by Molly Tanzer
“We’ll see,” he said simply. “For now, get yourselves together. We don’t want to keep him waiting long. Well, Gray,” he said as they went off on their various errands, “invited to your first dinner at the Lion . . . quite an honor, given you haven’t been with us a month.”
Evadne didn’t know what to say. She was glad she hadn’t realized how significant an invitation it had been at the time, or surely she would have been too embarrassed to accept.
“Perkins likes the shepherd’s pie there, and the beer,” said Cantrell carelessly, not noticing her confusion, or choosing to ignore it. “Usually he goes home before us . . .”
The way he trailed off made her suspect he was trying to tell her something indirectly. “Do you do something afterward?” she asked. “I’m happy to take a cab home, if it’s all right to leave my things at the school overnight. I can get them—”
“Gray,” he said, and again that shiver went down her spine at the way he said her name in that clipped manner. She looked into his blue eyes, the whites of which were almost blinding in their purity. Oh, but she liked to look at him! The curve of his lips, the way his eyebrows tapered to sharp points, the shadow of golden stubble along his jawline. “I am not telling you because I want you to leave us—I am telling you because I hope you will wish to join us.”
“Oh,” she said softly.
She saw his hand move, and almost flinched when she felt his fingers on her chin, but then he tipped her face upward . . . He was taller than her, and his grip was strong; she couldn’t turn her head to look away, so she turned her eyes to the wall to avoid meeting his.
“Will you come?”
“Yes,” she whispered. It was perhaps the first time in her life she’d agreed to something without knowing what she was getting herself into. It was thrilling.
“Excellent,” he said, releasing her and stepping away just as the other chaps came back. Evadne wasn’t offended; she might not be as wise in the ways of the world as these Londoners, but she knew very well that if any of her new friends suspected she and her tutor might have some sort of interest in one another beyond fencing they would immediately return to treating her as the girl of the group. “Well, are we ready?” he said to them. “Shall we go?”
The night was warm; the walk, pleasant. She felt no fear of strolling through Westminster after dark, not with these companions. The pub was respectably situated at the corner of Parliament Street and Derby Gate, just across from the Foreign Office, practically in the shadow of Big Ben. It felt younger than the pub back in Swadlincote, but still had the smoky, slick, almost oily feel to the tables that Evadne liked. She ordered a glass of claret, rather than accepting a mug from the pitcher of bitter Mr. Perkins had ordered for the table, but she helped herself to everything they’d ordered—shepherd’s pie, as Mr. Cantrell had predicted, plus a roast chicken, some cold ham, and a salad of summer vegetables.
Her eyes were bigger than her stomach; she ate lightly, though the food was good. Her thoughts were not on her meal, but rather on what she might be doing after.
After . . . with Mr. Cantrell.
Cantrell clearly did not share her concern; he kept the conversation lively all the night long. Evadne could scarcely listen, however—she saw mainly their mouths moving, their teeth when they smiled, their eyes as they glinted over the edge of their mugs. Only when Mr. Perkins called her name did she realize how far away her mind had been, and she turned to him, apologizing for her inattention.
“No, no,” he said softly, so that she had to lean in to hear him. “I know how you feel. I’m not much of a conversationalist myself.” Evadne didn’t quite know how to take this—it was a confidence, but not a compliment. “But, I wanted to say . . . I’m sorry to have gotten into that scrap in front of you, with George . . . He’s a fine teacher, and you’ve done well under him. But I confess I’m a bit envious he’s the one who snapped you up . . . It has been a long time since I’ve seen anyone improve as rapidly as you have.”
“Thank you,” she said, and as if seeking to excuse her own ability added, “it’s been a long time coming. All those years of practice . . .”
