The Daemon Device

by Jeri Westerson

  Leopold staggered back, and Eurynomos caught him by the wrist before he keeled over. The wound healed instantly, and the dizziness subsided almost as quickly. He sat hard on the nearest chair anyway and looked down at the smooth skin of his arm.

  “You don’t look well, old man,” said the daemon.

  “I’m…quite all right. I just need to sit for a moment.”

  “If I am not mistaken, it seems you are cutting deeper these days.”

  Leopold took a breath and glanced at his pale arm again before crossing both arms over his naked chest. “The price for straddling the worlds, my old friend.”

  The daemon rubbed his chin. “Perhaps. Why have you summoned me?”

  “I found the Romani girl last night. Jaelle. She was dead, like Rose.”

  Now it was the daemon’s turn to sit. He lowered to the bed and the springs creaked and complained under his great weight. His hands hung over his bare thighs. “Jaelle. This name is familiar to me. From your childhood, no? Oh, Leopold. What a great tragedy.”

  “Yes.” He carefully rose, and when he felt no faintness, he moved to his wardrobe and opened the doors. “We found her at the Dirigible Fair. And with my spectacles I saw numerous footprints from the Cloven-Hoofed One and his imp. And I felt…” He lowered the suit coat on its hanger to his thigh. “Oh, Eurynomos. I smelled it. I smelled…it.”

  The daemon edged forward. “You mean…”

  He bobbed his head in affirmation. “Sitra Achra,” he breathed. “What could that mean, Eurynomos?”

  He watched the daemon’s reflection in the glass. It was less substantial there, oddly enough. Leopold removed the coat from its hanger and laid it out onto the bed. He retrieved trousers, and then shirt, drawers, chemise, and cravat from the chest of drawers. The daemon was still contemplating.

  “Listen, old man,” Eurynomos said softly. His striking shadow of tall horns danced upon the wallpapered wall. “I want you to be careful. I don’t want you to investigate this on your own. Promise me that if you go out to enquire again, you call upon me.”

  He shrugged into the sleeveless chemise, buttoned it up, and then grabbed the shirt. “I don’t know that I can promise that.”

  Eurynomos stood. His imposing size was that much clearer in his small room, and even with its ceiling height, the daemon’s horns nearly scraped the rafters. “I mean it, Leo. I cannot stress enough how dangerous this is. A Cloven-Hoofed One is bad enough, but if we are speaking now of Sitra Achra, then…”

  “Don’t speak to me of that, Eurynomos. I, of all people, know how very dangerous Sitra Achra is!” He was breathing hard and his voice had risen in volume. He took a moment to calm himself, staring across the room at a plant stand and its wilting fern. “I know,” he whispered.

  “I daresay you do. I merely wished to remind you that I am your ally, no matter where it takes us.”

  Now he felt the cad. He turned a sorrowful look toward the daemon and strode toward him, laying his hand on the beast’s arm. It was hot and textured, like an alligator in the sun. “I am sorry, my friend. I did not mean to attack you. I am at my wit’s end with this. It is quite beyond the pale.”

  “Quite,” said the daemon. “I tell you what I shall do. Where is this Dirigible Fair? I shall go investigate it on my own. I should like to see the locale.”

  “Battersea. About two miles from the railway station.”

  “Very well. And by the way, I have had no luck when I asked about our Cloven-Hoofed acquaintance. Either all are silent on it, or those that know…are mysteriously absent.”

  “Hmm. I take it there are no holiday trekkers in Gehenna.”

  “Oh no, dear boy. Haven’t you heard? Isaiah said it best. ‘There is no peace, sayeth the Lord, for the wicked.’ Of course, Isaiah was a crafty old curmudgeon and nothing could make him smile.” He grinned.

  Leopold secured his trousers and shook his head. “You know, I’m never quite sure when you are joking with me.”

  Eurynomos laughed outright, rattling the windows. “And let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

  * * *

  ONCE EURYNOMOS LEFT on his own mission, Leopold set off to the theatre. The fog rolled in off the Thames and dulled the last vestiges of the evening sunset. Electric lamps flickered to life even as the lamplighters struggled to hurry it up with their gas lamps, and he walked at an even pace under their glow, observing as the night denizens of London slowly emerged from their hiding places.

