by Molly Tanzer
“Foolish girl,” he growled. “You may think I’m soft—everyone does—but I assure you, I am not. You’ll regret defying me.”
“For what it’s worth, I’ve never thought you soft.” Evadne saluted him with the blade, and sidestepping the sofa, she charged him.
Attacking an unarmed man was neither a brave nor a moral act, to Evadne’s mind, but the circumstances were extenuating. Additionally, calling Trawless unarmed didn’t quite account for whatever was coursing through his blood, giving him the advantage in nimbleness and strength.
He tried to get out of her way, but her first jab found its mark; she stabbed him in the right shoulder. The tip sank in a few inches, and she made sure to twist it as she withdrew it, deepening and widening the injury. Blood bloomed, soaking his shirt and jacket.
“Lucky,” he snarled, lunging clumsily at her as she retreated. She stepped out of his way but crashed into an end table she hadn’t remembered being there. Tail over teakettle she tumbled, avoiding stabbing herself with the long blade by releasing it; it skittered away over the floor, coming to rest close to where she did, but point first. She was just about to climb to her feet and make a grab for it when Trawless fell upon her, pinning her. She grasped for the point of the rapier, but no matter where her hand landed, it was the wrong place.
“You’ve made a grievous error,” he said, and delivered a punch of his own to her face.
Stars bloomed from the blackness as Evadne felt the back of her head slam into the floor. A tooth felt odd; it had loosened. Thankfully, he was using his left, and Trawless was right handed, but with his increased strength this hardly mattered. When his second blow came, to her gut, she was suddenly very glad she’d actually taken the time to empty her bladder. She gasped, but there was nothing for her to gasp.
“Stupid girl,” he said as she choked. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking,” she groaned, “about saving my sister.” The rapier had to be close; she kept feeling around for it. Unfortunately, Trawless noticed and swatted her hand away just as her fingers touched the tip.
“I don’t think so,” he said, and wound up for another punch.
Desperate, Evadne rocked herself violently, pitching Trawless into the sofa. He tried to steady himself with his injured arm, but it crumpled under him. Evadne pulled herself from under his weight and grabbed for the rapier. Her hand closed around the forte of the blade. She felt it cutting into her palm, but she did not pause or stop to shift it. Instead, she leaped atop Trawless, knees on his chest, as she grabbed it tighter and clobbered him in the temple with the pommel, really whipping him to get the most out of the strike.
He slumped, eyes rolling back in his head.
“Bloody hell,” he said weakly, his body losing much of its tension beneath her.
Evadne was disappointed; she’d hoped to knock him out, but apparently that took more than a crack to the temple. Well, maybe it was better this way—she had the upper hand now, and might be able to get him to explain a few things before she went after George and the rest. The more she knew going in, the better.
“All right, Trawless,” she said, trying her best to sound dangerous as she adjusted her grip on the sword and pointed the tip at his throat. She hoped he wouldn’t notice how freely her palm was bleeding and assume quite rightly that she couldn’t hold it if he chose to resist. “Tell me what’s really going on!”
He spat in her face. She slapped him with her left hand.
“Talk, damn you!”
He winced. “Why should I tell you anything?”
“Because I’ll kill you if you don’t! If you won’t talk, you’re useless to me.” Trawless looked genuinely shocked, as well he might—he didn’t know how serious she was. Neither did she, for that matter. “In a few moments I’m going to Lady Henry’s, and I’d prefer to know what I’m getting into. If I have to go in blind, so be it, but if you choose that, then know I’ll face George and the rest having already killed a man!”
She must have seemed very scary indeed, for Trawless had gone pale. “All right! What do you want to know?”
“Do you serve a demon?”
“Yes.” Trawless’s eyes flickered to a wooden box on the mantel. “The wafers help us channel it.”
“Channel . . .”
