The Infernal Aether

by Oxley, Peter

  My heart sank and the world seemed to become much heavier and slower, my heightened senses bestowing a terrible and wretched illumination all around us. “What have you done?” I said.

  He held up his hands, which were covered in blood—her blood. I perceived a form behind him and in that instant I knew exactly what had happened, that my one hope of happiness had been cruelly extinguished at the hands of that thuggish idiot.

  The red mist descended with a crashing force, taking over my limbs and throwing me forward with a roar. My grief lent a gruesome power to my actions and I did not even try to check myself, exulting instead in the opportunity to mete out my own justice on this scum.

  What followed was a blur of hatred and blood, punctuated by the sound of fist and foot on flesh. I dropped into a fugue state, focused only on that grim task, and it was several minutes before I realised that my victim was no longer moving. I stepped over the motionless lump and collapsed in front of Rachel’s body. The first thing I noted was the knife sticking out of her neck, followed by her dull eyes, staring up to the heavens.

  I had no idea of how long I wept over her body, but eventually I came to my senses and realised that it would not look good if the police found me with blood-stained hands standing over two corpses. I turned and ran.

  ***

  “I wish that I could tell you that I am sorry for what I did,” I said. “But the truth of the matter is that I would not change a thing if the situation presented itself once more. That is not to say that I am without remorse. I have paid for my actions that night in so many ways, over and over again.”

  “You left the country,” said the old woman.

  “Yes.” I had initially fled to Cambridge and my brother, ever the pragmatist, determined that my most sensible course of action was to disappear until the search for the murderers had died down. He handed me some of our parents’ inheritance—as the elder he was my guardian as far as the money was concerned—and arranged passage for me to France. Thankfully, no-one had seen me commit the deed, and precious few in the area knew me except for my face and Christian name, so I was reasonably comfortable that there was little risk of me being apprehended as long as I stayed away from the area where the crimes had been committed. Given that I had no prospect or interest in furthering my academic education, and nothing by way of a trade, a Grand Tour overseas to broaden my mind and keep me away from domestic troubles seemed like the obvious answer.

  “I am not going to insult you by saying that being exiled overseas was a terrible punishment; I missed home but nonetheless had some incredible experiences. No, my main penance has been every time I close my eyes; I still see their lifeless bodies in that alley and am tortured by the knowledge that I caused both their deaths—one through inaction, the other through mindless action. More recently I have been plagued by visions of a much more... tangible nature.” I shuddered and took a deep breath, my mind once again filled with visions of Rachel’s decaying form stalking toward me through the Aetheric mist. I was dimly aware of a ringing sound and then the front door opening and closing. “I was unruly and rebellious but have never truly been a bad person; I certainly never considered myself capable of murder. That is a burden I have to live with.”

  “Have you killed since?” she asked quietly.

  “That is not a question I wish to answer,” I said, eyes fixed on my empty glass.

  As if on cue, the door to my study opened and Mr. Andrews, the lawyer, burst in. “Ah, Mr. Potts, I did not realise you had company,” he lied, eyeing the old woman suspiciously. “We have not had the pleasure,” he said to her.

  “You’re right, we ain’t,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “May I have a quiet word?” he asked me, gesturing for us to go outside the room. I acceded, glaring at him as he shut the door.

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” I snapped. “Watkins would have told you I had company and was not to be disturbed. I really—”

  “Yes, I was advised of your visitor and the nature of your conversation,” he said. “And I must say I do not approve.”

  “You do not approve?” I shouted at him. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Watkins dart around a corner and out of sight; I resolved that he would pay later for his indiscretion. “Of all the insolent—”

  “Get ahold of yourself, man,” he said with a cold firmness, the words hitting me with the force of ice cold water. “Do not forget who created all of this for you—and do not be so naive as to say it is a result of your own hard work and talent. You are here by the grace of your employer, a grace which can be removed just as easily as it was bestowed.” Noting that I was by now suitably chastened by his words, he adopted a more genial tone. “A lot is riding on our venture, far too much to be put at risk by idle gossip or the needless re-emergence of skeletons from whatever closets you have amassed over the years. We do not expect you to be pure and evangelical, just to not actively court scandal. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, rendered speechless by his words and the threat of my valued patronage being withdrawn.

  “Now,” continued Mr. Andrews, ever the businessman. “Let me deal with this... lady.” He opened the door and stepped up to where the lady was still seated, glaring at her with a cold detachment.

  “Good woman,” he said. “My client is often prone to flights of fancy, a product of his profession as a writer. Anything you believe has been said should therefore be treated as such: mere works of fiction which he was rehearsing on you as a resident of the rookeries. I ask you now to leave. Good day to you.”

  She smiled, the slow resigned smile of the constantly oppressed. “I understand,” she said. “But I got what I wanted anyway, a bit of rest from the cold, and I thank you for that.” She struggled to her feet and made her way to the door, pausing as she drew level with me. “I have one other question,” she said. “Did you love her?”

  “I did,” I said softly. “I still do.”