“Ah, but I’ve always said that practice makes permanent—not perfect,” said Mr. Perkins, shaking his head. He paused to drink deeply from his mug of bitter; Evadne had noticed Mr. Cantrell refilling it all night, and more often than he did for his fellows. “You arrived on my doorstep with mistakes in your form that were not your fault—they were simply the result of your lack of instruction. But you have quickly overcome any bad habits, and worked hard to obey the instructions George’s been giving you. There’s no reason a woman can’t fence, and well, I just . . . well . . .” He took another long pull of beer; Evadne caught Mr. Cantrell’s eye, and he winked at her. Blushing, she turned back to Mr. Perkins.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Perkins?”
“What? No.” He was tipsy. “You’re a good girl, Evadne—I beg your pardon, I mean, Miss Gray. Sensible. But you have to be careful . . . burn out . . .”
“What do you mean?”
“Eh? Nothing, nothing . . . just an old man’s worried rambling. But, really, you know, you can practice too hard. The body is like a fire, you have to feed it slowly, steadily, or it burns too hot and fast . . . and then all you have left is ashes.”
Evadne again looked over at Mr. Cantrell, who rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly. Evadne tried not to smile.
“I know you think I’m an old man,” he muttered.
“Not at all,” she assured him.
“Eh?” He looked up at her, eyes focusing. “What have I been saying, I wonder? Drank a bit too much . . . should get home. Do you trust these young rascals to see you safely to your uncle’s? You could come with me . . .”
“I haven’t quite finished my meal,” said Evadne, gesturing to the cooling potatoes on her plate. “I’m sure I’ll be all right.”
“Of course. You can defend yourself, after all.” He patted her hand as he lurched to his feet. “Well, my boys, I’m off. Take care of her, will you?”
“Of course, Mr. Perkins,” said Trawless.
“She’s in good hands,” said Cantrell, looking Evadne in the eye until she turned away.
“Tomorrow, then . . .”
And he was gone. He’d left money on the table, a generous amount to pay for what they’d eaten, but they left it all—which likely accounted for the quality of service they’d received from the Lion’s staff, and their willingness to tolerate a rowdy bunch of sweaty athletes when most of their clientele were decently dressed professional men eating a quiet meal.
“Shall we?” Cantrell stood, and the rest of the group followed. Evadne got to her feet as well, feeling tingly from head to toe.
“Where are we going?” she asked as they walked toward the door. She hung back slightly; the rest were in front of her and Mr. Cantrell, which is likely why he felt at liberty to put a hand on the small of her back.
His touch sent a shock through her body, a tiny spark, like a candle’s flame when it hits an uneven part of the wick. Her body was suddenly alive with sensation, and all the hairs on the back of her neck and along her arms pricked up as he leaned in to whisper, “Why, back to the school, of course.”
The academy was dark when they entered; the only light was what came in through the slits in the drawn curtains, long blades of brightness that cut at weird jagged angles over the desk in the foyer, the potted plant, and up against the door that led into the studio. All six of them waited in the warm darkness while Trawless fumbled with the key.
Finally he got the door open and they shuffled inside, stepping carefully up onto the practice floor. No one spoke, nor did they move to find a light, save for Mr. Cantrell, who darted into the kitchen to grab a gas lantern. The flame made Evadne’s eyes water until he pulled the hood, at which point he silently led them down a creaking set of stairs into the basement of the studio. She knew no one else was inside, but the sounds all made her worry the
y would be overheard. They were clearly up to something secret.
Once they were all assembled, Mr. Cantrell lit several candles. As the room gradually brightened, Evadne saw the cellar was cluttered with the sort of detritus one might expect: fencing equipment that needed repair, an old lamp, a box that looked to be some sort of lost and found, and a low table that listed to one side on an uneven leg. There were a few chairs, too, but they looked newer, or at least less dusty than the rest. The men jockeyed to offer her one before they would take a seat themselves.
“Perkins’s knees give him trouble; he hasn’t been down here in a year,” said Cantrell as he settled in. Evadne looked questioningly at him, and he explained further, “It wouldn’t do for him to know what we were doing.”
This made her uncomfortable. It was Mr. Perkins’s school, as he’d said earlier . . .
