by Molly Tanzer
Evadne found a carton of cigarettes in Lady Henry’s safe, which she ignored. She’d never in her life tried tobacco, and filling her lungs with smoke just before facing down several expert swordsmen seemed foolish. Better to her mind were the candies, though the idea of swallowing some enormous amount of sugary sweets didn’t sound much better. Her stomach rolled at the thought.
A small tin at the back held the likeliest candidate—powdered dried ginger. The only issue Evadne had with this was quantity. A candy, a cigarette . . . she had seen Lady Henry and Dorina dose themselves, she realized that now. But as for her, she had no tolerance built up in her blood, no defenses. It seemed too risky to swallow a bunch of demonically infused ginger powder without having any idea what it might do.
She would just have to take the risk, see it through. Perkins couldn’t stall forever. She licked her finger, and dipping it into the powder, sucked it clean. Nothing happened immediately, so she dipped her finger in again, trying not to worry about time, or dose. She needed—Ah. Reality intensified around her as the presence formed its first real words in her mind, not just sensations and images. Good. They need you. George tires of Perkins. He is eager to begin his ritual.
How many of them are there?
Still only two. Bourne is absent, and the one he was sent to fetch.
She stood, ready to face her fate, but it bid her wait.
Take more ginger. If you do, you will go into this with gifts given by your connection to me, it assured her. As I said, there will be a price . . . but I assure you, you will go into this fight as strong as they are, if in different ways.
I hope you’re not referring to strength of character was her wry reply.
She felt its delighted laugher. No indeed. There is strength in beauty—in swiftness and cunning, in subtlety and in grace, Evadne.
Evadne recalled the sword form, the way the blade had moved, felt like an extension of her arm, and understood. She nodded.
How much must I take?
Quite a bit. An image of her putting several spoonfuls of the powder into a glass of water filled her mind. She headed to Lady Henry’s attached bath and after finding a cup, started shaking powder into the bottom. And I would suggest you take some with you, it said as she worked, in case you need to reinvigorate yourself. If you can stomach them, the candies will be more easily consumed.
A little pick-me-up, eh?
It agreed.
I don’t usually like candy, or ginger for that matter, but I see your point.
You ought to get used to it, it advised her. After this ordeal, if you survive, you will always need a little.
The if didn’t bother her, but the always did. For the first time, she balked.
But Basil—
Never took this much, not all at once, not for this sort of thing. I am only telling you the truth, Evadne. I would not lie to you.
She heard a shout, faintly echoing up from somewhere deep within Lady Henry’s house. It pushed her to her decision, and as she gulped the spicy, gritty concoction, she knew she would have chosen the same thing if she’d been given all the time in the world.
The warm taste of the ginger spread out over her tongue, coating her throat like butter on hot bread. She swallowed, and felt it bleeding into her, hitting her stomach lining like a glass of wine. The change it effected was as astonishing as it was instantaneous. Evadne felt her body shift, and she looked down at her own trembling hand. She saw through her own skin to the bones beneath, the muscles and tendons that held and pulled, and identified microscopic adjustments she could make to hold a sword yet more effectively. The vision was too much for her, and she had to look away, but her hand remembered when she picked up the sword.
She smiled.
Good, said the demon.
Her legs, too, she found were different. Her first few steps were wobbly, but once she figured out how to move, she found they were springier, more fluid. Yes—that was the word for it, her entire body felt like a liquid, able to melt into an ideal shape or form at will. Her will. The suppleness was intensely pleasurable; she was almost glad there was a reason to abandon her experimentation and do something productive. Otherwise, she might have lost herself, forever, deep within the warm waters of this sea of sensation.
Hurry, the demon urged her. Your friends are in danger.
“I’m hurrying,” she muttered under her breath as she padded along the hall and down the stairs as quickly as she could, her legs supple as a cat’s tail and silent as an owl in flight.
“I must be getting old,” she heard Mr. Perkins say as she rounded the corner. “I never noticed how slipshod your footwork was, Stockton.”
“A pity, too,” Evadne announced, “as it’s so fundamental.”
Mr. Perkins was the only one who was expecting her, and he had wisely kept himself by the door of the salon. Without anyone in her way she was at his side in an instant. She noted the locations of the many immobilized bodies strewn about the edges of the room, on elegant Chinese-inspired couches and settees that circled an awful symbol drawn on the center of the floor, but she did not allow herself to look upon the faces of those whose lives depended on her success. She could not think of them as individuals right now, to do so would be a distraction she could not abide. In a way, they did not matter. What mattered was handing Perkins the sword and springing away to give him room to swing it.
“Evadne?” cried Dorina. Strangely, she sounded more dismayed than overjoyed to see her sister coming to her rescue.
George, too, was less than pleased. “How did you—where is Trawless? Where is Bourne?”
“I know nothing of Bourne. I defeated Trawless, and left him behind. Let them go, George, or you will force me to defeat you, too. Her voice had a strange quality to it, to her own ears—more resonant, more sibilant.
George was not impressed. “No,” he said. “Why should I? You might not be outnumbered, for now, but you’re certainly outclassed.”
