The Daemon Device

by Jeri Westerson

  THE DAEMON DEVICE

  Book One in the Enchanter Chronicles

  Jeri Westerson

  Illustrated by

  Robert Carrasco

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © Jeri Westerson 2019

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Cover design by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Book design by Jeri Westerson

  Illustrations by Robert Carrasco

  ISBN: 978-0-9982238-0-3

  No daemons or demons were harmed in the writing of this book. The Otherworld authorizes the author to write about its creatures and Ancient Ones. Any resemblance to your own plane of existence, universe, or reality is strictly coincidental. Or better yet, take an aspirin and have a lie down. It might help with seeing these things.

  Sign up for my newsletters at EnchanterChronicles.com

  Dragua Press

  PO Box 799

  Menifee, CA 92586

  Contents

  Novels By Jeri Westerson

  Acknowledgments

  Quotation

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Ninteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Author’s Afterword

  About the Author

  Novels By Jeri Westerson

  Paranormal

  BOOKE OF THE HIDDEN SERIES

  Booke of the Hidden

  Deadly Rising

  Shadows in the Mist

  The Darkest Gateway

  Medieval Mysteries

  THE CRISPIN GUEST MEDIEVAL NOIR MYSTERIES

  Veil of Lies

  Serpent in the Thorns

  The Demon’s Parchment

  Troubled Bones

  Blood Lance

  Shadow of the Alchemist

  Cup of Blood (a prequel)

  The Silence of Stones

  A Maiden Weeping

  Season of Blood

  The Deepest Grave

  Traitor’s Codex

  Historical Fiction

  Though Heaven Fall

  Roses in the Tempest

  Native Spirit, writing as Anne Castell

  To Craig, the man who has brought real magic into my life, and he didn’t even need a daemon to do it.

  ...I think.

  Acknowledgments

  With grateful thanks to my Hebrew translators Lisa Sheven and Carol Armon, to my Hungarian translator Giovanni Albers, and my German translator Peter Weeks. With especially huge thanks to Rebekah Hendershot for her invaluable insight. And finally, to Jules Verne and H.G. Wells for inventing steampunk even though they never knew it.

  “In all our lives there are certain events that stand out that cannot be forgotten. I am going to show you something now, ladies and gentlemen,

  you will remember as long as you live.”

  –Howard Thurston, America’s Favorite Magician, 1908

  Chapter One

  London, 1891

  LEOPOLD STRAIGHTENED HIS shoulders and raised his chin. In utter silence, he pulled the string that tied his cape and released the knot. With a soft whoosh of fabric, the cape slid from his shoulders and pooled on the stage floor at his feet. Deftly, he opened the buttons of his coat, and keeping the audience under his cool gaze, he whipped it so quickly off his arms and shoulders, that a woman in the front row gasped.

  With two delicate fingers, he raised his top hat, as if doffing it for a lady. He showed the white satin of the interior to the audience and, never moving his gaze from the far seats, dropped it softly onto his coat and cape.

  In only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, he carefully removed each glove in turn, first the left, then the right, ultimately leaving them on the pile of clothing. He took another breath before rolling up the sleeve of his left arm. When it was folded back to his elbow, he finally flicked his glance to his white forearm. Like a bracelet, the dark tattoo encircling his wrist shown starkly against his pale skin. Its intricate design wove in and out of itself almost in the form of a Celtic knot but was nothing so whimsical. For the Eye of Providence etched on the inside of his wrist, right at the pulse point, took any possible quaintness away from the black design. The eye stared back at him with intricate detail as if it were capable of blinking at any moment. He had wanted the mark once, begged for it. Now he hated the sight of it.

  Holding his marked wrist forward toward the audience, he pulled a small item from the pocket in his waistcoat with his free hand. He held it with two fingers, the other three digits poised above it. It was second nature, this expression of his fingers, always proving to the punters that nothing was in his hands, all the while hiding whatever he wished in the palm of it.

  But this time, there was nothing but the small object, that when he pushed a button with his forefinger, snapped a blade out of the handle. The sound was so sudden and so loud in the complete silence that a woman or two…and even a few men…let out a protracted shriek.

  Light gleamed off the blade. It was sharp. Had to be. He stood, positioning his legs apart, fist at the end of a naked arm stretched out so taut the blue veins beneath his skin pulsed. The knife poised. He dreaded the moment.

  With a flash he struck.

  There was just a slash at first on the delicate skin. A gash of torn flesh. But then the blood welled, filling the slash, until there was so much of it the red spilled out over his wrist, marking its own trail in crimson, like a bracelet. And then the drip, drip onto the stage floor.

