by Molly Tanzer
“Of course I stayed. Lady Henry always makes sure her coach takes me home. It’s not safe for a young lady to traipse about London late at night in just any old cab.”
“For fear of worse than death?” She stared at him, shocked by his language. “Come now, Miss Gray. You needn’t act like such an ingénue. We both know you’re no innocent.”
“Pray excuse me,” she said, and left his side.
“Everything all right?” asked Henry. “I know I keep asking you that, but Dorina, really, you look as if your pet had died.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Mr. Walmsley is just so tiresome. He made some rather inappropriate comments after noticing I was now . . . one of you.”
“Mr. Walmsley hasn’t been our most successful recruit,” admitted Henry. “Truth be told, we’ve been talking about not inviting him back. None of us feel he really understands what we do, who we are . . . Of course, he’s enthusiastic, and has proven a strong desire to join us, but sometimes that’s simply not enough. It’s a shame, but what can you do?”
“Perhaps he senses he’s about to be given the boot.”
“Just ignore him and have a good time,” advised Henry. “All you can do, really. Here, have another cocktail. Later, when we ask Mr. Walmsley to wait outside for a moment, you’ll love what we have prepared. I know how much you enjoyed the ice cream we ate together, that day we went to the gardens at Kew, so I had some specially churned.”
“Ginger?” asked Dorina, and Lady Henry winked at her.
Dorina felt a bit like a child, but this did indeed please her; mollified, she mingled with the other guests, who all congratulated her on joining them. Unfortunately, her pleasure was alloyed, for she felt Mr. Walmsley’s eyes on her the whole time. He was watching her, even when he pretended as if his attention was elsewhere. Whenever she moved, he repositioned himself so she was in his line of vision. It bothered her, and she sensed he knew this.
“Tonight, the program should be exquisite,” said Henry. “Dr. Sauber, would you mind telling us a bit before we break?”
Dorina was startled; she’d scarcely noticed they’d sat down to dinner, much less finished eating it. Her mind had been so completely elsewhere . . .
“I should be delighted!” cried the fellow, leaping to his feet in excitement. “Why, my friends, I am so glad you made it tonight. It was a challenging thing, designing a program around touch, for of course, it is potentially the rudest of the senses.” He laughed in his bouncy, good-natured way—his cheerfulness was infectious, and Dorina felt her mind relocate to the present, to the demon’s delight. “I of course am wondering if this is why our gracious hostess, Lady Henry, assigned this one to me? But do not be disappointed when I say that while I hope you find my program sublime, and of course sensual, it will not be salacious. I want to engage our sense of touch, not exploit it . . . not to say that the more carnal uses for the sense of touch are exploitative, necessarily . . .”
Henry put her hand on Dr. Sauber’s shoulder, which seemed to recall him.
“Ah! The philosophizing can also be done during the program, of course. Mr. Walmsley, if you would not mind . . .”
“Of course,” he said, casting a look at Dorina that, had they been dealing with taste, not touch, would have been as sour as any lemon.
His absence felt like an immediate relief, like a pressure being lifted from her shoulders. She sighed, and glanced at Henry, who was smiling at her.
“Welcome, Dorina,” she said. “We’re so glad to have you join us.”
“What is it tonight, Henry?” asked Mr. Seward, who was also more animated than Dorina had ever seen him.
“In honor of our newest member: ice cream. Jonas and I churned it ourselves—for hours, it felt like . . . though he assures me that was not the case.” Henry comically mimed a wince as she rotated her elbow. “I made it with that divine ginger spread you preserved for us, Mrs. Dhareshwar, as well as some fresh root we shredded this morning.”
Beth brought in small dishes, each with a single perfect sphere of ice cream. Dorina longed to tuck in, but fearing seeming childish she waited, to see if any words were spoken, or a ritual intoned. Indeed not; Henry said “Bon appétit” and they all dug in.
Eating the sweet was the single most sublime experience of Dorina’s life. The candies Henry had given her had been delightful, and the biscuits, too, but both were meant for everyday consumption—to keep the demon’s essence gently regulated in the bloodstream. They enabled Dorina’s connection to the demon that now dwelt in her mind, but did not allow her to experience it fully.
