The Daemon Device

by Jeri Westerson

  “You are saying it is the nature of daemons to act toward our destruction?” He shook his head. “Not the Jewish daemons. They are helpers. They warn. True, some punish, too, but for the most part, these are, well, good daemons.”

  “Ogiel didn’t seem so good to me.”

  “He is of another sort. My friend comes when I call him.”

  “And what must you do to call him? What sacrifice must be made?”

  He fell silent.

  “I rest my case.”

  “Ogiel must be working with Waldhar. That dashed Saxon has something that reins in the beast, for a Cloven-Hoofed One is not so easily tamed, nor easily controlled. We are dealing with great forces. I don’t know whether his dirigibles are a curtain he hides behind or is useful for recruiting the soldiers he needs, but they are all connected.”

  The dead fortune teller’s words ran through his head and he knew he must talk to Eurynomos.

  Mingli tied the artful bow around her neck and slid her arms into the sleeves of her short jacket. She was all bustle and frills and prim inspector again. She tugged on her gloves. “I should like to look at the Ripper files. Perhaps there are clues there. Surely you can’t help but compare what has happened recently to what has come before when the Ripper was on the streets?”

  “I have. And Thacker had as well.”

  “Then we should go to Scotland Yard.”

  He glanced past the curtains and sighed. “It’s late.”

  “Scotland Yard never closes. Come. I’ll treat you to supper.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Come anyway.”

  He should get to that Lock, though there was little left to do but wait for von Spiegel to help him with the incantations. But the alluring tilt of her head that showed the curve of her neck, those penetrating eyes (her pale throat, those smooth shoulders), and he found himself agreeing.

  * * *

  THEY WERE BACK in Thacker’s old office. Strange to be there again. Had it only been a week? And yet, all that gave it the character of Thacker’s chamber was gone. Mingli had taken to it like a hurricane and removed his books, files, papers, statuettes, and—much to Leopold’s regret—the Wellington boot umbrella stand. In its place was a pristine almost sterile arrangement of books and art. The art was tasteful, scaled to the room, and hung in appropriate frames. All very English. The only nod to her race appeared to be a long scroll, ancient, by the look of it, mounted in a simple frame on the wall opposite her desk. It was rectangular and tall and appeared to be Chinese lettering, or perhaps logograms like the markings on her skin…but that conjured images he didn’t wish to revisit. Not in polite company, at any rate.

  It reminded him of the scroll from the old Chinese woman. “Have you had any luck deciphering that scroll the old woman gave you?”

  “Not as yet. Not only is it in an old and unused dialect, but there are coded words and phrases within. It is a puzzle within a puzzle.”

  “Dash it all. Why couldn’t the old thing be forthcoming?”

  “It is not their way.”

  They were waiting for the serjeant on the watch to return with the files on the Ripper. Leopold sat in a red velvet chair, running his hands over the scrolled wooden chair arms. Mingli was at her desk, looking through some papers.

  “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.

  She looked up. “For what?”

  “For…for what happened to you. Your uncle…”

  Her eyes dropped back to the page before her. “That was a long time ago.”

  “But you are still left with the scars.”

  “As are you, I daresay.”

  “But I’m talking about you. And I’m sorry.”

  “It made me the woman I am today. I cannot be sorry for that.”

  He nodded conciliatorily. “I suppose…”

  “If you are under the impression that I weep at night with the remembering, you are sorely mistaken.”

  “I can’t imagine it,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose between tired eyes.

  “Good,” she said under her breath.

  Leopold inhaled deeply. Swallowed. Took another breath.

  “My dear Mr. Kazsmer!” Mingli was suddenly at his side.

  He felt sick. He wanted to speak, to tell her… Suddenly a glass of water was thrust into his hand.

  “You’re pale as death. Please drink this.”

  He raised the glass to his lips with trembling hands. The water soothed. She took it from him after a moment and set it on a side table. His cheeks felt suddenly hot with embarrassment. He must look the utter fool to her, he thought. Getting pale and sick like any fainting female just because…because….

  Still crouching beside him she touched his hand. “Mr. Kazsmer…”

  “I…I was ten when my mother died.” He pulled his collar away from his sweaty neck. “My father was a teacher. And a scholar. He studied the Kabbalah. Jewish mysticism. And I shared his interest. He was Jewish and my mother was Romani, what you would call a Gypsy.”

  Mingli sat back on her heels, folded her hands one over the other, and attended to him with a soft expression.

  “She gave up the life to marry my father. We followed Jewish tradition and customs in our household, you see, but to marry outside her faith was to estrange her from her family and fellow Romani. They wouldn’t forgive my father for taking her away. But it didn’t matter. The three of us were happy. I was intrigued by the history, the rituals, the food…” He smiled. “We were happy. Until…until she died. It left a…hole in our lives. Papa threw himself into study to escape his loneliness. He began researching Jewish daemonology. I was at school the day he was successful at summoning. He was terribly excited by it, and I’m afraid his excitement was contagious, for I, too, became interested in the realms of the Otherworld, daemons, and the magical arts. To achieve fruition for his hard work was a boon to him and his empty heart. For both of us.”