“But,” she began.
“You know how he feels about dueling,” said Trawless.
Dueling! Was this a dueling club? She wasn’t quite ready for such a thing, and turned to her tutor. “Perhaps I’ve made a mistake, Mr. Cantrell, I—”
“Gray, I would not ask you to allow me such a familiarity, but if you would consent to call me George—or at least drop my honorific, it might be easier . . . at least under these very particular circumstances,” he said over her objections.
This intimacy shocked her. George’s girl—and now she would call him George. At least in private. Among less intimate acquaintances, she’d stick to his last name.
Needless to say, all thoughts of departing left her mind entirely.
“Well!” he said, after she nodded, “welcome everyone. I’ve called you here tonight for two reasons. One, because I have a new lead. Two, because I feel, due to the strength of our adversary, we could use some more power . . . which is why I’ve invited Gray to join us.”
“Very jolly!” declared Reid.
“The more the merrier,” said Bourne.
“Adversary?” said Evadne, blushing, hoping to redirect their attention.
“Yes, adversary. This is not a dueling club, Gray, dedicated to the winning of petty victories over one another. This is an organization of like-minded individuals who have decided to hone their fencing for a very specific purpose. This is a rare thing . . . We do not often invite new members into our, ah, inner circle. The reason is”—he hesitated; she smiled at him, nodding, to encourage him—“what we are doing is illegal.”
Evadne’s heart began to beat a bit harder. Saint George, asking her to do something that was against the law?
“What do you mean?” she asked, voice trembling.
“Sometimes, when there is a real and terrible danger lurking at the edges of society, but the police will do nothing about it, it falls to spirited and . . . morally flexible individuals to help,” said George. “We here in this basement are true patriots, Gray—brave citizens of England willing to risk our bodies, and even our lives, to keep crown and country safe.”
The little hairs were pricking up on the back of Evadne’s neck again. She rather wished George had told her why he might risk his body and life before telling her that he did—and expected her to, as well . . .
“What we do—myself, and my companions—may be vigilantism, but I assure you, it is crucial. My work began in my days in divinity school. I had a teacher who . . . well, he introduced me to certain fascinating truths about the world. Secret truths. Did Freddie ever mention anything about . . .”
All Freddie had ever mentioned of George was that he was a scholarship student, an excellent fencer, and a “queer duck.” She shook her head.
“Well, he was never a good enough fencer to be invited to our society,” said George carelessly. Evadne smiled in spite of herself at this dig at her former crush. “Well then, I imagine what I tell you next will come as something of a shock. Gray, the threat I spoke of—the canker that gnaws at the heartwood of our nation . . . it is . . . how shall I put this? It comes from the evil in men’s hearts, but also from another source. A source beyond our understanding. Beyond our world, actually.” It was the first time Evadne had seen George nervous, and it astonished her. Then again, what he was saying was astonishing. Beyond their world? What could he mean? “I am perfectly serious when I tell you that we here, in this room . . . we are committing to stamping out fell beings who influence this nation’s citizens, who turn them from God and from country, who infiltrate and insinuate themselves into our hearts and minds. I’m speaking of . . . demons.”
Evadne’s mouth hung open, but she had no words.
“Yes—demons,” he said, anticipating her question. “I am being entirely serious, Gray, I assure you.”
“He is,” said Trawless. “We’ve all seen the evidence.”
The rest of them were nodding. Evadne didn’t know quite what to think, but in the darkness, with these intense people and George’s face lit from below with candle and lantern light, it seemed entirely possible that there were demons out there, real demons. Not just metaphors for human wickedness, as Dorina would say, but beings who fought for souls and power, as she herself had suggested in the National Gallery what felt like ages ago now.
“Evidence,” said Evadne, knowing she must say something. “Evidence that they exist, or evidence that they interfere with . . . ah . . .” She couldn’t quite bring herself to speculate on how or when or why beings might do such a thing.
