The Daemon Device

by Jeri Westerson

  “Poorly trained,” tsked Waldhar. “Gypsy techniques can hardly compare to proper training, Kazsmer. You’ll never succeed this way.”

  “Leo…” He heard the caution in Mingli’s voice. Perhaps her magic had receded as well. But what was he to do? He couldn’t back out of it now, especially with the rest of those men breathing down their throats.

  “Position yourself, Miss Zhao.” He hoped she would know what he meant by that. He needed her to be in a safe position, and also able to take down the airship if he could not by some incapacity…or death.

  She stood on a different catwalk from the sailors and that gave her what he considered a headstart.

  Leopold caught his breath and vied for time. “I commend you, Herr Waldhar, on your skills with a saber.”

  He shrugged. “A gentlemen always prepares with schooling and tutors. I couldn’t expect the same of you, of course.”

  “Well, you never know. A keenness for the art of swordplay and enthusiasm can take one far.”

  Waldhar smiled. “Though not quite enough.” His smile turned to a grimace as lunged forward, slashing his blade.

  Leopold parried them, all the while finding himself backing up. He’d soon hit the hull with nowhere else to retreat. “That…remains…to be…seen!” he gritted out.

  He saw Waldhar winding up, drawing his arm back with force to deliver a hard blow. Leopold took a breath, coiled his muscles, and somersaulted over Waldhar, landing behind him a little unsteadily. He chuckled. “A little Gypsy training goes a long way.”

  Waldhar spun. His hand flexed over his hilt’s grip. “Tricks and Gypsy deceptions. That will not get you far.”

  “It got me here.” He raised his sword and jolted forward, doing his own slashing for a change. It caught Waldhar off guard, at least for a moment. But that was all it took for Leopold to stab his shoulder. Leopold knew the wound was not deep but it did draw blood.

  Waldhar stepped back and looked down at the uniform’s sleeve, now spreading with a red stain. “You drew first blood. Very good, Mr. Kazsmer. In a sporting contest, you would be declared the victor. But as you know, this current fight is not for medals or trophies. It is to the death.”

  “Leo!” cried Mingli.

  The sailors decided to make a move. They wended their way over and under the maze of guy wires toward her.

  “Do what you have to,” he said to her, flicking his gaze back to Waldhar, who slashed his blade down defiantly in a mock salute. Leopold saw him raise his foot to attack and he got there first, waving the sword over his head like a Saracen.

  A hot flash of pain and Leopold stepped back. Waldhar smiled. “And now I have spilt your blood.”

  Leopold raised a hand to his cheek and saw the blood on his fingers. “That’s going to leave a scar.”

  “I’m sure you won’t mind,” said Waldhar. “The grave is a fine and private place.”

  “You assume I will lose.”

  “It isn’t an assumption. It is a matter of fact.” The saber swooped close to Leopold’s face again and he ducked, dodging it.

  Angered, Leopold slashed outward back and forth. It forced Waldhar back a few paces before he came charging forward. Leopold spun, but not before Waldhar’s blade sliced his arm. The weapon clattered from his hands.

  “Leo!” Mingli cried.

  Waldhar, smiling triumphantly, aimed his sword at Leopold’s throat. Leopold skittered back and slipped, arching his back along the narrow aluminum beam.

  Waldhar raised a brow. “Pick it up. We are not finished.”

  Leopold didn’t waste any time reaching into the web of wires and steel supports for his sword and scrambled quickly to his feet. The gash in his arm stung but it was certainly no different from any number of other times he willfully cut himself to call upon his daemon. Should he do so now? But no. The Dirigible King’s smugness was a slap in the face. He believed he was better than all his underlings, better than Leopold, than Mingli—who had shown herself time and again as one with a superior mind and agile body. Waldhar’s superiority had manifested itself into his horrific plans for world domination. If a man alone could not stand against it, then there was little hope for the human race.

