the royal line, so he was soon forgiven; boys would have their youthful indiscretions, after all.)

  Before then, Archie had cherished the sweets and small clockwork toys that Lady Minerva Granville had so often secreted to him. He’d adored her for her kindness to him, a foundling pageboy. He’d felt blessed to serve in the country house where she lived. Afterward, he’d been torn between missing her so badly that it made him weep, and feeling furious that she’d again abandoned him. Then his uncle Silas had charitably snatched him up to serve as a timid companion to his newly orphaned half brother, Archibald.

  Remembering those years, Archie truly pitied Phebe for the deprivations and constant slights she no doubt endured daily. There was nothing Archie could do directly to better the girl’s existence other than continue to undermine Silas’s finances. Only two months remained before three huge mortgages defaulted; those would set off an avalanche of debts and carry Silas into debtors’ prison where he would find himself at Archie’s mercy.

  But for now there was still the matter of Nancy’s disappearance to look into. And so Archie skipped his regular rounds of riding and card games, and dedicated his days to the Dee Club.

  The poetry recitals held every Tuesday and Thursday were as uneven as Archie had anticipated. One plump old matron amazed him with her lyrical turns of phrase, while several of the younger Prodigal poets made him wonder if they weren’t having a joke while pocketing their sponsors’ coins. He truly hoped that they were, but feared at least one pallid youth was absolutely serious in his dedication to forcing painfully dignified rhymes upon the stage names of popular actresses. His paean to the beauty of Miss Sandy Butts had driven Archie to jam his kerchief into his mouth to keep from laughing aloud. Neet, on the other hand, applauded the man heartily and with a sentimental flush coloring his cheeks.

  Archie found himself wondering how Nimble would fare and what sort of recital he’d have to perform. He felt absurdly nervous for Nimble and then quietly laughed at the idea of Nimble giving a fart for the opinions of these pampered coves.

  However, he felt certain Nimble would actually appreciate the talent and bawdy humor of the troupe of Prodigals who put on the Wednesday evening musicals and variety acts. In fact Archie found them so marvelous that he anonymously donated a large sum to supplement the allowances provided by their sponsors. In doing so, he discovered that Agatha and Lupton numbered among their supporters. According to several elderly club members, Agatha had been so moved by Mister Pugg’s devotion to his three deerhounds, who now performed as “Doctor Dogson,” “Professor Pooch,” and “Inspector Barker,” that she’d sponsored his at once.

  “Very tenderhearted toward animals and needy creatures, she is,” one stocky baron assured Archie.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve noticed.” In truth, Archie wondered if Mr. Pugg’s good looks had been a deciding factor. He possessed the right build and freckled complexion to be Phebe’s father.

  Though, under the influence of Archie’s brandy, Lupton suggested that Mr. Pugg was “a jolly poof who probably provides a couple of the Barons with backstage entertainment.” Lupton’s own money went to support a pert and extraordinarily talented soprano, as well as her rawboned, tuba-playing father.

  A week of observing art and being constantly entertained muted the sense of urgency he’d experienced when he’d first heard Thom’s accusations. Archie’s awareness of sinister motivations and undercurrents came and went but didn’t ever settle on any single point in the genteel surroundings. He never forgot his reason for joining the Dee Club, but chamber music, mathematical lectures, and operettas felt far removed from dogfights and murder.

  Then came Sunday evening.

  To his surprise neither Charles nor Neet stayed at the club after tea. In fact, the character of the members who arrived as the day went on altered considerably from what Archie had grown accustomed to. The number of soft-spoken poetry enthusiasts, frail old music lovers, and amateur naturalists diminished as a stream of loud, rowdy young men flooded through the doors. The few Prodigals they brought didn’t wear gold medallions, and they obviously made their money with their bare knuckles or on their backs. Most bore the sunken tracks of ophorium addicts.

  The fights took place downstairs where the house sloped over the riverbank. A half-moon of tiered velvet seats loomed over the amphitheater of an arena, but the crowd of onlookers far outnumbered the available chairs, and a vast number of them stood, shouting out their wagers as well as curses and encouragements. The air grew hot and rank as more and more people crowded into the space.

  Everyone drank heavily, and Archie was no exception. The atmosphere of the place set him on edge, and soon he found himself draining brandy at a rate that might have done Lupton proud. In one foolish moment, he even accepted a glass of a nearly black liquor he didn’t recognize—compliments of the club, he was told—and tossed it back in the same careless manner as so many of the men around him. The sweet scorched taste of something like burned marmalade slid down the back of his throat, along with a wash of fiery alcohol. A belated alarm shot through Archie, but then he noted that all of the members of the club were being served the same dark drink. Archie rinsed the bitter flavor from his mouth with a watery beer.

  He felt sluggish but not yet sloppy. Surrounded by parties of roaring drunk young bucks, he maintained a sedate composure that he hoped allowed him to appear almost sober. Or at least masked his agitation.

