by Devin Graham
Chapter Two
Tall lampposts stood on either side, illuminating the cobbled drive leading to the Bawdlin mansion. The even-glowing electric lights were far more practical than the oil lamps still used by some of the smaller towns. Being still a relatively new technological advancement, electric lights were often the center of conversation among the nobility. Pragmatic as they were, how anybody managed to hold entire conversations about the things was beyond Gabriel.
Gabriel paid little heed to the lights as his coach made its way along the drive. Although they were quite intriguing, he found that change frightened him more than he would probably ever admit. His coach rounded the circular drive before the mansion, giving Gabriel a view of the massive structure from his seat in the coach. He looked out the window, raising an eyebrow. The Bawdlin mansion towered three storeys high, beautifully designed statues erected from the corners of the building at each storey.
Gabriel reached to push the coach door open as the coached rolled to a stop, then pulled his hand back. Tapping his cane impatiently against the floorboards, he waited as “his” coachman—or, rather, the coachman provided him by his underground contacts—came around to open his door, then stepped out. It was difficult being a lord; after all, one required a great deal of patience when waiting for others to serve him.
Gabriel had long ago determined he could never endure the task of being a full time lord. There was simply too much waiting involved.
He stood rooted for a moment, tall and regal...lordly..., before strolling forward, his mahogany cane clicking against the cobblestone beneath him. Lords liked to carry canes, even when they did not need them. He had only just discovered this at his latest ball at the now-deceased Lord Placent's.
Regardless, he quite liked the new fad, as it allowed for him to bring a rapier, concealed in the sheath of his cane along with him—of course, the previous fashion had been wearing an actual sword. It was short-lived, apparently making the lords, with all their enemies, nervous. Still, many of the noblemen probably did the same as Gabriel, concealing some kind of blade or another in their canes.
Gabriel strode up the few steps and into the colorful limelights, which were fixated upon the rooftop to shine down on the entrance. On the front patio, a few nobles stood to the side chatting amongst themselves. The one noblewoman in the small group—probably the wife of one of the men, by the wedding ring she wore—fixed hungry eyes on Gabriel and smiled innocently. Then, not so innocently, she perked up her breast and gave him a low curtsy, revealing an egregious amount of skin, her plummeting neckline doing little as far as concealment was concerned.
Perhaps, not the wife of one of these noblemen, then.
Gabriel—or Lord Baryon, as he would be called this night—ignored the woman as he walked past the chatty nobles, two guards opening the towering entrance doors as he approached. He had a feeling the glimmering ring she wore on her finger meant very little to her. This time, he caught himself reaching for the wedding band which was no longer on his finger and stopped himself.
Shaking his head to himself and drawing himself up with a lordly haughtiness, Gabriel strode in through the doors, pausing as a man stepped in front of him, performing a sweeping bow. His plain grey waistcoat and white-gloved hands marked him as a steward.
“This way to the ball, my lord,” the steward said with as much poise as his bow.
Gabriel followed the man through the impressively capacious antechamber and into the even more extravagant ballroom. Moonlight and limelight alike beamed in through the skylights above, illuminating the bustle of the floor. The smell of perfume, sweat, and scheming dusted the air.
Gabriel had only recently begun finding it interesting to see diversity even among the aristocracy, for he had only recently realized it existed. When looked upon briefly by one of lower birth, nobles would all most likely appear to be the picture of perfection and poise expected of them. However, when one dwelt among their ranks for a time it became clear that—just like any other—, when compared to the poshest of nobles, there were a group of nobles that would seem rambunctious among their class. Drunkards and slackers existed among nobles and non-nobles all the same. Noble drunkards merely slurred larger words, and in a more refined manner.
“And who may I say has arrived?” the steward asked, drawing Gabriel's attention from the floor.
“Lord William Baryon, of the noble House Baryon,” he said, handing the man his overcoat. The steward hesitated, eyeing his cane in silent questioning. Gabriel frowned. Why would he want my cane? Sweeping his gaze across the ballroom, he noted, with dropping spirits, that only the old or crippled seemed to be bearing canes around. He cringed inwardly when he noticed a few of the younger nobles eyeing his cane with amused expressions. A few of them laughed to each other.