  At first, he thought the steps behind him were just another of those men who wandered from public house to public house, or even one who thought Leopold was an easy mark for picking his pocket. He slowed and swiveled toward a shop window, admiring the haberdashery within, just before they dimmed the lights inside. The glass became a mirror, and Leopold slid his gaze to the little man who seemed in pursuit of him, but who had also stopped to look into the dark window of a shopfront. The man was older, white-whiskered, foreign, by the cut of his suit. Hardly a threat. Maybe he was imagining things.

  Leopold walked on, leaping over a puddle at the kerb, and trotting across the street to reach the other pavement. He absently pushed a finger under his mustache, glanced at another window, and saw the little man at a distance, still behind him, using a cane to hurry his little legs along.

  Well, bother. He didn’t have time for this. He took a circuitous route, ducking through alleys, under arched closes and narrow-ways, and through shuttered private parks where his magic easily picked the locks in the gates.

  He turned and looked over his shoulder. The little man was nowhere to be seen. He sniffed his satisfaction, and crossed the lane, heading for the theatre. He wasn’t certain what to expect once he got there and he wasn’t happy by what he saw.

  His poster had been pasted over with that of another bill, touting a different magician. He looked it over with a sneer. “And just who the bloody hell is Harry Houdini?” He snorted his displeasure and swept off the pavement to the side alley and then the stage door.

  Backstage hummed with activity. There were two new magicians on the bill, the same singing midgets, the same magical sketch, with a juggler and dog act added. And he found his own things crated up with his name slashed across it with shoe black.

  “So there it is,” said a bellowing cockney voice behind him. Leopold turned to face the theatre owner and manager, Barnabas Dawes. “It’s all packed up. Right and proper.”

  “Oh, is it?”

  “Yep. We can’t have anything like you did last night. Scared the bejesus out of the punters. It wasn’t right, that’s wot. Scared the shit out of me, too, if you’re taking notes. You’re lucky the Lord Mayor didn’t bring the law down on you for indecency.”

  How could he argue? It had been a disaster. “Mr. Dawes, I have been performing in this theatre for over two years…”

  “And getting stale as last week’s loaf. I’ll need your things moved out as soon as possible.”

  He turned to depart. Leopold grabbed his arm. “You’re turning me out? After all that money I made for you!”

  The manager plucked Leopold’s hand from his sleeve. “Yesterday, I refunded all the house take. I lost some musicians and stage hands. You’ve just cost me more than we’ve ever earned.”

  “That is patently untrue.”

  “My theatre. My rules. You’ll be leaving soon, won’t you?”

  Leopold scowled after his retreating back. Well, that settled something in his mind. He would have to create the demand for his performances. But how to do that when he had no place to perform? And no assistants.

  He sighed deeply and glared at the crates. He had a storage facility in Whitechapel. Now he’d have to spend the money to transport them. With a shudder he realized Raj was somewhere inside. Forgive me, old friend. He wondered if he had enough magic to transport the crates, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. He might have to use that magic for something more important, like protection. One never knew when one would need it, after all.

 
With stagehands working busily around him, Leopold retreated to the stage entrance, giving the place one more look, before striding swiftly out the door. He had to get to a transportation office and the paper to advertise for new assistants, if it wasn’t too late in the day.

  As he walked through London’s streets, his mind drifted back to thoughts of Jaelle and Rose. Cloven-Hoofed Ones were given to great destruction, but this was not the usual mode of operation for them, this precision, this level of detail. True, they would eviscerate but not this…well, neatly. But if that was them, then just why were they doing it in this way? Was some creature ordering them to? And what creature would that be? He hoped Eurynomos would discover it. He had not wished to mention it, though the daemon had noticed anyway. Yes, he had had to cut deeper these days to summon him. He wasn’t certain as to why that was. And it was troubling. One day, he might do something foolish and Eurynomos might not arrive in time to stop the flow of blood. He had been told long ago, when he was first able to summon, that sacrifices would need to be made and that they would only get harder, not easier, with time. But he hadn’t suspected it would be to this extent and this soon. Very troubling.

