by C H Chelser
***
As soon as Eric had left the flat, wearing his best evening suit, Mercedes locked herself in her crafts room with a lamp and Anne’s cards. Much to her frustration, her efforts to reach the demon had yielded no results whatsoever. For the past two days she had used various combinations of the cards, lit a candle, even chanted hymns – although in hindsight that was probably not the best way to call a demon. When all had failed, she had drawn from her personal experience that ghosts were strongest at night and had waited until sunset. It made no difference. Maybe it was the after-effects of the laudanum that scrambled her concentration, or the compounding problems breathing down her neck. Either way she had no better option but to keep trying.
The Man lay at the top of the deck. She placed the card in front of her and stared at it until her sight went fuzzy. What variation hadn’t she tried yet? She had summoned the demon, asked it, told it, ordered it, begged it to answer her, but she had never sensed the typical dampness that had betrayed its presence before. At this point she was tempted to pray for it to appear, had she any hope that that might work.
The card gave her no reply, neither as an inspired thought nor as a signal that anyone who could help was nearby. Perhaps she could call on Jean again? Nothing had changed since the message the British soldier had passed on to her, so she doubted he would respond.
With a sigh she glanced out of the window. Down in the street, the streetlamps on their ropes were lowered, lit and hoisted back in place one by one. Higher up, over the roofs of the buildings across the street, the last shades of the evening sky faded to black. Another day had come and gone.
Mercedes put her elbows on the desk and steepled her fingertips. By the light of the lamp she regarded the card of the Man again.
She had to make this work, but how? Why did other ghosts respond to her? Why had Jean? The guide, too, was in the habit of answering with deafening silence, but he had heeded her when she had asked for help in Notre Dame, and he had tried to answer her through the cards.
The cards? Of course! The most obvious method they offered she hadn’t even considered yet.
She picked up the rest of the deck and began to shuffle it. “Monsieur, I have addressed you before to no avail. If you will not make yourself known to me, will you at least answer my question by means of these cards? I need to stop another devourer taking more victims. I was told you know how. Please, help me.”
***
Through the shadows and the fog he saw the outline painted by her energy. Her colours looked faint and faded from where he was, but nevertheless he saw them swirling about her. There was no sign of the golden wreaths of a guide, which meant these colours were all her own. Expecting them, he had believed himself prepared. He found he wasn’t. Though diluted by a distance not measured in length, her energy enthralled him still.
Why her? Everything else was black and white to him. Why, out of every soul in and around this city, did he see her as a myriad of pastels and brighter reds? His growing desire to observe this spectacle, not through a mist but in its full glory, raked the hunter’s fire inside him. Her energy was so rich. At the sight of it, he kept a tight rein on himself. Keeping his infernal hunger at bay was habitual now he had fed so recently, but he knew better than to trust himself.
He watched how her colours changed, expanded. She seemed uncertain of where to direct her thoughts, yet the call she directed at him was well aimed. Colourful leashes snaked through the darkness in search of his soul marker, but he shifted out of the way. Out of their reach. Except…
‘It would appear I have underestimated her.’
One pitiful strand of red crawled towards him. Weakened by the weight of the darkness and barely standing out against the void, it triggered a faint resonance within his soul marker. Rather than evading her attempt at contact, he met that audacious strand. At once it curled around his hand as if to clasp it. The touch lasted a mere fraction of a moment before the red energy was consumed by the darkness, but that fraction sufficed to convey intentions too complex for conscious thought.
She sought security, and answers. Answers she believed only he had. Answers to questions humans shouldn’t be asking.
Curious.
Around the woman, the red tentacles revitalised themselves and once more they plunged down to the depths from where he was watching her. An ineffective hiding place, he was forced to conclude as another tip of slithering energy reached its goal. In recognition of her efforts, he touched it. Purpose fulfilled, the tentacle dissipated.
‘Well then. Remaining undetected is out of the question.’ Perhaps not an entirely counterproductive development. If she was as astute at sensing the other, she would make a more useful asset than he had anticipated.
However, making full use of that potential would require her conscious and willing participation in his plan. Since conscious bait was rarely ever willing bait, as the boy had proven, actively engaging her was to be avoided. However, judging by her desperate calls, she needed his cooperation as much as he needed hers.
‘A deal…’
His snarl bared all of his teeth. His instinct riled up at the idea of bartering his integrity for an easy solution to a problem, but he couldn’t deny that with the woman’s aid, he had a chance to intercept that other before it surfaced. Before it violated the laws of nature again. For one who strived to make himself useful to existence, he had failed too many times already to forego this opportunity of redemption.
He had to stop his rampant kin, and he needed her to do so. The bitter truth of the situation, though he loathed to swallow it, dictated that while he valued integrity above all, it shouldn’t be priceless.
A struggling red strand crept up to him. After a moment’s hesitation he acknowledged the connection she was trying to establish.
A deal, then. So be it.
