The Mesmerist

by Ronald L. Smith

“This was your quest, child,” he tells me. “It had to be this way.”

  I am flabbergasted.

  “My quest? But what if we were harmed … or killed?”

  “You swore an oath to this order,” he replies without the slightest trace of sentiment.

  The words of the initiation come back to me:

  And do you swear to use your gift for the good of mankind and strike down evil at any cost, even at risk to your own life?

  For a moment, I cannot speak. I hear Emily’s breathing deepen and see that she has fallen asleep in her chair. Gabriel’s head dips to his chest several times, and he jerks awake, only to let it happen again.

  “We all have a great task in life, Jess,” Balthazar tells me. “Your parents had theirs in defeating Mephisto, and this was yours—​to rise as a member of the League of Ravens, continue their work, and avenge their deaths. You faced a threat brave men would flee from, and that is no small thing.”

  What Balthazar says is true, and even in this moment, with all that has come to pass, I can think of only one thing: a little girl in Deal, running about the house with a carpet beater as a sword—​The Adventures of Jess the Pirate Girl and her Deeds of Derring-Do!

  Now I have truly seen what adventure holds, and it is no playful lark.

  Sleep is a blanket that wraps me in peaceful slumber. There are no dreams of a dark tunnel filled with white mist. I see no man with red eyes or children sick with disease. There is only a deep, restful quiet that embraces my whole being.

  And somewhere within that quiet, I see the faces of Mother and Father, who smile upon me and kiss me good night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Wood Beyond the World

  Darby spills the pile of sticks onto the floor. “Come on, then,” she says. “Let’s play again.”

  Emily sighs. “There are other games, you know.”

  I feel for her, as it is the fourth time they’ve played, and she seems rather bored.

  “But I like this game,” Darby protests.

  Emily sighs again and picks up the sticks.

  It has been two days now since our battle in the Underground, and things seem to be returning to normal. That is, if normal is living in a house with a mesmerist, a lightbringer, a werewolf, and an angel. Oh, and a faerie.

  We are gathered in the parlor, and while Emily and Darby play jackstraws, I finally gain the courage to ask Gabriel a question that has been plaguing me. I take a breath. “Have you … died before?” I ask him. There. I’ve said it. “Do you have to die to become an angel?”

  I feel like an absolute beast for prying, but how can I resist? There is an angel in the parlor.

  He works on his harp thoughtfully, tightening the little pins that hold the strings in place. “There are things I cannot speak of,” he says. “From the world beyond. But I can tell you that death is not the end, Jess. Your mother and father are at rest, and their souls have passed on to a place with no pain or suffering.”

  These words almost make me weep, but I take another breath and my heart is suddenly filled with a sense of peacefulness. “What will you do now?” I ask him.

  He looks at me, and I see that same fierce gaze he wore in battle. “Evil still exists in this world, does it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “That means our work is not yet done. We swore an oath. Remember?”

  “Yes,” I tell him. “I do remember.”

  We are interrupted by Balthazar, who strides into the room. He looks to Emily and Darby, and then to me and Gabriel. He holds a small black box in his hands. “Ahem,” he murmurs. “Please. Gather round, if you will.”

  I rise with a slight pain in my side. The wound from the ghoul is healed, but every now and then I feel a cold, lingering ache. Maybe it will be with me forever, a reminder of the day I avenged my parents.

  “Long ago,” Balthazar starts, “when the League of Ravens was formed, we worked in the shadows, for that has always been our way. But now a new day has dawned. There is no need to hide, and we should be proud of the work we do, for we hold the line against the dark forces that exist in this world.”

  He reaches into the box. Cradled within black velvet are several rings. He pulls one out. “Jessamine Grace, wear this ring to show your belief in the power of good over evil, and as a testament to those who have died for our cause.”

  I take the ring from his hand. It is beautiful, and I know the emblem on the white cameo well—​a raven’s head surrounded by a wreath of golden leaves. I place it on my finger. “Thank you,” I tell him. “It’s quite lovely.”