“Neither numbers nor experience will help you if you choose to fight me.” The words were coming out of her, unbidden. She assumed the demon was speaking through her—she certainly had no practice making pretty speeches. She wasn’t surprised; it was with her, inside her, a part of her—many times had she seen Lady Henry’s parlor, but it had never looked like this. The golden wallpaper gleamed brighter than a saint’s halo, and the trees painted upon it seemed to sway in an uncanny but clement breeze. The birds and monkeys also had the appearance of life; they rustled and shifted as if she were really in a garden somewhere, surrounded by nature and life and beauty, instead of a London townhouse where the dead were growing colder above and below where she stood.
“And you telling me you love me won’t help you when I kill you along with the rest of this trash,” said George. “I can tell you’ve gone over to the other side, Gray. Your death will only make me more powerful, when it comes.”
She blushed to hear her words thrown back at her—even if she knew they had been a lie, those around her did not. But that scarcely mattered, not now. The time for pride was past.
She stepped forward, readying her blade, the tip pointed down.
“It’s Miss Gray, if you don’t mind,” she said crisply.
It was then that George noticed the sword, and it was his turn to go red. She took a savage pleasure in his anger—even though she had never intended to lie to him about it, it pleased her to see he thought she had.
“I will succeed, and I will take that sword from you, Miss Gray,” he snarled, jabbing at it with his own rapier. “You little liar—you had it the whole time!”
“I never said I didn’t,” she replied, actually smiling now. She had hurt him! It was a bit of her own back, at least. “It’s just that by the time we got down to specifics, you’d already revealed yourself to be a liar and a cad.”
“And you’re a murderer!” Bourne barged into the room, and Evadne froze. “Trawless is dead,” he said to George, whose face contorted in rage. “She bashed in hi
s skull!”
Dead? She hadn’t meant to do that. Reid had been necessary, but she’d thought she’d merely left Trawless unconscious . . .
“I had no choice!” she cried, to herself as much as anyone else.
Perkins finally spoke. “George! I’m begging you: give this up. Release these people—this is madness!”
Just then, something dripped onto George’s aquiline nose from above. He wiped at it, and stared at the red smear on his fingertips in confusion. Then slowly, so slowly, he looked up.
Another drop of blood fell on him, from a stain above his head.
“Reid,” he breathed, and looked to Evadne.
“Reid!” cried Bourne, and he charged her. It was a desperate move, but no feint. Aware Stockton was close behind her, Evadne slipped to the side, and instinct took over. Her blade was up before he reached her; her feet were in the right place, as if by magic.
Maybe it was, or something similar at least.
While always more confident with a sword in her hand, tonight Evadne felt different, as if she was observing and directing herself. But she was directing Bourne, too—she saw what he intended before he knew it himself, as though his motions were choreography in a play she’d seen a thousand times. A graceful upward swing of her blade sent his flying wide—away from Perkins—before her opponent could even react. Before she’d even realized she’d acted.
She did note Perkins’s impressed look, but their eyes met for only a second—Stockton was charging toward him from one direction, George from the other, and Evadne had to go in for her riposte before Bourne recovered.
Her mind was focused; and her body was wholly responsive to her will and the tainted ginger coursing through her veins. With a lunge, she dipped below Bourne’s windmilling arm and swept the Chinese blade upward. Bourne screamed as blood poured out of a thin vertical cut across his jacket and plastron. His chest was split open. It wasn’t a deep wound, but it was a nasty one.
Bourne staggered back, but only for a moment; he got his sword back up faster than he ever did in class to go for her again, twice as ferocious this time. She despaired, wondering if this berserker’s ability to ignore pain was a gift from his supernatural benefactor. If it had conferred such a boon upon them all, she and Perkins were doomed. Momentarily alarmed, she stepped back, but bumped into the arm of a sofa where two of Lady Henry’s friends lay, bound and miserable. One said something to her as she silently cursed parlors and all their furniture, but she didn’t hear what they said. She was listening to another voice.
Don’t despair, the demon was urging her. Use your environment. They will use force and anger; we will use everything else.
Focus returned. She jumped, boosting herself with her left arm. For a brief moment she was flying, or at least jumping higher than possible, but her altered awareness of her body guided her muscles; her altered senses, her feet. One touched the arm of the sofa; the other, she placed on the blade of his rapier. Only for a moment—he cried out, her full weight tugging on his arm, but before he could collapse she stepped forward onto Bourne’s forehead. She came down behind him, light on her feet. Whirling, blade upright and held close to her own chest, she sank down into her stance before he could even turn around, and lunged. Bourne screamed as she drove the blade through his back, sliding it between his ribs and into his heart, her left arm out behind her to steady her. The smell of ordure filled Evadne’s nostrils. He was dead.
She yanked on her blade, but it was stuck in his meat. She kicked him off it with her right foot, and then turned while he fell limply to the floor. To her surprise, when she turned, she saw that she did not need to rush to Perkins’s side to help—George, Stockton, and Mr. Perkins were all staring at her, motionless, mouths open.
She cherished the astonishment in George’s expression, but it quickly turned to rage; she had, after all, taken out three of his acolytes all by herself—and while they were at their strongest. It was now down to two against two, much better odds than Mr. Perkins had predicted.
