The Mammoth Book of Angels & Demons (Mammoth Books)

by Paula Guran

  In three days it would be Lammas Night, and it would be then that the jaded aristocrats expected him to give them the thrill of seeing a demon. Cynically Giuseppe considered handing out mirrors and taking his chances in a coach with a team of fast horses. But he could not risk it. There was too much at stake. For one thing he needed money. For another there were few places he could run. England was out of the question – he did not want to be sent to prison for fraud. He had to be very cautious if he returned home to Sicily, for the Inquisition took a dim view of self-confessed devil-raisers. Spain was even worse, for the Holy Office was stronger there than elsewhere. Germany would not welcome him, besides the question of debt. He could flee to the New World, but that took money unless he wanted to be stranded in New Orleans without contacts or possibilities. He could go east, but what little he had seen of the Ottoman Empire convinced him that it would be safer with an unbound demon than he would be in Istanbul.

  Reluctantly he pulled himself to his feet. He was in a lot of trouble, and he would have to deal with it immediately. There really were no alternatives.

  The salon glowed in the light of four hundred candles in six huge crystal chandeliers. One wall was mirrored and it reflected back the brilliant light and the grand ladies and gentlemen who crowded about the long gambling tables. The rustle of fine stiff silks combined with the susurrus of talk and the clink of glasses of wine and piles of gold louis.

  Giuseppe stood on the threshold of this splendid room, a sudden sinking feeling making him pause and tug at the three cascades of Mechlin lace at his throat. He covered this nervousness with a finicky movement as he adjusted the pearl-and-sapphire stickpin that nestled there. He congratulated himself mentally on that stickpin. Even the English duchess had admired it and had never suspected it was a fake.

  “Count?” said a lackey at his shoulder.

  “Yes?” Giuseppe asked. He assumed his most charming manner. He knew how important the good opinion of servants could be. If he found later that he needed help to flee, servants would be of more use to him than anyone else.

  “DeVre has asked for you.” The lackey assumed his wooden expression again. “He is in the second salon, sir. With Martillion and Cries.”

  Giuseppe nodded reluctantly. “I will be with them directly. Thank you for the message.” Assuming his best manner he strolled into the salon, happily acknowledging the greetings of the glittering people as he went toward the second salon.

  “Count,” called Countess Beatrisse du Lac Saint Denis. She held out a rounded white arm dripping with diamonds below the fall of lace at her elbow.

  Giuseppe stopped and bent to kiss her hand. “Countess,” he murmured and gave her a wide, warm smile. His expressive large eyes rested on her face, full of unspoken promise. He was surprised at how unruffled he was, how little his fear affected his behavior.

  “I vow I shall be with your party on Lammas Night,” the countess said archly. In her tall wig, diamonds sparkled like the sea foam, and the confection was crowned with a model of a full-rigged ship.

  Giuseppe smoothed the gold Milanese brocade of his coat. “It may be dangerous, Countess. I would hate to see anyone as lovely as you at the mercy of a demon.”

  Countess Beatrisse laughed, but Giuseppe saw a strange light in her face. “You are too late, my dear Count. I have been at the mercy of my husband for seven years. Your demon cannot frighten me.”

  As his inner chill deepened, Giuseppe kissed her hand and passed on. He had assumed, obviously wrongly, that his special service would be secret, that only a few would know of it or attend. He glanced around as he walked into the second salon, and heard a brief hiatus in the sound of conversation. It boded ill. He nodded in answer to the wave of DeVre, and made his way through the crowd to the buffet table where DeVre, Martillion and Cries waited, their elegant, vicious faces showing their eagerness.

  “Ah, Cagliostro,” DeVre said as Giuseppe came up to him. “We are all agog with anticipation. Tell me how your preparations are going.” He smiled to disguise the order.

  “I have begun my calculations. But I must warn you, we cannot have more than thirteen at the service.” He reached automatically for a glass of wine as a lackey bowed at his arm.

  “Of course, of course,” said DeVre at his most soothing, which Giuseppe knew meant nothing.

