by T. M. Lakomy
“And who are you, another minion from your bored master?” Estella asked dismissively. “Come to entertain me in this dreary town? How thoughtful of you.” Her habit hung from her shoulders clashing with her haughty cheekbones and disdainful sneer. The demon, unused to such welcomes, paused, taken aback.
“Ahhh, but we have come to devour you, to consume you. We are just waiting for the right time. Our prey is better when it offers itself up to us.” His crooked smile revealed sharp, unusually long, pearly white teeth, and he leaned towards her threateningly, his black eyes gleaming with a baleful fire.
“I see that I am being sent the lowest thralls of his kingdom. I must indeed be so much less entertaining for him than before. Take my advice; don’t come back, unless you want me to bind you and leave you a thousand years concealed beyond anyone’s reach,” Estella remarked conversationally to the leering demon. She knew the rules of the game, and how it was but a matter of time before whoever sent this minion would emerge, building on the growing fear he would be instilling in her through the daily assaults of his lesser demons. But she welcomed the distraction as a sign that she was still significant and alive and somehow still part of some grand, heavenly design.
“I want to have the best piece of your god spark, you little human wretch,” the demon crooned, his face contorting with lust for her destruction. They observed each other, Estella smiling fiercely. “Our time has come now, witch. You are nothing but a tool for the master,” he added, and as swiftly as the demon had appeared, he vanished.
Estella shook her head, rolling on the tip of her tongue endless witticisms for his master’s benefit, then nearly fell forwards as the carriage jolted to a sudden halt. Without waiting for the door to be opened for her, she quickly pushed it open and jumped down from the carriage agilely. Barely sparing a look for the smitten driver, she strode towards the steps of the White Fort Manor.
The manor was made of white stone and upheld by white marble pillars, and its stately fretted spires loomed mightily into the sky. The guards at the door were awaiting Estella’s arrival, and opened the great iron doors for her, bowing as she passed. She took in the opulent sculptures of naked women as one of the maids led her through the extravagant Frankish manor. Gold leaf ceilings held magnificent, shimmering chandeliers wrought with thousands of crystals. Tapestries and paintings adorned the walls, and the gold thread of the arrases lent a warm glow to the hall, which was lit with numerous candles held in golden sconces.
Up the regal staircase they went, her garments billowing behind her, as she dreamed of the manor she had left behind. The fleur-de-lis pattern on the carpeted staircase was woven in blues and golds, and its vibrant hues and rich pattern were captivating to the eye. The maid led Estella across a corridor with high ceilings and chandeliers made from pale blue gems. The walls were Prussian blue and emblazoned with fleur-de-lis and gold leaf. The floor was of blue marble veined with gold seams, and the carpets were heavy with complicated designs depicting birds and trees upon radiant azure skies.
Finally stopping in front of a heavy oak door, the maid knocked twice, stiffly curtseyed while averting her eyes, and departed. Estella took a moment to gather her thoughts, preparing her game of manipulation to mesh the unsuspecting prince, then entered the room. Her sweeping gaze took in exquisite wooden furniture with heavy velvet cushions and a four-poster bed draped in a royal blue velvet. This weighty drapery was sewn with sapphires and precious lapis stones, spangling the drapes as stars against a somber night. The bed rested on feet hewn of blue marble and fashioned in the shape of lions with bitter claws. The dresser by the prince’s bed was carved out of a single lapis lazuli stone and had winged lions flanking its feet. It was littered with numerous pots and vials of medications. The pungent odors they emitted irked Estella’s sensitive nose, assaulting her olfactory senses as she approached the bed.
“Come closer to me, holy sister. I hear you are the healer of this town. Come heal my wounds, for they are no doubt a product of my inner wounds—of my sins. Please lend your ear to my supplications and elevate them to God.” The prince’s accent curved the words nimbly, retaining the crack of authority, but he rasped as he labored to speak.