Gabriel leaned in closer to the steward. “Tell me,” he said in a low voice, “are canes no longer...in.”
The steward flushed, his eyes flicking nervously to the side. He looked as though he suddenly wanted to be away.
“Of course, they are quite fashionable, my lord,” the steward said. Was he supposed to correct a lord, after all?
“You can be honest with me,” Gabriel pressed, giving the man what he hoped was a disarming smile. The steward looked as if Gabriel had revealed a mouth full of fangs.
“Well...er...they are quite fashionable...mostly for elder folk, I believe, my lord,” the steward finally stammered out. “Pardon me, my lord.” The steward flushed again.
“No harm done, good man,” Gabriel replied, handing the man his cane with some hesitation. It's been a week and already they changed the fashion? Nobles, Gabriel thought with a sigh. Little more than very tall children with constantly shifting tastes. He still had Retribution, at least, tucked away in the hidden holster built into his suit jacket. Although, in this place, he would never be able to hide the fact that he was the one to fire a gun. That was, if he managed to catch the demon before it was able to take another host's life.
“What,” Gabriel began again, “is considered fashionable now? You're always around nobles, so I'm betting you know. They always change things on me, these other nobles.”
The steward laughed awkwardly, obviously unsure of how he was supposed to respond. Was Gabriel toying the steward for his own gain, somehow? The poor man looked on the verge of faint. “Cravats,” he squeaked. “I believe it's colorful cravats, my lord.”
“Cravats,” Gabriel said with a wince. “Why, that's absurd. Who could conceal a wea...er...a well deserved bottle of liquor in a cravat?”
The steward stood in confused silence, sweat trickling down the sides of his face. Apparently, this man was not accustomed to having a lord engaging in any sort of conversation with him. His eyes flicked to Gabriel's cane in his hand. His expression said: And you can hide a bottle of liquor in this?
Gabriel shrugged as if to say: I have my ways, then patted the steward on the head. “Thank you, friend. I shall allow you to get back to your announcement of me, before you soil yourself.”
Gabriel turned back to the commotion of nobles again—the steward announcing his presence in a stumbling voice—, noticing the bright cravats around the necks of nearly every nobleman, for the first time. Fortunately, Gabriel wore a dark green cravat with his black suit—a white shirt underneath—, the buttons of his tailcoat a gleaming gold...fake, of course. His cravat was not nearly as bright and extravagant as the others', but at least he was wearing one.
And I still have my looks to get me through the night, Gabriel thought as he started forward, quickly taking in his surroundings as he sauntered among mingling clusters of men and women. The room was circular with a lofty ceiling, from which three golden chandeliers, with a myriad of crystals, hung. Their many electric lights did little to illuminate the massive space, that duty left mainly to the skylights, but a rainbow of colors did reflect off the crystals of the chandeliers and bounce around the space.
Tall, narrow windows circled the entire room,
set into the wall higher up. Although, these were more for decoration than anything else, with beautiful designs painted on them in intricate detail. The place was, indeed, filled with enough color and light to send one into a daze.
Balconies jutted from the wall in a few places, on which the most important of nobility would be conversing. Undoubtedly, the host of the ball, Hort Bawdlin, would be on one of them now. Duke Hort was one of the most powerful men in all the South. It would prove difficult for Gabriel to get close enough to the man to protect him.
He took a seat at an empty table, waving for a steward carrying a wine tray. A glass of sparkling red wine was set in front of him a moment later, the liquid sloshing back and forth like blood. A few drips were carried over the brim, trickling down the side of the glass. Three crimson droplets fell to the white tablecloth.
Like... An image flashed in Gabriel's mind. The smallest fraction of a memory. Of a bandage stained red. Blood.
Gabriel shoved the image away, clenching his jaws. He could not let his head affect him this night. There would truly be blood shed at this event, if Gabriel was unable to get to the host in time. It was always the host the demons slaughtered, as if to make some kind of show of their murder. Two lords had already been slain, and whispers of mad lord-killers had begun to buzz throughout the Southern Region already.
