The Mesmerist

by Ronald L. Smith

  Sleep was troublesome, and although I was exhausted after our ordeal, I tossed and turned before finally falling into a tense slumber. It is not only my body that is drained but my mind and spirit as well. I stare at my hands.

  I have killed a ghoul.

  A ghoul.

  Balthazar strides into the room, bringing me back to the moment. He is wearing cream-colored jodhpurs, a houndstooth jacket, and a white ascot. Black boots rise to his knees. I almost laugh aloud, as if some sort of hysteria has overtaken me. Amidst the madness we have just experienced, I imagine he must be a faerie who likes riding. He takes a seat next to Emily and looks into her sleeping face.

  I swallow hard and ask the question that is plaguing me. “‘Darkling.’ What does that mean? Why did they call me that?”

  Balthazar shakes his head slowly, as if he is also perplexed. “I truly do not know, my child. I have never heard such a name before. But it seems as if you are the prey they seek.”

  Come to us, Jessamine. Come, darkling.

  “These creatures have some intelligence guiding them,” he continues. “Their reference to a master is troubling, and never before have I heard a ghoul use human speech.”

  “What were they like before?” I ask.

  “Thralls,” Balthazar says. “Undead servants with no intelligence, controlled only by the necromancers who raised them.”

  I try to imagine what kind of person could revel in such unholy evil, but I am confounded. I have so many thoughts, I don’t know where to begin. “How did you—​what was it? Our escape. The lightning and the breaking stone?”

  He sweeps a curl of white hair from Emily’s eyes. “My kind are blessed with gifts of spirit and air, which gives us power over the elements, but only for a short while, and only at great cost.”

  For the first time, I notice how drawn his face is. The spark in his silver eyes is somewhat dimmed.

  “There were too many for us to face,” he says, almost apologetically. “I had no choice but to destroy the cave. And now we do not know what else lurks within, nor do we have any further information on this ‘rosy’ business.”

  Emily stirs and yawns. “Hullo,” she says sleepily. She looks exhausted. Dark half-moons shade her eyes.

  I stare for a moment before I greet her. “How are you feeling?”

  She looks at me blankly, as if I am speaking another language.

  Darby enters with tea and scones. She is back to her subservient self, not the smiling girl who was thrilled to receive a new dress. How much does she know of all this? She sets the tea service on the table, and her eyes flit to Emily.

  “Hullo, wolf girl,” Emily greets her.

  I almost gasp aloud.

  Darby studies the floor.

  “Emily,” Balthazar says calmly, like a headmaster about to reproach an unruly student, “that is not Darby’s name.”

  Gabriel closes his eyes and sighs.

  “It’s all right,” Darby says, looking back up, but at no one in particular. “I don’t mind.”

  “Can I have some water, please?” Emily asks sweetly.

  Darby smiles and leaves the room quietly.

  When she is out of hearing distance, I turn to Balthazar. “How much does she know?” I whisper. “About us? About the League of Ravens?”

  “Well, she certainly knows that her master is not an ordinary chap,” he answers, “and that the children who reside in this house are quite unusual.”

  “She could join us,” I suggest, looking to Gabriel and Emily for support. “We would accept her, and she would be an equal. I think she could use a friend.”

  “I think so too,” Emily says. “She’s all right, you know? We could’ve used a wolf against those monsters.”

  “Darby cannot change at will,” Balthazar says wearily, as if he has stated it before. “Only on the full moon can she make the transformation.”

  Darby comes back into the room bearing a tray with a ewer of water and glasses. She fills one and hands it to Emily, who gulps it down without pausing.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I need water after I light up. If I don’t drink, it feels like I’m gonna burn to a crisp.”

  And then she belches.

  The color blooms in her cheeks. Darby almost laughs aloud, but quickly turns to leave.

  “The rhyme,” Gabriel says, looking up from his book. “The one the ghoul spoke. It is the same one we heard from the boy in the alley.”

  “‘Ring around the rosy, a pocketful of posies,’” I whisper.

  “How would that thing know that?” Emily asks.