Estella was taken aback by the eloquence of his words. Keeping her composure pleasant but demure, she swiftly went to his side and seated herself by him. Upon closer inspection, the Saxon prince was a middle-aged buffoon. Age had tempered his vigor, and though he had an abundance of golden hair and lush, heavy blond lashes, his skin was a sickly grey and his cheeks sagged, as if suddenly relieved of their plumpness through sickness. Conflicted with her initial conception of him, he rewarded her suspicions when he opened his eyes and the croaky voice was no match to his shrewd grey eyes. They were stern, but Estella could see the depravity that lurked beneath the surface.
“What ails you, my prince? I am Sister Mercy, and I have been appointed to care for you,” Estella spoke guardedly, for she sensed no sickness within the man she could describe. She began to wonder whether this was an elaborate setup that she had failed to foresee. The prince merely watched her with dispassionate eyes. The grey of his eyes made her recall Mikhail’s, but unlike the prince’s, his were wholesome, unbent and uncorrupted.
Finally he spoke. “I returned to this town because of the treatment I have received from the Magdalenes in the past. My soul is in dire peril. There is a battle raging within me, as though I ingested poison, and it sets my blood aflame and torments my mind into crazed frenzies. Somehow I have contracted an unholy sickness, and it is consuming me. You must purge me from it, and exert penitence upon me and contrition.” His voice, unused to beseeching, was harsh with an acrimonious tinge, and his words fell heavy upon her.
Estella, immune to the demands of men, scrutinized his face as she felt an insidious pull from a small chest sitting on a pillow by his head. It was a simple mahogany box, inlaid with fine carvings and a heavy, rustic iron clasp and hinges. Distracted by it, she gave it her full attention, and the overwhelming pull washed over her, renewed as if it were conscious of her gaze. It hissed malevolently, voices perforating the confines of the box as though struggling to flee.
“Have you told anyone that you have anything other than a physical illness?” Estella asked innocently, her mind subtly boring into his.
“No one knows, except my trusted manservant. He is an illegitimate bastard son to my father, and would guard my secret to the grave, as you would, too,” he added, fixing her with strange, lucent eyes, the threat within his voice plain and ugly.
“Ah, I see,” she remarked pleasantly. “And when do you think you came into contact with a demonic entity and how?” Her eyes, as though compelled, were drawn back to the box the prince kept by his side like a prized treasure. He followed her gaze and smiled nastily, his grey eyes taunting her.
“When fetching this treasure box meant for Cardinal Pious in Britain—that is when it started.” He beckoned to her with his heavy, bejeweled hands, but Estella, narrowing her eyes with distrust, turned to the other side of the bed and leaned over to inspect the box cautiously.
“Can I open it?” she breathed. The murmurs within responded to her voice, struggling to rip the lid of the box open. It seemed to her that the box was quivering, striving for her attention.
“No!” the prince barked with affronted dignity. “That is only for the eyes of the cardinal. How uncouth of you to even ask such a question. What were you, some simpleton farm girl before taking to the cloister? I demand your attention, not the box, and shame on you for such impudence! Your reputation inflates you. The other sisters show nothing but humility and eagerness to serve me. You have brought with you a worldliness that I seek to flee!” He would have continued, but his voice broke and he began to groan like an infuriated beast, his eyes bulging in anger. With his back arched and his arms contorting, he bellowed helplessly, cursing the air while frothing at the mouth.
Estella watched with morbid fascination as he howled in a rasping feral snarl at
her. Then he balanced on his hands and feet, his back arched painfully high, and his head swiveled around as he gritted his teeth. His eyes went vacant for a moment, only to be replaced with a pernicious glare as his limbs stiffened and his face mutated into another personality. Estella’s brief moment of nonchalance was replaced with consternation. It dawned on her that maybe she had the bad luck of encountering a real case of possession.
“Open it, bitch, and release my brothers, you dirty Roma filth!” The voice that came forth was shrill and high-pitched, ill-equipped for using the mouth of the prince. It spluttered as it adjusted its speech.
The now supple prince contorted to the point she thought his bones would crunch, as his back arched higher and his body shuddered with the shock of possession. As he thrashed, the covers lifted and the box slid off the bed. Estella caught it instinctively.