  He was able to get to the transport office before they closed for the day, and by paying extra, was able to persuade the clerk to send a wagon to the theatre immediately. He promised to meet the wagon at his warehouse in Whitechapel in two hours’ time. Next, it was off to the newspaper office. He spent some time penning his advert and was finally satisfied with the succinct “need twin female assistants for theatrical engagement. Send cv to L. Kazsmer at 342C Regent St London.”

  With that done, he looked at his watch. He had time to catch a bite to eat before heading to Whitechapel. He stopped at a relatively clean pub in Stepney and ordered the kidney pie and a pint of bitter. The pie crust was stale but he gulped it down anyway, and with a wash of beer, it filled him. He dropped several coins on the table and left as the city’s darkness settled in around him.

  Hurrying to Whitechapel he made it to the lockup just as the wagon trundled up. The draft horses huffed out plumes of cold air around their faces and shook their heads.

  One of the drivers tipped his hat to Leopold. “Are you Mister Kashmer?”

  “Kazsmer.”

  “Whatever you say, guv. Where are the crates going, sir?”

  “I’ll show you.” He withdrew a key from his waistcoat and unlocked the arched door, one of many in the low brick structure that stretched nearly a block long. He walked the double doors open and lit the lamp overhead with a spark of his fingertips that the workman didn’t notice.

  Both rough men jumped down from the wagon and went to the back. One took down a hand cart lashed to the side of the wagon. They worked both crates down from the wagon on two planks serving as a ramp. One man wheeled one of the heavy crates inside the arched storeroom and looked around. “Glad this is the last for the day. I can’t say I fancied being in Whitechapel after the Ripper started up again.”

  “What’s that?” asked Leopold, turning from directing the other fellow with the second crate.

  “Aye. Look at that.” The man pulled a paper from his back pocket, shook it out, and showed Leopold the front page.

  “RIPPER RETURNS!” screamed the headline. He scanned the story quickly. It talked of Rose, of Jaelle, and of the closing of the Dirigible Fair. How did they get that information so quickly?

  “It doesn’t say anything about Whitechapel,” said Leopold dismissively. He handed back the paper.

  “But that’s where he done his deeds last time, ain’t it? It’s only a matter of time.”

  Leopold watched them carry in the second crate and set it down. He gave them each coins and they tipped their hats to him.

  “Don’t tarry long alone here, guv. You know how it is,” said the driver, looking both ways up and down the street.

  He thanked them and watched them drive the wagon forward. The horses’ shod hooves were the only sound on the street, clopping away.

  He closed himself in the mew and locked it from the inside. With a crow bar, he released the side of one of the crates and found Raj. He was covered in excelsior. “I’m frightfully sorry, Raj. We are alone. You may come out.”

  The frozen automaton immediately sprang to life in a series of pistons hissing and metal workings clanking. He turned his porcelain face toward Leopold. “That was very disagreeable.” He pushed other packed objects out of his way as his wheels squeaked when he slowly emerged.

  “I do apologize. I had no idea that execrable manager would pack up my things. I positively would have made certain you were comfortable at least.”

  Raj flung the wood shavings off of him and settled in front of Leopold with a shake of his head, smoothing the cloth covering his table. “Think nothing of it. I don’t blame you at all, Leo.”

  “This is dashed inconvenient,” Leopold sighed. “How the devil am I to get another theatre?”

  Raj looked as if he would answer before he froze. And he only did that when…

  A knock on the door resounded within the cavernous space. Thoughts of the Ripper came to mind until he realized that any vicious murderer wouldn’t likely knock politely on his door, even if that door was a warehouse.

  Still, it didn’t do to be complacent either. He gathered the residual magic around him. He still had plenty from his conversation with Eurynomos earlier and felt sufficiently protected.

  Glancing once at Raj, he strode to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open.

