The Mesmerist

by Ronald L. Smith

  He is talking to a woman with red-knuckled hands and a thin, drawn face. Tears glisten on her cheeks. “But she’s only four, Oliver,” she says. “A child.”

  “All the easier for the devil to do his mischief,” the man answers. “I seen the fire inside her.”

  “I’ll see to her,” the woman pleads. “She won’t be a bother. Promise.”

  The scene breaks, and for a moment, with eyes still closed, I think that is all, but …

  “No!” the woman cries. “Oliver, please!”

  The man called Oliver grabs Emily’s small wrist with thick, callused fingers. “Come along, girl,” he snarls, tugging her away. “I won’t have evil in me own house!”

  “No!” Emily cries. “Mam!”

  But it is too late.

  He pushes her through the door and leads her screaming up the street.

  Outside, the sky is iron gray. Rain begins to fall. Emily struggles against the man’s fierce grip. “I want me mam!” she cries.

  The man is a lumbering giant, pulling her along like a rag doll, stopping every now and then to take a swig from the brown bottle.

  I see their destination up ahead.

  An old brick mansion, covered in vines and sitting in the shade of thick trees like a sleeping brown beast. Black smoke puffs from a chimney. A few shattered windows dot the façade like a smile gone wrong.

  The man kneels and pulls Emily close. For a moment, I think he is going to hug her to his chest, but instead, he fishes in his pockets and pulls out a torn piece of paper. He pins it to Emily’s ragged dress:

  CANNA CARE FOR. PLEAS TAKE. GOES BY EMILY.

  GOD BLES.

  I open my eyes. I feel a sharp pain along my neck and shoulders, but it passes within seconds. I feel as if I have done the most dreadful thing imaginable, looking in on someone’s private world. Everyone is staring at me. “I’m sorry,” I say to Emily. “I saw what you were thinking … when he took you away. That man. Oliver. He was your fath—​”

  “Ah, he were nothing but a big lummox,” Emily cuts me off. “It’s better now. I got a new family.” She smiles, showing small teeth. “Miss me mam, though.”

  There is a moment of silence.

  Balthazar and Gabriel both smile. Emily doesn’t seem bothered that I have so quickly learned of her terrible past.

  Balthazar nods like a proud headmaster. “Very good, Miss Jessamine. You are learning quickly. We will need all your strength in the fight to come.”

  I’m not so sure about that, I think. I just want this all to go away.

  “And what about you?” I ask Emily, coming back to myself. “What is your ability?”

  Emily glances at Balthazar. He shakes his head, very slightly.

  “Plenty of time for that,” he says. “Come. I have much to show you.”

  Mother and I follow him up the creaky steps. Gabriel and Emily remain downstairs. I am curious to know what their powers are. It dawns on me that if I continue on this path, I will learn soon enough.

  Upstairs, there is a narrow hallway with doors along each side. Drab wallpaper with a pattern of roses peels from the walls. Mother takes it all in with a sour look.

  “It is a safe place,” Balthazar assures us, “here in Whitechapel, away from prying eyes.”

  “The children,” Mother says all of a sudden. “How did they come to be here?”

  “My sources led me to an orphanage,” he replies. “Mrs. Alexandra’s Home for Foundling Boys and Girls. Both children showed signs of supernatural abilities, something the Church of England believed to be the work of the devil. It was only a matter of time before they were dropped off on the stoop of the orphanage like so much baggage.”

  He pauses and shakes his head. How terrible, I think. To be abandoned by one’s own mother and father.

  “The headmistress was eager to see them taken in by a gentleman with an estate,” he continues, “one who needed a scullery maid and a chimney sweep.” He flashes a grin. “That would be me.”

  Mother almost rolls her eyes.

  “And they look after themselves?” I ask. “Here on their own?” I find this prospect quite exciting, fending for one’s self, like in one of my old stories—​The Adventures of Jess the Pirate Girl and her Deeds of Derring-Do!—​but I am not certain I could truly be on my own without Mother’s love and support.