  Balthazar turns to her. “That is what we must find out.”

  The remainder of the day is spent quietly, each of us with our own thoughts. We are waiting for our next move, whatever it may be. I am beyond exhausted. Mother’s death, the ghoul in the cave—​it is all too much to bear.

  But still, after everyone retires I spend a few minutes looking at some of the assorted books piled in the sitting room. Darkling, it called me. What does it mean?

  Most of the tomes I find are of a fantastical nature: The Black Book of Signs, The Carved Deck, The Land and Its Terrors, A History of the Seelie and Unseelie Court, but nothing that mentions “darkling.”

  I hear footsteps, and Emily creeps into the room. I thought she would be sleeping. “Oi,” she calls. “What are you doing slinking about?”

  “I’m not slinking,” I answer. “I’m trying to find out more about this darkling business.”

  She looks around as if she might find something of interest, but then sits at the table, props her elbows up, and rests her chin in her hands. I join her. I wonder what other evils she has seen, and if fighting ghouls is as disturbing to her as it is to me.

  “Was this your first time?” I ask. “Seeing … something out of a nightmare?”

  “No. I seen something before. It were awful.” She looks down at the table and then back up. “It were at Nowhere, right? Olly and Rags said there were a monster in the forest, but we couldn’t go out at night, see? But one night me and Gabbyshins snuck out.” A mischievous grin forms on her face.

  “What did you see?” I ask her. “Did you find anything?”

  “Yeah. We found it. We looked all around in the woods, and didn’t see nothing. I used my light to show the way. And right when we was headed back, I seen it.”

  “What? What did you see?”

  “A hellhound.”

  “What is a hellhound?”

  “A hound from Hell, innit?”

  “I suppose so,” I say.

  “Well, first it were a man, and then it turned into a dog,” Emily clarifies, as if that really helps. “It came after us, me and Gabbyshins. I had to … I had to kill it.”

  Her face looks pained, and I stop the conversation there.

  I’ve already had enough of monsters, and we’ve only just begun.

  When I dream, it is of a long, endless tunnel. A billowing white mist writhes around my body. There is a sound like the screeching of birds, which rings in my ears so shrilly, I cover them with my hands. Somewhere within the darkness, two red flames burn and flicker.

  Come to us, Jessamine. I hear the voices call. Come, darkling.

  Shattering glass jolts me from sleep.

  I bolt upright. Sweat dampens my brow. I lie still for another minute, my heart racing. Muffled voices drift through the door. I get up from bed and quickly throw on my nightdress. I take the lash from my satchel.

  It could be a ghoul. One who has discovered our location. My master has something for you. All of you.

  The hallway is dark, and I walk blindly, but the house is so small, I know where each footfall lands. The smell of wood smoke rises in my nostrils, and I wonder who is up this late.

  There. Another sound. Whimpering? It is coming from Darby’s room. A light glows along the bottom of her door. Without even pausing to think it through, I push it open, my lash gripped tightly in my fist.

  Darby thrashes on the bed, vi
olently shaking her head back and forth. The remains of a porcelain ewer lie cracked on the floor. Even in the dim firelight, I can see the wild look in her eyes.

  “Jess!” Balthazar shouts. “Leave! Leave now!”

  But I do not.

  I rush to Darby’s bedside. “What happened?”

  “Her potion!” he exclaims. “I thought there was more. But it is not enough! I was foolish! Too much on my mind as of late.” He swallows, and it is the first time I have seen him truly unnerved. “Take her hand,” he urges me. “Try to calm her.”

  I place my lash on the floor and carefully take Darby’s hand. A shiver runs through me. Her nails are as sharp as daggers, and fine brown hair stands out on her forearms. Balthazar is trying to pour the last remaining drops from a brown bottle down her throat. “Drink, dear one,” he says, tilting her head back. “Drink and put this menace at bay.”

  But Darby will have none of that.

  She shrieks and howls. She curses. Spittle flies from her mouth. Her eyes meet mine—​the pupils are vertical yellow slits, like an animal’s, and when I try to find the Darby I know, there is nothing there but pure animal rage. Her teeth look as sharp as Father’s razor.

