by Molly Tanzer
“They come from another plane,” he said, “something parallel to ours, but that can only intersect in certain, strange ways. As I said, they cannot live here. When they do come over, it’s . . . toxic to us—and to them. Those things, they would have died soon enough, but possibly not before making mischief. They would have been slowly poisoned by our air, our voices even—they cannot hear us without pain, nor we them. That’s why when it spoke . . .” He wiped under her eye with a callused thumb and showed her.
It was blood.
Evadne touched her ear, and her fingertips glistened when she pulled them away. That was when she began to shake, to quiver like the last leaf of autumn clinging to a beech-tree’s branch.
“Steady!” He took her hand in his, and squeezed it. “We are not yet done!”
Then he pressed something into her palm—a bottle—and bid her sprinkle it all over the roof. “Holy oil,” he said when she looked at him uncomprehendingly, but after that, it made enough sense for her to follow his orders.
She felt herself drawn to the worst of the carnage—meaning, the child. She went over, drawn to the awful tableau as equally as she was repelled by it, and looked upon the ruin.
The presence of the flowers made the disemboweled girl appear yet more horrifying, surrounded by their beauty, loathsome in her nakedness. Evadne sprinkled some of her holy oil on her broken body, fresh tears mingling with the drying blood caking her face.
Beside the broken thing that had been a child was the knife. Disgusting as it was, it was also strangely compelling. It whispered at Evadne, practically begged her to pick it up and hold it.
Evadne stripped off her glove to grasp it.
As soon as her fingers touched it, a vision came to her of what ought to be done with the knife. She saw all the children of London at once, her mind’s eye tracking from one to another to another in impossible succession. There they were, in their beds, in their rooms, in factories and on the streets, in loving homes and wretched ones. So many children! Surely, some could be sacrificed . . .
“They shall come to me,” she intoned. “Their power shall be mine, their youth, their innocence, and from that I shall shape a—”
A stinging slap across her cheek startled her, and the blade went clattering to the roof, skittering away from her.
“Evadne!”
George was looming over her, his hands on her shoulders. Her cheek ached, but the sound of her name in his mouth alarmed her more.
“What?”
“You picked it up, you silly girl! Why would you do that?”
“It . . . I don’t . . .” She gasped. “I’m sorry!”
“It’s my fault. I should have wrapped it up first thing. Demonically tainted objects can seduce the unwary, and they suggest their purpose to those who touch them.” He looked at her keenly. “But only certain people see clearly the visions such items would impart; others just feel a sense of purpose, unconsciously, that motivates them. You must be particularly sensitive, Gray . . . You were speaking the demon’s will aloud.”
Evadne sank to her knees. Being attuned to demonic influence was not a talent she desired. Her hand felt greasy; she felt unclean, knowing that she was somehow particularly sensitive to commune with beings like she had just seen.
He knelt beside her. “Gray. It doesn’t mean anything about you, your future choices, your fate. It is a great asset, actually, to those who follow our path. What did you see? You said their innocence would . . .”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Perhaps it’s better that way.” The set of his mouth was grim as he stood, but it quirked into a smile as he offered her a hand up, then withdrew it before she could move. Evadne cursed her earlier reaction to his aid—the touch of human skin might have felt good after her otherworldly experience.
“Well,” he said as the others came to them, empty bottles of holy oil in their hands, “is everyone all right?”
“One bit me,” said Stockton, whose pale face glowed like the full moon now hanging above them.
“Did it break the skin?”
“Not sure.”
“We’ll check it out back at the school. Anyone else hurt? No? Did any of them get away?”
They all agreed none had. Evadne hoped they were right. One of those things, loose in London! Even for a short time! Though, on the other hand, it might show all the unbelievers what was really lurking out there, for George had been right.
Demons did exist.
“Gray?”
“Hmm?” She realized she hadn’t been listening.
“Ready to go?”
“Go?” She looked to the body of the girl. “But what will we do with . . .”
