Redeemer

by C. E. Murphy

  The other side had two brown leather armchairs and a broad wooden table, none of which looked like they should have fit down the tiny staircase. Shelves lined the walls over there, dozens of books with leather bindings stacked on them, and fewer, more-modern-looking books piled on the corner of the table beside a handsome desk lamp that matched a tall floor lamp. Two more chairs, these ones metal and folding, leaned against a wall, and in the corner sat a counter with a sink, a coffee pot, and a small refrigerator next to it. Rosie studied all of it, then looked at Hank, who gave her a droll smile.

  "Welcome to the Ex Libris Detroit headquarters, Miss Ransom."

  Rosie turned, taking in the space again. "How can this be here without anybody knowing about it?"

  "People don't go poking around in basements very much, and there are a lot of people in Detroit. All sorts of strange things slide by without much notice."

  "Like killing a couple of demons."

  "As a casual example, sure."

  Rosie gave him a faint smile and went to the bookshelves. "There's stuff about Redeemers in these?"

  "Let's find out."

  ✪ ✪ ✪

  Half an hour later, sitting in one of the leather chairs with a semicircle of leather-bound books open on the table in front of her, Rosie pulled a hand over her mouth. "So far I haven't found much more about Redeemers than we've figured out already. Not even as much, if you want to look at it from me Redeeming Pearl—nothing about how a demon horde might hide from a library man who was looking for them. And I still don't understand why half the factory didn't come running when they heard that—what did you call it? Oshim?—screaming yesterday."

  Hank sprawled in the other chair, his bum leg bent over its arm and the other foot stretched along the floor. He held a small book in his hands, examining it with the intensity of a man who needed glasses. He looked a lot more approachable that way, Rosie thought, like he'd thrown off some kind of formality he'd never been comfortable with. He glanced up at her last comment, and Rosie swore his finger went to the bridge of his nose, like he'd push up spectacles he didn't wear. "Ochim. In some ways, it's just another word for demon, but we use it to describe the ones who use sound as their primary offensive. Ochim create a dampening effect when they scream. It's in … that book up there behind you, the one with the yellow crack on its spine. No, with the red horizont—yeah. The explanation goes on for a while, but it boils down to they suck all the ambient sound in the area into them and project it as an attack. It might've gotten strangely quiet inside the factory for a minute, but they sure wouldn't have heard the screams."

  Rosie thumbed through the book he'd directed her to take down, opening it to a page with a drop-jawed monster like the one she'd faced. A block of cramped, handwritten text sat opposite the drawing, with notes scrawled across the sketch. "This isn't even in English, Hank."

  "Well, of—oh. Most of them aren't. Mostly French. Some Latin."

  "Latin? And there I was, thinking of an engineering degree," Rosie said under her breath.

  "They're old. Before the Great War, they had people working on translations, but the efforts have fallen by the wayside. I'll teach you French, if you want."

  "I guess you're going to have to."

  Hank nodded, turning his attention back to the small book he held. "The more ambient noise there is, the stronger an ochim's screams are. Backing up to a factory like that, she must have been deadly. You're lucky Miss Diaz was there."

  "She wants to help, you know." Rosie put aside the French book and laced her fingers under her chin. "I'd say you're not going to be able to stop her, so you should adapt to the times, mister library man, and start teaching her French, too."

  "Henpecked," Hank said under his breath. "You're going to keep me henpecked, aren't you?"

  "And you'll be the cock of the walk. That shouldn't sound too bad."

  Hank glanced up again, this time with a faint smile playing on his lips. "You've got a way of turning things around, don't you, Rosie Ransom?"

  "I guess I'm trying. Look, Hank, this is a pretty nice setup you've got here, but if I can't read the books and nothing in them is about Redeemers anyways—"

  "This one is." He lifted the small volume he held. "Some of it, anyway. It talks about Joan, who was probably the most famous Redeemer there's ever been."

  "Joan? Of Arc? Was a Redeemer?" Rosie stared at Hank, momentarily shocked into disbelief before the obvious struck her. "Who was the demon?"