  Darby wrenches her hand away from mine and quickly, before I have a chance to draw back, slashes out at my face.

  “No!” Balthazar cries.

  But it is too late.

  I cry out as the pain hits me, sharp and hot. I raise my hand to my cheek.

  When I pull it away, it is covered with blood.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A Silver Ship

  My cry seems to snap Darby back to her true self. She stops thrashing and breathes low and guttural. I am reminded of a trembling rabbit I once saw in the forest, taking shelter from some unknown predator. Her eyes land on Balthazar.

  “There,” he whispers, stroking Darby’s brow. “There, child.”

  She drinks the last remaining drop of potion.

  Balthazar reaches into his jacket and pulls out a cloth. He holds it to my cheek. “Press it firmly, Jess.”

  I take it and do as he asks. The pain is searing, as if I have been struck by a hot poker from the fireplace. Only then does it truly dawn on me: I was slashed. By a werewolf.

  Darby looks to me for the briefest moment, as if on the verge of knowing what she has done, and then closes her eyes. In less than a minute, she is breathing deeply. I look on in astonishment as the wolf inside her melts away to reveal the girl I know. The teeth recede, and her nails shrink back in on themselves. The short, stiff bristles around her face disappear, leaving only a frightened child.

  A young girl, lashed to a cross, with flames roaring around her.

  Balthazar turns to me. I am shaking, but try to remain calm. “Am I … will I be all right?”

  He doesn’t speak, only tilts his head and gently takes the cloth from my hand, then sets it in a valise by Darby’s bed. Several amber bottles are in there, along with a few cork stoppers. He peers at my face. “A werewolf scratch is not always enough to infect,” he says. “Often, a deep wound is the only means of transmission. Or drinking water from the footprint of a wolf in the wild.”

  He’s speaking, but I don’t even hear him. I’ve been scratched. I’ve been scratched.

  The floor beneath me spins. My head is heavy. I am swooning. I try to rise, but only fall into darkness.

  I look at my face in the cloudy mirror glass in the morning. The wound is still fresh, an angry red scratch, but much smaller than what I would have imagined. Balthazar put me to bed after I collapsed. I do not recall this, but it is what he has told me. He gave me a salve to rub on the wound, and I am relieved by its coolness.

  I am so tired, I feel as if I could sleep for an eternity.

  There is a knock at the door, and Emily and Gabriel both enter.

  “Hullo,” Emily says. Gabriel only nods and takes a seat on the one small chair in the room. Emily hops onto the bed next to me.

  “Old Balthy told us what happened,” she says, looking into my face and angling her head to get a better look at the wound. “Being a wolf’s not so bad,” she suggests. “You can hunt, and sleep for a long time. You can howl.” Her eyes widen. “You can be a mind-reading wolf!”

  Gabriel almost laughs.

  I take Emily’s hand in mine. “I am not sure what will happen,” I tell her. “Balthazar says it usually takes more than a scratch to become infected.”

  Darby enters the room with clean linens in her hands. She freezes in the doorway. “I’m sorry, miss,” she starts. “I’ll come ba—”

  “No,” I tell her. “It’s all right. Come in, Darby.”

  Darby glances at Gabriel and Emily and takes a few steps into the room. “I’m so sorry, miss,” she says contritely. “Sir told me what happened. I really didn’t mean to. It just comes over me, and I can’t help meself!”

  She sniffles, and tears begin to roll down her cheeks. “Now I’m going to spoil the linen”—​she blurts out—​“with these tears!”

  “It’s all right, Darby,” I tell her. “I know you meant me no harm.”

  Emily rises off the bed and approaches Darby. She takes the linens, lays them at the foot of the bed, then wraps her small arms around Darby’s waist. I can see Emily’s heat pulsing within her, spreading warmth. Darby’s mouth opens in surprise. Her arms stand out at her sides, as if she is unsure what to do with them. Finally she relaxes and returns the hug.