  Waldhar didn’t wait and began slashing again. “You people never learn,” he said between strikes. Leopold’s blade maneuvered swiftly to block each hit. “You think we are equals, but there is no equality amongst the inferior. You can try to get close but you never can. The Übermenschen cannot be joined like a club. You must be born to it. Generations and generations back. And you, my dear Mr. Kazsmer, can never be my equal.”

  “Good grief,” he said, arm tiring with the work of blocking and lunging. “I shouldn’t want to be your equal, Herr Waldhar. What an unpleasant thing that would be.”

  “You only scoff because you crave it.”

  “I scoff because you are so very detestable and don’t even know it.”

  Waldhar struck hard. His saber came down with a crack over Leopold’s sword and snapped it in two. They both froze, staring at what was left of the jagged steel. “You broke my blade.”

  “As I shall break you.” He raised the saber and thrashed down. Leopold used the remainder of his blade to fend it off, but his arm with its wound became weaker with each hit. He summoned the remains of his magic, but he couldn’t repair the blade.

  A gun fired and both Leopold and Waldhar halted and snapped their heads toward Mingli and the sailors. She had fled up one of the hull’s ribs and a sailor stood with his smoldering gun still aiming at her. He was cocking back the trigger to fire again.

  “Dumkopf!” Waldhar cried. “Um Gottes Willen nicht ausgelöst haben Sie Ihre Waffen!”

  Shamefaced, the sailor dropped his arm. But they all watched as Mingli reached under her skirts and pulled out her own gun. She raised it first toward Waldhar, but then raised it higher toward the gas bags overhead.

  Waldhar stepped toward her. “NO!”

  She fired. A ball of flame exploded from the hull setting off another and another.

  Waldhar watched helplessly as the envelope began to flame.

  Leopold took advantage of the distraction. He dropped to his knee and thrust upward, spearing the man as far as his broken blade would go. Blood spattered his face and Waldhar looked down at him, eyes wide in shock.

  Leopold held his gaze as he shoved the blade deeper and twisted.

  The Dirigible King opened his mouth in a weakened cry before collapsing to his knees. Gore covered his once pristine uniform.

  Leopold pulled out the blade and let the saber return to its previous form as a wand. He held it tight in his hand and looked toward Mingli. Her face was shiny with tears and the bright golden light of the explosions.

  He leapt across the metal framework, dodging guy wires as they pinged loose and whipped over his head like deadly snakes. She was high on a rib but he grabbed her ankle and yanked her down. At the same time, he used his wand’s magic to slice a hole below them through the envelope and dropped through it.

  They fell, plummeting downward toward London through a rush of wind and the smell of burning canvas and aluminum. A rope suddenly whipped before their eyes and Mingli reached out and grabbed it. He jerked at the end of her leg, hoping her boot was laced securely.

  A mooring line. They swung from it as the gas bags continued to explode above. “We can’t stay here!” he yelled up to her.

  “Where else are we to go?”

  He looked down. The dirigible was quickly falling toward the city, toward St. Paul’s dome. The Thames, dark and snaking through the city with a necklace of streetlamps lining it on both sides, churned and glittered below them.

  “We’ll have to jump for it.”

  She shook her head. “The Thames isn’t deep enough at this height.”

  “Water or fire, make up your mind, Miss Zhao!”

  He looked up at her face, desperate, uncertain, until she looked down at him. She nodded. “On three.” They counted together. “One…two�
�three!”

  She released the rope and they dropped, screaming all the way down. The river grew wider and closer by the second until Leopold’s feet slammed the water and he was swallowed up by cold darkness.

  He might have touched bottom. He wasn’t certain, but the pain in his legs made it difficult to paddle. But paddle he did, for his lungs cried out to him for air. And the light from above seemed a long way off. He fought, slapping back waving fronds of seaweed. He started to feel the cold and struggled but never wavered from the single determination to reach the surface, and when he broke free, gulping in air, he was almost surprised he had gotten there so swiftly.

  Another head broke the surface beside him and he looked gratefully toward Mingli, before both of them turned their heads and watched in horror as the flaming dirigible, completely engulfed in fire, sank toward Christopher Wren’s dome of St. Paul’s. It crashed and exploded in one gigantic fireball, cracking open the dome like a giant egg.