No one wanted to speak aloud the existence of demon-kind. They wanted to forget about them completely. Most these days were probably completely unaware of them ever having existed. People ignored the demons and the demons' discreet killings were written off as “undeterminable deaths.” Or, at least, that was how it had been for as long as Gabriel could recall. So why would the demons suddenly want to draw attention to themselves?
Gabriel sat back in his chair, wineglass in hand, musing over his plan to get the attention of those atop the balconies. How had he decided he would gain passage to the balconies? He sighed. Right, there is no plan. I must have forgotten to think that part up. Sounding off his gun would certainly get their attention—perhaps even get the nobles to clear the entire place, thus saving the duke—, but it was not necessarily the sort of attention he was looking for.
Save one man, to get hanged later for firing a weapon in a room full of nobles? he thought. It was absurd. Even if he could get out of being hanged—and, being a fake lord, he probably could—he definitely would not be invited to many balls after such a stunt. Which meant, in the future, he would have a flaming difficult time saving the targeted lords.
Let the lords die, he thought. I'm hunting demons, not hero points.
He paused. That seemed the wrong thought.
Gabriel took a sip of his wine, watching the couples dance on the slightly raised dais at the center of the room, designated for the purpose. He closed his eyes and listened to the song of the musicians, who were sectioned off in their own area near the dais. For a moment, he could imagine they were playing a faster tune and he was dancing the haymaker's jig. With her. She had loved to dance.
She's dead, voices hissed at him. He opened his eyes, looking around for the voices, before realizing it had come from the others. He did not like to call them demons once they were inside his head—or wherever they actually were. He found that his control over them seemed a great deal more fragile, when calling them demons.
Do you remember how she died? the voices went on in unison, a hundred whispers coming together to form one low groan of thunder. Tell us, the others said in pleading voices. Oh, tell us how she died, please! Tell us, Demon-Eater. Tell us!
The music of the ball faded, until it was no more. He heard footsteps in the silence, pattering passed him on one side, then the other. None of the nobles were near him. One eye-blink later and the ballroom, with all its denizens, was gone, replaced by a long, narrow, sheer-white corridor. Gabriel stood on one end, facing a door which seemed a mile away.
Figures dressed in white scuttled to and fro, moving around him like water around a stone. Gabriel found his breath choked up. The brightness of the light, the people all clad in white, the door... He did no want to be here.
After a few moments, like an echoing shout in an empty building, the people blurred around the edges, faded to near transparency, then disappeared from the corridor. Gabriel's heart drummed heavily as he stared forward, into dead eyes. One man stood before him, all clad in white, wearing a mask covering his mouth and nose. Gabriel felt sick.
The man folded his arms, taking Gabriel in with those stoic eyes. The fingers of one white-gloved hand drummed against the man's upper arm. He wore a ring on this hand. Why did he wear a ring over his glove?
“Give us more blood,” the man said in a steady tone, his voice muffled by the mask.
Gabriel felt cold and suddenly very weak.
“Give us more blood,” the man said again. “We need more blood.”
More blood, Demon-Eater, the voices inside mocked.
“More,” the man continued. “We always need more. To make her better.”
Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. I am in a ballroom, he told himself, trying to gain control. There is music playing.
More blood, the others growled in defiance of him.
I am in a ballroom. I'm here to save the duke, Hort.
No, the others said. You are in the place where she died. You are facing her murderer! What are you going to do, Demon-Eater? Tell us.
I am in a ballroom! he shouted in his thoughts. There is music playing. I am here to save Duke Hort.
Tell us, Demon-Eater. What are you going to do?
Stop it! I am in control. You are trying to break me, because you fear me. But I am in control. I will breathe in every last one of you. I will find a way to make your kind bleed. And I will wipe your existence from the face of my world.
A fleeting weight lifted from his mind at once, and he opened his eyes to the sound of music and the sight of dancing. He looked down at his hands, realizing he was clutching the side of the table in a white-knuckled grip. He forced his hands to relax and released his pent up breath. Carefully, he swept his gaze about the ballroom. None of the other nobles seemed to have noticed anything had gone amiss with him.