The ice cream, on the other hand . . . the moment it melted over her tongue it was like discovering a new world, very similar to the first time she had tasted the sacramental ginger, and her eyes had been opened to all that had been hidden from her. And yet, this was unlike that, in terms of the intensity of the experience. She felt the demon’s awareness growing in her, as the earth’s shadow slides across the moon during an eclipse, darkening it, and yet revealing it in a different manner. She did not lose any part of herself; she simply became more than she had been. She knew she would never, ever be the same after feeling this, never feel wholly able to appreciate the world without coming back to this place, occasionally, to experience it.
She looked over at Henry, and in her limpid eyes saw . . . well, it was difficult to explain. It was almost as if she saw herself in Henry, but her lover’s face hadn’t changed. It was just that Dorina was aware that on some level they were the same, had always been, but were now more than ever, that they were connected by a will not their own that loved them both equally and sought to add their uniqueness to its understanding of the world.
Her rumination was cut short by a brisk, loud knock on the door. Time seemed to quicken as she looked around, surprised—none of them were finished with their portion; it hadn’t been very long at all. What could Mr. Walmsley be thinking, barging in during this part of the evening?
Then the door burst open and four men swarmed into the room, all armed with swords and some with daggers. The largest of them, a big brute with a gorilla’s brow, went straight for Henry. Before anyone had any idea what to do, he had a knife at her throat. Dorina leaped up, upending her chair in her haste, but the gorilla pointed at her with his free hand and told her to sit down.
“Whatever funny stuff you try will be the last thing she sees,” he grunted. “No one’s coming. You’re quite alone.”
Unwilling to endanger Henry, Dorina righted and sat back down in her chair. Henry stared at her, thanking her with her eyes for her obedience.
“Miss Gray, that was very wise,” said Mr. Walmsley, hobbling to the front, just beside where Henry sat. “Your spunk and impetuousness will not help you tonight.”
“Mr. Walmsley. You are not permitted to join this portion of our evening,” said Henry, with astonishing calm given how close that knife was to her neck. “If you will go back outside, I would be most grateful, and once we’ve concluded our business we will join you for the program.”
“Shut up,” he spat at her. “There will be no program, my lady. At least, not one hosted by Dr. Sauber. Instead, you will be the entertainment.”
“What have you done?” Jonas, who also had one of the thugs behind him, yelped as his assailant tightened his grip.
“I’m so glad you asked!” Walmsley cried, happier than Dorina had ever seen him. Then he turned serious. “I’ve betrayed you,” he said, stage-whispering.
“To whom?” asked Mr. Seward. Of all of them, he looked the most appalled; then, Dorina remembered that he was the one who had invited Mr. Walmsley in the first place.
“Ah, Mr. Seward. Thank you. I should clarify . . . I have not yet betrayed you. I shall betray you later.” He chuckled hollowly. “And to one more powerful than any of you fools could possibly ever imagine.”
“You have rather desperately tried to become a member of our group of fools, as you say,” said Mr. Seward coldly. “It is childish, Mr. Walms
ley, to revenge yourself upon us simply because you were never the fit I once thought you might be.”
“Oh, you think I’m piqued because you didn’t let me into your little club?” Mr. Walmsley laughed, then began to cough. “No, no,” he said when he had recovered. “The only reason I pretended to so ardently desire inclusion was to ascertain whether you lot really were diabolists.”
The silence that followed this pronouncement was incredible. No one knew what to say or do; even the demon in Dorina’s mind reeled in shock.
Henry recovered first. “Diabolists! How fantastical. Really, Mr. Walmsley, where do you—”
“Stop,” he said. “I know the truth. Long have I suspected, but it was finally confirmed for me . . . by Miss Gray’s elder sister, actually.”
“I don’t believe you!” Dorina almost jumped out of her skin; she was reeling, hurt and mostly confused as to the whys and hows of Evadne’s alleged betrayal, but it was Jonas who seemed the most upset by this insight.