  “She weren’t the first, you know,” she said. “Wouldn’t have been the last either, if you hadn’t done what you did. I loved ’im, he was my son, that’s what mothers ’ave to do, no matter what they turn into. I can’t forget what you did, nor can I forgive it, but I understand and that’s enough for me. You seem a good man, and you’re doing well now. I’ll leave you in peace.”

  She was almost out of the door when my conscience finally got the better of me. “Wait,” I said and darted into my study, returning with a purse full of coins. Ignoring Mr. Andrews’ objections, I pressed it into her hands. “Do some good with this in St. Giles,” I said. “It won’t make up for what I did, but if it gives your other children a start in life...”

  She beamed toothlessly at me. “Thank you so much, Mr. Potts. You’re a good man, you are.” With that, she was gone.

  Mr. Andrews glared at me. “That was foolish,” he said. “She now has evidence of your contrition. Probably will spend it all on gin anyway. I shall send someone after her to retrieve the money.”

  “You will do no such thing,” I said with a force which surprised even me. “That was my money, to do with as I please. You may view a conscience as a luxury but I, sir, do not. I shall hear no more of this matter. I believe you came to discuss tomorrow night’s celebration?”

  CHAPTER 25

  As the guest of honour the following night, I decided to arrive fashionably late so that I would be the rightful centre of attention as I stepped through the door. I allowed myself a smile as my carriage drew up at Mr. Bradbury’s lavish house. My life over the past year had surpassed even my own wildest expectations, such that I was not only a regular visitor to the highest echelons of Parliament but had also been granted two audiences with Queen Victoria. People were already talking of the speed and trajectory of my career as having the potential to relegate Mr. Dickens to a mere footnote, a point of view which I was only too happy to cultivate.

  I adjusted my waistcoat and jacket as I stepped down from my carriage and walked toward the front d
oor, only to hear my name called from behind me. I turned, expecting that the coachman had spotted something that I had left behind in the carriage but instead was faced with Maxwell and N’yotsu.

  “What a surprise,” I said. “I thought that these gatherings were not your cup of tea.”

  “They are not,” said Maxwell. “But I wanted to talk with you.”

  “I know,” I said. “I have received the messages. I am sorry—I shall ensure you get an appointment soon.”

  “Listen to you, appointment indeed!” snorted Maxwell. “I am your elder brother, and care about you a damned sight more than anyone in that house.”

  “At least they bother to turn up to my functions,” I said. “At least they show some form of interest in my work and success, however feigned that interest may be.”

  He let out a short laugh. “So that is what this has all been about? I have hurt your feelings by not presenting myself at your feet to extoll the virtues of your work?”

  “Well... as a matter of fact, yes you have. I have always pretended to be interested in your madcap inventions. But the moment I do something which eclipses what you do, you lose all interest in me.”

  “Is this going to take long?” asked N’yotsu.

  “Oh, shut up!” I said, before turning back to Maxwell. “Just for once it would have been nice for you to acknowledge that I have done well.”

  “Actually, that is one of the reasons that we wanted to speak with you,” Maxwell said. “We were interested in your somewhat meteoric rise, how you were suddenly spotted and then catapulted into your ideal opportunity in spite of having no track record. In the course of our investigations we stumbled upon something rather interesting, did we not?” He looked at N’yotsu, who nodded. Maxwell continued: “We observed some readings which would be consistent with some form of demonic interference in all that has happened to you.”

  I laughed. “I genuinely do not believe this! Your lack of faith in my abilities is so complete that you cannot believe that I could achieve anything through my own efforts. Instead you have to bring your damned occult and Aether into this as a way of explaining how poor old Augustus could ever amount to anything!” They both looked down, shamefaced. “You really cannot allow me any form of achievement, can you? Well, you will just have to accept this: I have made a success of myself, I did it through my own endeavours, and there is nothing you can do about it!”

  I turned to leave, only to be greeted with another familiar face.

  “Hello again Mr. Potts,” said the salesman from that drunken night in the tavern, long ago. “Remember me? We made a bargain a year ago, as a result of which you got everything you wanted. Now I have come to collect my price.”

  My stomach turned to ice as it all came flooding back to me: memories of a conversation when I was at my lowest ebb, an offer too tempting to resist. And a price which I never thought would be collected.

  “Oh, bugger,” I said.

  *

  I managed to recover my composure reasonably quickly and straightened up to face the salesman. “I am sorry,” I said. “But I do not know who you are.”

  The man chuckled. “You’d be surprised how many try that on. But it won’t work—you and I both know what was agreed.”

  “It is your word against mine,” I tried again. “No court of law would uphold... whatever it is you claim. I am a man of standing, whereas you...”

  “I don’t need to go to any of your courts to enforce this debt. I do not even need to have this conversation, apart from the fact that it always amuses me to see how people try to wriggle out of their obligations. And besides,” he pulled a manuscript out of his jacket. “I have this. A contract, signed by you.”

  “A forgery,” I said.

  “No, it’s not,” he said. “And it’s written in your blood.”

  “May I see?” asked N’yotsu, taking the document. The salesman leered at me while N’yotsu read it through. “Oh, you idiot,” he muttered.

  “Now, come on,” I protested.