Gabriel leaned back in his chair, breathing heavily.
Come and get us, Demon-Eater.
He cracked a smile. That was a challenge he wholly accepted.
First thing's first, however. He needed to get information about the duke, before trying to talk his way onto whichever balcony Duke Hort was on—research he probably should have conducted before the ball.
No time to waste, then, he thought, rising from his chair and taking a gulp of his wine. He picked a path leading to the other side of the ballroom and began zigzagging his way between small groups of conversing noblemen and women. He made sure to skirt close enough around the groups so that his ears could pick up snatches of conversation.
“...haven't found poor Placent's killer yet,” Gabriel heard as he passed by one group.
“You know, I am acquainted with the fellow who patented these light...” another was saying.
“...a demon shrine?” someone in another group laughed. Gabriel paused, his ears perking up. “That's what you heard the Great Railroad was built around?”
“That's why it splits into the eastern and western tracks for no other foreseen reason. Or, that's what I heard. And they could not say for certain who the shrine was to. And, anyway, who can really say with utmost confidence that there is truly even a shrine there.”
Gabriel frowned and continued on. A demon shrine?
“This is certainly one of Hort's better balls,” Gabriel heard as he drew close to another group. “I wonder what's got him so busy, he can't even mingle with the other lords.”
Here we are.
“I heard the duke's making quite a few deals tonight,” Gabriel lied, as he slowly made his way past the group of four noblemen. From his periphery, he saw them turn there heads to regard him, and he slowed to a stop, turning around and facin
g them.
“Well, that is no news at all,” one of them, a tall, just-greying man replied, then chuckled softly. He was a pretty fellow, despite his slightly crooked nose. “Why, Duke Hort is always making deals. And—terribly sorry—, but I don't believe we have yet met...”
“William Baryon,” Gabriel said, giving the man a cordial nod. “I am Tulius's brother—or half-brother, rather.”
“Oh yes,” the man said, half-grinning, “the viscount... I am Thadias Lockre, the count of Lemrich and those few small towns surrounding it. This is Jimothy Booker, Stial Hessen, and Mahre Sep.” Thadias pointed to the other three in turn.
“I heard the entire reason for this event is so Hort can see to it his daughter finds a suitor,” Booker, a shorter, hard looking man, said. “Perhaps, the duke is merely using his time to speak with the potential suitors himself.”
“Suitors?” Gabriel said, thoughtfully. So Duke Hort wanted to see his daughter find a potential husband, then. Perhaps that would be enough for him to use to get onto whichever balcony the duke was on.
“The duke has been growing anxious in that pursuit of late,” Thadias nodded.
“Placent—Father Truth rest his soul—told me only just a few weeks ago that the girl simply refuses to marry,” another nobleman—Mahr?—spoke up. “He will likely choose for her tonight, if he does not give her another chance to choose for herself.”
“Yes,” Thadias said, sounding amused, “she is quite stubborn. Everyone I know says so.”
“Where is this daughter of the duke's?” Gabriel asked and four amused eyes turn on him. They seemed to imply Gabriel's motives for him.
“Just look for the table encircled by swooning noblemen, good man,” Thadias said, wearing that half-grin of his again. “There are many seeking to romance the young lady this night.” His tone seemed to say, Many from greater houses.
Thadias nodded his head in the direction just over Gabriel's shoulder and he turned to see a flock of young men gathered around a table which was set apart from the rest, like vultures. Between the nobles, Gabriel caught a glimpse of the one young woman sitting at the table, her stewards surrounding her like an honor guard might the king.
Gabriel only had a glimpse of her, but—with her chin resting atop her hands as though to keep her head from banging against the table—she looked miserable.
“And her name?” Gabriel asked, turning back to Thadias and the others.
All four of them cocked brows nearly to their hairline, looking dumbfounded by the question.
I really should do more research, Gabriel told himself.
“That is the Lady Renette,” Thadias said, eventually in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Thank you.” Gabriel gave the group one last nod and started away.
“This should be interesting,” one of them said from behind, as he strolled toward the table set siege by noblemen.