  Desperately, he tried again. “You have not seen a demon before.” He remembered what the Countess du Lac Saint Denis had said a moment before. Perhaps she was right, and these were the faces of demons.

  But Gries was talking, his saturnine face masklike in the scintillating light. “It’s all very well for you to build up this meeting, Cagliostro. Theatrics are part of it, are they not? But you cannot expect us to keep this secret. Not in Paris. Nom du nom, it is not possible.” He half turned to wave at Madame du Randarte, who hesitated before acknowledging his greeting. “There’s a rare piece for you,” he said to Martillion when he turned back. “She’s vain, though; doesn’t want her breasts bitten.”

  Giuseppe nodded uncomfortably. He did not like the venality of these men, and he now regretted his boast as a binder of demons. Somewhat startled, he realized he had finished the wine. As he put down the glass he reminded himself that he would need a clear head for what he had to do here.

  “Not drinking, count?” Martillion asked, one ironic brow raised. He almost sneered as he took another glass and drank eagerly.

  “I cannot. I am preparing for the ceremony, you will recall.” He saw a certain flicker in Martillion’s eyes and took full advantage. “As I have said, this is a dangerous matter, and only those of us who have been initiated into the rites may undertake this ordeal. But there are conditions. I must meet those conditions if the ceremony is to go successfully.”

  Although the three laughed, Giuseppe had the satisfaction of knowing that this time they were uneasy, and that he had frightened them. He pressed on, speaking more forcefully now. “I have come because you did not specify the form you would want the demon to appear in. As you may know, demons can be charged to present themselves in guises other than their own.”

  “More chicanery,” Gries scoffed.

  “If you wish to think so . . .” Giuseppe pulled himself up to his full, if modest height. “So that you will have the choice,” he went on, “I will tell you that I may conjure the demon to appear as a monster, although that is the greatest danger, and I am not certain this is wise.”

  Martillion tittered uneasily. “Oh, I have no fear of monsters,” he said as he took another glass of wine.

  Giuseppe set his jaw. “Monsters can occasionally break the protective circle, and then nothing I, or anyone else save an uncorrupted priest, can do will save you.”

  “Mountebank,” Gries said.

  “There are other forms.” Giuseppe colored his voice, made it warmer, more flattering. “Perhaps you would prefer a youth with supple limbs, or a beautiful woma . . . ?” He let the suggestion hang, and saw the response in their faces.

  “A beautiful woman?” DeVre mused. “A fiend from hell?”

  “All women are fiends from hell.” Gries laughed cynically.

  Keeping hold of his calm, Giuseppe said, “You must tell me which you want.” He had an idea now, a way that he could save himself. It was a greater gamble than he wanted to take, but that choice was out of his hands. He would have to risk being denounced or flee France with yet another charge of fraud hanging over him.

  “If the demon were a beautiful woman,” Martillion said reflectively, staring into the red heart of his wine, “could we use her?”

  “There will be another woman at the ceremony for that purpose, and you may choose among yourselves for that. But you lose your immortal soul if you have commerce with the demon.”

  “It’s already lost, if the Church is to be believed.” Gries looked hungrily around the room, his quizzing glass held up

  “You could lose your manhood as well,” Giuseppe said with asperity. “What the demon has touched it will n
ot give back.”

  For a moment the cynical men were silent. Then Martillion laughed. “Still, to see a demon as a woman . . . It might be more to our purposes than to see a monster.” He glanced at the others and saw the assent in their eyes. “A woman, then, Cagliostro. Beautiful. Nude?”

  “It would not be wise,” Giuseppe said after pretending to think. “The flames of hell make strange garments.” He made an enigmatic gesture. “I will do what I can.”

  “What time on Lammas Night?” Gries asked, his eyes growing bleary from the wine.

  For a moment Giuseppe pondered the time, weighing theatricality with the forces he would fool. “Arrive on the stroke of nine, for we must prepare you for the ceremony at midnight. And I warn you,” he said, his manner growing grander, “that you must be prompt. I cannot admit anyone after nine is struck, no matter who asks for admission. I trust you will make this plain to the others.”