  He gives Emily and Gabriel their rings. Gabriel takes his without a word, but Emily raises her hand in the air and turns it to and fro, admiringly. “Pretty as a penny, innit?”

  I turn to Darby. She should have something too, I realize. After all, without her help, we may not have survived. Fortunately, Balthazar seems to think the same.

  “As for you, Darby,” he begins, “you have shown great courage in defeating a foe that many would flee from. Do you wish to relinquish your role as servant and serve a greater cause?”

  Darby looks to me and then back to Balthazar. She opens her mouth but closes it again. Emily nudges her with an elbow. “C’mon, wolf girl,” she says. “Time to hang up that apron, yeah?”

  Darby smiles, revealing her crooked teeth. “Yes, sire,” she says. “I’d like that very much.”

  Balthazar leans forward and looks her in the eye. “It’s Balthazar,” he says with a smile.

  He straightens up and tugs at his waistcoat. “Well then,” he continues. “Jessamine. I believe you know what comes next.”

  And I do.

  I retrieve the spear from the corner of the room. And as we draw the curtains and initiate Darby into our order, I realize that there is no place I’d rather be.

  I find Balthazar in the parlor the next morning, eating a pomegranate. I watch closely to see if he truly does eat, but he interrupts my spying by sliding a newspaper across the table. My eyes scan the page and land on a curious article:

  THE DAILY TELEGRAPH & COURIER

  *

  Man Dies in Underground

  An unidentified man has died in a disturbance in the newly constructed Underground. Scotland Yard reports that the man’s death came during a trial run of trains operating on the South Eastern Railway’s Paddington to Farrington route.

  Several piles of smoldering ash, which emit a foul odor, have also been found at the scene. The tunnel roof was destroyed, and inspectors are not certain of the cause. Anyone with information as to the dead man’s identity, or the mysterious ash, is urged to come forward to their local constable.

  I raise my eyes to Balthazar. “They’ll never really know, will they? That a creature of the underworld was in their midst, sending the city into madness and death.”

  “No, they will not, Jessamine, and I am certain they are better off not knowing.”

  I imagine what the scene must have looked like in the aftermath—​debris and smoke, and the ash, which was certainly the remains of the undead ghouls.

  Balthazar scoots his chair back from the table. “Come,” he says. “Fetch a cloak. There is something I would like to show you.”

  I wonder what it could be. At this point, nothing would surprise me.

  We take a hansom cab, and I am lulled by the rhythm of the ride—​the creaking wheels and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves. The cold air on my face is pleasant and relaxing.

  We exit the carriage on the edge of a wood. It strikes me as odd, for the forest looms at what seems to be the dead end of a street and looks quite out of place, almost as if it is a painting, or what the French call trompe l’oeil, a trick of the eye, an expression I recall from my governess.

  Two trees stand opposite each other, and the boughs that rise overhead form an arch, providing a sort of entrance. I pause. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Not much farther,” he says as we step into the wood.

  The
forest floor is damp, and the musky scent of mushrooms and loamy soil rises in my nostrils. Cool winter sunlight filters through the bare tree branches. It is quiet here; not even the sound of birds can be heard. We are silent for several minutes, with only the sound of our footsteps. “Do you remember the verse?” Balthazar asks.

  “Verse?” I venture, confused.

  “The one I recited upon first meeting you. ‘Long ago, in the early days of the world …’”

  I nod my head and open my mouth before realizing I am doing so. “‘When man still walked among the ancient groves.’”

  Unusual that I would remember that. Then again, I have always been good at rhymes and such, and recall to this day the silly stories Mother recited when I was a child.

  “‘And every doorstep led to a lush green meadow,’” Balthazar continues.

  And I join him: “‘Men and women often visited the Twilight Folk, and with leaves in their hair, danced in dizzying circles.’”

  “‘To the trill of the flute and the beat of the drum,’” Balthazar adds. “‘To fall into a deep reverie under a thousand twinkling stars.’”

