by Molly Tanzer
“But,” he added, glancing at Evadne, “we may not save either—man or child. The stakes are high, which means the consequences of failure are dire.”
“Where is he operating out of?” asked Stockton.
“An old house close to Seven Dials. We shall convene here but depart in separate cabs—it won’t be noticed, because of the frequent comings and goings of those who live there.”
“It is a notorious area,” said Evadne.
“Yes, and I believe he has been using this anonymity to his advantage—but it will prove to be his downfall,” said George.
“How on earth did you find him?” asked Evadne.
The rest of her companions chuckled.
“George has a bloodhound’s nose for this sort of thing,” said Trawless, smiling at Evadne.
“It’s all just logic and research,” said George crisply as he produced a map of London from the same box of odds and ends. After unfolding it over the newspapers, he pointed to an incomplete hieroglyph he had drawn in red ink. “The first child was found here,” he said, pointing at a dot, “and taken from here.” His finger moved to another, at an acute angle to the first. “The second was taken here.” He pointed to another dot, and then to a fourth. “And reappeared here.” His finger moved yet again. “As for the third child, she was taken from here, but has obviously yet to reappear. But, if we connect these dots”—he drew with his finger something that Evadne knew was part of a symbol, even if it was difficult to visualize exactly—“we can see the center of it . . . and when it began to take shape, I began to hang around the area, see if anything hinted at where he might be lurking. It was easy enough to see, once I was there.”
The feeling of respect was palpable from his fellows. Evadne, too, admired his pluck and his reasoning. It was obvious George knew what he was about. The thought sent a chill down her spine as much as it thawed some of her reluctance to believe something so incredible as a demonologist lurking in a London garret, taking children for some diabolic purpose.
“So . . . what exactly are we going to do tomorrow night?”
She was surprised by the steadiness of her voice as she spoke. Perhaps she really had been born to walk this path.
6
A demon’s whims are laws to everyone except themselves.
—On the Summoning of Demons
All Evadne had to do to prepare herself for a night of demon hunting was get dressed and arrive at the school on time.
Getting to the academy was easy enough. As to what she would wear . . . that had presented a bit of a problem. The men were perfectly comfortable fencing in evening dress—if the knees of their trousers and the elbows of their jackets were a bit worn, they’d only look more natural where they were going. As for her, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to fence in a full skirt, not to mention dangerous, given that she’d never practiced anything like that. Her bloomers and petticoat—the typical ensemble she wore to practice—would stick out terribly in a seedy neighborhood like that, and her plastron would not fit under her shirtwaists, leaving her open to injury.
In the end, they decided Evadne would simply cover up with a cloak. George volunteered an old one of his that they could easily abandon if necessary. If she kept it buttoned, it would also hide her weapon. The men all had sword canes, impressive pieces whose shafts had been specially constructed of a resin that made them a defensive tool in combat. But even if she could have carried a cane and not looked queer doing so, Evadne had not been trained in such a way—George confessed he had meant to do so, only this had come up so soon after he realized her potential. She would just have to make due with her own weapon, and rely on her nimbleness to keep her out of harm’s way.
Out of harm’s way. While George seemed confident they would have the advantage, for there were six of them and their target appeared to operate in isolation, there was a chance any of them might be hurt—even killed. As this was Evadne’s first time, they would of course be looking out for her, but just the same, there was undeniable risk involved.
The previous night, upon returning to Uncle Basil’s house after her most extraordinary conversation with George, Evadne had marveled at both her choice to help him and her ease at making it. She had never done anything risky like this, not really—unless she were to count the time she had swum into the sea on that mistaken errand to save Dorina. The idea of it had made her feel excited in the same way fencing did. She’d felt alive. She’d decided to trust herself.
And of course, to trust George . . .
As she didn’t have to leave until half eight, the following night she ate with her uncle and sister. The meal was tense. She wasn’t able to get much down, being so anxious. And yet, her secret anxiety wasn’t so wholly occupying that she failed to realize she wasn’t the only distracted one.
Uncle Basil seemed even less present than usual. He kept sighing, eyes flickering toward his studio, not paying attention to either girl. Dorina, too, was quiet, browsing a copy of some book of poetry called Les Fleurs du Mal as she picked at her food. For some reason—perhaps it was the gilt cover, the elaborate binding—Evadne assumed it was some trash given to her by Lady Henry.
When the clock struck eight, Evadne excused herself. Only then did Dorina look up.
“Off to bed?” she asked, surprised.
“No.” Evadne had already decided on her lie. “A fencing instructor from Italy is visiting—he’s friends with Mr. Perkins. There’s a lecture tonight.”
“Oh.” Dorina nodded. “All right. Well . . .”
“Hmm?”
Her sister hesitated, and Evadne, impatient to be gone, glanced at the clock.
“Have a good time,” said Dorina, and returned to her book. She sounded sad, or at least disappointed.
“Are you doing anything tonight?” Evadne asked her sister, more for politeness’ sake than any real interest.
“No,” she said. “Just reading.”
Evadne almost asked if Lady Henry was busy, but then she realized she didn’t really have to ask. Of course that must be what was happening—if she were free, Dorina would have been by her side.
