by Molly Tanzer
Cantrell approached Mr. Seward, but did not strike him as he struck Dorina. Instead, he spat in his face.
“I pity you,” said Henry as Cantrell turned his back on Mr. Seward, knowing well she might be opening herself to more ugliness, more violence.
“Oh?” Cantrell’s amusement was unaffected.
“Yes,” she replied. “I chose to walk this path out of a desire to experience more of the beauty of the world. It seems you take pleasure only in its horror and ugliness.”
Cantrell actually looked annoyed by this. “Perhaps it is because I know something of horror and ugliness, whereas you—a pampered pedigreed bitch if ever I’ve seen one—have never suffered.”
“You are mistaken,” said Henry.
“Ah, Lord Oliver you mean,” said Cantrell. “Yes, I can see how that would sting. And yet, I have known more of pain than you ever will. I have had to scramble and scrape for everything I have. Even before I met that which guides me now, I knew strength and power were the only two things that mattered—the strength to endure scorn, the power to overcome my opponents . . . and I was correct. Your guide through this world, meanwhile, encouraged you to laze about, staring at paintings . . . Where has that gotten you?”
Help will come, said the fading presence in Henry’s mind. She marveled at this. From where? Of what sort?
Patience, it counseled, and said no more. That was probably for the best. She had no idea how much Cantrell might be able to divine. He had a demon within him, too, and other than strength she had no idea what abilities it had gifted him so that he might carry out its will.
A sharp knock at the door perked them all up. “Stockton,” barked Cantrell. “Go see who that is. Bourne would just come in. Be careful.”
Henry heard the door, then heard Stockton exclaim in surprise. Cantrell noticed, too, and turned to see the last person any of them were expecting. In fact, it took Henry a moment to recognize the fellow—it had been a long time since she’d seen him, and never in evening dress.
“What the deuce are you doing here?” said Cantrell.
“Stopping by to call on an old friend,” said Mr. Perkins casually—too casually, for he just bowed to Henry instead of seeming alarmed that she was, after all, tied up and bloodied, sitting on a couch in her own salon with eight of her closest friends. “Good evening, Lady Henry. How are you?”
He’d known! But how had he known?
“I am well, Mr. Perkins,” she said as evenly as she could manage. “Lovely to see you. How are you?”
“Oh, can’t complain,” he said. “Keeping fit.”
“And the missus?”
“Stop that,” snapped Cantrell. “Perkins, what—”
“Mr. Perkins, to you, George Cantrell,” he said. “I must say, I’m surprised to find you here, along with another of my academy’s finest. It seems rather a strange sort of party, though, doesn’t it?” He looked around as if noticing the situation for the first time. “What is going on here? Seems awfully unkind not to offer the lady a handkerchief for that nose. Looks nasty—my apologies, my lady. I do not mean to imply your appearance is uncouth, merely my student’s behavior.”
“No apology necessary,” she said as he walked over, handkerchief in hand, but Cantrell sprang between them.
“Stay away from her,” he demanded. “What’s your game, old man?”
“Old man?” Mr. Perkins chuckled as he tucked away his handkerchief. “Oh, George. There’s no game. I really did just stop by on a whim. I was in the area, and—”
“How stupid do you think I am?” said Cantrell, looming over the smaller man. “Who told you we were here?”
Perkins turned his back on Cantrell as if the younger man were not armed and dangerous, and ambled toward the dry bar. “Lady Henry, might I help myself to a drink?”
“Of course,” she said automatically.
He poured himself a whisky and shot a bit of soda into it. “Ah, that’s better,” he said, after taking a sip.
Henry was impressed. Mr. Perkins was brave—everyone who wasn’t tied up in this room was armed, save him, unless he had a knife or firearm concealed on his person. That was entirely possible, but neither a pistol nor a dagger would be particularly effective against young, edgy, violent men with swords—especially ones who were also under the influence of a demon that granted them extra strength and speed.
Not that Mr. Perkins knew that. Or did he?