***
No cards slipped from her hands while she shuffled them. None of them shone with an invisible glow that told her to stop. Only when she put the deck down again with a dejected sigh, did one card poke out of the stack, slightly askew. As she pulled it out, a second card was dragged out with it. She turned both face-up and hoped against hope that they gave her an answer.
That hope was dashed when she recognised the Ring, a disturbingly ambiguous card that could mean both the forging and the breaking of a bond. By itself it was useless for interpretation, but accompanied by the gloomy Clouds like it was, Mercedes found it hard to imagine how it could refer to anything but the declining state of her own marriage. Undeniable, but not something she wanted to contemplate.
More importantly, such a message couldn’t possibly have come from the demon.
Another failure.
“Jean, I need some rest,” she declared in case the guide was listening. “I’m tired, chilled and more than fed up with no one bothering to answer any of my calls.”
The silence that followed brought her to the verge of doubting everything all over again. If not for the wisps of ghostly visitors or the clear image of Danielle’s sodden friend Antoine standing in the corner, that doubt would have won. Comforting though these presences were, they were another reason to pack up. No creature hung around when a predator lurked in the shadows. If Antoine was here, the devourer was not. Still she shouldn’t lay the blame on the large eyes watching her.
“I miss Danielle, too,” she replied to a question she only felt. “She is safe where she is. Well, safer. If you want to go to her, I’m certain Jean will let you into her sanctuary if you ask him.”
One little shoulder shrugged.
“No?” She sighed. “In that case, take good care, will you? Sorry I’m so useless at helping either of you. I can see you, but those I need to speak with insist on refusing time and again.”
She sensed no reproach from Antoine, but when the boy disappeared through the nearest wall, Mercedes was acutely aware of her loneliness.
With a wry taste in her mouth, she put all the cards back into the deck, tied them together with the string a
nd hid the deck at the bottom of her sewing kit. Tomorrow was another day for laying meaningless spreads, but tonight was her own.
She took the dying lamp and left her self-imposed exile. The flat was not as silent as she would have liked. Gagnon was cleaning the kitchen with exaggerated raucousness, while Amélie had just finished changing the bedsheets and now wrestled the dirty linen into the laundry basket. Mercedes ignored the bustle and went to the parlour, only to find their manservant on his knees, topping up the supply of firewood.
“Better put the wood to good use, François,” she said as she sat down in the large fauteuil by the fireplace. “Light me a fire and tell Gagnon I want something to nibble and a bottle of port.”
“Yes, madame.”
“After that you can go to bed. Your sister does not need to wait up, either. Should I need any help, I will use the bell.”
“Yes, madame,” said François without ever raising his gaze.
Mercedes pulled the folded plaid from the fauteuil’s backrest and draped it around her shoulders while the manservant stacked two logs and some kindle wood in the fireplace. He struck the tinderbox to light the dry splinters. Once tiny sparks had become flames, he excused himself with a bow.
The first log was already burning well by the time Gagnon arrived with a cheese platter, a glass and the bottle of port Mercedes had requested. The housekeeper gave her an insincere smile and set the loaded tray down on the small table beside the fauteuil.
“Bon appetit, madame. And I may just say—”
“You may not,” Mercedes cut in. “Mind how you go, Gagnon. Accidental below par work I can forgive, but I will not stick my neck out for negligence, no matter what. Is that clear?”
A foul glare accompanied the old woman’s strained ‘yes, madame’.
“Now leave me be. Complete all your tasks. When you have done them to the best of your ability – and only then – you may retire.”
Gagnon bobbed a crooked curtsey and left, muttering under her breath. Mercedes realised chastising the old crone could upset the fickle balance between them, but while Eric wasn’t around to get angry and escalate the situation, she was willing to risk rocking that boat. After all she was still the mistress of this house.
Mercedes poured herself a drink. The dark port sloshed around in the bottom of the glass, releasing the sweet scent she remembered from her childhood, when her father had worked in his study with a glass of port at hand. Mercedes sniffed at her glass before taking a sip. The full-bodied taste filled her mouth, leaving the acerbic aftertaste of alcohol. She wasn’t used to drinking wine without water, but this once she savoured the experience. Quaint, now she considered it, how drink provided more comfort than the touch of her husband. She took another sip. The warmth of the alcohol washed down her throat, and she began to understand how Carmen’s excessive drinking habit had developed.
Carmen. Leaning closer to the fire to warm her hands and feet, Mercedes wondered what Eric was doing now. Would he succumb to the charms of one of his sister’s friends, believing it was not adultery if he thought his wife was cheating on him? Perhaps he would have his fortune foretold by one of Anne’s high-society colleagues that Carmen often invited to her parties? Not likely. Knowing Eric, he would mingle among the gentlemen, complimenting their clothes and promoting the shop. That at least would be a useful reason to cast her aside for the evening. Such a pity that she couldn’t make equally good use of her night alone.
Despite her resolution to take a break, she concentrated on what her eyes couldn’t see. The effect of the port made it easier to set her doubts aside and open her mind. Or maybe not, because she no longer sensed any of the ghosts normally residing in the flat.