“Burn her.”
“Surely—”
“Even if we could find her parents, if she were yours, would you want to know? If you were the police, would you believe us—believe our explanations as to how this happened?”
She saw the wisdom of this, but not the burning. “But the building . . .”
“The oil will only burn that which is already corrupted,” he said. “We’ll find his room, too, and burn that. There will be ashes, but it won’t take the house.”
It was a sign of the shocks she’d suffered that Evadne did not protest more as they descended the ladder. She went last, and looked up before descending; George was standing over the body. He made a strange motion with his hand, at which point brilliant green flames erupted and spread over the rooftop. She shook her head—he must have struck a match, she reasoned, and slipped down the ladder and through the window.
George stayed behind to inspect the man’s room, but told everyone else they ought to disband quickly. Evadne did not make a fuss; as exhilarated as she had felt, she was now heartsick. Images of what she had beheld kept flashing behind her eyes. Trawless got her into a cab, and rode with her back home.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go to the school?” he asked. “We could clean you up there . . .”
“No one will be awake,” she said. It was too late, and even if Dorina was up, she wouldn’t come out to greet her sister. Evadne could slip easily into the bathroom and wash herself and get the worst of what was on her clothes out with no one the wiser.
“If you’re sure . . .”
She was—and she was proven right. Trawless said something as she disembarked from the cab, but she scarcely heard it. It was like being asleep, then awake, then asleep again—like those dreams she had occasionally where she couldn’t open her eyes to see what was happening. It wasn’t until she was soaking in the tub that the enormity of what she had seen hit her, and then she wept, silently, scrubbing at herself until the water was cold, her skin was raw, and she was weak and shivering.
She wrung out her gear in the disgusting water, not wanting any questions asked of her tomorrow by the maids. Then, somehow she got herself into her nightclothes, once the evidence of where she had been and what she had been doing had been largely disposed of. The bed looked so welcoming, and she longed to collapse into it . . . but her eyes tracked over the box on the floor where the unusual hilt of Lord Oliver’s Chinese sword could just be seen, and her fractured mind suddenly remembered what George had said:
Demonically tainted objects can seduce the unwary, and they suggest their purpose to those who touch them.
The memory of the only time she’d held the sword came back to her potently—she had known just what to do with the blade, how to hold it in her hand, how to wield it. The similarity of the experience to picking up the dagger on the rooftop startled her the more she thought about it. Lord Oliver’s sword hadn’t suggested she use it to murder anyone, or do anything other than celebrate the beauty of graceful motion, and yet the sensation of being informed had been so similar . . .
Was the sword tainted with demonic essences? Could Lord Oliver have trafficked with demons?
What of his sister?
A cold chill crept over Evadne that had nothing to do with lingering too long in the bath. She struggled
to recall what Lady Henry had said that day they were at the National Gallery . . . They’d had a conversation about demons, the three of them, and Lady Henry had been rather flip about the subject. At the time, Evadne had chalked it up to her loucheness paired with a city-dweller’s amusement over provincial beliefs, but now . . . now that she thought about what they’d said, compared to what George had said . . .
Dorina had explained that Bacchus’s followers were given powers, gifts . . . exactly what George mentioned with regards to diabolists. While the god of wine was on the surface one of the friendlier-seeming in the Greek pantheon, he gave his acolytes the ability to rend, destroy, tear—to throw off the fragile mask of humanity and eat the flesh of men. And rather than finding this ghastly, Lady Henry had suggested that it must be a pleasurable experience, for “why else” would anyone agree to do it . . .
Her eyes tracked back to where the Chinese sword lurked. It had made her feel so queer, but she had been distracted from really thinking about the sensation by Jonas’s interruption. Holding the object had not been unpleasant . . . but after, the sensation of having been affected—contaminated—was palpable.
Just like with the dagger.