She was so nervous, craved a cigarette badly, eager for its steadying effects, but there was nothing for it. She would have to endure the early symptoms of withdrawal.
“I must say, George, I’m not entirely sure I approve of the ways you’re using my teaching . . . tying up respectable citizens in their own homes. Where did you ever learn such disrespect? Such rudeness?”
He was stalling, Henry realized. Her demon, only a faint presence in her mind now, agreed. But why?
“Fencing is supposed to build a person’s character,” said Perkins, taking another sip. “I’m surprised at you. You’ve always been concerned about seeming gentlemanlike, and here you are—”
“Shut up!”
It was the first time she’d seen Cantrell angry that night. Something Mr. Perkins said had infuriated him. His face had gone beetroot red and he was now walking toward his master.
“How dare you,” he snapped, pointing at the older man with his sword tip. “I’m as much of a gentleman as anyone!”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Mr. Perkins amiably. “You see, George, real gentlemen aren’t defined by where they go to school, or even where or to whom they were born. A real gentleman is revealed by his actions.”
“Watch out!” screamed Dorina as Cantrell finally lunged—but it was unnecessary. Perkins sidestepped the incoming attack as nimbly as a man half his age and suddenly, impossibly, was behind George.
“No, a gentleman isn’t defined by where he learns, but what he learns—just like a swordsman isn’t defined by having a sword,” said Mr. Perkins gaily.
The old man was enjoying himself! Henry was astonished by his composure, but felt despair as both of his students bore down on him, murder in their eyes. His bravado was impressive, but it would not save him.
It wouldn’t save any of them.
6
The natural diabolist is he who can allow his impressions to change.
—On the Summoning of Demons
It had taken surprisingly little effort to convince Mr. Perkins to accompany Evadne to Curzon Street. She had despaired over having to persuade him she was not mad, along with getting him to agree to a possibly dangerous mission to rescue her sister and friends—but that hadn’t proven to be the case.
“I warned Oliver that his peccadillo would endanger not only him, but those he cared about,” said Perkins as he changed. Evadne, pacing nervously beyond the cracked door of his bedroom, paused.
“Peccadillo?” A horrible, anxious giggle escaped her throat. “Is that really how you’d describe summoning a demon?”
“Yes, well,” he said, coming out as he finished tying his white tie, “when one teaches for as long as I have, especially the martial arts, you meet people with all sorts of vices. I made a vow a long time ago that as long as a potential student was honest, hard working, receptive, and not abusive or dangerous, I would teach them. One of my best students was a rent boy, long ago; another had a criminal past he was striving to put behind him. Neither of them, to my mind, were unworthy of learning to fence—especially as both of them volunteered the information when they became serious students.”
Seeing Evadne’s incredulous look, he smiled. “It happens all the time. When a student truly commits to a master, they often feel the need to bare their soul, submit themselves for judgment as a way of asking if they are worthy. When Oliver told me he was an occultist, I was inclined to laugh at first . . . but when I realized he was serious, I listened. I was shocked—and disinclined to believe him until he showed me a few, ah, things . . . But really
, in the end it didn’t seem like the sort of hobby that would disqualify him from learning, any more than him being a homosexual. Which is to say, not at all.” Mr. Perkins frowned as he shrugged into his jacket. “I see now how unfortunate it was that I let my enthusiasm for talent color my judgment regarding George. We all make mistakes, but this one was inexcusable on my part.”
Evadne was frowning, too. She was keenly aware that she, too, had made a grave mistake. She had let her attraction to George convince her that he was the teacher she’d longed for all her life; she saw now that Mr. Perkins would have been the wiser choice.
If she succeeded tonight—if she rescued her sister, and was able to continue taking lessons by virtue of being neither dead nor incarcerated, she would ask Mr. Perkins to teach her. It might even be worth living in London to learn from him.
This realization on her part allowed Evadne to focus on the task at hand, and they worked out the details of their plan as they trotted over to Curzon Street posthaste. Perkins would go through the front, stalling and distracting George and his gang as she snuck in through the servant’s door to get to what she needed. After readying herself, she would come down, with an extra sword for her companion in case things got ugly—which they both agreed was likely, given who was there, and for what purpose.