  He grabbed Mingli and pulled her under the waves again as flaming debris fell toward them. When the explosions ceased, he rose again with Mingli clinging to him.

  She watched the flaming dome in awe. “Shénshèng de gǒu shǐ!”

  He pushed his soaking hair away from his face. “What does that mean?”

  She gave him a shy dimpled smile. “I’m a lady…so I won’t translate it.”

  They swam toward shore and clambered up the rocky bank. By then, because of the explosions, people had gathered, and they helped to pull a sodden Leopold and Mingli up to street level. Someone gave him a coat but he draped it over her instead. He wound his arm around her shoulders, hailed a cab, and they both set off for Scotland Yard.

  * * *

  WITH HOT TEA in his belly, and a rather loose but dry uniform on his person, Leopold was happy. He sat before a hot coal stove in the policemen’s parlor, while Mingli shouted out orders. Her female warden’s gown wasn’t the least appealing, but it was all they could find to clothe her in. She refused to leave for home and demanded to make a full report. Her delicates hung by the stove, much to her consternation, before a warden took pity and gathered them up and left them in the charwoman’s room in the undercroft to dry before that fire.

  Messengers were sent to the palace to explain what they could. Fire engines had been dispatched to the environs of St. Paul’s. The church was in ruins. All hands had been lost, including what looked to be Manfried Waldhar. And what was to be done about that? Would it end up in one of those secret files in the bowels of Scotland Yard, or would it be reported to the papers as a warning to any other aspiring Übermenschen who thought they could rule the world in the name of race?

  Leopold longed to know, but he was relegated to staying out of the way, and fed doughnuts and tea instead.

  Hours later, Mingli finally sat beside him, took his mug of tea out of his hand, and without so much as a by your leave, gulped it down.

  “You should rest,” he told her. At last she looked ready to take that advice.

  “I’ve done all I could,” she said.

  He took the mug from her hands and filled it again from the brown teapot on the hob. He handed her a doughnut and she bit into it hungrily. She chewed and drank, all the while leaning against him. He liked the feel of it.

  “So tell me, Miss Zhao. Now that this case is closed…will you be leaving?”

  She turned to look at him with a measured gaze, mouth full.

  He felt like that silly-ass again. “I mean, isn’t that why you came? To investigate this particular case? Being special inspector and all.”

  “I suppose,” she said, mouth still full and gulping her tea, “you long to see the back of me.”

  Leopold froze, thinking of smooth shapely backs with tattoos running riotously down its contours, before he mentally slapped himself and sat at attention. “Er…no! I mean…”

  She laughed, rocking on her stool. “I didn’t quite mean that!”

  The damnable woman was uncanny at reading his mind. Or perhaps she read it all in his face.

  She swallowed and set the mug on her thigh. “I don’t know. My particular talents may be needed elsewhere.”

  He shrugged, trying not to look too disappointed. “I see. Well, you are a very important person,” he muttered.

  She drank the tea and said nothing. But she leaned even more of her weight against him and hummed a strange foreign tune.

  A glowing figure popped into his view and he startled back.

  “Bleedin’ Christ, Leo!” cried Thacker. “I heard there was a ruckus in the heart of London. What did I miss?”

  Chapter Thirty

  THE BAND PLAYED, even as the wind gusted the music on their stands. The open shell and framework of the ruined dome of St. Paul’s, charred and blackened by fire, stood in stark contrast to the brightness of the clouded sky. Much had been said in the papers about the terrible accident that took the life of the Dirigible King. Many speculated how he himself was possibly at the helm and had steered the doomed airship toward the uninhabited church in order to save as many lives as possible. Nothing was said of terrible plots of world domination. Indeed, there was no proof of any supernatural army, when they had been reduced to spatters of mud.