  N’yotsu glared at me. “You signed a contract like this with a complete stranger. A stranger who offered you something impossible, something beyond your wildest dreams, and at a time when you knew that there was a particularly vengeful demon pursuing us.” He looked at the salesman. “And I think you can dispense with that costume, Andras.”

  The salesman grinned and executed a mock bow, straightening up to reveal the hideous, red eyed, insanely grinning form of the demon Marquis Andras.

  I had only ever previously seen the creature from a distance or in darkness, and that was terrifying enough, but close to hand the effect was even more stomach-turning. The insane grin which decorated its face was a parody of emotion and humour, stretching the skin which in turn had more of the appearance of wet, flexible porcelain than actual skin itself. Not for the first time I had the feeling that the creature was constructed by forces which had only a vague idea, from pictures or viewing at a distance, what a human being looked like.

  “Good show,” it said, applauding N’yotsu slowly and theatrically. “But now I tire of this. I have come to collect my price.”

  “What price?” asked Maxwell.

  Andras turned that grin on him. “Why, his soul of course.”

  Maxwell looked at me, shock and disbelief etched across his face. “And you agreed to this?”

  I nodded slowly. “I was depressed, and a bit drunk. This salesman sat down at my table uninvited and started spouting all manner of rubbish. I did not actually believe a word of what he was saying—indeed, I just wanted to be rid of him—but in any case what he promised did appeal to me. It would to anyone...”

  “But in return for your soul?”

  “I thought it was the stuff of fairy stories,” I said. “I did not really believe that such a thing was possible.”

  “Even in spite of everything you had seen: the demons, ghosts, golems?” N’yotsu folded his arms and glared at me, the stern teacher admonishing a naughty schoolboy.

  “Yes, I appreciate that I should have thought it through, been a little bit more suspicious.” I folded my arms, mirroring his stance. “But if you had not noticed, I have somewhat made a career out of poor judgment. You must appreciate that I had nothing to lose.”

  “And that is the beauty of the arrangement,” said Andras. “We all get something we want. You get a reason to live, everything you have ever dreamed of. Whereas I get to wrench it all away, at the very moment that it all means something to you. Everyone is happy, just not necessarily at the same time. Now, if you do not mind, I would like to get on with this.” It raised a hand toward me. “I have a special place among my minions of Hell for your little soul.” I flinched away from the claw which beckoned at me, my heart beating a thousand times a minute.

  “Wait,” said Maxwell. “Is there not something we can do? Can we offer you an alternative?”

  “Are you offering your soul instead?”

  “No. Not necessarily. But I am sure I have read somewhere that there is a precedent for some form of contest, a challenge or game whereby if we win then Augustus gets to keep his soul?”

  Andras laughed, a grating, rattling sound which caused my entire being to tense up. “A ‘game’ for his soul? No, you’re thinking about the Grim Reaper. I am somewhat less flexible and much less forgiving than Death. And more final. Besides,” it turned those terrible red eyes on us. “It would not be a fair contest. I would win, if only because I would cheat; I would not be able to help myself. So it really would be merely delaying the inevitable, and while the thought of extending your misery for a bit longer is appealing, I find that I have become rather bored.”

  The demon raised a clawed hand and placed it on my chest, the clammy touch burning into my very being.

  I gasped. It felt as though a white hot poker had been rammed through my ribs. Everything about me was torn away and ripped to pieces. My life, my past, my identity was wrenched away and waved before me like a rag in front of a bull in its f
inal death throes.

  I became aware of a hole, a void within the core of everything I had known. I could not comprehend what it was or what it replaced or what had gone before. All I knew was loss, a loss which was so complete that it was not just something I experienced: it was me. All I was, all I knew, all I had been and would ever be was... nothing.

  “Although,” said Andras. “There is one thing that you could do for me, in return for which I would be willing to waive the price.”

  “What?” I asked, my heartbeat quickening slightly as I hung there, teetering over the abyss.

  “Not you,” said Andras, nodding at my brother. “You.”

  My heart sank.

  “What do you mean?” asked Maxwell.

  “I can return everything to how it was before this pathetic creature and I made our pact. He would keep his soul, and in return you will design something for me.”

  My mind raced back to our friend Richard, who had created the clockwork men under the demon’s tutelage. Was this also how he had been tainted? Through trickery and false hopes?

  N’yotsu stepped forward, putting himself between Maxwell and the demon. “What exactly is it you would have him create?”

  “Actually, both of you,” said Andras. “I’ve noted that you seem to have developed quite the intriguing partnership. I have need of something which unfortunately is beyond my powers, but not yours. I need to return home and you can give me the means to do so.”

  “Back to Hell?” I asked.

  “Oh, how quaint,” said Andras, making me feel like a puppy which had just done a very amusing trick. “My home has many names, and Hell could be one of them. But it is not quite in the same manner as you humans imagine it to be.”

  “I am sorry,” said Maxwell. “But transporting people to the afterlife is a bit beyond me.”

  “Not quite,” said N’yotsu. “Remember that experiment with the Sound Conduit? We did manage to create a portal to somewhere resembling the afterlife.” He turned to Andras. “Are you saying that the Aether has a connection to your homeland?”