by Tara Moss
‘Dr Barrett had research assistants from time to time. Some of his experiments required it.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘Well . . .’ She paused. ‘Let’s just say no one saw much of them while they worked for Barrett, or after. I heard that Barrett’s assistant at the time of his death was mute.’
Convenient if you didn’t want them blabbing about your experiments, I thought. And not everyone in Edwardian days was literate.
‘In any event, after Barrett’s death, his assistant disappeared into a life of anonymity. Hopefully a happy one, but with Barrett’s reputation, perhaps it was not good to let it be known you’d worked with him.’
Indeed.
‘What does the book say?’ Celia asked me, turning my attention back to its pages.
I shrugged. ‘Well, it doesn’t look like light reading. The writing style is quite antiquated.’ I casually flipped through the book, stopping at a random page. It read:
We must collect in the first place, carefully the memorials of him (or her) whom we desire to behold, the articles he used, and on which his impression remains.
‘Hmmm. This section is on necromancy, and it mentions needing to have articles of the deceased.’
‘Does it?’ she said, and her tone implied that it was not a question at all.
The sword. Barrett had had Luke’s sword. I was more certain than ever that Barrett had tried to evoke him, though for what reason I could not fathom.
‘But if all this is related somehow – Luke’s disappearance, his sudden change – who is causing it? He hasn’t been like this before.’
Celia took a slow sip of her tea and placed her cup and saucer back on the tray with a barely audible clink of china. ‘There are two main forms of necromancy, Pandora.’
‘Necromancy? You think Luke is being controlled by necromancy?’ I blurted in response.
She nodded.
Of course he is. He is dead.
‘The first form of necromancy involves a journey to the realm of the dead to consult with those who have departed from this world,’ she explained.
‘The realm of the dead? You mean, like, the Underworld?’ I asked.
Luke had explained to me that there is an Underworld of some kind, but not hell, per se. Or at least not hell as it has been taught in religious scriptures over the centuries, with fire and brimstone and all that. What would such a place be like? Could the Underworld really be a physical place? A place a necromancer could travel to? Or was it a place you travelled to in your mind?
‘Like the Underworld, yes,’ Celia confirmed, continuing with her explanation. ‘The second form of necromancy involves summoning spirits into the mortal sphere.’
Spirits like Luke, I thought.
‘Both of these forms of necromancy aim to consult with or control spirits, and glean power or information from them, as spirits are known to possess great truths the living cannot know. The methods of summoning the dead or consulting with them differ, but there have been many famed necromancers over the centuries and a number of them left very specific instructions as to what methods may be used.’
I thought about that. Dr Edmund Barrett had clearly been dabbling in necromancy, and the discovery of Luke’s cavalry sword in the mansion further lent credibility to the idea that Luke’s grave had been disturbed by him, or someone working for him. I swallowed and tried to put the idea of Luke’s decomposed remains out of my mind. I simply couldn’t think of him like that, even after the way he’d been tonight, the way he’d changed.
‘You said that spirits are known to possess truths the living cannot know. What kind of truths?’ I asked.
I had already learned about a number of eye-opening supernatural rules since moving to Spektor. For instance, I could not contact Luke during the day. This despite the fact that I sometimes saw other supernatural creatures during the day, like the spider goddess, when she was at the height of her powers. Also, the Sanguine who inhabited the house could not enter a place where they had not been invited, hence Celia’s penthouse was off limits. But this particular supernatural rule about forbidden truths caught my interest because it made me think of something Lieutenant Luke had told me. He had tried to explain that there were things he simply could not express, because he was forbidden from doing so, just as he was unable to venture outside the mansion in spirit form. These were the rules and not only was he obliged to uphold them, but he was also physically (spiritually?) unable to break them, even if he wished to.
All these rules were very mysterious to me.
‘Truths,’ my great-aunt said, typically vague, and gave me a significant look.
Right. So she’s not going to explain that one, I thought. Or, she really doesn’t know.