“Miss Gray would never do such a thing!” he snarled.
“Would has nothing to do with it; she could, and did,” said Mr. Walmsley. “Your devotion is charming—what a shame she did not feel you were deserving of the same. Let me be clear: this is a calculated assault. Your—and I mean the collective your, not just you, Mr. Fuller—choice to meddle with things you do not understand has exposed and condemned you. Your only choice now is whether you will choose to make your last moments as pleasant as they can be, or less so.”
Mr. Walmsley produced a small pouch from his pocket, and after swallowing two pastilles, changed before Dorina’s eyes. His back straightened; his limbs eased from their locked and cramped position. The lines of his face smoothed and filled in, revealing an all-too-familiar visage.
“George Cantrell,” said Dorina in horror, recalling him from their brief meeting on the doorstep of Uncle Basil’s townhouse. “From the fencing academy! You’re Evadne’s teacher.” Tears welled in Dorina’s eyes at the undeniable evidence. “The two of you really have been planning this together . . .”
Anger was one thing, but a real betrayal, like this . . . it seemed incredible—so out of character! After all, Evadne had once jumped into the ocean to save her; Dorina thought about that incident often, both when she was cross with Evadne, and feeling affectionate toward her. The sister who did that would never send strangers after her, to threaten her with death and torment! And why hadn’t she come with them? Evadne was not one to hang back and let others do her work for her . . .
“After a fashion. Miss Gray revealed to me that this house holds at least one demonically tainted object . . . and is home to one or two who traffic directly with such beings.” He winked at Lady Henry.
“I wonder how she knew.” Henry managed to sound both bored and intrigued; she certainly was cool under fire. Dorina couldn’t help but admire her, even now, when she felt she might start screaming or fly to pieces at any moment. “More importantly, I wonder what demon it is you worship? Something that privileges strength, brutality . . . I have seen it all before. Just remember, Mr. Cantrell, the soft will always overcome the hard.”
“Spare me,” sneered Cantrell. “I have no time for the philosophies of the weak.” He turned to Jonas again. “Reid! Have Mr. Fuller take you up to Lord Oliver’s bedroom. There, you will find a Chinese sword. Retrieve it for me.”
Jonas struggled as he was hauled to his feet, but just a little—there was still a blade dangerously close to his neck, after all.
“I don’t know what sword you’re talking about,” he said calmly.
“Well, you’re both fairly bright. Go and see if you can figure it out,” drawled Mr. Cantrell. “We’ll be waiting, so make it snappy.”
“What shall we do while we wait?” asked Henry as Reid hustled Jonas out of the room. “Shall we proceed with Dr. Sauber’s program, or . . .”
“Sadly, there’s just no time,” said Cantrell. “This will be a very busy night. In fact, I’d say it’s past time we got started. Boys, let’s get their hands bound and herd them into the salon. I think that will be the best place for it . . . We can clear away the furniture to make sufficient space.”
“Space for what?” asked Mrs. Dhareshwar. She was afraid; Dorina could hear how tight her voice was.
“Oh, I can’t tell you that,” said Cantrell, smiling savagely. “That’s information I can share only with full members of our society. You know how it is.”
His cracking jokes frightened Dorina more than shouting and rage. Fear not, said the presence in her mind, the first time it had communicated in anything like words to her, likely due to her recent, intense infusion of ginger. She marveled at what it said. Well, it wouldn’t suffer were she injured.
The demon protested this thought, even seemed a little offended, but she pushed away the sensation. She could worry about a demon’s hurt feelings later, when she was safe.
Safe! Safe from what, though? That was the question. The idea of her parents crossed her mind—what would they say? Would Cantrell torture her, or kill her outright? Either way, how would Evadne explain what she had wrought?
Would she regret it?
As for Dorina, perhaps it was the ginger flowing through her body, or just that she knew her own heart, but she didn’t feel any regret. She was afraid, especially when one of the men bound her wrists with rough hemp cord, but even if the past few weeks of her life turned out to have been her last, she wouldn’t have traded them for anything, not even a longer life. She had literally tasted something divine, and she would never be the same, whatever happened, because of it.