She was transfixed by the scene before her, ill-used to such situations, and perplexed as to how to intercede in the prince’s struggle. But what was abundantly obvious to her was that whatever was in the box had possessed him, and he had become a puppet for its games. Dismal laughter now erupted from the prince as she cradled the box, which felt unusually heavy for its size. At the weight of his evil stare, she found herself held frozen, supplanted from her mind. Then she unconsciously found herself fumbling for the box clasp.
A daze enveloped her, and it seemed she waded in water and through dream, and her will was replaced with a heavy presence that geared her fingers to the box. It was forcing her to yield her will, digging into her like a parasite and pushing her further into a haze of oblivion. It thrust her into a room of her mind where she could not fight back. But stubbornness was always her savior, and her mind resurged like a gush of a broken dam, drowning the intruding presence with indignation.
She slammed the box down on a neighboring marble table and, inhaling deeply, wrenched open the Twilit dimension. Eagerly, it poured into the room like sunlight on a dusty, shuttered house. Her powers, unleashed, rose within her like a tide. The prince was watching with a quiet intensity, and the evil fire writhing within his eyes taunted her from afar. As she warded herself with a mesh of sigils she drew into the air, a net of light crackled vividly around her. She braced herself, then wrenched the lid of the box open. Peering curiously within, she saw a neat pile of sapphires, roughly cut and rustic. The malevolent forces imprisoned within caused them to throb uncannily. She remembered fragments of a folktale with a grim smile.
Long ago, during the reign of King Solomon, he had thought to rid the world of the influence of the demons that afflicted it. He had then bound them all through the ring of power that Michael the archangel presented to him from God. Demons high and low were thus imprisoned and held fast in bonds they could not break—in pottery and in stone, and some he bound in jewels so he could wield them at his will. When his kingdom fell because of his transgressions, the legions of demons were freed. But some remained hidden, buried in jars beneath the ground or hidden within precious stones. These gems were the abode of some nasty little fiends. Estella understood why the cardinal would want the reinforcement these ancient demons bound in gems could give him.
She pursed her lips with distaste and looked back at the prince. “I see the prince must have stolen a few gems for himself and somehow liberated you, dirty creature. Tell me your name!”
The prince’s face contorted into an evil grin, drooling pathetically. Estella snapped the box shut with repugnance and stormed up to the demon, chanting incantations in her wake. The demon screamed and howled, cursing after her in various unknown tongues. She drew the archangel Raphael’s sigil on the drapes of the bed with her fingers, ignoring the insulting reprimands and protests from the prince. Drawing her strength, she grabbed the prince’s head and coaxed the demon out of its abode with surprising ease, revealing a shapeless mass of black vapors with a deformed, pitiful face.
He barely struggled as she held him bound in spells, her superior might condemning him to submission. She looked around for something to trap him in, vexed that despite the ample luxury strewn about her, there wasn’t one practical container where she could bind the struggling demon adequately. At that precise moment, the door behind her burst open and the prince’s manservant surged in. He stopped in his tracks with a stupefied expression. The demon, sensing his imminent demise at her hands, seized the moment to surge back into the prince and wield him like a puppet. He lunged at her with a snarl, and clamping hands like talons around her throat, pulled her down, choking her. The demon, who hitherto showed little aptitude for a fight, was now burning forth maliciously through the prince’s eyes, intent on asphyxiating the life out of her.
The manservant, recovering from his initial shock, rushed to pull his half brother off Estella, who was spluttering for breath as she slowly began to feel herself ebb away into oblivion. The prince, baring his teeth greedily, unclenched one hand from her throat and made for the box that had artfully landed by him. He opened it quickly with a single touch and drew out a handful of sapphires. The manservant was now pulling at his brother vehemently, shouting to no avail. The prince, with a diabolical grin, relinquished Estella’s throat. As she gasped for breath, he shoved the stones into her mouth with rasping laughter, then covered her mouth with his hand.
“Swallow them, bitch! Swallow them, free them, and let them eat you out. We need another vessel to serve us!”