  Martillion sketched a bow. “Of course, Cagliostro.”

  His bow was returned with formal flourish, and then Giuseppe turned and strode from the inner salon. As he passed the gambling table, he turned to Beatrisse de Lac Saint Denis. “Madame,” he said in a lowered tone, “that information you requested, concerning an amulet?” He knew this was a dreadful chance, and he waited in fright for her answer.

  Fleetingly her face showed surprise, then she said, “Yes? Have you decided on a price?”

  Giuseppe let his breath out, relieved. “Yes, Madame, I have. If you would be kind enough to wait on me in the morning? Say, at ten?”

  There was speculation and a touch of fear in her eyes. “I will be there, Count. At ten.” She turned back to the table and did not look at Giuseppe again.

  It was shortly after ten when the elegant town coach pulled up outside the home of Count Alessandro Cagliostro, and the steps were let down for a beautifully dressed and heavily veiled woman. A maid followed her into the house.

  Giuseppe himself met her in the foyer, extending his hands to her, and bowed punctiliously. “I am honored, Countess,” he said, then added softly, “If you seek to keep your visit here secret, it would have been wiser to hire a coach. Your arms are blazoned on the doors of that one.”

  She shrugged. “As long as the spies of my husband’s household follow me, I do not want to put them to any special effort. Besides, he knows that I come here. It was he who insisted on the veil.” With these words she drew the veil aside and made a travesty of a smile. “Where is this amulet you spoke of?”

  Giuseppe was prepared. He held out a strangely cut jewel on a chain. “It is efficacious in matters of the heart and children. But you must take special care of it. Allow me to take you to my experiment room and demonstrate how you are to wear it, and what you must do with it when you do not wear it.” He turned to the maid who waited inside the door. “Accompany us, please. I do not want to cast the countess into disfavor with her husband.”

  The maid started forward, then hung back. She had heard much about Count Cagliostro, but none of it said he was lascivious. She bowed her head. “I will remain here, sir.”

  It was the answer that Giuseppe had hoped for. “As you wish. We should not be more than half an hour.” He offered his arm to the Countess du Lac Saint Denis. “Come with me, if you please,” he said, and led her into the west wing of the house.

  When they were safely out of earshot, Beatrisse du Lac Saint Denis said, “What is this about, Count? You bewildered me last night. I did not know what to think, and this, with the jewel, confuses me even more.”

  He handed her the jewel. “Take it with you, in any case.”

  “Is it an amulet?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It is to bring you your heart’s desire.”

  The devastation in her face upset him. “That cannot be, Count. But it is a kindness for you to offer.” She took the jewel and absent-mindedly put it around her neck.

  Giuseppe nodded. “You have heard of what is planned for Lammas Night?”

  “My husband speaks of little else,” she said more bitterly than she knew. “DeVre’s set are expecting wonders of you. They are in an ugly mood.”

  In spite of himself Giuseppe shuddered. “I gathered that. And it is a pity that I will have to disappoint them.”

  Her brows rose. “You daren’t,” she said, lowering her voice as if she feared an eavesdropper. “You must not. They will not allow that.”

  “Yes, I realize this.”

  Impulsively she put her hand on his arm. “Is it that you cannot? Or that you will not?”

  Giuseppe grimaced. “Some of both, Countess. I can summon certain demons, but I will not bring them to do the bidding of those men. You understand why, Madame. I need not tell you why.”

  “But you must.” She turned her lovely, haunted face toward him. The light from the tall windows at the end of the gallery made her fine unpowdered curls glow bright chestnut. The jewels at her throat were alive with their garnet fire, and the silk of her billowing skirt glowed with light. “I know what these men can be. None knows better than I. They permit no one to cross them, and if they suspect fraud, they will show no mercy to you. You will be imprisoned, either by Louis’ courts or by the Church. There is no way to escape them, Alessandro,” she used his name in a sudden rush of intimacy. “They are too many and too strong.”