  “Upon your imminent arrival,” Balthazar explains, “I arranged for Emily and Gabriel to stay here for a day or two, as they are usually with me at SummerHall. I wanted to hear your news alone, first.” He pauses. “But things are moving quickly. We must remain close. This will be our headquarters, so to speak.”

  Headquarters? I’m getting deeper in by the minute.

  Balthazar opens a door to our left and we enter. This room is also cramped with old books, just as downstairs, some of them looking as if they’d crumble into dust if handled. Mother sneezes.

  “The battleground of a mesmerist takes place in the mind,” he says, “but members of our order must also be physically prepared.”

  I have no idea what this means.

  He reaches into his waistcoat and reveals a key, then walks a few short steps to a standing wooden cabinet. We follow him and watch as he places the key into the lock on the door. It opens with a creak, and he pulls out a battered leather satchel and places it on a table. A cloud of dust rises up. “These were your father’s weapons, Miss Jessamine.”

  Mother gasps. “I thought they were lost. I should have been told.”

  Balthazar nods sympathetically. “They are just here for safekeeping, Cora. I didn’t want to bring up terrible memories.”

  She gives a slight nod in return, as if accepting his explanation. Still, I think, she should have known. It was Father’s, after all.

  I look at the satchel. A faded image of a raven’s head is stamped into the leather. There is also a long scar, as if scored by a monstrous claw. Was that done by the creature who killed him?

  Mother takes a few steps forward and, after what seems like a full minute, takes a breath and lifts the flap. Her expression is thoughtful and sad, and it is clear that she is thinking of Father. She pulls a black case from the satchel and opens it. Several instruments are cradled in a bed of red velvet. One of them is a braided whip, curled like a sleeping snake. The end is split into five tails. Mother draws it out. “This,” she says, “is your most important weapon, Jessamine. The lash. This one has seen its fair share of battle.”

  Without warning, she cracks the whip. A cloud of dust flies up, revealing a ragged gash in the hardwood floor.

  I stare at her. This is not the mother I know. This woman has a fierce look in her eyes and a hard set to her jaw. Balthazar smiles. Mother seems to stand a few inches taller.

  She sets the lash down and picks up another tool. “This is the compass, also very important. With it, you must bind your foe within the Circle of Confinement.”

  Circle of Confinement?

  The compass is silver, with two shining points, and is at least twelve inches tall, larger than any compass I have ever seen, which, admittedly, was only once, in a shop window.

  “When the circle is drawn,” Mother explains, “a creature of the dark is bound. That is when you must drop holy water inside.” She holds up a glass vial that shimmers with a clear liquid.

  “And last, but most important, is a sprig from the acacia tree.” She sets down the vial and lifts a small, slender branch from the case. “It has healing power, and if you ever find yourself hurt, eat one of the leaves.”

  “How does it stay alive?” I ask. “It’s impossible.” As soon as I ask the question, I know it is of no consequence, considering what I have already witnessed on this strange journey.

  “The League of Ravens has always been well versed in magick and spells,” Balthazar says. “The branch is enchanted with great power.”

  “To most people, these are just simple objects,” Mother adds, “but to those with supernatural abilities, they are deadly weapon
s.”

  I look at the tools spread out on the table. I’m expected to use these? To kill creatures, like a ruffian?

  Mother returns the tools to the case and slides it into the satchel. She folds down the flap. I run my fingers across the worn leather. “Father’s weapons,” I whisper, as if saying it aloud will make this all seem more real.

  “They are yours now, Miss Jessamine,” Balthazar says. “Use them wisely.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Departures and Decisions

  Back downstairs, Emily and Gabriel have moved into what I correctly assumed was the parlor. There is a settee covered in garish pink fabric, a fireplace, several small chairs, and a table for four at which they are now seated. A deck of cards is spread out before them. They look up curiously as we enter.

  “Just showing Jessamine a bit of her history,” Balthazar tells them.

  There is a moment of silence.