“Two on three, with a possible fourth and fifth eventually,” said Perkins, resigned, after the demon had relayed the situation to Evadne. “Not the best odds, but given that we are the two, it’s not as bad as it could be. Especially if you’re fighting using Oliver’s style . . . That Chinese sword, in his hands, was one of the most effective weapons I’ve seen, and if you’re in a position to replicate that . . .”
“We’ll see” was all she could say before her throat closed up tight.
Lady Henry’s house in Curzon Street was ablaze with light, and Evadne took a deep breath to try to calm herself. She said a final farewell to Mr. Perkins—hoping it was not really final—and she left him to go up the front stairs as she snuck down to the servants’ entrance below street level. Those windows were dark, but fortunately the door was unlocked.
Less fortunately, the smell of blood made her gag as she stepped inside. As her eyes adjusted, she saw two bodies on the counter, heads hanging over the edge. Their throats had been slit, and the blood was dripping into buckets on the floor. Horrified, Evadne rushed through the kitchen, almost tripping in her desperate desire to get into the fresher air of the hall. There, she gave herself a moment to gulp several lungfuls and let her stomach settle.
The demon had told her that Reid was upstairs with Jonas, in Lord Oliver’s old room, and the situation was not a safe one. Fearing for him, Evadne hurried upstairs. With her hurt hand, and knowing how strong Reid would be, she had decided to seek out the ginger reserve in Lady Henry’s room first thing. But as she crept past Lord Oliver’s door, she heard a sickening thud, as of a fist striking flesh, and a moan. She hesitated before turning the handle, readying herself, then eased the door open.
Jonas was on the floor, his arms tied behind his back, crushed painfully beneath him as Reid sat on his chest. He was winding up for another punch to Jonas’s already bloodied face.
“Where is it?” he asked as Jonas wheezed through bruised lips. “Where is the sword? I know you know!”
“The sword is right here!” cried Evadne, horrified. “If you want it so much, fight me for it!”
Reid fell off Jonas, surprised, and Jonas curled onto his side, coughing. Scrambling to his feet, Reid got his rapier in hand and pointed it at her.
“The dried-up virgin comes to save the fat fop,” he sneered. “What a mess you are—all of you!”
“Be that as it may, I will save him,” said Evadne.
Her hand hurt, but she tightened her grip on the sword as the demon urged her to wait and watch. She obeyed. Observing Reid’s face, his stance, she saw he was spoiling for a fight. He would make mistakes. He always did in class when he got hot or excited, and he was never genuinely angry then.
Reid charged her, feet slapping on the carpet. Trusting in the sword, she listened to it. Like the first time she’d used it in this very bedroom, it told her what to do. Up came her arm, and she deflected Reid’s sloppy strike, sending him staggering past her. She turned, now facing his retreating figure, and with a little hop got herself close enough to slash him across his back. He howled and swung around, spraying her with blood, stabbing wildly at her. His motions were so big, so clumsy, that she easily avoided his blade.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t thought he would fight dirty—they’d only dueled in class, after all—and so she didn’t anticipate the left hook that hit her in the ribs. It dropped her. Her abdomen was already sore from Trawless’s assault, and Reid was the strongest of their group. Aided by demonic influence, the power behind his fist was annihilating. As she staggered back several steps before collapsing, she was certain she felt something crack inside her. It was a struggle to stand while he stomped over to her, but she kept trying, her vision blurred from tears.
Her eyes fell on Jonas, who was in a sort of fetal position, arms still tight behind his back. Even so, he was looking at her. Through the bruises and blood, he smiled at her, and it was like stepping into a warm bath. She smiled back, and the surprise and joy in his eyes at her acknowledgment stiffened her resolve to finish the fight—and walk away from it.
She got to her feet, and raised her sword.
“You should have stayed down,” said Reid, advancing.
“You should yield while you can still speak,” she replied. “You will not win this fight.”