  The little man with the white whiskers who had been following him earlier stood meekly in the doorway. How the deuce had he found him here?

  Leopold grasped the lapels of his own coat and stared down his nose at the man. “Yes? What is it you want?”

  “You are Leopold Kazsmer?” he said with a German accent.

  “Yes. You followed me.”

  “Forgive me,” he said with a little bow. His eyes appeared small behind the thick lenses of his pince-nez. His frock coat was damp from the fog and his striped trousers were spattered with mud. His spats were stained though the rest of his appearance seemed almost fastidious except for touches that were slightly out of fashion. He edged closer. “But you see, I know that you are an…unusual…man. And I need your help.”

  Leopold took a step back but the old man shot out a hand and closed it on his wrist. His left wrist. Slowly, the man pulled Leopold in and began pushing back his sleeve. Appalled, Leopold struggled, trying to wrest his hand from the man’s surprisingly strong grip. But the old man held fast and succeeded in pushing back the sleeve enough to reveal the dark tattoo.

  “And I think…yes,” said the old man, looking down at the intricate marking. “I think you need mine as well.”

  Chapter Six

  THE LITTLE MAN would offer nothing but his name—Professor Franz von Spiegel—and suggested that they find a comfortable place to talk. It turned out to be a private parlor in a pub on Fenchurch Street. Once the tavern keeper closed the door after delivering a tray of two glasses and a bottle of brandy, they settled across the table from one another. The sounds of people in the pub on the other side of the door faded to little more than a rumble as they faced each other.

  Leopold poured the brandy into the small stemmed glasses and handed one to von Spiegel. But instead of taking it, the stooped old man grabbed Leopold’s wrist again, shoving the sleeve up.

  “Will you unhand me!”

  The little man pointed to the tattoo but was careful not to touch it. “I have seen the like before, but it is very rare. Very rare. I have never seen it on a living man before.”

  Leopold wrenched his hand free and stuffed it under the table. With his right he took up his glass and tipped it back. “You are very forward, sir.” He hoped the man didn’t notice his hand tremble. He poured himself more brandy. It was harsher than what he was used to, but it seemed to suit the circumstances.

  “I must be forward,” insisted von Spiegel. “I must be forceful if I am t
o get my message across to you, to make you understand the significance of what I am about to say.”

  The mark itched. That was not a good sign. It meant that something was nearby. Something that Leopold was loath to confront without the help of Eurynomos.

  “What is it then? You say you want my help.”

  “And you want mine, believe me.” He sipped delicately at his brandy. He had not removed his gloves. “Have you ever heard of Manfried Waldhar?”

  “Of course I have. He is the wealthy magnate and so-called ‘Dirigible King.’ His fair is outside of London even now.”

  “Und so. The fair that is now closed due to a vile and unspeakable murder.”

  Leopold knocked back the second glass, feeling the burn down his throat. He poured more, vowing to take it slower. The spirits were already coursing through his system, loosening his stiffness. “That made the papers rather quickly.”

  “I see you are not surprised.”

  “Come, man. I haven’t got time for this.”

  “I used to work for Waldhar. I…knew his secrets.”

  Leopold tapped his nail on the glass’s stem. “Well, then?”

  “I have tried to talk to your Scotland Yard, to explain to them the danger, but they would not listen to me. I know they thought me mad.”

  Am I to think it any less? He tapped his finger on the stem again before taking a sip for something to do. The brandy calmed him. It wasn’t everyday he met someone who seemed to know what the mark on his arm meant. Not a human someone at any rate. And as far as he was concerned, it was not a good thing that they knew.

  “And perhaps it does sound mad,” the man went on, rubbing his temple. “But to a man such as you, Leopold Kazsmer, I know…I know it is not mad. For you understand.”

  Leopold withdrew his left arm slowly from under the table and laid it on top. He carefully undid the cufflink and peeled the shirt sleeve back along with the coat sleeve. Turning the arm this way and that, he displayed it for the little man, staring at it anew himself. “I have never met anyone who knew what this was,” he said softly. His gaze flicked up to the man’s glittering eyes. “Do you…do you have one, too?”