by Kim Wilkins
Still, she couldn’t spend all day looking around in here. Mary would be finished the laundry with Liza soon enough, and might find her here. Deborah just needed a little uninterrupted time, a little uninterrupted space, and a nerve of steel.
She held the demon key out in front of her.
All the books had been no use in the end. No protection spell as far as the eye could see. Oh, she could change water into wine, worsted wool into silk, train a bird to be her familiar, create a storm or charm a man to fall in love with her, but nowhere could she find whom to call upon to ask for protection. She had even gone to her father’s books. Nothing in Epicurus, Psellus or Dee. What were all these wise men doing if they hadn’t considered how to cast a spell of protection or healing? Turning lead into gold was not about greed, they said, it was about self-purification, advancing to another level of being, harnessing the power of elemental spirits. It seemed so convenient, though, that there should be gold at the end of the process. Not peace, not an end to suffering and sickness, not insurance of the safety of loved ones.
But Lazodeus knew more demons than were listed in the mortal books. All she had to do was discover some of their names.
“Dantalion, I call upon you with this key as your commander, appear before me and answer my questions.” The musical notes rang out and she felt the sweet shock of the magic run through her. She steadied her hand. She was not entirely sure if it were possible to call a demon to appear before her, and she did not relish having to look upon its hideous countenance. A few moments passed without incident. Then a low swooshing sound began to wash around her, and the velvet curtains rolled in a sudden gust of wind. “Dantalion?” she asked, keeping her voice even. She glanced behind her. When she turned back, it was there.
Deborah let out a little gasp. It was man-sized, not tiny like the ones mashed together in her walls, and not half-size like the demons who had pleasured Amelia. It wore a plain white robe over its scaly red skin. Its face was a confusion of animal features: cat, pig, bird. By far the worst was the sharp stench that arose from it. She had smelled rotten potatoes that were sweeter.
“Who are you, wench, that dare to command me personally?”
Deborah held out the demon key. “I have angel magic on this key.”
“Angel? That has the mark of that cur Lazodeus upon it. He is no angel.”
“He is a fallen angel.”
“Is a fallen woman still a virgin? I think not. He is a devil as are they all in Pandemonium.”
Deborah was curious, and her curiosity surpassed her fear of the creature. “You are at odds with the fallen angels?”
“We hate them. They control us. Would you not hate them?”
“And Lazodeus in particular? What is your argument with him?”
“He is frivolous in his use of us. He once called one of my apprentices to service your sister Mary to frighten her. Yes, it is true. You needn’t looked so shocked. Your sister is well on her way to joining us all in Hell.”
Deborah took a deep breath, concentrating on the matter at hand and not Mary’s ruin. “What class of being are you then? Not an angel or a devil?”
“I am a chief among demons. We are elemental spirits, not meant to be applied to the purpose of good or evil solely. Unfortunately, we are usually commanded by those who are evil. Like your friend, Lazodeus.”
Deborah held her breath lightly against the stench. “Lazodeus is not my friend.”
“Then why do you dare to command me?”
“He left his charge upon the key, and I need your help. I am desperate.”
“Then call upon one of my apprentices.”
“I don’t want an apprentice, I want you. You teach arts and sciences. I want to ask you questions.”
“Is it not enough to have the table of mortal desires?”
Deborah shook her head. “I don’t understand. A table of …?”
“Mortal desires. Power, wealth, control over others.” And when she still looked at it uncomprehending, it took on a sarcastic tone. “The list you have, my dear, of our names. The list you took my name from.”
“It is incomplete. It offers no recourse for help in matters of healing and protection.”
It snorted; perhaps laughed. “Healing and protection are out of the ordinary realm of mortal desires. Come, surely you’d like a little gold instead? A man to satisfy you?”
She felt herself grow angry; the demon characterised her species as so venal and corrupt. “I feel for a certainty that there are many mortals other than myself who are interested in less material things.”
“Do not be righteous with me, wench. I have had contact with enough of you to know the narrow, dark alleys of your hearts.”
There was no benefit in arguing with it, and Mary could not be far away. Deborah held up the key again. “I have the key. I shall command you.”
“As you wish,” it said, with not a trace of humility. Its oddly black eyes narrowed.
“I command you to tell me which demon I may call upon to protect my father from my sisters.”
“There is no such demon.”
“No demon of protection?”
“The devils — the fallen angels as you prefer to call them — destroyed all the elementals who could do good for mortals.”
“That’s appalling.”
“They are devils, wench. Your stupid race has enough stories of them to suggest to you the truth of their nature, surely.”
“I didn’t think —”
“Then think. Think harder. What are you doing? What danger are you putting your soul in by dealing with Lazodeus? How much closer to Hell do you come every time you use the key for wealth and power?”
“I have used it neither for wealth nor power.”
“No? Do you not feel a wonderful rush of power every time you command with the key?”
“I —”
“Stupid wench, stupid mortal. You know not what you’re doing.”
“I know I need to protect my father.”
“The best I can offer is to let you know when your sisters are thinking ill of him.”