‘Historically, necromancers used their skills for divination, fortune telling and so on.’
I nodded. I remembered some of what my mother’s many textbooks on ancient cultures and beliefs had taught me about the practice. The word came from the Greek ‘nekos’ and ‘manteia’ – dead divination.
‘There are thought to be many places which are ideal for the practising of necromancy – subterranean vaults and tombs, the ruins of ancient castles or monasteries, certain woods and deserts, certain crossroads – always at night and especially around the hour of midnight. But the most powerful necromancer or sorcerer can operate nearly anywhere and anytime.’
‘There are sorcerers?’ I asked, wide-eyed.
‘There are many things in this world and the next,’ she said.
Oh boy.
‘You are a kind of necromancer, Pandora.’
‘I’m a what?’
‘You can summon the dead. You can speak to them. Surely you have thought of this before?’
I had always been able to speak with the dead, but they had come to me, not the other way around. It had made my childhood very difficult. I hadn’t meant to do it – on the contrary. And I certainly hadn’t set about finding an ancient castle or subterranean vault! Yes, I had been summoning Luke, but I’d been doing it without even thinking. Well, he’d asked me to summon him. He’d started coming to me whenever I’d needed help. Was that necromancy?
‘But they come to me,’ I protested.
‘Pandora, listen to me. You have the powers of a necromancer. That is not something to be ashamed of. It is a special gift – an important gift for you, as long as you use it for good.’
I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Celia picked up her cup of tea and gazed at the dark liquid, and through the black mesh of her delicate widow’s veil I thought I detected concern etched on her smooth features. ‘Necromancy can be dangerous,’ she said gravely. ‘If you use those powers by force, as many have over the centuries, it can be very dangerous indeed. There was a famous Egyptian necromancer named Chiancungi,’ she explained. ‘Seventeenth century, I believe. A famed fortune teller. According to legend, he perished while attempting to summon the spirit of Bokim.’
‘The spirit of . . .?’ Growing up, I had read a lot of stories and folklore, but I had not heard of Chiancungi or Bokim.
‘According to the tale, a so-called demon or infernal spirit by that name was summoned,’ she said.
‘A so-called demon? Demons exist? Why would anyone want to summon a demon?’
Necromancers? Sorcerers? Demons? I had to try to slow down and stop interrupting Celia, though my head was spinning.
The corners of Celia’s perfectly painted red lips turned up just a touch. ‘Always the questions with you,’ she said, but there was a hint of pride in her voice. ‘Demons are not as you may understand them.’ She patted my hand with her cool fingers, and Freyja stretched her neck up to rub her face against her wrist. ‘There are many misunderstandings about their kind – even more misunderstandings than there are about the Sanguine. Demons – or Dark Beings as they are more properly known – come in many forms, and they are very powerful, and possess much knowledge. Chiancungi did indeed try to summon Bokim. As the s
tory goes, it was for a bet.’
I tried to imagine betting on whether or not I could raise a demon. I couldn’t.
‘Bokim was a particularly powerful Dark Being. Chiancungi waited until the ideal hour and he performed all of his usual ceremonies, in a deep cave chosen for its supernatural power. He draped the cave in black and made the traditional safe circle for himself and his assistant, who happened to be his sister, Napula. But after several hours of the ceremony, when Bokim did not manifest, he grew tired and impatient. Eventually they stepped outside the safety of the sacred circle, not realising that the spirit of Bokim had been summoned but could not yet be seen by human eyes.’
My eyes widened.
‘Bokim seized them and crushed them to death.’
I swallowed.
‘To answer your other question, the summoning of demons and other spirits is usually done to gain knowledge, or in an attempt to gain some kind of other power, though Chiancungi was particularly foolish to use it for a bet. Necromancy of this kind is a form of slavery, and when spirits are forced into submission, made manifest against their will and required to speak and give up their secrets, it makes them resentful and angry.’