“How dare you,” snarled George. “Tonight, of all nights!”
To Evadne’s surprise, George did not go for her, but for his own master. Evadne cried out, but Perkins had his blade up and deflected the strike. His grim look and surprised grunt spoke to George’s strength.
Perkins did something to free himself and danced back. He knew as she did that the best thing to do in a fight was to simply not get hit, but she knew he couldn’t hold out alone against George forever. But he had to, at least until she took care of Stockton, who was now coming for her.
Popping a few candies into her mouth to suck on, Evadne brought her sword up and focused on her new opponent. As Perkins battled his star student, she found herself similarly engaged.
Stockton was a good fencer, but he miscalculated with his first attack, giving Evadne a good opening to press the advantage. She slithered closer and he roared as the tip of her sword caught him in the right armpit. Blood blossomed from the wound and he dropped his weapon. Fear came into his eyes when he looked at her, and Evadne felt her resolve to kill yet another man falter.
Her blade dipped down, even as her instincts and the demon within her screamed at her get it up, get it up. Then she heard the crash of steel on steel and her eyes tracked to where Perkins was fighting for his life against George.
They would not stop, so she couldn’t.
“Don’t,” she said as Stockton’s eyes went back to the rapier on the ground.
Stockton either heard the change in her voice or saw it in her eyes as Evadne raised her blade. He panicked, and turned to run, but in his haste he stepped without looking. The slipshod footwork Perkins had earlier noticed came back to haunt them both. He crashed into his master’s right side, knocking the older man off balance.
“No!” screamed Evadne, but it was too late. It was the opening George needed. As Perkins shoved off the dead weight, his blade went down and George’s went up—and through the older man’s throat. Blood gushed as George pulled back, and Perkins went to his knees, gasping like a fish as Stockton collapsed atop him.
Move!
At the demon’s prompting, Evadne realized she’d frozen again, staring in horror at the pile of limbs and blood, listening to Perkins rattle out his last.
Stockton was stirring, covered in gouts of his master’s lifeblood. That he should be groaning while poor brave, wonderful Mr. Perkins lay there, no longer making any noise at all, brought her back to herself.
“You will not take any more lives tonight,” she said, stepping back into a low stance as her arm curved up to bring the blade level with George’s eyes.
“That isn’t for you to decide,” he said, sounding almost bored. “Get up, Stockton, you useless sack!”
He scrambled up, grabbing his sword before she could stop him. No matter—Evadne’s eyes were dry; her muscles were warm. She felt the universe swirling around her like a cloud of golden dust, but saw nothing other than what she had to do. She knew Lady Henry and her friends were cheering her on, but she didn’t register more than their sense of hope. Her ears only heard what her opponents were saying; her eyes saw only what they were doing.
She was ready.
As she ran at them, she decided to duel George first. He was the more dangerous of the pair, and she needed to take him out, if she could.
It was not to be. Stockton had put himself to her left. George did something with his blade, but it was an obvious feint. Shimmering between the two men, she spun around, sword extended, to slice at them both in one move. Stockton ducked; George jumped away. She’d drawn no blood, but she’d achieved her goal of further separating them. That was good, but now she had to make the same choice a second time: which to go for first.
Stockton made her decision for her, rushing in quickly enough that the tip of his rapier grazed her cheek as she bent backwards, her spine popping musically from the dramatic curve. Her face alight with pain and her stomach muscles screaming as she pulled herself upright, she le
aned into her own riposte and slashed across Stockton’s middle. It was a hastily considered gambit, but it worked. He howled as she opened his belly, then stopped howling when she slashed him again, marking him like a hot cross bun.
He fell back, but she did not watch what he did. George was now behind her, and she whirled, just barely blocking his attack.
“You’ve learned well, Miss Gray,” he said, pushing her backwards and away. She went flying back, almost losing her balance. She silently thanked the demon that steadied her, guided her. George’s strength was incredible, even compared to that of his compatriots. She would not have been able to stand against him without its help.
George pressed his advantage, striking again with terrifying power. She blocked him, but the vibrations along the blade of her sword made her arm go numb. A cross-body block and her shoulder burned like a fire. “You do realize what you have done tonight will only lead to your death?”
“Only,” she gasped as she parried another strike, “if you win!”
He wasn’t even winded. He jabbed viciously at her; she deflected it, but the point of his rapier sank into her thigh and she felt the leg go weak.
“Your success tonight indicates overdose, if I am any judge,” he said. “As you were already—though very slightly—conditioned to receive the sacrament of my far more effective demon, you will certainly perish. I hope you still think it was worth it to defy me.”
“Standing against wickedness is always worthwhile,” she said, driven back another step by another strike.
“Wickedness! I’m no different from you, Miss Gray. We both now serve a master. Mine is simply greater than yours.”
Evadne made the choice to give up ground to try to recover for a final charge. Her leg was wobbling; she would not last much longer against this juggernaut of power and rage. The demon within her tried to soothe her, but there was only so much it could do. Her body was working hard; she needed to dose herself again. Voluntarily retreating, she groped for her candies until the bag crinkled beneath her fingers.