Reid charged again. Dizzy from pain, Evadne knew she had to settle this quickly. His sword flashed, but hers sang in her hand. His strike was slapdash; her parry opened his chest to her, and she got her blade around quickly to stab him through the stomach. Two left fingers pressed to the pommel helped her push it all the way through his flesh.
This time, he dropped—to his knees, eyes wide as the light went out of them. She withdrew her blade, and he fell face-down, black blood pooling around him, soaking the carpet.
“Jonas,” she said, racing to his side. “Are you all right?”
“Miss Gray,” he mumbled, and she smiled. Even now, he was so polite. “You have my thanks. Untie me, and we . . .”
“We nothing. You need to rest.” She cut free his arms, and he winced as he pushed himself into a seated position, rubbing the blood back into his hands. “You’re in no condition to help me, and anyway, I have help. Is the key to Lady Henry’s safe in your shoe chest?”
“What? Yes, how did you . . .” Jonas looked at her. “You’re in touch with it!”
“Yes, and I plan to be in closer contact soon. It’s the only way I’ll be able to defeat them. That’s the other reason you must stay away from the fight. Uncle Basil, he’s getting train tickets so we can get out of town if . . . ah, depending on what happens.” Jonas was staring at her in the most curious way, as if she had done something marvelous instead of simply fumbling her way through everything, trying to make things right after betraying him and his friends.
The intensity of his expression startled her; she wondered why she had never noticed how very handsome he was. Even bruised and bloodied, there was a pleasant elegance in his features. But she could not get lost in his wide eyes. Not now. She was here for more than just him.
“You can sneak out the back,” she said crisply. “Then get to Basil, so if things go wrong, someone will know what happened.”
“Miss Gray.” Those were the words he said, but his tone spoke volumes more. “I will do as you ask.”
“I have to go,” she said. After squeezing his trembling hand with her good one, she gathered up her sword and Reid’s heavier rapier, and left him. When she turned back, he was still sitting on the floor, bleeding freely from one nostril, but he looked happier than she had ever seen him.
Evadne knew it was ridiculous that even now, when the best chance for her and her sister’s
liberty and survival lay inside Jonas’s bedroom, she had a hard time with this part of her task. Even if she had his blessing, it just seemed so invasive.
Once inside, she noted the perfectly made bed with crisp white linens and blue-and-gold-patterned duvet. Hurrying, she fetched the candle from his bedside table and after getting it lit went into his closet. The tidiness of it all made her smile, just for a moment. And the smell of his cologne . . . She inhaled, in spite of herself.
Poor Jonas, whom she had totally written off after his unfortunate quip in the National Gallery—well, and due to his choice of friends. Both reasons for pushing him away had been unfair. Especially the Athena remark . . . He hadn’t intended to remind her of something he couldn’t have known about in the first place. What a fool she had been!
The demon in her mind pointed out a low wooden chest, and she set down the candlestick and swords to open it, removing shoes pair by pair until it was clear. She felt around the edges of the container until she found a slight lip; pulling it up, she discovered a cache of all sorts of things. A cleverly made wooden boat, interesting coins from several nations, a few letters, and other odds and ends . . . a child’s horde in a tuck-box, save for its meticulous organization and the absence of things like a coil of string and an old wad of chewing gum. It made her smile as she sifted through it, searching for a key, but when she recognized his copy of the museum guide she’d purchased for them all that fateful day, her smile disappeared. She picked it up, and turning it over in her hands, finally accepted what her sister had said and Jonas had tried to tell her: he cared for her.
He’d never desired anything from her other than friendship, never wanted her to be anyone other than herself. Why had she never seen that about him, never recognized it? Silly, how she’d been so eager for George’s attention, and now she knew he’d never cared for her, not really. He’d only seen her as a means to an end.
Deliberately setting aside the museum guide, as well as her bruised heart, Evadne located the small key. Tucking it into her jacket, she left Jonas’s room without cleaning up after herself—plenty of time for that later, if necessary—feeling very confused indeed.