I could understand that.
‘It is unwise to use such a power unless it is absolutely necessary.’
I nodded. ‘You told me Dr Barrett was thought to have been dabbling in necromancy before his death?’
‘It was rumoured, yes.’
‘Could this be . . . related somehow?’ I asked.
‘Undoubtedly,’ my great-aunt said. ‘Undoubtedly.’
Then she leaned forward and caught my eye with as intense and striking a gaze as I had ever seen from her.
‘There is someone here, Pandora. Beware this necromancer.’
I swallowed.
‘Who? Who is here?’
‘I’m afraid time will tell. And probably soon,’ she said, not very reassuringly. ‘Now, you look exhausted, darling,’ she said, sitting back. ‘You’ve had a big day and you should get some rest. Tomorrow is also a big day for you. You should try to sleep in. You need to rest while you can.’
I wasn’t sure what she meant but it sounded a bit ominous.
‘The party is tomorrow,’ she reminded me.
I felt the sweet, milky tea working through my muscles and nerves, calming me. ‘Of course,’ I said. It was the weekend now. I could finally catch up on my sleep. ‘Well, I suppose I should get to bed.’
Though I wondered how I would sleep when the image of Lieutenant Luke’s glowing green eyes still burned in my mind.
When I woke on Saturday I was sure I’d suffered terrible nightmares. I rose from my bed, feeling the dead clinging to me. I washed my face with cold water and stared down at my reflection, seeing fear and worry in my amber eyes.
Luke, what has happened to you?
Celia had once explained that dreams can be very revealing, and that some dreams can even act as important premonitions, but if that were true of these nightmares, I did not want to know what the future held.
It felt far too bleak.
It took me until late afternoon to finally get my courage up. I wasn’t going to tiptoe around Spektor like a coward. I was the Seventh. I had to try to fix whatever had happened to Luke and find out what was going on in my new hometown. (If town was the right word.)
With plenty of time before I had to get ready for the party, I entered the locked antechamber in the penthouse. The sun had not yet gone down, so it was as safe a time as any. Still, I walked in carrying the battery-operated torch and Luke’s sword, ready for anything. I would return to the discovery I’d made with my possessed friend the night before. I felt it had to offer more clues.
Hopefully those clues would not involve Luke lunging at me again.
The antechamber was dark and I heard no movement as I entered. The candles were not lit, though the faint scent of incense lingered. Celia did not seem to be up yet.
It felt strange to kneel on the floor and voluntarily open a coffin. Nothing good can generally come from opening a coffin. But this one was different, of course. I lifted the lid and shone the torchlight down the stone steps and I realised that I couldn’t be sure if the Sanguine were unable to wake during the day, in the shelter of these cold, windowless corridors. I would put nothing past them. Or this house. I had the sword at least, and I wasn’t afraid to use it.
I needed all the protection I could get.
Breathing slowly and evenly, I climbed down the narrow steps and into the stone passageway, my torch in one hand and the heavy sword in the other. Above me, the twisting stairwell led up to the roof of the mansion. But below – that was where I needed to go. Again, the old wrought-iron torches were lit in the cold stairwell, the open flames dancing orange and crimson. They seemed to always be burning, and, oddly, there was a faint smell of sulphur that became stronger the deeper I descended. I took the steps slowly, listening for movement and holding the sword in front of me, the sharp tip ready. Negotiating that cleverly hidden corridor, which only became visible in the low light when I stood at the right angle, I finally arrived in the basement. On the threshold of Barrett’s fascinating abandoned laboratory, I pulled out the skeleton key.
Then I hesitated.
No.
I looked at the wooden door and then at the old key in my hand and felt a strong urge to turn back. Every fibre of my being was possessed with dread. Go. Leave here, Pandora. It was like the feeling I’d had in the corridor when my torch had gone out, everything telling me to turn back. I found myself pocketing the key, barely in control of my choice to do so. I did not even try the handle of the door.