  But there were other stories in the newspapers, smaller stories on narrow columns well inside the papers. Stories of strange lights and hulking figures in the darkness. Of a farmhouse terrorized by unknown beings who exploded suddenly, leaving nothing behind but mud. Of the patronage of the crown being pulled from other foreign shops, and how the Prime Minister was in talks with Germany to settle some complicated import/export treaties. Certain stocks plummeted while other domestic stocks rose. All in all, England was up, and Germany down.

  But these were matters to consider for another day. Leopold was occupied at the moment, standing before a giant curtain set up in St. Paul’s Square. On one side of the curtain stood Raj with his table. He had been performing his tarot reading much to the delight of the crowd, but now he was silent and still. Leopold cast a glance toward him and Raj gave him an upstage wink.

  His new assistant Agnes or possibly Aimee stood on the other side of the curtain edge wearing a scarlet gown with short sleeves and a short skirt revealing her booted ankles. She shivered slightly in the cold breeze and had hiked her black lace gloves up and over her elbows for whatever warmth they could offer. She used her wiles to direct attention to the poster on an easel screaming in large type about Leopold Kazsmer, the Great Enchanter.

  The music played on as Leopold scanned the crowd. He had hoped to see the Oriental features of a certain lady, but he saw only the windswept faces of Londoners, both upper crust and lower.

  And off to the side, a glowing figure bobbed. He gave Leopold the thumbs up.

  At last it was time.

  Leopold stepped forward and the band quieted. As he made his way to the center of the curtain, several photographers from the dailies snapped his photo with the flash of powder and their billowing smoke. The crowd hushed in a wave from front to the back, as those farther away strained to listen.

  In his loudest voice he announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen! You have come to see one of the most spectacular feats ever attempted by any man anywhere in the world. Today, you alone will be a witness to the instantaneous repair of the dome of St. Paul’s.”

  There was a fair bit of laughter rolling through the assembly. Leopold nodded his acknowledgement and calmed with his raised gloved hands. “Oh yes. I understand your skepticism. But there are few men who truly understand the magical arts. It is an ancient and secret cabal of magicians, enchanters, and sorcerers. And we few who have been invited to be a part of this secret society know such mysteries that must never be shared with those laymen like yourselves. It is a dangerous and worthy occupation. As you will see. Be skeptical…until the moment you, too, are amazed!”

  The band played a low drone of music, recalling the strange arts and exotic places where magic began.

  Without further ado,
Leopold pointed toward the broken dome and stepped behind the curtain. He watched the shadow of Agnes/Aimee walk before the curtain in her brightly-colored dress, holding the poster board so that all would be reminded that other feats of prestidigitation were yet to be seen.

  He took out his switchblade from his coat, pushed up his left sleeve—glanced once at the double row of tattoo bands—and slashed his arm. Blood spilled and he whispered the words of summoning. Eurynomos slid through the crack of fire that appeared out of nowhere and grasped Leopold’s arm to steady him and to heal him…as well as to feast on the blood. He smacked his daemonic lips and smiled. “Are you ready, old man?”

  “Whenever you are.”

  “Good.” He rubbed his taloned hands together. “Let’s make magic.”

  Leopold straightened his cuffs, rolled his shoulders, and moved to the front of the curtain again.

  Raising his hands dramatically, he aimed them toward the dome and spoke as loudly as he could, “Great dome of St. Paul’s, awaken! Repair! Return to your former glory!”

  A great cloud of smoke gushed up and clouded the dome. The crowd oohed and awed. Some made nervous noises while still others cat-called. Leopold held his pose, closing his eyes in concentration. It was a little bit Eurynomos, a little bit Leopold’s magic, but with his concentration, he knitted the arches and beams of stone, repaired the ceiling within and the stone floor below until it was all complete. With a harsh, “Psst!” from Eurynomos from behind the curtain, Leopold knew it was finished. He signaled Aimee/Agnes to pull a silken cord, and when she did, the curtain came flinging down, revealing…the reborn dome.

  The crowd went wild. Some screamed, some fainted, some merely stood with mouths agape. “It’s a trick!” someone cried, but as the smoke cleared and the crowd moved across the square—for the policemen provided were instructed to let them through—they could plainly see it was repaired.