The manservant, sweating and despairing at breaking them up, reached out to a heavy dresser ornament and apologetically flung it as hard as he could at his half brother. There was a loud, angry howl as it bounced off his head and blood spurted from his forehead onto Estella. He relinquished her, growling, and she rolled off the bed, clutching her neck and spitting the stones out of her mouth. She was infinitely dizzy, deprived of breath, and the room swam before her eyes as she inhaled and exhaled. Nausea flooded over her and a frenzy seized her. An eruption of voices in her head laughed and scratched within her mind in unison, digging into her consciousness and wrecking its foundation.
The manservant, whose intervention had saved her life, was now cowering against the wall. The prince, leering with spite, picked up the ornament and swung it back at his half brother viciously. Through the haze in her mind Estella could hear the manservant’s cries, but in the madness of the agglomerated voices in her head, she could only focus on her desire for fresh air. Fumbling with the windows, she cast them wide open. The cold air made her laugh with glee, and the cries of the poor man did little but amuse her. She peered over the balcony precariously, laughing at her own ingenuity as she decided to cast herself down.
The released demons inside her spun her around like a ragdoll, this way and that. But during a lapse in their assaults, a brief moment of lucidity pierced through, and she realized the madness of her endeavors halfway through clambering up the balcony. The anger of being so malleable to their games crept over her, and she began once more to chant while a battle of wills ensued within for the taking of her sanity. She stomped clumsily back into the chamber where the prince was wrestling with his brother, and threw herself before them into a languid dance, singing softly in a foreign tongue.
She had lost her shoes in the interim, so she danced with bare feet as she sang the songs of power. Like a shaman in a trance, she called upon forces that the old vǫlvas had placed their faith in. The demons within her writhed, blistering her mind like a heated brand. Every now and then she would moan, ceding to the pain and mingling it with her song. Soon she was lost in the ecstatic dance. Whatever force she invited into herself did not alloy well with the demonic inhabitants, and they attacked each other with fury. Estella’s chanting intensified and the world responded, spinning around her till she could neither hear nor see. She was severed from the world. When she finally ended her dance, falling down upon the ground, the world caught up with her violently, and she retched.
In the shadows before her were the forms of animals and birds. A hunter with a horned head held a lance and ran barefo
ot, chasing the vaporous shadows, driving its spears into most of them, while the rest fled. The horned figure was now dancing by itself, drawing more lances and giving pursuit to the demons that dared to linger.
Estella rose to her feet to see the prince had ceased his assault on his half brother and was backing away from her, cursing loudly. She pointed imperiously to the horned figure and it darted across the room to the prince. Shrieking, the prince dropped to all fours and made for the door. But the horned shadow overtook him swiftly and drove his spear into the prince’s back. A steam immediately belched forth as the demon left him.
The other freed demons had taken Estella’s momentary distraction to flee to the open window and disappear quickly into night. But Estella was too spent to follow them. Slumped against the bedpost, she thanked the Horned Hunter, singing with effort until it dissipated. Then she gifted the prince with one last filthy look before collapsing to the floor.
“Are you alright, sister?” came a voice as heavy footsteps pounded the floor and rough hands shook her, turning her over. The half brother to the prince loomed over her, his face pallid with shock, awe etched into his features. He resembled his brother, though his hair was a darker blond bordering on brown, and his eyes were blue and clear. He trembled, withdrawing his hand quickly as though burned when he met her blazing eyes. Stricken, he stammered uncertainly, his manly voice suddenly broken and faltering like a child’s. He stumbled backwards as more blood drained from his wounds, falling entangled in his velvet cloak, weeping and shaking.
Estella groaned, her head seized with an acute pain. She saw the prince watching her, mouth agape but not daring to utter a single word. He exchanged frantic glances with his brother, muttering inaudibly as he flexed his fingers, then began to wail loudly for God not to destroy him. Clambering to her feet gracelessly, Estella bypassed the half brother, who sat there stunned and shaking, and walked to a large glass mirror. Her habit had slid off her head, and her tumble of reddish brown locks fell in a mess about her shoulders. She studied her features carefully, expecting some lasting mark of her encounter with the demons. But nothing had changed, only the opalescent irises of her eyes were rimmed with black, and blood oozed down her face.