My enthusiasm for exploration seemed, for the moment, to be utterly snuffed out, and a formidable fear and self-doubt had taken its place. I grabbed the sword and torch and climbed the stairs back to the safety of Celia’s penthouse, feeling like a coward.
I took my time getting ready for the society party I had to cover for Pandora. When I was anxious I tended to take too long to decide what to wear, yet I knew that on this occasion it was more than that. I was aware of doing something normal, something people did every day.
This was a distraction.
When I was finally ready I stepped out into the lounge room, where Great-Aunt Celia and Freyja were waiting.
‘What do you think?’ I asked and did a little spin.
For tonight’s work event I’d chosen a black and white vintage 1940s dress, with a crossover shape at the bust and a fitted waist, the silky, pleated fabric falling elegantly to the knee. It billowed out a bit when I did my spin. I was wearing the dress with the pair of vintage Mary Jane heels Celia had given me. They were ruby red, with a cute little strap across the instep. They seemed almost magical with all the adventures I’d imagined they’d seen. I’d worn them on my first date with Jay, I now recalled – the one where everything seemed to be going so well, before it became all too clear I could never have a boyfriend like normal girls did.
And now my beautiful but not so normal date had turned into a literal green-eyed monster. I just couldn’t win.
‘Don’t worry,’ Celia assured me, reading my mind, or at least my expression.
True, I did feel a bit anxious, and not only about the situation with Lieutenant Luke. Swish social gatherings for celebrities and fashion types were not my natural habitat, to say the least. I’d not even been to a lot of parties in Gretchenville, let alone anything like a society party on Park Avenue.
My great-aunt stood with one hand on her hip, giving me the kind of appraisal one might expect from a designer, her eyes moving over each detail of the outfit with a kind of quick, technical precision. ‘You look wonderful,’ she finally announced to my relief. ‘It suits you very well. What is the dress code for the party?’
Pepper hadn’t mentioned a dress code, I now realised. ‘Cocktail, I think. Thank you for lending me this, Great-Aunt Celia. It’s a really pretty dress,’ I said, complimenting her design. I adjusted the
tailored sleeves, which had small pleats and closed with neat double buttons just above the elbows. ‘It was probably for some really glamorous movie star. Do you think it’s all right on me?’ I asked, though I was really thinking, Am I pretty enough for it?
‘Pretty? Who needs pretty?’ Celia shot back. ‘Pretty can be fun, but it is optional, darling. If it fits and you feel good in it, that is the real currency. And you look stylish, which is much more timeless and interesting than mere prettiness. The people you work for value style. Was Diana Vreeland pretty? Was Coco Chanel pretty?’
She was right.
‘They were smart and driven women. They were certainly stylish, but pretty? No.’ She looked me over. ‘You do happen to be pretty whether or not you know it, but the point is, you don’t have to be. It’s not about that. Though I do think this outfit could benefit from a touch of red to match the shoes.’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ I said, straightening up. I had forgotten to put on any lipstick.
My great-aunt walked off towards her end of the penthouse and I found myself in the lounge room alone.
Okay.
I wanted to look right for the event, so maybe I should do as Celia suggested? It’s true I still wasn’t very good at blending in with the fashion crowd. On the dresser in my room I had a bit of makeup, so I went back and fished around for a red lipstick. I put it on carefully. I did not have the deft hand for it that my great-aunt did. She seemed to be able to apply her own makeup without even looking. Once I’d blotted my lips with a tissue I had a look. It did seem to work with the 1940s dress. Back then women seemed never to leave the house without ruby lips. I guess Celia was right. It was an evening event, after all.
I stepped out of my room and closed the door. Celia was back in the lounge room and she had a midnight-blue velvet box in her hands.
‘I’ve got something for you to borrow,’ she said and unclipped the little lock on the jewellery box. She opened it and I found myself staring at a stunning pendant on a thin white gold chain.