And it might be only her imagination, but had she felt something similar the few times Lady Henry had touched her? And Jonas? Surely not . . . it had likely just been the imposition of his touch that had disgusted her earlier that night, the lingering sense of him on her skin. Then again, while she had thought nothing of it at the time, beyond being annoyed by it, now . . .
George hadn’t said demonically tainted people were divinable by those like her—those who were particularly sensitive—but it made a certain kind of terrible sense.
What of her sister? Dorina was so under the influence of that woman already . . . Evadne shivered again, colder still as she tasted salt water; the memory of trying to save her sister when she wasn’t in any danger came back to her in that moment. Was she making the same mistake? Seeing danger where it wasn’t?
Would she again end up a laughingstock for her concerns?
It was worth the risk, she decided, remembering the sight of that poor child’s broken, torn body, the scurrying things that had fought and bitten, the dagger that had called her to do evil. First thing tomorrow, she would speak to Dorina, warn her. Dorina would surely scoff at her, would laugh and tease, but what was that to Evadne?
She had killed demons. She could brave a talk with her sister.
Evadne got into bed, sore and trembling and so very tired, resolving to get up early and make her sister understand the danger she might very well be in. Unfortunately, she slept until noon the following day, and by the time she woke, weak-limbed and plagued by headache, Dorina was already gone.
7
Reader, be not afraid of this book. All your life, you have likely cultivated a passionless interest in trivial things. That is what man does, for matters of high import terrify us. All that will change, and quickly, as you read on. But, reader, beware: this book will not give you answers. It will merely tell you what questions you ought to ask.
—On the Summoning of Demons
Henry had invited Dorina to a second meeting of her appreciation society. The theme was sight, which excited Dorina’s sensibilities more than scent—though of course she had had a lovely time during the previous meeting. Still, expanding her appreciation of the visual could not but help her in her professional aspirations.
Not that she had necessarily been paying much attention to said professional aspirations. She had simply been too busy—preoccupied, really—with Henry.
They had seen one other nearly every day of late, but ever since realizing Henry was toying with her, Dorina had been letting Henry make the arrangements. The older woman had determined the days, the times, and, mostly, what they would do. This was by design, of course; Dorina had made sure to seem more distant on purpose, though she remained enthusiastic and excited about all the sights Henry showed her, and was active and engaged during their conversations. And she made sure to turn Henry down every once in a while. Take last night—Henry had been going out to dine with Mr. Blake, to talk over a bit of this evening’s program, since he was in charge of it. In truth, Dorina had longed to go, but as it would be nicer to experience the program without foreknowledge, she had declined, to Henry’s genuine surprise . . . and disappointment, if Dorina were any judge of such things.
And, really, she was a very good judge of such things.
The day of the meeting Henry was expecting several deliveries, and would be at home because of it; Dorina had agreed to keep her company. Henry’s coach was to fetch her around noon, to retrieve her and bring her to Curzon Street, so that morning Dorina had gotten herself together with all haste, including packing her ensemble for the night.
She was very excited about what she would wear. Henry had escorted her to one of Mrs. Dhareshwar’s fabric showrooms the previous week, and Dorina had despaired of ever being able to choose among the silks and cottons and brocades for a caftan of her own. In the end, she had decided to splurge and have two made up—one a bluish-green brocade with a gold interior, and another, a little more exotic in style, in a parrot-green silk with a pattern of yellow and white ginger blossoms and a coral-pink interior. Lady Henry had seemed surprised at Dorina’s choice, but Dorina had pretended not to notice, and simply quipped that she’d fit right in at Henry’s home in such a garment.
She had selected the ginger caftan for that evening. She folded it carefully in a little bag, and on top of it put some older clothes in case Henry was of a mood to do some gardening. Nestled alongside her garment lay a few other items, including some elaborate Chinese hairpins Henry had bought her and the copy of Les Fleurs du Mal which she was still reading.