Deborah almost laughed. “Sir, they think ill of him most days of the week. Most hours of the day. He is a difficult man.”
“Then, I can warn you when they begin to think murderously of him.”
“You can?”
It reached out a scaly hand. “Let me touch the key.”
Deborah clutched the key tightly. “You will remove its magic.”
“For pity’s sake, you stupid girl. Who do you have left to trust if not me?”
Words failed her. She stood looking at the demon, assessing its hideous countenance and vile fetor, and knew it was right. It offered her clarity, unabashed truth. She held out the key; the demon brushed it with yellow-clawed fingers.
“There,” it said. “It will ring — one note — when either of your sisters has designs upon your father’s mortality.”
“Designs, not just idle thoughts?”
“I assure you, wench, that I do not make mistakes.”
“My name is Deborah,” she said softly. “And I thank you.”
“Well, Deborah,” it said, its voice heavy with scorn, “have you decided yet what you will do should such an eventuality arise?”
“I … No, not yet. I believe I have time to work it out. My sisters are still very far from being patricides.”
“Hmm, a blind father and two scheming sisters in love with a devil. I’d say you have a lot to worry about. Are you finished with me now?”
She met its eyes. “Yes. I thank you.”
It smiled, and its mouth was little more than a ragged slit across its face. “Thank me for this,” it said, then spat on her face and disappeared.
Deborah stood a moment unmoving. The sticky phlegm dripped down her left cheek. She reached for one of Mary’s velvets and wiped it off, fighting down nausea and shaking herself to clear her head. As she slipped out the window and edged along the ledge, a strong gust of hot
wind roared down the gap between houses, blowing dust into her eyes. The sky was very clear above and she took a moment to contemplate it before returning to the bedroom. Both of her feet were on the floor when Mary stepped in, the front of her dress soaked.
“Why do you look guilty?” Mary asked.
“Guilty? I believe you are imagining it,” Deborah replied. “I’m just looking out the window.”
“Well, I have been laundering since dawn and I am tired.” She crossed the room towards the dresser.
This was an exaggeration. Mary had been laundering for less than two hours. “I am going to my closet to read.”
“I care not what you do, you pious little twerp,” Mary said as she pulled out a dry shift. “I’m going to change into something dry and go sit in my secret room.”
Deborah considered her sister a moment, wondering where all the last traces of her patience and tenderness had gone. “Where is Max?” she asked.
“In the garden with Liza, making a mess of the washing. Why?” Mary’s eyes narrowed.
“You spend so little time with him lately.”
“He is frightened of going out on the ledge. I dare not take him with me next door.”
“And it does not hurt you to spend so many hours without him? I remember a time when —”
“Oh, stop it. You cannot make me feel guilty. I care not for your opinion. Max is safe and well and …” She seemed at a loss for words and Deborah knew she had touched a tender space inside her.
“I shall be in my closet should you need me,” Deborah said lightly over her shoulder. “Enjoy your velvet cushions.”
Deborah settled on her bed with her writing tray and Father’s manuscript all around her. She had begun to copy the book dealing with the war in Heaven, and it made her heart heavy to see Lazodeus’s story so uncritically repeated. She dipped her pen and moved to write the first line, then stopped herself.
Father was blind. If she changed it a little, he may never know.
At least, she would be reading him the fair copy, she would be reading him the printer’s proof. The first Father would know about her changes — little changes, subtle changes — would be years from now when she was gone and he had some other assistant to act as his eyes. And she would be far enough from him to avoid his wrath.
Her heart sped a little and she licked her lips. Strange that conjuring a demon and commanding it should not unnerve her so much as the prospect of changing Father’s work. He was a great poet, she was just a girl.
But she had spent so much time with him while he dictated, so much time copying out this manuscript, that she practically thought in blank verse some evenings. And they would not be big alterations. Just a line here or there, pointing the readers’ sympathies away from the fallen angels a little. Oh, Lucifer could keep his savage pride and noble bearing, but it was important that readers did not side with him wholly.
She took a deep breath and started copying, adding or deleting phrases here and there, keeping the rhythm consistent and, she hoped, the quality of the work congruous. Abdiel, once a cretinous traitor, now became the sole voice for God’s loyalty. The archangels, once cruel and jealous brats, were now restored to their rightful noble cast. She found herself enjoying it, and though she made a few mistakes and had to put aside the pages, she soon slipped into the rhythm, deftly altering Father’s manuscript in subtle, sophisticated ways to her own purpose.
Which would be his own purpose too, of course, if he knew that the stories were coming to him from a hellish angel rather than a heavenly muse.
18
To Lose Thee Were to Lose Myself
Deborah passed many hours in each day working on Father’s poem, as the summer heat sweltered on into late August. Mary still did not speak with her unless to ridicule her, Anne grew colder by the day, and she worked and worked on Paradise Lost until she was so immersed in the world of the angels and the first inhabitants of Eden, that she often lost track of which day of the week it was. Only when it became difficult to see the work in front of her did she realise she had missed dinner and evening was closing in.