“Why wouldn’t they?” was George’s answer. “They are obscene. Their wants are what men call sin, and they will be satisfied only when we are all in their thrall. They wage their own wars among themselves on their own plane, but they also do battle in our world by gaining power over men and turning our will to theirs. I have seen what they can do, and I will never be satisfied until I know England is cleansed of their influence!”
Evadne glanced around, and saw the upturned faces of Bourne, Stockton, Reid, and Trawless—their attention was unwavering; their devotion, unquestionable. There was no doubt they believed.
Whether or not she did . . . that was another matter.
On one hand, she had heard the village vicar lecture about resisting temptations and the burden of all men to eschew demons and their tricks, to guard her soul against wickedness and influence. On the other, well, she had never seen any evidence of actual demonic beings. Just human weakness.
“You doubt me,” said George shrewdly, looking right at her. She opened her mouth, then shut it, and shrugged.
“I have never seen a demon,” she said carefully. “But . . .”
“But?” George’s eyes met hers, and he stared at her with such intensity that she felt her pulse quicken as when he had caressed her chin.
“I suppose if you could show me . . .”
“Oh, I will,” he said. Evadne found his intensity mesmerizing. “I have never gone after a diabolist without evidence.”
“Our Saint George only hunts real dragons,” said Trawless, winking at her, though his expression was serious. “He’s not fooled by lizards with costume wings.”
“What’s our latest target?” asked Stockton.
“In good time,” said George. “First, Gray, if we are going to discuss this further in front of you . . . do you agree to complete secrecy about this matter?”
“Of course,” she said. “I wouldn’t betray your confidence. And anyway, I have no one to tell.”
A sad smile twisted George’s perfect lips. “Yes, so many of us come to this school, and yet more specifically, this sort of calling, from a place of loneliness. The truth is, Gray, some men and women serve the greater good by living traditional lives. They go to church, learn their lessons, become husbands and wives . . . mothers and fathers. Others—those of us who are less suited to conventional lives—are forced by our difference, and often by our excellence, to serve the world in an unconventional way. For those of us with our sort of talent, we must become rather like knights-errant. But there is no less honor in walking the warrior’s path—in fact, I believe there is
a great deal more, for it takes bravery and generosity to give up what we are told we ought most to want.”
Evadne listened, enthralled. The speech was exactly what she wanted to hear; it was a gift given to her, put directly into her hands, by someone who understood her better than anyone else—even those who had known her all her life.
“All right,” she said, nodding slowly. Honestly, she would have agreed to anything at that moment—she could judge for herself, once she saw this “evidence.” “What must I do?”
He was pleased, she could tell, and that in turn pleased her. Folding his hands behind his back, George began to pace.
“As I have said, I have located our next target. The trail I followed began with the disappearance of three children, all of a similar age. You may have seen it in the papers—we check the broadsheets for such crimes. Of course, some sensational or confusing acts of violence are the work of men—the Whitechapel murders, for instance—and on the other hand, common-seeming tragedies have demonic origins. So we have to be careful.” He rummaged about in the lost-and-found box and produced a few old newspapers. Spreading them across the table, he beckoned his followers to come and see. Pencil circles surrounded three similar headlines. “All of these children are young, between six and eight, and all disappeared during the new moon. The body of the first was found a month later, significantly decomposed. The second was found no less than two weeks after the disappearance, and it—forgive me—the body of the child was relatively fresh. Pristine, almost. I believe this indicates our diabolist kills them during the full moon.
“Now a third has gone missing, also during the new moon . . . and tomorrow it is full again.”
“Tomorrow!” said Evadne.
“You wanted evidence? I will provide it within twenty-four hours. We must move quickly—it is during a ritual that a diabolist is the most vulnerable. They are also at their most powerful, but the power makes them less in touch with their humanity. They take greater risks, they forget their limits. That is why we must strike when the time is exactly right. He will not begin before the moon is up, and if we infiltrate his stronghold when he is already giving himself over to his master, but has yet to harm his victim, we will be victorious.