Gabriel skirted around the outside of the crowd of hopeful noblemen, all speaking to one another in haughty, overly-loud voices about their feats or financial holdings or—quite simply—their eligibility, in an attempt at capturing the attention of Lady Renette. Gabriel peered between the other lords, catching another glimpse of the wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked lady, who was doing well to look everywhere but the crowd built up before her.
She ran a hand though her raven black hair, which had partly fallen loose from the bun it had been styled in, before adopting her poised posture again. With tired eyes, and a bored expression on her face, it seemed keeping her back straight and her head up had become quite a task. She looked undeniably stressed, bored, and not open to conversation at all.
Inside, Gabriel cringed.
Tick-tock, Demon-Eater, the others whispered. Tick...tock.
Gabriel set his jaw. He would have to be blunt, then.
He took a calming breath, as he maneuvered through the mass of assembled noblemen, choking the air with the scent of their perfume. They all stood a short distance from Lady Renette's table, but none of them approached, for to do so without being called forth by one of her servants would be highly improper and offensive. Gabriel had never really been one to follow lordly tradition—which was acceptable, being that he was a fake lord—; however, to ignore it now could save Duke Hort, or—if Renette was offended and turned him away—could lock the duke in his ill fate.
Gabriel approached the table.
The lady's stewards looked to one another with disbelieving expressions, clearly unsure what exactly they were to do if a lord broke protocol. Of course, being stewards, they did no more than continue with their incredulous stares.
Lady Renette frowned deeply, somehow managing to take on an even more rigid posture. She was rather pretty, despite the fact she had not yet quite grown into her woman's body.
“I'm sorry, sir,” she said in a firmness that seemed to contrast her youth and petite figure, “but I do not believe you were called for.”
“No,” Gabriel said, trying to think out his next words carefully. “However, there is something rather pressing I need to discuss with you, my lady.”
“You do realize, you are perhaps the half a dozenth person to say that very thing tonight,” Lady Renette said. “Admittedly, you are the first one to have the gall to say it to my face, instead of through the ears of my servants.”
A slight smile touched Gabriel's lips.
“If it weren't important,” Gabriel began, “would I have risked my image of propriety and bypassed your stewards?”
The lady pursed her lips at him, looking him over. Then her eyes passed to the crowd of noblemen behind him.
“Sit,” she said, finally.
“Thank you,” Gabriel said, taking a seat.
Lady Renette cracked a sly smile. “No, thank you.”
Gabriel furrowed his brows. When, after a few snide remarks, the lords began to disperse from the table, he realized he had been used to ward off the other hopeful nobles. To them, Lady Renette had made her choice and it had not been them.
Father Truth, Gabriel thought, she's known me for less than a minute and she has already used me for her gain. A true noblewoman, indeed. He found himself more amused than upset.
She stared at him for a few moments, but did not immediately move to send him away, and so Gabriel relaxed a bit.
“I am William Baryon of House Baryon,” he said, glancing back at the still dispersing assemblage of noblemen, some of them turning their noses up indignantly toward him. Very tall children, indeed. He turned his focus back to the lady, Renette.
“I am Renette Bawdlin of this very house,” she said bleakly, as though the words had been rehearsed again and again, until they no longer held any meaning. “I suspect you will want to speak of my father's estate, Mister...William did you say?”
Renette seemed to be trying—poorly—to hide a particular emotion beneath her forced expression. Annoyance. Gabriel's smile broadened.
She doesn't believe what I said, he realized. That I actually have urgent news.
“Perhaps,” one of the stewards began, sidling closer to the table, “my lady would like to call a guard to escort the lord away...?”
Gabriel flicked his eyes toward the steward, then narrowed them on the man.
Demon. His blood ran cold as the steward—who was no more than a suit of flesh for the Skin Crawler possessing it—, stared at him with dead eyes. To be certain, Gabriel searched the steward's neck. He knew not the reason behind it, but Skin Crawlers always possessed through a slit they had made on one's neck, into which they could slither in. Sure enough, he found the scar after a moment, thin and partially masked by makeup.
“No, I can suffer a short conversation,” Renette said, completely oblivious as to what she was speaking to. “After all, he did help scare the others away for me.”