Evadne hadn’t come down to breakfast, which surprised Dorina. But when she had remarked on it, Basil mumbled that he had been just going to bed when he heard Evadne return. The lecture at the academy must have run late. Still, it seemed odd to Dorina that even now, close to midday, her sister yet slumbered. Before descending, Dorina raised her hand to knock and say goodbye—she would be the one out late tonight—but thought better of it. Likely Evadne needed her rest.
It was too bad, really . . . She had hoped to spend some time with her sister the previous night. It seemed amazing that they had exchanged little more than cold pleasantries for so long, but Evadne had been gone so much of late, and distant when she was home. Tired, she said. Sweaty, too, though she did not articulate this. Anyway, Dorina missed her.
Henry was indeed digging in her greenhouse when Dorina arrived, but as she was just finishing up, Dorina did not join her hands with Henry’s in the dirt. Instead, she read more of the astonishing book of poetry Henry had given her, reveling in its beauty and decadence. Thankfully, Henry’s copy had the French and English side by side, so Dorina could check her imperfect knowledge as she went along—she had never been much interested in languages until she resolved to be a critic, and though she had revisited her old schoolroom French book, it had been too late for her ever to become truly fluent.
“You’re enjoying it?” asked Henry, coming to squat by where Dorina lounged on an iron bench wrought in the shape of ginger blooms and roots.
“Of course,” said Dorina. “Though I must say, his idea of our sort is a little . . . far-fetched.”
“Our sort?”
“I’ve been with quite a lot of girls, but I’ve never kissed—or been kissed—like a waterfall, whatever that means, nor have I spent a hot night with a friend before a mirror, caressing the ripe fruits of my womanhood.” Henry was looking at her, clearly torn between amusement and something else, Dorina couldn’t quite say. “I suppose perhaps I’m just too English for such a thing. It seems very French, for all it’s supposed to be about Greeks.”
Henry laughed, and lit a cigarette. “It’s a shame your tastes run to art. You’d make a spectacular literary critic.”
“No better than an art critic, I’m afraid.�
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“You haven’t given up your ambition?” asked Henry.
Dorina shrugged. “A critic should know something before she opens her mouth, and the more I learn, the less I’m sure I know anything at all.”
Henry took a long drag without saying anything. Dorina wondered what she might be thinking, but a ringing at the front door distracted them both.
“The first of Robert’s deliveries,” said Henry, dusting off her hands on the wide canvas trousers she liked to wear when gardening. “I’ll just go and see what it is. Would you like to come?”
“Oh no. I like a surprise,” said Dorina, deliberately keeping her eyes on her book. “You have a good time . . . I’ll be here when you’re finished.”
Henry hesitated, but she did not argue—just nodded and promised a speedy return. Dorina smiled as the older woman turned away, and watched Henry’s narrow backside as she strode out of the greenhouse.
Henry might be the more experienced of the two of them—possibly, Dorina didn’t know, for Henry had never discussed affairs of that sort with her—but Dorina was certain she was gaining ground, step by step. This was a good thing. Dorina might be able to act cool and collected around Henry, but inside, she was a furnace. She wanted Henry so badly that she had to stop herself from inhaling her scent too deeply, wanted her so badly that she thought she might go mad from desire if Henry didn’t crack soon. Henry’s hands, with their perpetually grubby, short-clipped nails, inspired daydreams as hot as any night of Baudelaire’s imagining; the sight of her clavicle when she pulled off her cravat produced a reaction indescribable in polite company, but certainly noticeable to Basil’s laundress if Dorina hadn’t taken the time to rinse out her pantalets.
She dreamed of Henry at night, likely due to certain personal attentions Dorina often paid herself before bed, only to awake desperate, unsatisfied, her head aching, and often with a soreness in other, more private places. She had never in her life desired anyone so intensely. Girls, to Dorina, were fundamentally fungible—or at least, her interest in exploring the variety nature had generously produced had kept her from falling head over heels for any individual specimen. Thus she was totally unequipped to deal with her infatuation; only her experience in tempting the untemptable guided her in how to keep herself apparently cool and calm around the object of her affection.