  Drums rolled and red limelights flared across the fine white sand spread over the arena’s wooden floor. The same plump little Prodigal man who headed up the Wednesday theater troupe trotted out from behind the long black curtains at the back. He sauntered into a spotlight and lifted his large brass megaphone.

  “Gentlemen and ladies, coves and chokers, dippers and dolly-mops, welcome! Tonight we are all met on the same standing to witness Fate in all her ferocious might and perilous whimsy! Place your wagers and give a cheer to the contenders for tonight’s golden jackpots!”

  Applause, screams, and shouts thundered through the small space, drowning out the drums. Only after several minutes did the crowd quiet. The Prodigal fighters were announced, like horses at the start of a race, and the winners proclaimed and applauded as if bloody bodies and broken hands were mere showmanship.

  And it was bloody. What began a barefisted boxing show soon turned to pure savagery as rounds dragged on and on. Blood streamed from split knuckles and brok
en noses. One hulking man cornered his spindly opponent in the corner and beat the boy against a wall till his face became a crimson stream of gore. Men and women all around Archie cheered. Another contestant won applause when he spat a hunk of his opponent’s ear into the surrounding seats. Archie’s stomach rolled.

  Then a burly, bearded man wearing a wide-brimmed hat brought a slavering hound out onto the sand.

  Archie didn’t know if another dog would be dragged out or some desperately poor Prodigal; either way, he couldn’t bring himself to stay and watch.

  He turned and worked his way out from the crowd. One of the servants met his gaze, and Archie guessed that his revulsion must have shown plainly enough, because the young man looked alarmed. He quickly pointed Archie through a hidden door and down a back hall that led out onto a balcony.

  A clammy breeze of rank air rolled up over him from the dark river some thirty feet below. Archie leaned over the banister and heaved up his beer and brandy. The waters carried his sickness away with so much more of the city’s filth.

  He hung there, bent over the railing, for several minutes as his nausea passed. His eyes slowly adjusted, discerning shadows from forms lit by distant gas lamps and moonlight. Reflections of boat lamps and stars glittered over the water. The river was so much quieter during the night than in the day. Archie closed his eyes. The noise inside the Dee Club sounded very distant—miles away behind those incredibly thick walls.

  He could almost forget it and lose himself, listening to the surge of the great river. A flutter of leathery wings rushed past his face as a bat raced up from the wooden pier beneath him to devour some unsuspecting moth. Archie started, then laughed weakly at himself. Of all people, he should’ve known that the tranquility of the night was an illusion—darkness a veil thrown over countless creatures prowling the city. Always had been, always would be.

  Boards creaked behind him. Archie spun back. His uncle stilled only three feet from Archie. For an instant his handsome features remained caught in a murderous sneer, but then he pulled a toothy smile and dropped his hands into the pockets of his coat.

  “Be careful not to tip over that banister,” Silas said. “If you went into the water, it would be terribly difficult to haul you out. People drown like that all the time.”

  “Your concern is touching, dear uncle,” Archie replied. “I can only return my own ardent hope that no one stabs you to death in a dark corner this evening.”

  “Is that a threat, Archie?” Silas scowled at him.

  “Of course not. I needn’t lower myself to menacing you when so many debt collectors and loan sharks are already circling. A few of them seem keen on just breaking your knees, but I’ve heard it said that Bastard Jack would be well pleased to have your head in his hatbox.”

  For perhaps the first time in his life, Archie thought he saw genuine fear on his uncle’s face. But a moment later, it sank beneath an expression of cunning disdain.

  “Smile while you can, Archie,” Silas replied softly as if sharing a confidence. “I’ll be the one laughing in the end. I always have been.”

  Silas spoke the truth, and it infuriated Archie. More than anything, he wanted to tear that assurance away from his uncle. He wanted Silas to feel the kind of loss that never seemed to touch him at any funeral. But neither the suffering nor the deaths of any other human beings ever disturbed Silas. Only a threat to his personal comfort shook him in any way.

  “Oh, but you might be in for quite a surprise. You really think that I’m going to leave you anything to inherit from me other than your own debts?” Archie heard the slight slur in his own words and knew he wasn’t in any state to tell his uncle anything, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  Witnessing Silas’s assurance slip filled him with a spiteful pleasure. His uncle’s gaze narrowed, and he took an angry step closer to Archie. “What are you talking about?” Reflexively Archie squared his shoulders, ready to fight. But Silas immediately retreated two steps. He’d attack a man with his back turned, drown his drugged wife in her bath, and hire highwaymen to murder his brother, but Silas had never been one to fight fair. Even when Archie had been a mere boy, his uncle had always looked on while Mike or Nate belted him.

  A glance over Silas’s shoulder assured Archie that the two were there in the shadows, but so too were several women, who looked to be concerned nurses. Too many witnesses for Silas or his thugs to chance Archie raising an alarm.