There was a demon among Lady Renette's servants. Did that mean there were two planned victims this night?
Gabriel leaned across the table, closer to Renette.
“Actually, I was
honest in that I needed to speak with you, my lady,” Gabriel said in a soft voice. “But, perhaps, we should speak away from...prying ears.” Discreetly, Gabriel eyed the demon.
I dare you to move against me, he thought.
Renette laughed out loud.
“You can't be serious, Lord William,” she scoffed. “We are separated from absolutely every potentially prying ear, right here.”
“Not every prying ear, my lady,” Gabriel said, turning his eyes on her. Pointedly, he glanced to the demon disguised as a steward once more. She seemed to understand his meaning this time.
Her amused grin gave way to a frown. She looked worried.
Good. Gabriel stood suddenly and held a hand out to her.
“Shall we dance, my lady?” Gabriel was already bringing up the Memory of Hámon Givonni, a once-professional dance instructor, who had been possessed during Gabriel's earlier days of demon hunting. Shortly after discovering his ability to breathe in Skin Crawlers, he discovered, also, his ability to take Memories of those the Skin Crawlers had possessed.
Consume a demon who had possessed a lawman, and he could acquire snatches of Memory pertaining to the skill of gun fighting—and learn the skill for himself. Consume a demon having possessed a dance instructor, and he became rather competent on the dance floor.
Lady Renette, however, did not move to take his hand. Her frown deepened.
“Lord William,” she said, after several seconds, “if you hope to procure a meeting with my father by charming me in a dance...there is no need. I have no such power over my father. However, I will discuss the nature of his business to you, freely—as I have done for nearly every other lord of some impuissant house, seeking to better their position with a union. Rather, those I have not pointedly tried to ignore. There is no need in pretending to bear with you news of grave importance, and looking to my servants as though they were—”
“Lady Renette,” Gabriel interrupted, cursing inwardly. He flicked his eyes in the direction of the false-steward and his heart sank, when he saw the man raise a curious eyebrow. Was he piecing together who this William Baryon actually was? The false-steward smiled so faintly anyone else might have missed it.
Flames!
In his head, the others cackled gleefully.
Unexpectedly, Gabriel felt a thrilling anticipation buzzing through his veins. His fingers twitched, itching to reach for his revolver pistol, hidden in his suit jacket. He was supposed to consume every demon and one of the creatures stood a mere few feet away.
But...he was, also, supposed to save the nobles the demons were targeting. Gabriel assumed there would be another demon somewhere near Duke Hort, being that he was the host of the ball and those were always the presumed targets. Starting a fight with this demon might do little more than quicken the duke's murder. Not to mention, if he did it in the open for all to see, he would have a flaming difficult time getting into anymore balls.
Gabriel took his seat again, running a hand through his lengthy, sandy brown hair. He sat where he was a moment, contemplating. Then, he reached a hand into his suit jacket, pulled out his revolver, cocked back the hammer and shot the false-steward in the face.
The bullet dug a hole where, a millisecond before, there had been a nose and exploded from the back of the demon's head. Blood and brain and meat splattered onto the nearest stewards. There was a pause of complete silence throughout the entire ballroom, save for the ear-ringing echo of his gunshot.
I'm not here for the flaming nobles, Gabriel growled. I'm here for vengeance.
The body of the possessed steward went rigid as the paralyzing poison, which laced the bullet, began working its way throughout the body. Before Gabriel could take his first step toward the thing, however, the body went suddenly limp, collapsing to the ground at odd angles. Then, the screams started.
Gabriel cursed, as a roiling mass of blackness darted away from the body, taking on the shape of the nobles' shadows, escaping along with them. None of the nobles seemed to even notice it. Every horrified eye was on Gabriel, even as the nobles ran toward the exit. Some did not even run, merely hunkering low beneath their tables.
Lady Renette, her already fair skin having gone even more pallid shade, had not moved from her chair. Her wide eyes were fixed on the bloody corpse lying just next to her table, unmoving.
“Where's Hort?” Gabriel snapped, too harshly. He would not leave until he had gotten at least one demon.
“What...” she breathed, with eyes still planted on the body, “...something came...out...of it.”