  “Are we going back to SummerHall?” Emily asks.

  Gabriel sets down his cards and strokes his chin, something that looks entirely out of place for someone so young.

  “I’m afraid not,” Balthazar says. “We have work to do.”

  At Balthazar’s insistence, Mother and I stay the night. My room is certainly not as comfortable as the one at SummerHall, but it does, at least, have a fireplace—​sorely blackened and in need of cleaning. There is also a small, narrow bed, a writing desk, and a table with a basin and pitcher. In the corner is a child’s chair and dresser. The window is cracked and lets in cold air that chills my neck.

  Lovely, I say to myself. Just lovely.

  I lie down on the bed. My thoughts are scattered, and I cannot seem to focus on one thing at a time. I quiet my mind enough to think back on Emily. What would cause a father to completely abandon his child? “I seen the fire inside her,” he had said. Can she transform into a dangerous animal, like Darby? And what of Gabriel? These questions remain in my head until finally, with the wind rattling the window, I drift off to an uneasy sleep.

  Tonight, I dream of a little girl.

  She comes to me in a fog of swirling gray mist. Her pinafore dress is frayed and torn. Blood runs along the hem. “Help me,” she whispers. “Please. Help me.”

  She reaches out a hand. Her fingers are stiff and swollen, and when she opens her mouth again, no words come out, only a foul black liquid.

  In the morning, I meet Mother in the parlor. I see no sign of breakfast and do not have an appetite anyway. She is back to her usual self, not the mysterious woman who opened Father’s case and cracked his whip. My whip. A lash, she called it.

  Fresh flowers are on the table, and the sweet smell of lavender fills the room. This gives me pause, as flowers are not in season. Is this some sort of faerie magic? I wonder. We sit on the settee, and she takes my hands. “My dear child,” she says. “My sweet Jessamine.”

  Just hearing these words, I feel as if my heart will fall out. We’ve been through thick and thin since Father’s death, and all we have is each other.

  “I told you there are always choices,” she begins, “and now you must decide on what yours will be.”

  She releases my hands. For a moment she says nothing, but looks past my head, and stares into the distance. “Your father and I were called upon to do this work too, in our younger days. We were newly married and still basking in the warm glow of first love.”

  I should be embarrassed by this intimate detail, but for some reason I am not. Her eyes sparkle, and I don’t know if it is from the happy memory or an overwhelming feeling of loss.

  “After our vows, we made our home in London,” she continues, “and there, your father took up his work as a barrister. Soon after, an old friend called upon him. It was Balthazar, you see. They were at university together.” She pauses and looks through a window, where the twisted branches of an elm tree cast shadows in the morning sun. She turns back to me, and her face is grave. “Balthazar told him that bodies were being found in the East End of the city. They were all missing limbs, and he needed help in discovering the cause.”

  I shudder. “Why would someone—”

  “It was Mephisto,” Mother says with a scowl, “causing havoc and chaos to some ghastly end. That incident spawned many more, and at your father’s request, I joined him in the battle.”

  Never before have I seen Mother like this. She is always reserved, always guarded. She has kept these secrets from me for years, and now I’m beginning to understand why.

  “We spent many years battling the powers of the dark, my child, and it took its toll.”

  She clasps my hands again, and her grip tightens, as if she is afraid she will lose me, too, just as she lost Papa. “After your father’s death, I raised you in Deal, away from this dreadful city, where you could grow up near the water and the green outdoors. But now we find ourselves here once more.”

  She closes her eyes and releases a sigh. Everything she has done has been for me. Everything. I want to hug her and never let her go, but before I can, she speaks again. “And before your father died, Jess, he killed our strongest enemy, one of the greatest necromancers of all.”

  “Who?”

  “His name was Malachai. Malachai Grimstead. Father killed him but died shortly thereafter.”

  “Malachai,” I whisper.

  “He possessed the power of mesmerism as well, which made him all the more dangerous, for he used his gift to cause pain and suffering.”