  "We believe it was John of Lancaster." Hank shook his head once at Rosie's blank expression. "King Henry the Fifth of England's brother. Our records indicate that even at the time, the Tudors had been suspected of harboring a demon for decades, probably without ever knowing it. All the illnesses and madnesses and ambition, though. We think those were caused by the demon, which is why the family members were afflicted at such wildly different times in their lives. It only moved when one host became too weak to maintain it. And we know for certain that the Siege of Orleans was demon-ridden. Dozens, maybe hundreds of demons were part of the English army, and France was near to falling to England's army, under John's rule, until Joan came to fight. John had her put to death after the siege, but she broke his hold on France and changed the history of the world. Who knows what might have happened, if she hadn't been there."

  "Wait." Rosie hadn't followed the half of that, unfamiliar with nearly all the history Hank mentioned, but one part made sense. "She broke the siege but he lived to put her to death? Does that mean she Redeemed him, the way I did Pearl?"

  Hank gazed at her sightlessly, then snapped his little book shut and rose all in one smooth motion, striding with only the faintest limp to the bookshelves. He took down a tome as large as Rosie's torso and thumped it onto the table, riffling through old, dusty pages with no more care than he would with a dime novel. A page went by and he stuck a finger in, flipping the pages back to a colored sketch of a beak-nosed man in long-armed robes and a heavy cloak. "John of Lancaster, Duke of Bedford, et cetera, held Orleans, et cetera … but there's no evidence she ever laid hands on him, Rosie. She was reputed to have never killed anyone."

  "Said who?"

  "She did."

  Rosie rolled her eyes. "People keep telling me I should be upset about killing a man, Hank. I'm not, because I didn't kill a man. Goode was a monster. I can split that hair pretty easy and I don't even hear voices. Dang it." She sank back into her chair, frowning at the drawing of John. "I hoped she'd be like me. Or I'd be like her, I guess. That someone else had Redeemed someone without killing them."

  "It might only be possible on people like Pearl, anyway, Rosie."

  "But if she didn't Redeem him, how does Ex Libris know he was the demon?"

  "We fought there too." Hank turned pages until another sketch was exposed, a horde of grim-faced men in much less elegant clothes than John had worn. They carried pikes and swords and—strangely, to Rosie's eyes—a variety of instruments ranging from flutes to drums to something that looked sort of like a big-bellied, four-stringed guitar. "Ex Libris saw her Redeem again and again, in the nine days she fought at Orleans, but one Redeemer couldn't stop that many demons. We fought too, and we captured several demons. All the information we got from them pointed to Lancaster as their leader."

  "Only he got away. And Joan didn't. How did her reputation for not killing anybody stay in place if she was Redeeming?"

  "I told you, you glow." Hank's voice dropped suddenly, enough to make a shiver run over Rosie's skin. "I didn't see you until what, an hour or two after you'd Redeemed Goode? And I could still see the glow. It's like looking into a foggy sunrise, Rosie. It's beautiful and powerful and peaceful, and she'd already turned a dynastic succession battle into a religious war. There were thousands of believers fighting there that week, and she Redeemed so many demons in those nine days. I think that glow probably never faded. I think it was probably strong enough for almost anyone to see. If Lancaster was there, it's no wonder he didn't allow himself to get ne
ar her. He'd have known. Every demon on the field would have known."

  "Then why didn't they run?"

  "Because if they won at Orleans, all of France would have fallen to them, and if France fell, they could move on to Spain, to Prussia, to Italy, anywhere. They were fighting to rule our world. Even facing a Redeemer on the battlefield must have seemed worth the risk for the hope of a demonically ruled Europe."

  "So nothing's really changed," Rosie whispered. "Hundreds of years later, and we're still fighting to keep Europe in human hands? Joan would be disappointed in us."

  "Not in you." Hank's voice sounded strange. He straightened away from Rosie, closing the book and returning it to the shelf. "I think she would be impressed with you. Anyway, this book talks about her." He went back to the smaller book he'd left in his chair, collecting the volume so he could sit, open the pages again, and say, "It's in French, so forgive me if I read slowly. Um, let's see. ‘Joan carried only her banner, never a sword, and ran …' Well, where angels feared to tread, more or less. ‘Where she laid hands on the enemy, they cried out and separated body from soul in a great haze of purity and light.