  “What have you done?” Silas demanded.

  “Nothing you haven’t done to your own fortune,” Archie replied with a glib grin. The horror and rage in Silas’s face was a delight. Archie only wished the light were better.

  “The Fallmont fortune is huge! How could you possibly have squandered it?”

  “By any and every means possible. But the sweetest are all those charities that you so utterly disdain. You would be appalled, dear uncle, if you knew how many fallen women, Prodigals, and paupers the dwindling Fallmont fortune has benefited,” Archie snapped. “You will have nothing—”

  “I can’t believe you’d do something so… so stupid! So selfish!” Silas had the gall to appear genuinely hurt. “Ruin our entire family? Why would you go so far?”

  “Our entire family?” Archie shouted back at him. “Our family is dead. Murdered!”

  All at once a look of realization—almost surprise—came over Silas.

  “It’s Archimedes, isn’t it?” he asked.

  Archie froze. It had been years since he’d heard his real name. Fear gripped him like frost spreading across his skin. How had Silas recognized him—after all this time and through Nimble’s spell? How was it possible?

  That hateful sneer lit Silas’s handsome face with a kind of inner radiance.

  “I always suspected that you cared for the bastard brat far more than was natural,” Silas stated. “Incestuous and a sodomite, eh, Archibald?”

  Relief added to the laugh that escaped Archie. Of course he hadn’t recognized him. Silas would have had to have bothered to have really looked at him to do that. Never mind the conjury that Nimble had crafted to lend Archie his brother’s natural poise and confidence.

  Another bat flitted past.

  Archie shook his head.

  “I’m not sure what twisted organ you’re using for a mind, uncle. But I daresay your lurid imagination speaks volumes more about your own impulses than it does of my love for my brother.” Archie strode past him and then added over his shoulder, “Thanks for the laugh.”

  “I hate to imagine what he must make of the pair of you,” Archie said to Mike and Nate as he shouldered his way between them.

  By the time he escaped the Dee Club and closed himself up in his carriage, his bravado had drained away. That had been close. Worse, he’d let on a little too much, a little too soon. Not everything was ready, and if his uncle secured Lady Umberry’s dowry, then there was a good chance he would have the money to find and seize the fortunes Archie had hidden away.

  In his place on that pier, Nimble would’ve kept his trap shut in the face of Silas’s provocations. And Archie should have known better—did know better—yet he’d not been able to stop himself from speaking.

  His mind was a mess of alcohol, fury, and horror. He didn’t want to admit it, but the fights in the arena had disturbed him far more than he’d been prepared for.

  Even after he arrived home and washed, he couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, visions of old battlefields arose. The cheers and howls of the crowd in the Dee Club flooded his ears as he remembered the terrifying moment that a fragment of steel tore through his chest and threw him to the mud. His blood welled up in a great stream as Prodigal fighters collapsed into the filth surrounding him. Then the dogs came, slavering and hungry. Archie bolted upright before he could feel canine teeth ripping into his body. There was no point in even attempting to sleep after that.

  Instead he sketched maps of the Dee Club’s numerous rooms and secret halls. When he grew too restless to sit in his stud
y, he descended to his ballroom to pace and shadow box. By dawn his hands no longer shook. But when he closed his eyes, memories of the stench and pain of Sollum Hill still arose. When he opened his eyes, his thoughts filled with bloodied bodies of Prodigal combatants down in that pit of an arena. The gleeful howls of their sponsors haunted him.

  He couldn’t bring himself to return to the Dee Club for two days after that. Charles and Neet both called upon him. He claimed illness and heartache; the cure for both being time. If it hadn’t been for his bargain with Nimble, he would never have stepped foot in the place again—to hell with the stained glass, music rooms, and breathtaking paintings.

  Though even as he indulged in the thought, he recognized how weak and self-pitying it really was.

  Witnessing the exploitation that ruled so many Prodigals’ lives was nothing compared to the actual hardship of being exploited. Hiding from the truth of it because it sickened and disturbed him would change nothing—would help no one. That was the same desire for ignorance that so many natural citizens of Crowncross indulged in when they disregarded the wretched living conditions and brutal labor endured by the miners and factory workers under their feet; all that buried misery kept the price of porcelain and steel cheap, after all. The same hypocrisy allowed people to celebrate the bravery of famous majors, generals, and colonels, but forget the Prodigal troops who’d fought and died in the thousands, carrying out the commands of those celebrated men.

  Archie knew he couldn’t change the course of every wrong in the world, not even in this city. But he could make a difference for Nimble, and though it seemed a small matter, the thought allowed Archie to at last sleep soundly through a lonely night in his resplendent bed.

  Chapter Four: Common Knowledge

  WEDNESDAY, ARCHIE rose early and dressed as informally as his valet and costly wardrobe would allow.