  His body rip—​

  “So you see, Jessamine, your father’s blood runs within your veins. He was powerful, as Balthazar told you, and now his gift has awakened in you.” She pauses, and her lips tighten. “That is why you must decide.”

  Something stirs within me at this moment: Pride. A desire for vengeance. Fear.

  Alexander was one of our strongest members …

  A malevolent group that lived in darkness and fed on fear …

  But when they killed your father …

  “I will stay,” I tell her. “I will stay and fight.”

  Mother smiles, and it is a sad smile, but I sense resolution, too. Is she relieved that I have accepted my fate? She hugs me to her chest. “My dear child,” she murmurs, gently stroking my head.

  “But you’ll stay too, won’t you?” I plead, breaking our embrace. “Together. We’re doing this together—​right, Mother?”

  She does not have to speak, for I see the answer in her eyes, but she does anyway. “My work is done now, child. As Balthazar said, it is time for a new generation to stop the evil that is stirring in the shadows.”

  My breath catches, and tears fill my eyes. “No, Mother,” I protest. “I cannot do it without you.”

  She lifts my chin. “Within you lies strength yet to be discovered, Jess. Like your father … and your mother. Never forget that.”

  I bid her farewell an hour later.

  I will be on my own. I said I would stay and fight.

  What overcame me?

  Now I sense the weight of those words, a promise I cannot break.

  I wait with Mother on the railway platform. Balthazar has already said his farewell and now stands a few steps away to give us one more moment alone. There is a nip in the air, and the coolness I feel on my skin is a balm to the heat that spreads in my chest. Red and orange leaves swirl on the ground and up into the air. Mother takes my hands in hers. “Be safe, my child.”

  I sniffle, but hold back my tears.

  “Remember,” she says—​and I glimpse that fierceness I saw when she cracked the lash—​“you are your father’s daughter, Jess.”

  Jess.

  I hear the whistle of the train and the screech of the wheels. My eyes are misting over, but I try to be strong for her—​and Papa.

  A moment later she is gone. Balthazar comes to stand beside me. “Cora and Alexander could not have asked for a braver daughter,” he says, looking down the tracks. A lingering wisp of smoke rises higher and higher until it disappears. “There is no greater cause th
an to destroy evil where it breeds.”

  I agree, but deep down inside, I wonder if I have made the right choice.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The League of Ravens

  A knock at the door awakens me. Sunlight streams in through the cracked window. For a moment I don’t know where I am, until I look around the small room and get my bearings. I’m in London, here to fight necromancers.

  And then I remember.

  Mother.

  I have never spent a day without seeing her. It is a strange feeling, this distance between us. Whatever is to come, I hope it is resolved quickly and things will soon return to how they were.

  “Who is it?” I call, rising from bed.

  “Emily,” a voice rings out.

  I walk to the door in my nightdress and open it a crack. It is indeed Emily, with her white-blond hair and startling blue eyes. “Balthazar wants you,” she says.

  I find this rather impolite, but nod reflexively and close the door. My clothes are becoming quite spoiled, but I have no other option than to wear the ones I arrived in. Perhaps Mother will be able to send some of my favorite things from home.

  I walk down the stairs slowly, wondering what this is all about. My heart flutters as I step into the sitting room.

  “So you have arisen,” Balthazar greets me, rising from the table. “I trust you slept well?”

  “I did,” I say, although I did not. The bed has left a creak in my back. “Thank you.”

  He gestures toward the table laden with food: toast and jam, bowls of porridge, a rasher of ham, a few withered-looking apples—​and tea, of course. We are in England, after all. There does not seem to be a proper dining room—​just the sitting room and the parlor—​so this area must suffice as one. My former governess would be horrified.

  I take a seat between Emily and Gabriel and reach for a slice of toast. Gabriel sits quietly and drinks his tea with careful sips, his little black book next to him. He does give me a slight smile, however, more so than upon our first meeting. Progress, I think. Emily says nothing but attacks the food as if she is famished.