  He could feel the audience tense, feel their inheld breaths. So quiet, he could hear each droplet as it splashed to the plank floor at his feet.

  He stared at his life’s blood pooling and took a final deep breath.

  “Ani metzaveh alaycha, lachshof et atzmechah!” he cried.

  A pause, as if the very Earth hesitated, waiting.

  The puddle of his blood shifted. Rippled. A crease of light, then a blinding flash exploded from the floor. The audience screamed. Leopold could do nothing about it. He had to hold his arm forth, fist closed tight. The arm trembled but he held it steady, even as blood continued to drip, drip from it.

  The light blasted over him, flinging back his hair. He looked into the blinding abyss, saw the shapes move and contort in shadows beneath the light that slowly dimmed. And as it receded, a figure formed and rose out of the blood. Its head hung low. The shoulders seemed to rise first as a great hulking shape, and then the head lifted. Horns resembling those of some great African beast, twisted and towered above his head. His skin was textured like a lizard’s and was as dark red as Leopold’s blood. His muscled body stood taller than the magician, with thick thighs and wide shoulders. And he was nude but seemed not to care about
this state as he surveyed the crowd with disdain. “Who has summoned me?” he bellowed, voice like a black cloud before a thunder-burst.

  Women had not stopped screaming and now that the smoke had cleared, Leopold saw many of them scrambling for the exits. No! They mustn’t leave before the complete performance.

  “I have summoned you!” he declared above the noise of screams and running feet. “And I alone control you.”

  The rumbling of panicked citizens died off, as some lingered by the exits, thrown in confusion by the spectacle before them. Was it only a show? Was it something else, something horrific? Female faces turned away, but just as many eyed the naked daemon with fascination.

  “I command you,” Leopold said, turning toward the demonic apparition, “to conjure doves. Doves of peace to calm the crowd.”

  The daemon lifted his hands and out of them appeared from nowhere white, spotless doves that flew into the audience.

  But that only seemed to set off a new chorus of screams and they ducked and flung their hands over their heads, shooing the fluttering doves away as if they were vermin. No one stayed in their seats.

  “Wait!” Leopold called to the audience. He stood at the footlights, watching helplessly as his entire audience ran over themselves to escape. Men trampled men and women fell to their knees, weeping. Brave souls helped them up, tugging them away from the apparition on the stage. Even the orchestra had ducked out through their trapdoor, leaving a disarray of fallen sheet music and tipped music stands.

  It wasn’t long before no one remained. Even the stagehands had fled in terror at this unexpected flourish from their disagreeable master.

  The doves circled the empty seats, leaving their white droppings on the dark velvet.

  Leopold waved his hand at them. “Enough!”

  They vanished without so much as a whisper.

  “Tough luck, old man,” said the daemon in a perfectly modulated West End baritone.

  Chapter Two

  LEOPOLD GESTURED TOWARD the hulking creature. “Where are your bloody clothes!”

  The daemon looked down. “Thought it would make a more dramatic show. Too much?”

  “Yes, it bloody well is!”

  “Dear me. That’s twice in a row you said ‘bloody.’ I must have truly made you cross.”

  Leopold tucked his anger away and closed his eyes. “I apologize. I was just…surprised. And not a little annoyed that they all…departed.”

  “The greatest trick they’ve ever seen and they couldn’t sit for it. That’s Gentiles for you.”

  Leopold huffed and relaxed his tensed shoulders. He waved vaguely at the daemon’s nether regions. “Do something about…that, if you please.”

  “Oh. Sorry, old man.” Instantly, a black loin cloth appeared at his hips, covering his considerable endowments. “I suppose the show’s over.”

  Leopold nodded dejectedly and slipped his knife back in his waistcoat.

  “Ah! Should I…?” The red hand waved over Leopold’s bloody wrist.

  “If you will, Eurynomos.” He held out his arm. Truthfully, he felt a little faint. He’d cut too deeply this time.

  Eurynomos closed his hand over it and sucked in a breath, euphoria spreading over his features. After a moment he released the magician and left the arm perfectly healed.

  Leopold rubbed his wrist. No scar remained. Only the twinge of the remembered knife slash. As his fingers passed over the mark, though, he swore he could feel the tattoo as a raised pattern, but it was as a part of his flesh as any other part. Hastily he rolled down his sleeve and fixed the cuff with a shaky hand.

  “There goes my box office. And there goes my show. Blast it. I’ve already sacked my assistants so what more could go wrong?”

  “Oh, never say that around a proper daemon, old man. You don’t know what ‘wrong’ can be.”

  “I do know,” he said quietly.