“One cannot just speak to a demon, one must commune, usually through taking a sacrament of some sort. Ours is the wafer, but George keeps it a secret—what it really is, I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“How he makes them. One must conjure a demon into something like a plant and consume it, in order to commune with it. For example, Lady Henry’s a botanist, and we suspect she uses the ginger she grows, given the motif in her home.”
Evadne nodded as she thought about the smell of Lady Henry’s cigarettes, perfume . . . everything. “Yours makes you stronger—what does hers do?”
“We suspect it makes them more receptive to aesthetic experiences.”
Becoming more sensitive to beauty was scarcely as sinister as what the dagger on that horrifying rooftop had suggested to Evadne. Even so, the idea of her sister smoking those noxious cigarettes just to see a bunch of pretty pictures in a different light didn’t exactly thrill Evadne. Who could say what the future plans of the demon truly were? And even if it had none, by exposing her to a demon, Lady Henry had put Dorina in terrible danger from George and others like him, be they vigilante demon-hunters or other servants of the unspeakable . . .
“How did George manage to infiltrate their group? What’s going on tonight?”
“Ever since he fenced with Lord Oliver, George has suspected that group of consorting with demons. His face being familiar to the lady, he had to disguise himself . . . and then had to engineer himself an invitation via another member, as they are so secretive.”
“Yes, but my sister didn’t recognize him when he came to call . . . She thought he looked familiar, but scarcely seemed to consider him an intimate acquaintance, as one might expect.”
“You scarcely recognized him, and you’ve been acquainted with him . . . intimately, even,” sneered Trawless, earning himself another slap. “Ow! What I mean to say is only that there is always a price. Those who would traffic with such powers are granted physical boons, but it takes a heavy toll. George has gone further down the path than any of us, and if he doesn’t take his pastilles—no, they are not for his digestion—then, well, you saw him, did you not?”
Evadne nodded. “That makes sense. But why now? Why tonight, I mean, for the . . . the everything? He didn’t want me to come, kept the plan from me.” She considered for a moment. “Was it the sword I told him about?”
“Yes and no. George has a weakness for trophies, like that dagger, and Lord Oliver’s sword will be a lovely addition. But it’s more that you confirmed his suspicions by condemning Lady Henry and her manservant with your sensitivity to demonic essence.” He paused; Evadne prodded him with the tip of the sword, urging him to go on. “Stop that! Fine! The demon we serve . . . it is pleased when we eliminate the servants of others of its kind. As far as I understand it—George is the expert—it draws strength in its own world from such sacrifices, and shares that increased power and strength with us, in ours. Diabolists very often work alone—we are the exception, as is Lady Henry’s little coterie. So far, we’ve only been able to take down individuals. But this night our power will be exponentially increased by the deaths of so many at once! I have been with George for many years, and long has he hungered to uncover a group of this size, a sacrifice of this magnitude . . . So you see, we had to be certain. A mistake would mean a lot of bodies, which aren’t easy to dispose of—the fire he wields by the grace of our patron will only burn that which has been touched by their world.”
Recalling her confusion over seeing George seem to light the oil with a word, Evadne nodded.
“It’s strange, though . . .” he continued.
“Eh?”
“You’ve touched me—and I
know you’ve touched George, though not as much as you would have liked to.” Trawless smirked as she blushed, but she did not react any more than that—she resolved not to show that his sneering wounded her. She had always worried about others laughing at her behind her back; this barb just served as a confirmation for her. “And yet you didn’t notice anything off about us.”
Evadne hadn’t thought of that, but now that Trawless mentioned it, it occurred to her just how good she felt after contact with George, and even Trawless himself, in the cab. Not greasy, not unclean, like when she touched Jonas, or Lady Henry. Just . . . wonderful.
What did that say about her? About them? She would have to puzzle it out later.
“Well. Thank you, Trawless,” said Evadne. “You’ve been most helpful.”
He eyed the rapier still pointing at his throat. “So . . . you’re going to let me go?”
“I’m not going to kill you,” she corrected him, and brought the pommel down on his temple again.