  "‘In the aftermath, she spoke of the voices that guided her, naming the saints …' We know all this, et cetera … ‘was seen to be healed of the wounds she had taken, one to her foot that had stymied her for most of a day, and a second to her shoulder that seemed not to slow her at all. Though she would not carry a weapon, she lifted a man's weight with ease'—so Redeemers are stronger than usual—"

  Rosie made a face. "Wasn't she a farm girl? I'm stronger than usual too, from lifting a rivet gun. I bet she'd done plenty of hard work that toughened her up."

  Hank's mouth pinched, but he continued. "‘… traveling to court, twice she seized, crying out that the saints were speaking to her, and twice she turned from these seizures to lay hands upon a man close to her, and from his body parted his soul.'" He fell silent, meeting Rosie's eyes as she steepled her fingers over her mouth, almost breathless with suspicion.

  "Does that mean she sensed them getting closer? Hank, if I can do that—"

  The blond man fought down a grin until nothing more than a hint of pleasure tugged at his mouth. "Then maybe you'll be able to see through whatever's blinding me to the demon horde here. Assuming," he allowed, "that they're here in Detroit and not down in Toledo or somewhere else. But, Rosie, two things. One is that Joan had Redeemed … I don't know how many demons, by then. Dozens, at least. Maybe hundreds. If it takes that many before a Redeemer learns to sense them—"

  "Then I might be dead before I learn," Rosie said flatly. "I get it, library man."

  He flinched. "That wasn't what I was going to say at all. Just that it could take a long time. And the other thing is, if I'm right, if there's something masking them from me, it might be able to mask them from you, too."

  "Redeemers are rare, right? Rarer than library men, even if there aren't all that many of you, either." At Hank's nod, Rosie went on. "We might as well assume that something masking them from you won't affect me. I'll just let you know if I start hearing voices."

  Hank's expression became alarmed and Rosie laughed. "Well, I hope I don't, but she did. Does it say anything else?"

  "Mm." Hank looked back at the book. "Not really. It's not much to go on."

  "It's something," Rosie said. "She learned to sense them. That's a lot. It makes me feel less helpless. If I know they're coming, I have a better chance. And no offense to Joan, but I'm not going to go around carrying a banner instead of a weapon." Her gaze darted to the larger part of the room, with the mats and weaponry. "There must be something over there I can learn to use and that'll fit in a purse."

  "In a purse?"

  "Look, it'd be easier than a rivet gun, but I still can't go around Detroit carrying a sword everywhere, now, can I? I need something small."

  "Like a derringer?"

  "Don't they only have one shot? Fat lot of good that would do me if there were a bunch of demons nearby, especially since it firing would draw attention. What do you use? You can't just run around with a pen and paper hoping you can draw a demon into captivity before it kills you… ."

  "Even if I could, I don't draw that well. I do have a gun," Hank admitted. "And a couple of knives I carry most of the time. Conventional weaponry slows them down enough to get them to an artist—"

  "Or unconventional weaponry," Rosie interrupted, thinking of the rebar.

  Hank crooked a smile to say he'd heard, but continued, "—at least, most of the time. Some of the time," he hazarded.

  Rosie flattened her mouth at him. "Most, some, once in a while?"

  "Most. Some. It depends on how powerful they are. Most demons …" He sat back in his chair, speaking his fingers wide. "The really strong ones come from genius-level artists, Rosie. Beethoven. Da Vinci. Hokusai. You'd like him," he said to Rosie's lack of recognition of the third name. "I'll show you some of his work later. And for the record, none of them became demons. The really famous ones who've died young, they're usually the ones who lost control of the power. Keats. Shelley. Young geniuses often become the strongest demons, while great artists who can master their output—their muse, whatever you want to call it—retain their sanity and never become demons. But it's not just geniuses who make demons. There are a lot of bad artists in the world, Rosie, and they make for a lot of low-level demons. We're lucky there are comparatively few really powerful ones."