The demon wholly approved of this sentiment, and for the first time Dorina wondered just how much of an influence on her its will had . . .
“Get them into the salon,” said Cantrell. “I want to get started.” His eyes flickered to Dorina. “I’m so sorry this is happening your first night as a full member, Miss Gray . . . really, I am. You were very kind to me, well, before your initiation at least. If only things had gone differently, you might not have become the victim you will soon be. But, then again, you did want to deal with demons.” A dark smile turned up his lips only at the corners. “I suppose we’re all getting what we want, eh?”
4
What demons teach us is to never squander the gold of our days. We must live—we must let nothing be lost upon us. We must always search for new sensations. We must be afraid of nothing.
—On the Summoning of Demons
Basil’s house was infuriatingly far away, and cabs were scarce in George’s neighborhood. When at last Evadne managed to catch one, she spent the whole ride fuming.
It had taken her too long to get free. George was so direct, so efficient. What if he had already dispatched Dorina, Lady Henry, and the rest? She clung to the hope that it would likely take him some time to set up the ritual sacrifice, but it was cold comfort.
Hopefully she wouldn’t have to wonder for much longer. She wasn’t quite sure what would happen when she deliberately tried to talk to the demon through the sword in her room. She just had to trust that her particular sensitivity would prove to be of some use.
Rage flared inside her, mostly anger at herself. How could she have been so stupid? She knew George’s betrayal wasn’t her fault, no . . . but she was at fault for trusting him so quickly, so blindly. She had allowed her heart to overrule her reason, and now others would suffer—perhaps die—just because she had been so hungry for what he had to offer her. She should have known better. The sensation of feeling special, unique, and valued . . . mere illusion. She vowed never to fall for such again.
Evadne’s hands balled into fists, seemingly of their own accord. She winced as her injured palm throbbed. The cut was not deep, but it was nasty—she’d have to take the time to bind it properly before doing anything else. Another delay! It made her want to scream, but she choked back the cry as they pulled up to her uncle’s house in Chelsea.
“Thank you,” she grunted, pushing some amount o
f money into the driver’s hands before sprinting away and through the front door.
Her first stop was the washroom, where she bathed her hand in hot water. It throbbed as she dabbed at the jagged cut with a clean washcloth, and it started bleeding anew as she loosened the dried blood, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to do it correctly.
Once she was satisfied, she repaired to her room, where she ripped apart an older petticoat to dress it in clean muslin, binding it tightly in the hopes of stanching the fresh blood.
Then she went to retrieve the sword.
The box was right where she’d shoved it, a lifetime ago it felt like. She tore into it and extracted the tainted blade, shuddering as the odd feeling of pleasure hit her. Dizzy, she dragged herself to her bed and sat, trying to concentrate. Clutching the pommel of the Chinese weapon with both hands, she closed her eyes, waiting.
There it was. A nudge, in the back of her mind, like a small animal waking up after a long hibernation. Her eyes popped open in surprise, and she noticed her vision had changed slightly. Color seemed more intense; light and shadow were more distinctly contrasted. The loveliness of everything seemed to increase dramatically, not just the pattern on her coverlet or the pictures on her walls; she even saw the beauty in the small cracks of her porcelain night vase and other common objects. She tried not to be too distracted by this, and directed her thoughts toward the actual consciousness behind this shift, nudging it back, thinking one message over and over again.
I want to help them.
The response was less like language, and more like a series of feelings that conveyed a message. Evadne was surprised but pleased to find it was genuinely eager to hear from someone who wished to aid those it loved. Loved might not be the right word, in all fairness, but that was the best she could come up with to describe the sensations it conveyed.
The next part of what it said to her was more complex. She had to clear her mind, focus on the meaning. It began by congratulating her on connecting with the sword, but warned her that their ability to communicate would be severely limited. It felt surprise that they were able to speak so easily just through the sword, but was insistent that she needed to open herself more to it—and she needed to do it quickly. Dorina and the rest were in terrible danger, and it could help Evadne save them . . . but not without a deeper connection.