This time he went slack, thank goodness. Climbing off him, she dropped the rapier, and after a quick look at her bleeding hand, she bound it with George’s scarf and then set to tying up Trawless so he wouldn’t be able to warn anyone if he awoke. She wasn’t strong enough to lift him anywhere, so she left him on the floor, on his back, far away from anything he could use to cut himself free.
After that, Evadne hesitated, considering taking the wafers in the box on George’s mantelpiece. He and the rest of her former companions would be under the influence of the demon. She could use like against like—take a dose or two to augment her strength and endurance to combat whatever awaited her that night. No. The idea of ever again communing with the demon that George served—a demon that grew stronger through murder—disgusted her. And anyway, she couldn’t believe that a demon that had invested so heavily in a cause like George’s would help her undermine it. What reason would it have to aid her?
She felt an overwhelming sense of despair. How could she possibly face them? Even without demonic essences that made them stronger and faster, it would have been an impossible task. They had been waiting long for this night; they were prepared. She would fail if she stood against them.
She needed help.
The police? She considered them, but they would be too slow. She had to get to Lady Henry’s, and quickly. She had no idea how quickly George would begin his slaughter.
But she could ask for help elsewhere. Help beyond what any human could give her.
Her stomach clenched as she realized the clear course before her. She would just have to trust that Lady Henry’s demon would be invested in saving those it had collected—including Dorina. If she could but speak to it, perhaps she could ask it for advice—what to do, how she ought to prepare. What she should expect. It would know what was happening to them in the moment, whereas she could only guess and barge in . . .
Right or wrong, her sister was in danger. That was what mattered.
She loved Dorina. She always had. And not in spite of her being headstrong, selfish, thoughtless, but because of it. She couldn’t imagine a world without her sister in it. She would not let that light go out, not while she could still lift a sword or draw a breath.
It was this that got Evadne to her feet and let her ignore the ache in her jaw and the blood dripping from her palm, the pain from Trawless’s strike to her gut blossoming as she walked out of George’s rooms. She didn’t lock the door behind her.
3
When one summons a demon, out of the shadows of life shines a new light, and by it we come to see a world fashioned for our pleasure, where things have fresh shapes and new colors, where we ourselves are changed, and are able to keep new secrets. A world in which our past has little or no place, and obligation and regret are mere myth.
—On the Summoning of Demons
As much as she had been looking forward to her first evening as a full member of Lady Henry’s secret society, Dorina could not shed her sense of disquiet over how Evadne had not objected to her staying the night. Dorina had been expecting a pitched battle, and had received an indifferent shrug. Her sister’s calm lack of interest seemed extremely out of character.
The new presence in her mind stirred gently, soothing her. In only a short time, she had come to listen to it, to trust it. It told her without words not to worry, to accept that she could not understand everything all the time, especially where humans were concerned. She appreciated the reminder, and wondered how she had ever managed without the guidance of this generous and ancient entity. It made her a bit sad, actually, to think of how many out there were alone, as she had once been. Their thoughts and their lives were limited by their individuality, their distinctiveness from every other thing. They were only themselves, especially if—like Evadne—they refused to open themselves up to the perspectives of others.
Dorina felt around in her bag for the ginger candies that Henry had given her. They weren’t there; that’s right—she’d finished them. With a sigh, she stood, fidgeting, flitting from window to window, looking out for she knew not what.
“Dorina,” said Henry, looking up from her book. “Are you in need of something?”
“A cup of tea, perhaps.” Dorina didn’t want to tell Henry about her issues with her sister; to always be complaining about one’s sibling was tiresome, and tiresome was the last thing she wanted to be.
“I’d be happy to prepare some,” said Jonas.
“Bring those ginger biscuits, too,” advised Henry as she lit a cigarette.