  “It’ll be aright, wolf girl,” Emily says, breaking their embrace. “Jess won’t come into your room at night and whip you with her lash. She’s nice.”

  Gabriel shakes his head but cannot hide the small grin that forms on his face.

  Darby’s face is flushed with heat. She looks to me. “Does it hurt, miss?”

  “No,” I say. “A fearsome itch, though.”

  I want to put her at ease, this poor girl with this terrible affliction. I remember the mad look in her eyes when she was her wolf self: the snapping teeth, the nails as sharp as razors.

  Darby smiles awkwardly and bends to pick up the linens. “Better be off, then,” she says. “Oh.” She puts the linens back on the bed. “These are yours, miss. That’s why I came in.”

  “Call me Jess, Darby,” I tell her.

  Darby takes a breath and smoothes her dress with her hands. She looks at Gabriel and Emily and then back to me. “Okay, miss,” she says, and turns to leave.

  I can only shake my head.

  Once the door is closed, Emily hops back onto the bed. “So,” she says. “Let me see your fangs.”

  I spend most of the day resting, being attended to by Balthazar and the others. Darby brings tea and biscuits, and I find that I am ravenous. Is this a symptom? Will I start craving human flesh?

  The frivolity of Emily and Gabriel’s earlier visit seems to have disappeared. It was a distraction from the reality of what has truly happened. I was scratched, and Balthazar says he is not sure of my fate. Is this the calm before the storm? Will I awake on the full moon with hair and nails and teeth … ?

  In the late afternoon, the door creaks open and Balthazar peeks his head around the corner. It’s odd to see him do this, for he is so often very serious.

  “Come in,” I call.

  He strides into the room like a giant cricket and looks as if he will be dining at a fine restaurant. He is wearing creamy yellow buckskin breeches and a claw-hammer coat that clings to his slender frame. He stands next to me and lays a cool hand on my forehead. “Do you feel feverish?”

  “No. Just exhausted, as if I will never regain my strength.”

  “You have been through much these past few days.”

  He sits in the small chair, which makes him look absolutely absurd. For a moment, there is nothing but silence, with just the two of us staring at each other. “I am sorry for what has happened, Jess,” he finally says. “It is no fault of Darby’s, but my own. When she transforms, she is in an entirely different state, torn between the human world and th
e one that calls to her at night.”

  “What was that potion?” I ask. “The one you made her drink.”

  “Wolfsbane,” he replies, “also known as Aconitum lycoctonum. But it contains herbs and plants from my land as well, something that cannot be found here. I had several doses, but without realizing it, my supply had dwindled. I think your arrival and news of your mother’s passing befuddled my mind.”

  He runs his fingers through his hair.

  “Where is your land?” I ask tentatively, sitting up. “When we were returning from Mother’s funeral, you said you would tell me more.”

  Balthazar gazes at me, and his sea-gray eyes flicker. “Some call it the Pleasant Plain,” he murmurs. “Others, The Land. But names cannot truly describe its beauty.”

  “Tell me,” I implore. “What does it look like?”

  He remains still for a long minute, then—​“Look for yourself, child.”

  At first I don’t understand, but then it dawns on me: he wants me to look into his mind.

  He closes his eyes. I watch his chest rise and fall, as if he is suddenly fast asleep. I stare at his face—​the thin, prominent nose; the high, angled cheekbones. Silken black hair falls like rippling water about his shoulders. I close my eyes and feel the bed beneath me disappear, as if I am floating. The familiar tingle tickles my forehead. I open my eyes. A coil of white, starry mist trails from Balthazar’s head to mine. I close my eyes again, and then the images come.

  I find myself standing on the endless shore of a vast ocean, with white waves breaking against a cliff face of jagged black rock.

  Far in the distance, a mountain looms tall and majestic, its peak wreathed in scarlet clouds. The white sand under my feet is fine, yet I can see each and every grain, sparkling like diamonds. Far away, I hear tinkling bells and am compelled to follow.

  I reach down and pick up a handful of sand, then let it fall through my fingers.