  My head is light on my shoulders. The forest suddenly seems more alive. I almost feel as if the ground beneath my feet is moving. I open my mouth again, and the words fall out before I can even think. “‘Only to awake to find themselves entwined in an embrace, Fae and mortal bound together.’”

  Balthazar stops walking. He turns to me, and I swear that his eyes are now golden, flecked with green. The hair on the nape of my neck stirs.

  “Why do I remember that?” I ask. “How?”

  He takes my gloved hands in his bare ones. “Because you, my child … you are of the faerie folk.”

  I don’t speak. The slight wind stirs the dead leaves around my feet. I need to steady myself. I turn away from him and reach out to a tree for support.

  “I first suspected it when you were scratched by Darby,” he says. “You healed quickly, Jess. Too quickly for someone wholly human. I took the blood from your handkerchief to what my kind call the Shining Court. There it was studied. They needed proof, you see, that you were indeed half fae.”

  He stops and grins. “The rules and formalities in Faerie make Britain seem a country backwater.”

  My hand is still resting on the tree. The rough bark seems to be wriggling beneath my fingers. Me? Half fae?

  “That was why I was away after Darby’s attack,” he continues, “and why I could not join you at your very hour of need. When you set out for Mephisto, the Shining Court called a conclave at the exact same time. I had no choice but to be there. And it was all about you, my child.”

  I stare out into the distance, still not looking at Balthazar. A deer pauses and studies us, then leaps away silently. Finally I turn to him. “And what of it?” I ask. “This conclave.”

  The light around Balthazar seems to shimmer. “There is no doubt, child. You possess the blood.”

  “But how?” I ask. “Mother—”

  “Cora was indeed human. But your father…”

  My heart skips. “What?” I ask. “What of Father?”

  Balthazar lets out a weary breath. “Your mother would want you to know, Jess, but she was never really sure.”

  “Sure of what?” I ask, eager now. More secrets. They never end. “What would she want me to know?”

  “Your father, Alexander Grace, was of the royal blood, what we call the Tuatha Dé Danann.”

  The words are lyrical, and they flow from Balthazar’s lips like rippling water.

  “His lineage goes back for generations, and now you, too, can claim this bloodline.”

  Images of Father float in my mind—​his tall, slender build, the gray eyes so light they looked almost silver, his love of nature, and our walks in the botanical gardens.

  “We were young then,” Balthazar says, and his expression softens, “your mother, father, and I. Such days… .”

  He trails off, and there is a note of melancholy in his voice.

  “They fell in love, Alexander and your mother. But my people—​your father’s people—​did not approve.”

  “But wait—” I start. “The verse. It says that men and women often visited the Twilight Folk—”

  Balthazar smiles ruefully. “There have been times when my kind enchanted the mortal folk, more of a foolish whim than anything else. But your parents’ love was greater than that, and it was kept secret, amidst the whispering trees at night. Your father was of the royal blood, Jess. The Shining Court would not abide for someone of his rank to wed a human.”

  A bird alights on a branch above my head and chirrups loudly.

  “Not every child born of fae and human blood is graced with the faerie bloodline, Jessamine. You, like me, are blessed to be of both worlds. Do you remember the painting? The one at SummerHall?”

  A memory comes to me. A large painting above the hearth at Balthazar’s estate: a woman with lustrous black hair running through a forest. Her name was Lady Estella, he had said. A faerie maiden who was in love with a mortal man.

  “Your … mother?” I ask tentatively.

  “Yes,” he replies.

  “So we’re alike?” I venture. “You and me?”

  “We are, my child. Your mother suspected, but never really knew. Now we are certain.”

  We begin to walk once more. My legs are unsteady. Balthazar offers his arm, and I loop mine through his. There is something else that comes to me, something he never explained. “The lash—” I begin. “I lost my weapons in the tunnel and at the last minute summoned a lash from my own thoughts.”

  We stop, and he turns to me.

  “Just one more example of who you are,” he says. “You are truly gifted with the power of my people.”

  I let out a tremulous breath. This little walk of ours has revelations at every step.

