The Mesmerist

by Ronald L. Smith

  “And who’s behind this ’ere sickness?” he shouts.

  “The Jews!” a voice cries out.

  “Gypsies!” yells another.

  Spittle flies from the man’s mouth. He is enraged. “I say we don’t need their kind round here!” he hisses, and the crowd roars back in agreement.

  “Foreigners out of our England!” calls a woman’s sharp voice.

  It’s the meeting. The Great Public Meeting called for on the handbill, I realize.

  Another flaming bottle crashes through a window.

  The fire in the shop is spreading quickly, licking along a length of drapes and rising to the ceiling. “The whole place will be up in flames any minute!” Gabriel shouts.

  “C’mon,” I urge them, grabbing Emily’s arm. “We have to get away from here!”

  Now, up and down the street, men and women and even some children smash windows and light fires. Clouds of black smoke plume in the air.

  The crowd is growing, and quickly. They overturn carts and wheelbarrows. They scream and shout, grabbing anyone they believe to be a foreigner. I gasp as a man in simple dark clothes is knocked down in the street. His tall hat falls off his head and into the mud. Long curls hang on either side of his face. A large book drops from his hands. “Please!” he cries. “No!”

  A man with a club looms over him. I know what he is about to do, but I cannot stop him. He’s too big! Then I remember Deepa, my friend back home. I didn’t help her, but I won’t stand by idly now. He raises his club. “It’s wrong!” I shout. “Stop!”

  The man turns. I reach for my lash. He is the size of a giant from a storybook. A bloody apron is tied around his waist. He leers at us, revealing broken teeth. “Little buggers!” he hisses.

  “Run!” Gabriel cries.

  We dash away—​to where, I do not know, but away from the madness and rioting—​crashing through vendors’ carts and crowds of shrieking people. An old woman with a terrible gash across her forehead is moaning in the street, her parcels scattered around her. I can’t stop to help her. I can’t. We have to keep running. A little farther on, a Gypsy caravan is aflame, the smoke so thick, it almost chokes my throat.

  Finally, when I feel as if my legs are about to give out, we stop and rest. We are still on the High Street, but away from the terrible commotion. Gaslights sputter and hiss, providing a soft yellow glow. I hear the shriek of a horse as it gallops by, broken free from its carriage.

  We huddle together, winded, hands on knees, catching our breath. I straighten up and peer around. I see no sign of the man in the bloody apron. We are standing in the street amidst a work site. A crane sits motionless, like a giant insect. Mounds of earth have been dug up, and steel beams lie in the trenches, forming tracks.

  I realize we are in the same place that we passed when Balthazar led Mother and me to 17 Wadsworth Place. They call it the Underground, he had said. Steam-powered locomotives that will ferry passengers all about London. An arched brick opening is farther ahead of us. Darkness beckons from within.

  “What is it?” Gabriel asks.

  I don’t answer immediately but look at the newly laid tracks that lead to the ominous entrance. I step closer, nimbly maneuvering around the piles of broken wood, debris, and dirt.

  “Wouldn’t step any farther, miss,” a voice calls out.

  I spin around, my hands reaching for my weapons. Emily and Gabriel tense, alert and ready to spring into action.

  It is a man, wearing grubby clothes. He stares at us.

  “Where does this tunnel lead?” I ask.

  He takes off his cap and wrings it in his hands, as if embarrassed. I imagine he believes he is talking to someone from the upper class and should not rise above his station. He looks at Gabriel and Emily and nods politely.

  “Well, miss,” he starts, “sir. This here tunnel runs from Paddington to Farringdon Street. Quite a marvel, if I may say so myself.” He tries to smile, but it comes across all wrong. “No place for a lass, though, begging your pardon.”

  “What are you doing here?” Gabriel asks. “What is your business?”

  The man rubs his hands together. “Well, little sir, I’m just the rag-and-bone man, ain’t I? Collecting stuff. Sometimes the workers—​the navvies, you know—​leave bits and bobs about. Stuff I can sell, see?”