  "So you can put a piece of rebar through a weaker one and keep her down long enough to Redeem or capture, and the stronger ones … how do you hold them long enough to paint the Sistine Chapel, Hank?"

  "You hope it's redoubled, so you can snip away pieces of it at a time. You have an artist with you, always, when you're hunting it. Sometimes, if you're lucky, it's drawn to the artist."

  "That doesn't sound lucky for the artist."

  Hank shook his head. "You're right. It's not. But it's the closest thing we've got to an ace in the hole, see. They usually like the kind of art they once made. Music, words, paintings. Sometimes we can match the artist with the demon, to lure it. It's dangerous, but it's our only advantage."

  FIFTEEN

  "Unless you've got a Redeemer."

  "Unless we've got a Redeemer." Hank hesitated. "Rosie, do you … sense me, in any way? If you close your eyes or look away, do you know I'm here without … knowing it?"

  Rosie's eyebrows furled even as she smiled and closed her eyes. She turned her face away, trying to stretch out her—her soul, she guessed. Something that wasn't physical, anyways—toward Hank, to see if she had any sense of his presence. Then she laughed and shook her head, opening her eyes again. "I already know you're there, so I just feel silly. I guess I wouldn't be able to tell anyways, would I?"

  "I … I guess not. I guess I thought maybe it stood to reason that if Joan knew when a demon was near, she might know when a human was too. Like there might be a difference of some kind." Hank exhaled noisily and sank deeper into the chair, like he'd failed to convince himself with his explanation. "Do you know how to fire a gun?"

  "Not unless it shoots rivets."

  "Yeah. You're pretty good at that. Well, I'll have to take you out to a firing range to teach you how to shoot a real one. We can't do that here. Knives and arrows. I can teach you those, here."

  "You're going to teach me how to shoot a bow and arrow?" Rosie asked, amused. "Do you library men get a lot of call for using those these days?"

  "You're the one who pointed out guns are loud," Hank said. "Arrows aren't. Carrying a bow isn't subtle, either, I admit, but … we do a lot of our hunting at night, Rosie. We're trying not to draw attention to ourselves."

  "What happens when you do?"

  "Things get awkward. Sometimes we bring people in. Sometimes they choose to forget what they've seen."

  "Wait, for real? Like magic?"

  "Like self-preservation. They decide it's better to pretend that never happened, so they can go on with an ordinary life that makes se
nse."

  "Like I couldn't."

  Hank nodded. "And sometimes … often … people who get caught in the crossfire end up dead, Rosie. Like most of my unit. I got brought in because I saw, and I couldn't make myself forget, not any more than you could. And because they thought I could be useful. American kid, home territory a town they thought trouble was brewing in."

  "Comes from money," Rosie said softly, and though Hank's face tightened, he didn't disagree. "Hank, what kind of crossfire do people who don't get read in and can't forget end up in?" Hank looked away and a knot formed in Rosie's stomach. "You're not really doing a great job convincing me you library men are the good guys, you know that?"

  "I will never harm a human being," Hank said in a low, thick voice. "That's about all I can promise you, Rosie. I'd never hurt a person. Whether my superiors would or not …" He shook his head. "I don't know, all right? I don't know for sure. I just know I think it's better for people to join up or forget. Mostly it doesn't matter. Mostly people who get mixed up in this war either die or decide to forget. If more people could handle it, maybe we wouldn't be so overwhelmed. Maybe we'd be able to push forward instead of barely holding the line. Instead of retreating," he admitted after a grim silence.

  Rosie took a deep breath, stood, and went to crouch in front of him. "Look at me. Hey. Library man. Look at me."

  Hank did, his blue eyes looking older than somebody his age had any right to. Fine lines that hadn't been obvious earlier were visible now, around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, and cords stood out in his throat. He reminded Rosie of Jean over the past couple of days: like he couldn't do anything but keep going, without any real hope of relief any time soon. Only Hank looked like he'd felt that way a long time, like Jean might in a year or two, if she couldn't get over Ruby's death.