  We reach a small circle of trees, and Balthazar pauses. “Why are we stopping here?” I ask.

  “You are standing on a faerie ring,” he says.

  I look down to see a small mound of green, about a foot high, ringed by yellow wildflowers and pale, spotted mushrooms. “Oh,” I say.

  “Close your eyes,” Balthazar says, stepping onto the mound with me.

  “Why?” I ask him.

  “I want to show you something—​something you wanted to see again.”

  I know what it is, as surely as I know my own name. “The silver ship?” I ask.

  But he doesn’t answer, and only closes his own eyes.

  The trees seem to blur around us. I feel the earth beneath my feet moving. Far away, as if it is coming from these very woods, I hear a refrain, and it is one that I have heard before:

  The smile upon her bonnie cheek was sweeter than the bee …

  I close my eyes.

  And then there is only the sound of rushing air and the peculiar sensation of falling.

  Acknowledgments

  I did a lot of research for this book, and various materials helped me bring Jess and her Victorian England to life. An old copy of Bradshaw’s Handbook for Tourists in Great Britain & Ireland was very helpful with train schedules and distances. Dirty Old London: The Victorian Fight Against Filth by Lee Jackson also provided much inspiration. During my research, I came across a PDF of a rare, long-out-of-print book called Street Life in London, written by Adolphe Smith and with photographs by John Thomson. The book is a delight, and the black-and-white photographs helped fire my imagination.

  Thanks to everyone at Clarion Books/Houghton Mifflin Harcourt for their enthusiasm and support of this book. My editor, Lynne Polvino, who asked all the right questions, along with Lisa Vega, Dinah Stevenson, Karen Walsh, Lisa DiSarro, Tara Shanahan, Amanda Acevedo, and everyone behind the scenes who had a hand in getting The Mesmerist out into the world.

  Of course, I wouldn’t be here without the support of my Super Agent, Adriann Ranta. Thanks for your patience and guidance.

  I’d also like to thank Lisa K. Weber for the great c
over.

  The Children’s Bookstore in Baltimore, Maryland, has been a great supporter. Thank you, JoAnn Fruchtman, Rachel Machesky, and the entire staff.

  All writers need cheerleaders, and the folks at Politics and Prose Bookstore have been incredible. Thank you.

  Michele Thornton, for your feedback, your support, and being a good friend.

  Thanks to the Smith and Sofio clans as well as the Robinson women for their endless championing of my work.

  Julia, you’re last, but always first. You deserve endless chocolate. And a buttery croissant.

  The Stranger

  When I got born, Mama Frances took one look at me and said, “That child is marked. He got hoodoo in him.”

  And that’s how I got my name.

  Hoodoo.

  Hoodoo Hatcher.

  She was talking about the red smudge under my left eye, shaped just like a heart. Not like a real heart I saw in a book one time, with blood pumping through it and all kinds of other stuff, but a heart somebody would carve in a tree with two names inside it.

  Everybody said my birthmark was some kind of sign, but what it meant, nobody knew. I’ll tell you one thing, though. People knew I was different as soon as they looked at me.

  Mama Frances was my grandmama and she was the one who raised me. My real mama died when I was born. My daddy died when I was five years old. I didn’t know what happened to him, but Mama Frances said he ran off and came to a bad end. Supposedly he went and put a curse on a man in Tuscaloosa County, but I didn’t believe that. I didn’t think I’d ever know the real truth.

  The sun was just starting to set and I needed to get back home. I’d been collecting stuff in the woods all day and my stomach was rumbling. I headed down the path, kicking up dirt clods along the way. Some bottle flies buzzed around my head, and I had to run a little bit to get them off. I called them greenies because I saw a dead one on the porch one time and its body was all green and shiny, like a piece of colored glass.

  Something good-smelling came drifting through the woods. Mama Frances must’ve been cooking up some Hoppin’ John. Hoppin’ John is black-eyed peas and rice, if you didn’t know. She made it all the time and I loved it.