“Yes,” Gabriel said more softly, walking to Lady Renette's side. “And another one of those things will have already killed your father if you don't keep your wits about you and tell me what I need to know. Now, where is he?”
Lady Renette blinked, then shook her head as if breaking from a trance. She pointed a trembling finger to a balcony on the other side of the room. Atop it, Gabriel spotted two figures leaning over the balcony railing, regarding the spectacle below. One was smiling.
“Stay here,” Gabriel said to Renette, then sprinted toward the balcony.
A group of guardsmen with brandished swords stepped up to block his path. They did not carry firearms into balls, being that it made the nobles uncomfortable. Not a very competent choice in moments of actual distress.
“Halt!” one guard at the front called, pointing his sword straight at Gabriel.
“Get out of the way!” Gabriel shouted, still running. “He was an assassin! They're after the duke, for Father Truth's sake!”
The guardsmen hesitated and the guard at the front lowered his sword a fraction.
None of them did anything to stop Gabriel when he ran right past them. It was not like any nobleman to act so out of character; nor was it like a nobleman to assassinate his rivals himself. In Gabriel's case—being presumed Lord William—, the guards were likely to believe him. He heard the sound of following footsteps shortly behind him.
“To the duke!” one of the guards bellowed.
You truly can get away with a lot when you're a lord.
Just ahead, stairs jutted out from the wall, leading up to the balcony. Gabriel rounded the stair railing and dashed into a upward climb. He reached the top well before the guards did, to see a rather portly man—whom Gabriel guessed to be Duke Hort—, with long mustaches drooping down either side of his lips, held before a withering old man like a human shield.
The old man had his arm hooked around the duke's neck, tightly enough that Duke Hort's face had taken on a ruddy color and his eyes bulged from their sockets.
“Lord Charles?” a voice that was little more than a whisper came from behind Gabriel. Gabriel spun to see Renette, along with the guardsmen, climbing the last few steps onto the balcony. She looked too shocked to even scream—or do anything else, for that matter. She just stood there, wide-eyed and pale-faced.
Father Truth, this girl, Gabriel thought with an inward sigh.
“Sorry, child,” the old man said, a smile tearing across his face as the duke struggled vainly to break free of the man's iron grip, “but this was a long time coming.”
“Safe,” the duke gargled as the old man's, Charles's, grip around his neck constricted. “Safe...”
Oh dear, Demon-Eater, the others hissed. Are you going to let her watch this?
“You,” Gabriel spun on Lady Renette again, “run! The rest of you, stay out of my way.”
“No offense, my lord,” the same guard that had held his sword up at Gabriel said, striding past him, “but best let trained men take care of this.” In a lower voice, to himself, the guard muttered, “All right, Duke Hort, you know what to do.”
The guard charged toward the old man, sword at the ready. The duke threw his elbow up and slammed it into Charles's face. When the duke brought his elbow back down, blood streamed down the old man's face and his nose was smashed flat, but Charles was unfazed. Only because Charles was no longer Charles. Not anymore. And Skin Crawlers felt no pain when
in their vessels of flesh.
The guard faltered in his charge. He had obviously expected the man he thought was just a man to loose the duke. Before the guard could think to break off his charge, the demon simply backhanded him. The force of the blow hurled him several feet back. The guard slumped to the ground and did not get back up. The rising and falling of his chest meant he was alive, at least.
Renette found her scream, finally. Inside, Gabriel groaned.
“I told you to run,” he snapped at her, before turning to the frozen guards. “Evacuate those who remain in the manor,” he ordered and they snapped into action.
Gabriel whirled back around to face Hort and the demon strangling the life from him—he seemed to be waiting for a fight—, and sprang into action.
Sprinting toward both of them, he leveled his sights on the demon as best he could while moving and pulled the trigger. An echoing bang exploded from the end of his barrel, and a few more cries of panic rose from the floor below.
The bullet ripped through the air too quickly to see, but the Skin Crawler leaped to the side, managing to evade the shot. Demon and duke crashed to the ground and thrashed about, as Duke Hort tried to wiggle his way out of the demon's hold. The struggle did not last long as Duke Hort seemed to fall out of consciousness.