  Eurynomos chuckled and scratched the back of his head. “I daresay you do.” He shrank a bit from when he first appeared, only now standing a foot taller than Leopold rather than the eight or so feet when he emerged from the floor. “Is that why you summoned me during a show? To throw your weight around to the punters.”

  “I suppose.” Reddening, he reached the wings and found a chair. He sat and ran his fingers through his hair. “I…I thought I could…that it would…oh dash it. I’ve ruined everything!”

  The sound of squeaky wheels rolling toward him meant only one thing. “I suppose you saw that disaster, Raj.”

  The automaton, a figure of an Oriental man with turban and evening suit, sat at a table perpetually playing out a deck of tarot cards. His head moved smoothly and mechanically with a soft sound of air through pistons and machine-driven clicks.

  “Is that what you call it?” said the mechanical man. “Namaste, Eurynomos.”

  “Shalom, old friend.”

  Leopold, nonplussed by the independent movement and speech of a creature he knew well, ran both hands through his hair. “Yes, it was a blasted disaster. I’m ruined.”

  The gears clicked and whirred. “Don’t be silly, Leo. It was smashing! Quite top drawer.”

  “Wasn’t it?” said the daemon, elbowing the automaton.

  “The desperate act of a desperate man,” Leopold muttered.

  The daemon leaned toward Leopold. “You mentioned you had to let your assistants go, but you didn’t mention why. I thought you liked Ruby and Rose.”

  “I did. But this was the third time Rose was late. Actually, she never showed up at all. What was I to do? I couldn’t do even half my routines without the two of them, so I decided to do without. I warned them. Now look what I’ve done.”

  They all stood around, quiet and thoughtful. Until Leopold exhaled and angry breath. “And your lack of dress will get me thrown into gaol for indecency. And come to think of it…I should think the Church will be round soon with a stake for burning.”

  “Well! I won’t let that happen.” He patted Leopold’s shoulder with exceptional tenderness. “I had such a jolly time, I certainly owe you.”

  “You certainly do.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What the hell was I thinking?”

  “What the Gehenna were you thinking. Droll.”

  “I’m not laughing.” He sat up. “I’ll have to close down my act until I can get new assistants. If anyone will even hire me again. Perhaps even go into hiding. Blast it all!” What a fool! Why had he done it? He should have just persevered with the one assistant. Too late now.

  “But, old man,” said Eurynomos. He grabbed a chair in his large hand and positioned it. He sat, stretching his thick legs outward. “What do you need with assistants when you have me?”

  “I can’t do real magic all the time. It’s too draining. Haven’t I lost enough blood tonight?”

  The daemon licked his lips. “Yes. And it was most delicious. Thank you.”

  He eyed the daemon from under lowered brows. “Don’t mention it.”

  “By the way.” The daemon swirled a finger in the air toward Leopold’s face. “Love the hair brush, old man. It quite suits you.”

  Leopold quickly raised a hand to stroke his mustache. He felt his cheeks redden at the compliment. “Well…I had to do something. Everyone kept mistaking me for the assistant.”

  “Makes you look quite mature. Perhaps try a little gray at the temples?”

  “I’m not ready to look that old yet.”

  Raj, ignoring their conversation, laid out his tarot cards one by one, ticking his head with a hiss of compressed air. “I hate to see you close the show.”

  “I don’t think it’s my choice any longer.” He leaned dejectedly against the proscenium. “I’ve done it now.” He glanced at Raj as he laid out his cards. “Do me a favor and don’t do a reading.”

  “Too late. I’ve already begun laying the cards. What has begun cannot now be stopped.”

  Leopold wrung his hands and sighed. “Then do me the favor of not telling me what you see.”

/>   “Really? Why ever not?”

  “I just don’t want to know.”

  Leopold dragged his feet away but wasn’t far enough not to catch the automaton’s gasp and whisper, “Then it’s a good thing you don’t.”

  Before he trudged to his dressing room, he made a search of the theatre. Not a soul remained. I must be out of my blasted mind. Why did I ever summon Eurynomos? It was Yanko’s appearance that did it, he told himself. It flustered him. He took the bait as he always did. Mention of his father—his Jewish father, as Yanko was always pleased to remind him—had sealed his fate. After all, it was his father who had told him of the ancient art of summoning Jewish daemons, taught him the wisdom and mystical nature of the Kabbalah. Only special men were marked, he had told him, and Leopold had wished for that mark, wished for the same power…

  How foolish he had been.

  Yanko, in his battered and mud-spattered coat, had told the stagehands he was Leopold’s uncle, and Leopold had felt all over again the shame at their looks of disgust. But Yanko had told him that one of the Romani in their camp—Jaelle—was missing.