She leaned back and stretched her arms over her head, then brought her hands down to massage her fingers against one another. Her stomach growled. Why hadn’t Mary or Anne come to fetch her for dinner? But she supposed she knew why. Neither of them were affectionate towards her. They had probably made up a plausible reason for Father why she wasn’t there, and been happy that she might go hungry.
Deborah leaned her head back on the wall and closed her eyes, yawning vastly.
Something changed in the room. The light was different beyond her closed eyelids. Subtly, but certainly. She opened her eyes. Lazodeus, waiting for her. She sat up with a start, and the door to her closet slammed shut. They were in almost total darkness, but for the faint luminescence from the angel’s skin.
Deborah quickly lifted her hand to her forehead as Amelia had shown her. “I shall scream if you try to injure me,” she said.
He strode towards the bed and stood over her. “I am not here to injure you.”
“You know I shall never believe you about anything ever again.”
He indicated her hand, pressed to her forehead. “Who showed you to do that?”
Deborah remained silent, looking up at him.
“How many times did you turn the scrying mirror upon me?” he said at last.
“I only watched you once. And that sole viewing provided all the evidence I need to hate you justifiably. When I tried to show you to Anne —”
“I know, the mirror broke. How do you dare to watch me?”
She tried to sit up tall, not to be cowed by him. “You have tried to read my thoughts. You have seduced my sisters. You intend harm to my father. How do you dare to ask me to justify myself?”
“You are a fool. You are so young and so ignorant.”
“If I am such a fool why is it that my sisters have fallen under your spell and I have not?”
Lazodeus’s shoulders drooped forward lightly, and suddenly all his enraged bearing evaporated. “Deborah,” he said softly, almost pleadingly, “I could explain everything to you —”
“Go on, then.”
“You would believe none of it.”
He seemed so appealing in his softness, and Deborah hardened her heart against him. A trick, a ploy to weaken her. “Do you or do you not intend to seduce my sisters to commit patricide?”
“I cannot speak of it. I cannot speak of what oaths I have made in the Royal Court of Pandemonium.”
“It seemed very clear to me from what I saw.”
“But what you saw was but a brief moment in my life!” he protested. “Please, Deborah. I could be in great trouble for speaking of it.”
“I heard what you promised.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “What I promised and what I do may be two different things,” he said. “Now, I have said too much. You know that elementals live within these walls. I can speak of nothing more serious or specific.”
Deborah narrowed her eyes against him. “I cannot trust you so easily as my sisters,” she said.
“I have not injured you, have I?”
“You are under an oath not to harm anyone. ’Twas part of our original summoning.”
“Deborah, I would not harm you, or your father, and especially not your sisters for the deep love I bear them both.”
Deborah shook her head. “I am sorry, but my resolve will be firm on this. You have proven yourself unworthy of my trust at every turn. You and I, Lazodeus, are sworn enemies.”
He stood up straight again, his mouth forming a rigid line. The scar above his eyebrow twitched. “As you wish it, Deborah Milton. I shall not endanger myself by speaking with you any longer. But you shall see, in time, that I am worth trusting. You shall see in time that I intend no injury to you or those you love.”
Could he be sincere? The suggestion of relief that she felt could overwhelm her if she allowed it. He was right: she had only wa
tched him for a few brief hours, after all. “I believe my mortal state allows me a limited amount of time, Lazodeus,” she said, not meeting his eye. “Do not leave it too long to prove yourself.”
The subtle luminosity of his skin flickered, and he disappeared. Deborah lay down upon her bed, kneading her tired hands. If only her tired mind was so easily soothed.
When Mary came down the stairs and into Father’s study, she only intended to find a book she had left there many weeks ago. Father, who sat by the window listening to a bird’s song, looked up when she came in and said, “Deborah, are you finished the fair copy of the tenth book yet?”
Mary frowned. “It is not Deborah, Father, it is Mary.”
“Mary?” His eyebrows shot up. Did he look nervous? “I am surprised. It has been so long since you came to my study I assumed —”
“You no longer invite me to your study, Father.” She looked at him closely. His mouth was very tight. “Is Deborah making your fair copy?”
“It is of no concern to you, Mary.”
“I have a much better hand than Deborah. She writes like a spider who has dipped his feet in ink.”
Father remained silent. Mary spotted the book she wanted and picked it up. Turning, she gazed once more at Father. Why had he given her task to Deborah? Deborah already took his dictation; making the fair copy as well was an enormous demand on her time. No wonder she was always yawning — she must be up half the night transcribing the poem. It would not be so unusual that Father should entrust all his tasks to his favourite if it weren’t for the circumstances. For Mary knew, and was certain Deborah knew, that some of Father’s great scenes were drawn directly from the nocturnal dictations of Lazodeus.
“Did Deborah dissuade you from using my writing skills, Father?”
“I shall not be drawn into petty rivalry between my daughters,” he said, his blind eyes just a degree short of her own gaze. Amazing how he could do that. If she weren’t examining his face so closely for signs of fear or mistrust, she would have believed him to be staring directly at her.