“Safe!” the duke choked out again, suddenly, as he came to. “Find...” The rest became a gargle and his eyes slid shut.
Gabriel growled, trying to make his legs move faster. Hold on, Hort. I'm going to save you. Just hold on a little—
The demon jerked his arm tighter in a sudden motion, and the duke fell completely limp. His head dangled forward, held in place by flesh alone. Another wrenching scream came from behind Gabriel, and his heart lurched sickly in his chest. Renette. Why had she not run?
Demon-Eater failed! a sudden clamor of hissing, whispering, and laughing arose from his head. He's failed! Demon-Eater, the failure!
“No!” Gabriel screamed, sending a barrage of bullets toward the demon. The possessed body moved with an unnatural deftness, leaping away from the bullets and dragging the limp body of the duke with him like a rag doll.
The Skin Crawler looked to Gabriel, his dead eyes almost flickering with an emotion as its lips peeled back into a grin. A challenge. Gabriel aimed his gun as he feinted toward the demon, finger tightening around the trigger. I am not a failure! I will kill you all. I will—
Click. Gabriel cursed, throwing his gun aside and continuing toward the demon.
The Skin Crawler, eyes never leaving Gabriel, drove its fingers into the sockets of Duke Hort's eyes with a sickening squishing sound.
“No!” Gabriel screamed again, stumbling in his dash a bit at the sight.
The flesh and the tendons beneath the duke's neck stretched taught, as the demon pulled back from the sockets. The skin around the neck started to rip, blood trickling—then pouring—to the balcony floor. Gabriel steeled himself against the sight.
Tendons connecting the neck to the chest and shoulders snapped like rubber bands. Then, the body dropped to the floor. The Skin Crawler leaped onto the balcony railing, still holding the severed head by the eye sockets, an eerie look of blissful disdain contorting the demon's face. This time, however, there was little audience remaining for it to flaunt its deed to.
Gabriel growled his fury. I was supposed to save him!
You failed, the voices of the others said. Another house left fatherless, because you lost.
Something inside of Gabriel felt horribly wrong. Perhaps, it was the fact that he cared little that another man had died—that another family was left without a father—, and more that he had, again, lost to the demons. With each nobleman they killed, it was as though they were planting yet another flag of victory, despite his efforts. It was to say they were better than him. And he needed to be better than the demons, if he was going to kill them. He had to stop losing.
And that mindset, too him, felt horribly off. Yet completely right.
You lost.
“Shut up!” Gabriel roared savagely, reaching the railing upon which the Skin Crawler crouched.
The demon turned toward him, his smile twisting up further. “Well, Demon-Eater, it seems you've los—”
Gabriel grabbed hold of the demon with one hand, lifting it up off the railing and slamming the wide-eyed monster onto the floor. Vaguely, he realized he should not have been able to do that to a demon-enhanced body.
“Stop saying that.”
Before the demon could escape its vessel, Gabriel pulled free the dagger he kept hidden in his boot and slammed it through its gut and into the floor, where the the weapon stuck.
He should not have been able to do that either.
The demon's face contorted with rage and fear and confusion all at once. Wailing, it reached to pull the dagger free. Only, Gabriel pinned its arms down, putting his weighed on the legs so the thing could not use the body to buck free.
A chorus of voices rose from inside him. Demon-Eater, they chanted, declaring the name they had given him. The name of a monster. Demon-Eater, Demon-Eater!
I am Gabriel Hall, he told himself, leaning in close to the demon's face. My name. I will remember it always.
No, you are Demon-Eater! Our Demon-Eater!
“How can you... You're still only human,” the Skin Crawler sputtered. From his periphery, Gabriel saw Renette rushing to kneel beside the headless corpse of her father. The demon flicked its eyes that direction, also, and struggled against Gabriel with renewed fervor. “The girl. I need her!”
Gabriel managed to hold the demon fast.
“You're still only human!”
“Shut up and die,” Gabriel hissed, then opened his mouth.
Demon-Eater, Demon-Eater, Demon-Eater...
Demon-Eater breathed.