  Only now do I see the bag at his feet. He bends down and loosens the drawstring and pulls out several coins. “Found these when they dug up the earth.” They clink in his hand.

  “Let’s go,” Emily says. “He’s harmless as an old goat.”

  There is a hissing sound, as if air is being released from a valve. It is coming from within the tunnel.

  “Miss?” the man says. “Anything else you be needing?”

  “No,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

  He gives a little bow, places his cap back on his head, and ambles away. I continue to stare ahead, into the darkness.

  “Jess?” Emily asks warily. “What you thinkin’?”

  I squeeze the faerie stone, which glows with white light. “In there,” I say, pointing. “We need to go into the Underground.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Blood Will Out

  The air in here is even colder than outside. Without the gaslights, we are in complete darkness.

  “What’s in here?” Gabriel asks, his voice echoing.

  “Darby,” I tell him. “And those who took her.”

  “How do you know?” Emily asks.

  “I keep seeing it,” I tell them. “In my visions. A tunnel. And there is a screeching sound that feels as if it will split my ears.”

  “The dreams of a mesmerist are not to be ignored,” Gabriel offers.

  “Good,” I say. “Follow me.”

  The farther in we walk, the colder it gets. I am reminded of our trip to Chislehurst Caves. Finally, when I can no longer see my hand in front of my face, light flares at the edge of my vision. I turn around.

  Emily is emitting a warm glow behind me, illuminating the tunnel. Though I have seen this before, it is still remarkable, this gift of hers. She gives me a small grin.

  I look up. The ceiling is crossed with struts and curves, like the ribs of a giant animal. There is no night sky, nor moon or stars, only black. A metal sign on the wall reads NO EXIT in big red letters.

  I lead the way, with Emily behind me and Gabriel in the rear. Emily’s light spreads out before us, revealing rows of white tiles that line the walls.

  I squeeze the faerie stone again, trying to get some sense of where Darby is, but this time, nothing is revealed within its depths. I turn around to see how far we have come, but the entrance has disappeared from sight.

  I continue on. We are walking over steel ties, which are spaced a few feet apart. Between them are gravel and stones.

  I think of how Mephisto is behind all of this—​the rioting and disturbance. It is dreadful. The East End will be torn apart. A sense of suspicion suddenly settles over me. It grows even colder, and the hair on the back of my neck bristles. “Do you feel that?” I ask, my voice bouncing off the walls.

  “Cold, innit?” Emily says.

  “I feel it too,” Gabriel confirms.

  “Something is at work here,” I say. “Some devilry.” I look ahead, keeping my senses alert.

  We walk a little farther, and then I see it.

  A few feet in front of us, a pale white face rises out of the shadows as if lit by an unseen moon. A tremor runs through my body. Emily and Gabriel gasp. I reach for the flap of my satchel and take out the lash.

  It is a ghoul. Shredded rags hang about its body, and the stench of the grave flows in front of it. The eyes glow with malice. It crosses the distance between us in less than a second. Gabriel cries out a stream of words, and the creature flies back as if struck by a great wind. Black smoke wreathes around its head. It quickly lifts itself up and lunges again. I strike out with the lash, tangling it by the feet. Gabriel’s voice is rising. It sounds like bells … bells from a
church tower. “No!” the ghoul screams. “Stop!”

  The bells are all around me now, a solemn tolling, one that vibrates in the back of my skull and down my spine.

  The fiend slashes out at me with a long arm. I am caught off guard, distracted by the ominous tolling and the creature’s long claw slashes my dress.

  I raise the lash above my head, and my wrist instinctively twirls, getting ready to strike.

  CRACK!

  The lash coils around the ghoul’s neck and squeezes tight. It falls to its knees, struggling, choking for breath. Emily rushes in and places both hands on either side of the undead creature’s face. I can see the light pulsing within her, glowing brighter than ever before. “Die!” she screams.

  “Emily!” Gabriel cries. “That’s enough!”

  But Emily doesn’t listen.

  “Die!” she screams again.

  “Emily!” I shout.