  Leopold’s fingers traced the scrollwork on the wooden arm of his chair.

  “But he began to be drawn deeper and deeper into it. He lost his situation at the school because he had neglected to attend his classes. I quit school and picked up the odd job to support us. He…didn’t know. I didn’t tell him. His world of daemons was the only thing to bring life back into his eyes. I couldn’t take that from him. And after all, I was only eleven. Hardly capable of distinguishing what was proper for an adult male to do or not to do.

  “One day when I came home from one of many jobs, I found him agitated. He had a mark on his arm, similar to this one,” and he lifted his left arm perfunctorily. “I asked where he had gotten it, but he evaded my questions.” He rubbed absently at his own wrist. “But he seemed more confident because of it. And I knew it had to do with daemons. And I began to want one, too, to learn the secrets that he knew. So I pretended to leave one morning only to return back. I entered the house stealthily and spied on him. In the parlor, he had summoned Eurynomos. I was amazed. I had never seen the like before. The daemon spoke so well, not as we did being from the East End. I cultivated my speech patterns. It took many years, but I wanted to sound like a proper gentleman. I fashioned my accent after the beast himself.” He chuckled. “Imagine that, eh?”

  She offered a brief smile before he continued.

  “It wasn’t long till they discovered me. But instead of condemnation, Papa was entranced with the idea of schooling me in the art of summoning. And Eurynomos took to me, as well. We spent many hours together. He taught me so many things.

  “There came a day when my father thought I was ready to summon. I thought I was ready, too. I wanted that mark on my arm, the mark of power my father seemed so proud of. But something went horribly wrong. The…the Unholy Hosts were summoned instead. They were angry. And they wanted a great sacrifice. They wanted me.”

  “Oh Leo…”

  “Papa argued with them, fought them. He tried to send them back but he hadn’t understood that his mark, though a sign of power, was a shac
kle, too, and he was suddenly sucked up into the gateway. I saw it happening, and I flung myself in after him.”

  He leaned back against the chair. The sick feeling in his gut when he thought of it hadn’t lessoned with the passing years.

  “When I found myself on the shores of Gehenna, Papa was gone and I was alone. Such a foreign place, where gravity has no meaning.” He put a hand to his head, an ache of remembering throbbing there. He closed his eyes. “Mountains are upside down. Forests stand parallel to the ground. Colors are…absurd, rendering the landscape unrecognizable. I called out to him. A mistake. It attracted the attention of…of those who dwelt there. I ran. I was pursued by beings whose figures where unimaginable. I knew I would soon lose my mind from the strangeness, from my own wild fear. That’s when Eurynomos found me. I told him what happened and though there was fear in his eyes as well, he comforted and protected me. He wanted to bring me back to my world, but I refused. Not until I could bring Papa back. And so we went on. To a realm called Sitra Achra. It is the origin of all evil. Evil comes from it and descends to it. No living man had ever gone there and my father was trapped. I couldn’t leave without him, you see. I could not leave him in that place.”

  His face was wet. He wiped at it mechanically.

  “Eurynomos and I traveled far. I don’t know how long it took because Time had no meaning there. But we finally found the gates. The daemon was allowed to pass through, but they wouldn’t allow me the same access. Eurynomos promised to go on to find him, but I insisted on going. The gatekeepers demanded payment. What had I to give but part of myself?” He looked down at his wrist. “They marked me. But because I knew some magical arts, I prevented it from making me their slave, their puppet. The Eye watches me but can do little to harm me. I was that competent at least. I use it for my own means, just as my father did. I use it for protection. But the Eye…sees both ways. At any rate, I bargained for the return of my father. But I had made a poor bargain, for they did bring my father to me—grayed and somehow much older—but they did not give permission for us to leave.”

  He stared at the Eye and the Eye, as always, stared back.

  “My life force began to attract the others. Daemons of all stripes began to gather. They fed on my life force like ambrosia. And I was weakening. I saw what they had done to my father and it was beginning to happen to me. But my father called upon the power of the Kabbalah, used his mark and his own blood to force the fiends away. He offered his life for mine. I saw all the beasts fall upon him to take what little life he had left, and when I tried to help him I was suddenly yanked back to my own realm and dumped into our parlor. I was alone. My father was dead. I had nowhere to go but to live with my mother’s brother to live the life of a Gypsy. They forbade my Jewish heritage and my study of daemons, but I pursued it secretly. I vowed to discover what they had done to my father and to me. I had to learn the nature of this mark and how to dissolve it. After a few years I left the camp to strike out on my own. My study of the Kabbalah and its secrets had led to my discovery of performance magic and the ambition to make something of myself. But I haven’t stopped my study of Jewish daemonology. I have my father’s notes. And someday I hope to rid myself of this!” He shook his arm. The Eye did not stop its ceaseless staring. “This thing that ties me to the Otherworld.” The thing which that detestable imp said makes me prey.

  They both fell silent.

  Mingli stared down at her lap. “Then…you understand better than most what Waldhar means to unleash.”

  “Oh yes. I quite understand.”