  Giuseppe took her hand and kissed it. “Madame, I believe you. And that is why I have taken you into my confidence. I know something of your marriage, and I have wondered if perhaps you would like to be revenged on Jean Gabriel Louis Martillion, Count du Lac Saint Denis?” He thought of the count’s younger brother, and realized that Martillion’s vice was small beside the count’s.

  Her hands closed convulsively on his. “You cannot know how dearly I would treasure revenge, even one little revenge.”

  With a profound nod, Giuseppe said, “If you are willing to take a risk I am sure that you may have it. There is a saying in Italy that revenge is a dish best served cold. It will take cold blood to do what I suggest.”

  Beatrisse du Lac Saint Denis turned away. “My blood was frozen long ago, Count. What do you want of me?”

  Giuseppe smiled, and felt relief run through him. “When I summon the demon, it will be you.”

  She turned to him again. “What? How can you . . . ?”

  “That is my concern,” he said, raising her hand to his lips. He found it easier to deal with women who trusted his confidential manner and charm than with those who were attracted by his handsomeness. He was pleased to see excitement kindle in the countess’s amber eyes. “You must listen to me, and I will outline what I have done. And if you are afraid, remember that you will be heavily disguised by the lights and by the strange garments you wear. And,” he added as he saw her falter, “I will paint your face as they do for the theatre. No one will suspect that Beatrisse Countess du Lac Saint Denis is the embodiment of a demon.”

  She looked bewildered. “But if this is as you say, how will I be revenged?”

  “That, Madame, is where the risk occurs.”

  It was Lammas Night. The springtime moon rode low in the sky over Paris, and rode the echoes of church bells as they tolled the hour of eight. The streets were already quiet, for when darkness descended it was not wise to be found out of doors.

  The sedan chair that arrived at the servants’ entrance to the home of Count Alessandro Cagliostro was run-down, and the two chairmen who carried it were not the sort most aristocrats would put their trust in. They collected their fee from the plainly dressed young woman who had hired them and watched her go into the dark passage by the kitchens. They assumed she was to be part of the celebration that would occur later. Cagliostro’s summoning of a demon had given most of Paris food for speculation, and the chairmen were glad to have their own tidbit to add to the chatter. Servant girls at demon raisings were something of a surprise.

  * * *

  They would have been more surprised yet had they known that the kitchen door was opened by Cagliostro himself,
and that he bowed over the disguised countess’s hand as formally as if she had been in all her court finery.

  “Is it ready?” she whispered, somewhat taken aback by his strange white robe with the silver embroidery on it.

  “Yes, just as I described it to you. But come quickly, Madame. There is not much time and I want you to practice the trick just once before I dress you.”

  She hung back. “You are certain that the candles will be out when I appear? I do not want anyone to see the trapdoor.”

  “No one will see it,” he assured her as he opened the hidden door into a secret passage that led to his own austere quarters located over the room where the materialization would take place.

  The garment, when he showed it to her, delighted her, though it was shockingly indecent. She touched the flamelike tongues of sheer silk that moved with every draught. Giuseppe pointed out the mechanism of the dress and she laughed at the simplicity of it. “Even if they suspect trickery,” she said as she fitted the garment over her, “they would not think of this. They will look for tricks of the theatre, of strange engines.” She started across the room, and stopped, suddenly modest, as the silk fell back to reveal the length of her thigh.

  “No, no, Madame,” Giuseppe assured her. “No demon would behave so. And in a moment I will paint your legs with red, and paste jewels on them. You must not notice your manner of dress.” He pointed to the mirror near his worktable. “See? this is not Beatrisse du Lac Saint Denis, this is some hellish vision.”

  The thought seemed to strike her, for she rose on her toes and turned gracefully so that the silk drifted about her. “This way, Count?”

  Remembering the hungry faces of the men coming that night, Giuseppe said, “It is lovely, Countess, but do not make it too beautiful. A demon may lure, but only to hell.”