“Enjoy your book,” she said, feeling guilty for some reason she couldn’t quite explain.
“Enjoy your lecture,” said Dorina.
Evadne was of two minds as she went to change. Dorina had been reaching out to her, for the first time since their dreadful fight. If it had been any other night, she would have reached back. She missed her sister—even missed squabbling with her. The silence between them had grown heavy, freighted.
Then anger flared. Why should she always have to work around Dorina’s schedule? What of her interests, her priorities? This was something important, something significant, something meaningful she was doing with her friends—of course Dorina would choose that night to pretend like she actually wanted to behave like sisters.
Evadne undressed quickly and savagely while thinking these thoughts, but after stripping down to her pantalets and chemise, she sat on the edge of the bed. Part of her wanted to cancel on George—to stay, to see what Dorina might like to do. Sadly, that was impossible—and anyway, if she stayed home, she and Dorina were unlikely to end up reconnecting on some beautiful sisterly level, as if they were characters in one of Dorina’s sentimental three-volume novels. Likely they would just fight.
If Evadne was going to fight that night, she would fight demons.
Well, maybe. Evadne was still going back and forth on that, actually. She both wanted and did not want to believe that she might see something . . . unusual.
Another chime from the clock reminded her of the crucial timing of her adventure, and she pulled on her clothes and then hurried to replace the practice epees in her bag with the real rapier of Lord Oliver’s that she’d been practicing with. Slinging it over her shoulder, she ran downstairs—and nearly crashed into Jonas Fuller, who was standing awkwardly in Basil’s foyer.
“Miss Gray!” he exclaimed as she skidded to a halt.
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“What are you doing here?” she snapped. He winced; true, it wasn’t the most polite greeting she could have offered him.
“I was, ah, in the area,” he said, blushing red as a beetroot. “I thought I’d stop by and say hello . . .”
“It’s nearly half eight,” said Evadne, desperate to be gone. Why was Jonas here, right when she needed to be on her way to see George?
And, of course, to do good in the world by saving children, and so on and so forth . . .
“I’m sorry, of course; I’m aware it’s late,” he apologized, clasping his hands in front of his belly, then over his plump behind, then back again, “but I wanted . . .” He stopped.
Evadne made a little impatient sound in the back of her throat. “Wanted what?”
“To see you,” he said, all in a rush.
Evadne blushed now, remembering Dorina’s ridiculous allegation that Jonas liked her. Could it be there was some merit in what she’d said? Only then did she notice that for the first time since she’d met him, Jonas didn’t look completely perfect. His dark hair was a bit mussed, and his suit didn’t look as if he’d just pressed it five minutes before arriving. Sweat beaded his forehead though the night was cool.
“Are you quite all right?” she asked, actually concerned by these small but significant lapses.
“Yes, of course,” he said, proper again, then shook his head. “No,” he confessed. “Miss Gray, I—I had to see you.”
“Why?”
“I’ve . . . you’ve . . . you haven’t been by,” he said. “With Dor—Miss Dorina, I mean.”
“I’ve been busy,” she said.
“I know you do not care for Lady Henry’s company,” said Jonas, and Evadne went pink again. “I just,” he said over a protest that sounded insincere even to her own ears, “had rather hoped you might . . . well . . . come along anyway . . .”
“For what purpose?” The chime of half past the hour was maddening—she needed to be gone, and he was still hesitating. “Jonas, I’m very sorry, but I’m headed out and I really must . . .”
“Oh!” He seemed to notice her bag and cloak for the first time—also most unlike him. “Where are you going? Might I escort you? The hour is late, and . . .”
“Oh, I’m only going to the academy. There’s an event tonight.”
“Why take a cab when I could take you there in Henry’s carriage? I must head back that way anyhow.”
Evadne did not care to accept the favor, but looking at the clock, she knew she was now compelled to. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s very kind.”
Jonas grabbed her bag before she could protest and slung it into the carriage with surprising ease; he was stronger than he looked. Also before she could protest, he took her by the hand to help her up.
The pressure of his fingers on her palm was pleasant and firm, but once he released her Evadne pulled away. She found she liked him less, rather than more, after this uninvited intimacy—the feeling of his skin on hers lingered, leaving her feeling unsettled, even a bit unclean. She very much did not enjoy having liberties taken with her person—at least, not by Jonas, who apparently believed her physically incapable of getting into a carriage without assistance.
George would never assume she was so weak.
Evadne fumed as Jonas told the address to the driver. They sat in silence for a time as they rattled along. Evadne knew it would be polite to find something to talk of, given his kindness to her, but she could not think of anything to say. He kept stealing glances at her, and it made things awkward. She willed the horses to trot faster.
“I’d like to apologize to you,” he said at last, startling her.
“What? I mean, I beg your pardon?”
“I must apologize for offending you.”
“It is polite to ask a lady if she likes to be touched before doing so,” she said primly, looking out the window of the carriage to the dark city beyond. She hoped this would put him off, but no such luck.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Jonas. Evadne realized he had meant something else, and turned to meet his eye. “You are correct, of course. But I was speaking of our time at the museum, Miss Gray.”