  They both seemed relieved when the serjeant arrived and broke the morose silence. Mingli rose and walked back to her desk and sat. The serjeant eyed her progress with disdain. He didn’t appear to fancy being the errand boy to the inspector. But he was polite in his silence, and merely laid the box on her desk before turning smartly on his heel and quitting the office.

  Leopold suspected that the tale of how the serjeant found the two of them would be all over the Yard by tea time tomorrow.

  She pulled the box forward and untied the laces that kept the file closed.

  Leopold wiped his face with his kerchief, tucked it carefully away again, and got up from his seat to come around her desk and peer over her shoulder. Being more on equal footing with her, he no longer felt the need to stand on ceremony.

  She shuffled through the papers, some old and dingy. There were photographs of the victims, the taunting letters from “Jack”, and note after note written in the stilted hands of the detectives on the case. It had never been solved. And the Ripper had terrorized London from the last day in August to the ninth of November 1888. The photographs were gruesome and detailed. He saw faces with missing noses, skinned along the edges as if trying to pry the faces off. But they weren’t anything like what had happened to the women recently found.

  “Wotcher, Leo?”

  He startled…and was unaccountably pleased to see Mingli startle too.

  “Thacker. It isn’t polite to sneak through walls to frighten your friends.”

  “Sorry ‘bout that,” he said, an amused twinkle in his eye. “But I was surprised to discover you was both here.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I heard a copper saying some rather…er, disparaging remarks as regards Miss Zhao here.”

  She sighed but didn’t look up as she flipped through the photographs.

  Thacker pushed his bowler back up his head. “Blimey. That’s the Ripper, innit?”

  “Yes,” she said, and turned a photo to show him.

  He grimaced. “But was it that scum Ogiel and not some man that dunnit?”

  “Hard to say,” said Mingli, frowning. “This will not do.”

  “What?” said Leopold.

  “I fear I need the secret files.”

  “Er…secret files?”

  “Of course. You don’t think that such a horrific case could be left out for any serjeant to get their grubby hands on it, do you?”

  “But…” He gestured weakly toward the doorway where the serjeant—grubby hands or not—had only recently passed.

  “Close the door, Leopold.”

  Why was everything she now said loaded with sultry meaning? His libido was clearly running away with him, but he merely ducked his head and moved to comply, trying to hide his condition from Thacker’s hovering. At least the ghost would serve as a chaperon.

  Once the door was shut, he leaned back against its solid form, gaining strength from the heavy oak.

  Mingli rose and turned to face the bookcase behind her. As Leopold watched, she pulled several books out from the shelf, but only enough so that each book was only moved a few inches. There was a muffled sound of a spring and gears, and the bookshelf suddenly shifted, leaving an opening. She grabbed an electric lantern from her desk and raised a smile to him. “Coming?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THACKER MADE A sound like a squeal. “What the bloody hell? How long has that been there?”

  “For ages I should think, Inspector,” said Mingli as she ducked inside.

  Leopold exchanged a surprised face with Thacker but in the end had no choice but to follow. They walked single file through a narrow passage lit only by her lantern, while Thacker, not needing steps or, as it turned out, lighting, floated on ahead, and Leopold could hear his faint cries of “Bloody hell” as each new sight assailed him.

  The passage led to an iron spiral staircase which they descended. It opened into a large chamber with a vaulted ceiling. The chamber was fitted with rows of shelving on which appeared to be files.

  Mingli moved to a wall plate, swung it open, and pulled back a switch. Electric light filled the open chamber. It was far bigger than Leopold first thought it. Far bigger, it seemed, than Scotland Yard itself.

  Mingli continued on and made note of a sign on one side of a shelf after switching off her lantern. She retreated to the next shelf, repeating the process until she appeared satisfied and trod down the row. Leopold
followed, gaze taking in the curious files and endless shelves. In the corner of his eye, he saw the glowing spirit of Inspector Thacker drift by.

  Leopold peered down the seemingly endless rows of shelves. “Just how many files are here?”

  “Oh, thousands upon thousands, I should think. They go back much further than Scotland Yard’s history. I believe there are documents that go back to the early Middle Ages—around the time the Romans left Britain.”

  He stared at her askance, but since he knew she wasn’t given to jesting with him, he was forced to take her at her word. “But…what sort of documents would interest a chronicler in this secret archive?”

  “Why, supernatural ones, of course.” She turned away and followed along the shelf, lips silently moving as she read the labels. “Here,” she said, her voice echoing in the expansive space. She handed Leopold the lantern as she slipped the box from the shelf. Proceeding to a library table she laid the box upon it and opened it. “Look here,” she ordered.

  Thacker glided forward and leaned over Leopold’s shoulder as she read a page. “Ah. Yes, this is better. The other was the ‘public’ file, prepared by Sir Melville McNaughton. It was his task to dissemble the facts just enough to seem reliable, while hiding the hideous secrets the public was unprepared to know.”

  “Was it not hideous enough?”

  “It was, but this is the true file. I think you will find it far more interesting. Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline prepared this one.”

  Leopold recalled him as a man in his late forties, balding, with wide muttonchops.

  “I remember him,” said Thacker. “I came to him more than once on a perplexing set of circumstances. That was before I met you, Leo. Now I guess I know why he seemed to know so much.”