  Finally she pulls her hands away, breathing hard. The ghoul’s face is burned black. It moans and writhes on the ground. Gabriel takes out his little book and recites words in a language I have never heard before.

  “Stop!” the undead creature hisses. “It hurts! Please!”

  Gabriel is whispering now, almost as if he is praying. Quickly, I take out the compass and kneel to draw the Circle of Confinement at both points. My hands are bathed in golden light again. I set the compass down, remove the vial of holy water, and hold it over the circle.

  “No!” the ghoul screams. “My master wants you! I only come to do his bidding.”

  For a moment I hesitate. Balthazar said he had never heard of ghouls speaking. Maybe there is hope for this thing. Maybe it can be saved.

  “Jess,” Gabriel says.

  I turn away from the vile creature and look to him. He doesn’t have to say anything, for his thoughts are revealed in his eyes: there is no salvation for this unholy spirit. I know what I must do. What I have to do: strike down evil at any cost.

  A bead of holy water trembles on the lip of the vial. Time seems to slow down for a second, until I tip the vial into the circle.

  The ghoul howls and begins to dissolve before my eyes. It is shrinking in on itself, pooling and bubbling in clouds of black smoke. I stand up and back away. The doomed creature screams once more, and then there is silence.

  “Come,” I say, undaunted. “Darby must be near.”

  We head deeper into the tunnel. I look around warily, prepared to face another threat. Emily’s light is weaker now, her face somewhat ashen.

  “Are you going to be all right?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says. “Just need to get me strength back.” She swallows. She needs water, I remember. I need water after I light up. If I don’t drink, it feels like I’m gonna burn to a crisp.

  We have no water, and I curse myself for not thinking of it. I am fatigued as well, and my breath feels short. My limbs are sore and burning. A sharp pain in my side makes me wince. I place my hand near my stomach, and it comes away wet. The ghoul’s claw.

  Emily sees the blood on my hands. “You’re hurt!” she cries.

  They both huddle around, and Emily stands in front of me and lifts the slashed cloth. “Doesn’t look too bad,” she says.

  It might not look bad, I think, but it certainly hurts.

  “Eat one of the leaves,” Gabriel suggests.

  For a moment I don’t know what he means, until Mother’s words echo in my head. If you ever find yourself hurt, eat one of the leaves.

  I open the satchel. The acacia branch looks alive, as if it is still in bloom. I pluck off one of the leaves and hold it up to Emily’s dim light. I place it on my tongue. It dissolves almost instantly.

  “How is it, then?” Emily asks.

  I lick my lips and try to discern the flavor. “Well. It’s sweet. No—​it’s tart.”

  Actually, I’m not quite sure how to describe it, but after a moment, warmth spreads in my belly like a spot of sunshine and I immediately feel more at ease.

  “Let me try it,” Emily says.

  She draws a little closer, and I pluck off another leaf. Emily takes it with her small fingers and pops it into her mouth without hesitation. She nods her head, as if thinking, and then swallows. “Better than mush,” she says to Gabriel.

  “Gabriel?” I offer, holding out the branch. Maybe he could use some renewed strength too, after our fight.

  “No,” he says. “Thank you, Jess. I have all the power I need within me.”

  Strange, I think, and put the branch back into my satchel.

  We walk a little more slowly, and I gather my thoughts. It all happened so quickly. The ghoul, Gabriel, the singing and the bells. “I need to know,” I say to Gabriel, turning around. “I need to know what else you are gifted with. It’s more than just your harp and voice. Tell me, Gabriel. What are you?”

  I wait for what seems an eternity. “I promise to tell you,” he finally answers. “When all this is over.”

  “I will hold you to it.”

  “You will have your answers.”

  I clutch my lash more tightly and head farther in.

  We are now walking three abreast instead of single file, with Emily in the middle. I try to focus on Darby again, or Mephisto—​I don’t even know which, as my thoughts are jumbled. We walk for several minutes in silence, until Gabriel finally speaks. “They are damned, Jess. They cannot be saved.”

  “I know,” I tell him. “It’s just … it’s sad, isn’t it? These creatures—​brought back from the dead. Do they even know who they are? What they are?”