As much as Dorina desired to draw nearer the spicy smoke, she forced herself to turn away. Henry still denied her the pleasure; she had smoked before she began lacing her cigarettes with ginger powder, and didn’t think it an appropriate habit for Dorina to cultivate—not at this point in her life. As she pointed out, their demon might enhance their appreciation of the world around them, but it wouldn’t keep her teeth white.
“What’s gotten into you?” Henry was sprawled lazily across a couch, legs thrown over the arm, cigarette dangling from her long fingers. “Are you nervous about your interview with Dr. Sauber?”
“Oh!” Dorina had forgotten, but Dr. Sauber was hosting the gathering that evening, and as he needed to be there early to set things up and sign for deliveries, it had seemed most convenient. “No, not really.”
“Brave creature,” remarked Henry. “Well, if it’s not that, I’m all out of ideas. If you feel like sharing, I’m here—oh bother, there’s the door. I’ll just go tell Jonas to make a bigger pot, and bring out more biscuits. The doctor enjoys them so.”
Dorina nodded, resigned. Truth be told, she was not really of a mood to discuss her sexual experiences and preferences back to her earliest memories, but she had promised, and vowed to make the best of it.
“Miss Gray! Ah!” said Dr. Sauber, bounding into the salon like a satyr. All he needed was a flute and an honor guard of women in robes. “And unchaperoned! Good, good . . .”
“Why is that good?” she asked, feeling alarmed for the first time.
“I have found,” he said, setting down his bag on a low table and making himself comfortable on a chair with uncanny speed, “that people are more forthcoming when alone with a doctor.”
“I see,” said Dorina, forcing herself to sit down. “Well, never fear,” she said as Henry returned with Jonas, bearing tea and biscuits, “Henry knows all my secrets.”
“Does she!” exclaimed Dr. Sauber, looking sharply from her to Henry. Henry smiled sheepishly, a charming blush coming to her alabaster cheeks. “I had suspicions, of course, but I must say I’m delighted!”
“Of course you are, you prurient bastard,” said Henry, handing him a fragrant cup.
“Life is short, and happiness is in short supply in this world,” said Dr. Sauber. “While I might admit some professional interest in your relationship, my personal interest is completely due to enjoying both of you as people, and hoping for an increase in your happiness.”
“That’s ve
ry sweet,” said Dorina, warming to him a bit. “Well, what do you want to know, Doctor?”
Talking about sex usually cheered Dorina, but there was just something she could not shake from her shoulders that day. The engaging conversation of the doctor, the excellent biscuits, and the prospect of a very good dinner, which she began to smell long before leaving the doctor to don her caftan, should have thoroughly invigorated her had she been herself. And yet she had a strange sense of foreboding that even the friendly presence in her mind could not ease with its gentle nudges and sense of wry amusement over various remarks and questions put to her by Dr. Sauber.
She put on her best face when the guests began to arrive, but all too soon her temper was tried by Mr. Walmsley, the sight of whom put her even more out of sorts. Something about his appearance bothered her, nagged at something in the back of her mind, but she couldn’t get away from him to think about it, for he had not left her side since he’d joined her in the salon. Of course, the last two meetings they had had much to speak of, both being outsiders, but now that she had been inducted into the inner circle, she dreaded him noticing and making his typically arch remarks. She sensed he would take it poorly that she had been invited to become a full member after he had been waiting for so long—and honestly, if he did, she couldn’t blame him. She just didn’t want to hear it.
Of course, this was what he did, immediately, upon seeing Jonas hand her a cocktail that looked ever so slightly different from the one he himself received. Dorina sipped it, detecting Jonas’s proprietary ginger bitters, but before she could even so much as swallow, Mr. Walmsley made a comment.
“I see you have been honored with initiation,” he remarked. “You must be pleased.” He, however, sounded anything but.
“I beg your pardon?” she said. “Initiation? Why, Mr. Walmsley, you make it sound so . . . ritualistic.”
“Was it not?” He smiled wanly into his own beverage. “I wouldn’t know. How did they let you know you’d met their exacting standards? Was it after the last meeting? You stayed . . .”