Evadne cringed inwardly. She did not wish to go over the incident another time, not at all, and certainly not while she needed to be collecting her thoughts in anticipation of her potentially dangerous evening.
“Oh,” she said, gaze falling to the toes of her indiarubber-soled shoes. “Well, thank you . . . but I had already forgotten it.”
“Have you?” She glanced at him; he was smiling ruefully. “I do not mean to question your truthfulness, but before I said what I said . . . forgive me, but I admired you so much, when I saw you fencing. The precision of your footwork . . . the movements of your wrist . . . I found it—you—so intriguing. I experienced a keen desire to get to know you better. And if I may be so bold, you did not seem displeased by the idea . . . until I went and ruined things like a silly ass.” She chuckled at that until he said, “I still wish to know you better, Miss Gray; every time your sister has come to call, I have harbored a hope that you might come along with her . . . Every time we have visited your uncle, I have wished to see you. Terribly selfish, I know, but there it is.”
Evadne had never felt so confused in her life. It wasn’t that she actively disliked Jonas. She had resented him for his remark, true, and unfairly—she acknowledged that, to herself at least. And his pleasant openness during this conversation reminded her of why she’d been so at ease with him, all those weeks ago.
And yet, he was a valet, a vassal of the aggravating Lady Henry. They were much like one another—in their manners, and also in the way they made her feel. Greasy, unclean . . . To see more of him would mean seeing more of the lady, and that she could not brook. She decided to let him down. Gently.
“I have no objections to getting to know you,” she said, “but our schedules are such, it might be—”
“We can make time,” he said eagerly, leaning forward. Even as she once again saw how his smile made his plain face something close to handsome, Evadne realized, horrified, that she had given him the wrong impression. What could she possibly say now to dissuade him?
“Ah,” she said, but the carriage saved her, slowing and then stopping outside the academy. “I’m sorry, I must be off, I’m already late. Forgive me.”
“Another time, then, Miss Gray.” His delight was painful for her to behold. “I say,” he said as she grabbed her bag, and he looked to the dark front window of the academy, “are you certain the event is tonight? It looks closed up!”
“I’m sure they’re in there. Thank you for escorting me,” she said brightly, and leaping out before the footman could help her, she hurried inside.
Everyone else was clustered in the dark foyer, anxious like hounds before a hunt. George canted his head at her after she closed the door, smiling faintly.
“Who was that who brought you here?” he asked, jutting his chin at where the carriage was pulling away.
“A family friend,” she said, hoping the darkness concealed her blush. She didn’t want him getting the wrong idea about Jonas. “I told him there was a conference here tonight.”
“I suppose we should have had a light burning, then,” mused George. He shrugged. “Ah well, no matter. Let us be gone. But first . . .”
He produced a large cloak and threw it over her shoulders with a flourish. As he fastened it under her chin, Evadne couldn’t help but notice it smelled pleasant, like him—a manly smell, with a faint hint of some spicy cologne. It made her feel quite funny, to be surrounded by something of his.
Actually, it felt wonderful.
She was thankful for the pleasantly cool night air that kissed her face as they walked deeper into Westminster to catch cabs. Trawless and Reid hopped in the first that appeared, after George handed them each something along with offering a murmured admonition. Bourne and Stockton took another, after the same strange exchange, which left Evadne with George.<
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“I’m proud of you, Gray,” said George. She fought the urge to say call me Evadne as they climbed inside a summoned hackney. “Impressed, I mean. Few people would be brave enough to agree to do something like this.”
“Perhaps it’s not bravery; I’m still not entirely certain what I’ve agreed to.” All she knew was that they weren’t going to kill the man. George had been very specific—they were to interrupt whatever unholy ritual he was attempting to conduct that night, and capture him. A dead man couldn’t answer questions.
“Questions about what?” she’d asked.
“About his patron demon. About his plans. Whether he has any associates.” George had sighed. “No one believes in demons anymore. That’s not going to change anytime soon. I have tried and tried to come up with some way—any way—to get the state involved, or the clergy, but there’s no way that doesn’t result in me being hanged . . . or locked up in Bedlam. The fact of the matter is, the world has moved on. We are so certain we live in an age of reason, but that simply isn’t the case. If men were truly reasonable, I could show them evidence of what I know and not be accused of being a diabolist myself, or a madman. It’s a shame. I am all too aware that we are vigilantes. If we’re caught doing this, we’ll be the ones to go up before a judge.”
That hadn’t occurred to Evadne, but at her worried frown he’d patted the back of her hand.
“It’s a risk, but it’s an important one that good men—good people—must take. While what I’ve done—what we’re doing—is illegal, technically, I’m certain I have done good in the world. We have, my group and I. We are an invisible knife that cuts away at an unknown cancer. We will not be thanked, we will not be congratulated. Our only reward will be knowing the nation is healthier for our actions.”
They rattled past the heart of Seven Dials, where the shabby buildings converged in a seedy, dark starburst. As they turned down a yet more wretched street, Evadne spied women without escorts, and shiftless people squatting on doorsteps, even a man pissing against a building.