  “There is no place for the dead in the land of the living,” Gabriel says thickly.

  I step into something wet, as if I am suddenly walking through muck. At the edges of Emily’s light I can see a slick pool of liquid, spilling across the tracks. “There’s something here,” I say, kneeling down.

  I take a breath and dip my finger to the ground, but somehow, I already know what it is. “Blood,” I whisper.

  Searing heat blazes into my forehead.

  I am in a dimly lit hall, with an endless row of doors along each side. I sense pain coming from behind each one of them, and screams—​oh, so many screams. A ghostly red light pulses around one, and I walk toward it. I turn the handle and slowly step inside.

  Something soft and squishy presses against the bottom of my shoe. I look down. It is a dead rat.

  I look up. I am not in another room, but in a forest at night. Creaking branches stir in the slight wind. A crescent moon hangs in the sky, providing a soft, glowing light. I can actually feel the cold air on my skin.

  I reach out to touch the tree that is in front of me. The bark is rough and sticky, and sap runs in rivulets along its trunk.

  My ears perk up to murmuring voices. I step away and look into the forest.

  Under a canopy of tall trees, six hooded figures form a circle.

  The circle breaks, and I see what they are surrounding.

  It is a man.

  He is lying on a slab of stone, and he looks dead, for his bare chest does not rise and fall. His eyes are closed, and his skin is as white as ivory. His face is fair to look upon, with a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead and trailing down to a strong nose and chin.

  “Master,” one of the hooded figures speaks. “As your will commands, we gather to bring you back to this mortal world.”

  The figure begins an incantation of sorts, guttural and harsh. They are words I have never heard before, and they leave me with a dreadful sense of unease.

  He pauses, and the wind whistles through the branches. “Now we begin,” he says, and reaches into the folds of his black garments. He pulls out a blade and holds it up with two hands, as if presenting the Holy Grail itself. “The Eternity Blade,” he announces. The hilt is encrusted with rubies and gemstones winking in the moonlight. He draws back one of his sleeves and, to my horror, runs the blade along his wrist. He passes the dagger to the next man, who does the same. And then the next, and the nex
t …

  My blood runs cold at the sight.

  One of the men steps forward. He is holding a golden chalice, and with it, he collects drops of blood from each man. When they are finished, the first hooded figure takes the chalice and carries it to the motionless figure on the slab of stone. He holds it up to the closed lips. “Drink, Master,” he says. “Drink and be reborn.”

  “Drink and be reborn,” the others echo.

  Cradling the dead man’s head in one hand, the leader drips blood into his mouth. “Rise, Malachai,” he says. “Rise and be reborn.”

  I hear an inhalation of breath, and the dead man’s chest expands. He is breathing. The dead man is breathing. His acolytes gasp and fall to their knees as the man named Malachai rises from the slab.

  “Jess, wake up! Come back!”

  Emily’s voice snaps me awake. I am lying on the ground, with Emily and Gabriel kneeling close. My clothes are soiled with blood and dirt. Emily strokes my hair, which is damp with sweat. “Your eyes rolled back in your head, Jess. You had a fit.”

  I stand up, and they rise with me. My thoughts are racing. I touched the blood and then—​that name. Malachai.

  It is familiar, but from where? Then I remember Mother’s words: And before your father died, he killed one of the greatest necromancers of all.

  “Jess?” Emily says. “What is it? What did you see?”

  “My father’s killer,” I tell her. “He is alive.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A Warm Embrace

  “He was brought back from the dead,” I say. “Malachai Grimstead.”

  “You saw this?” Gabriel asks in astonishment.

  “Yes. I saw it all. A cruel blade, cloaked and hooded men. They called him Malachai.”

  “Black sorcery,” Gabriel hisses.

  My head feels light, as if I am about to swoon. “He had the same face I saw when we used the spirit board when Balthazar was away—​cold and white … with red eyes.”

  Rise, Malachai. Rise and be reborn.

  “Jess?” Emily says quietly. “You don’t think that was Malachai’s blood you touched, do you?”