She would have to be patient. The urgency of the situation had put her on edge, but what could she do when no one would acknowledge her pleas?
“Tomorrow. I will try again tomorrow.”
Her first glass was nearly finished by the time she heard the servants go to their rooms for the night. Their footsteps resonated through the main stairwell, but soon faded into the background noise that was always present in the city.
***
The colours about her calmed, he noted. The blood red of anger and frustration made way for a softer yellow laced with lilac and green. Shifting closer to that splendour took no conscious decision. From here, the razor edge between her world and his was but a small step to take.
***
Mercedes popped a morsel of cheese into her mouth and pulled the plaid tighter around her. A shiver drove her to put an extra log on the fire and stoke the flames. What with the heat of the fire and the glow of the port, she should be feeling warmer by now. It would be October soon. Perhaps she had underestimated the chill of autumn creeping into the house?
She contemplated adding more wood to the grate, when she noticed a dark patch on her sleeve. Her investigating fingers brushed the stain. They came away clean but damp. A spill? No, her fingertips would have been red if that stain was spilt port. Yet it had to be a kind of moisture.
Moisture.
She froze. Could it be? Frantically she ran her hands over the plaid and her dress. Everywhere she encountered wet spots spreading further. Her hair was getting damp, too. Wet, even. A single drop slid down a lock of her fringe and fell onto her cheek.
A jolt of terror shot through her, but she forced it down. This was what she wanted. This was what she had asked for, and she had to accept the consequences without rejection or resentment.
She swallowed hard and focused.
The air grew heavy. The shadows seemed darker than they had been. The room, the furniture; she saw all of her surroundings and yet, everything was so far away. As if nothing was quite in the same space as she was anymore. Her now sodden clothes clung to her skin, but she didn’t feel their weight.
What she did feel was a presence. A presence that emanated the same oppressive energy she had felt every time the demon had come near.
Her breath quickened and her nails carved ridges into her palms. She had promised herself she would be ready for this moment, but her mouth was bone dry when she found the courage to turn her undivided attention to the darkest shadow, gathered in the corner beside the fireplace. Taking a deep breath, she opened her mind and stared into the shadow. The instant she did, a dark figure emerged from its depths.
To her immense relief the demon looked human, a man in appearance. It – he – stood tall and straight before her. A massive black, soaking-wet greatcoat hung from his broad shoulders. His large hands, like human claws, held a cane, the tip of which rested between his feet, in a pool of water formed by the endless rain of droplets falling from his clothes. He most resembled a gentleman who had come in from a squall, but for the absence of a top hat. Or for his countenance. His hair and sideburns, all as wet as his coat, were plastered to his grey, dead skin. Deep furrows and an aquiline nose marred his face. He couldn’t possibly be called handsome, but the sight of him was striking even so. Not in the least because of his eyes. Mercedes shuddered as she met the same black cesspools that had locked onto her that night in the alley.
Every fibre of her being screamed at her to flee. It took great effort to ignore that urge, so she dug her fingers into the armrests of the fauteuil, an anchor on reality while her gaze rested on him, unwavering.
Interesting. There are but few who do not run when their instinct tells them to.
His thoughts cut her like blades of ice, his words neither a compliment nor a question. He knew she was afraid. She could sense he did, and he was right. “I—” The sound stuck in her throat. “I need your help.”
Evidently.
She waited for a more extensive reply, but his thoughts and intentions remained inscrutable. As if he deliberately kept them away from her. Remarkable. Nothing about him resembled the onslaught of emotions she had come to expect of ghosts.
When he gave the impression of waiting, she took the initiative. “You already know…what I mean to ask. Do you not?”<
br />
He tilted his head a fraction, like a cat watching a cornered mouse. I do now, he said at last. Although I am unclear on why you would call on me, after you so resolutely denounced me before.
Mercedes found the breath to admit her guilt. “You had me frightened. I panicked.” She sensed his growing annoyance. “Please forgive me. I did not know then what I know… now.”
She stopped, distracted by his blatant probing of her mind. Firming her back and her resolve, she pulled up a shield in warning. It did nothing to keep him out, but neither did he pry further.
“I was given to believe you are less inclined to hurt me than the other devourer is,” she finished, her tone daring him to refute it.
He remained silent. Only after a long moment of apparent contemplation did he step forward. The pressure of his proximity made her shiver and drenched her clothes completely. Still she kept her eyes open and her focus on him. He lifted his cane and touched her chin with its knob. The same cold she had felt the night he had followed her home now seeped into her flesh. Knowing what caused it strengthened her courage to stand up to it, to stand up to him.
Eventually he lowered the cane. You know of the other.
“I was made aware of it, yes.”
He searched her mind again. This time she let him.
The guide told you.
“He did.” She gazed into his pitch-black eyes, keeping her mind on her task rather than on Jean himself.
The demon followed her train of thought. His brows arched; the first sign of an expression. You would not survive.
“I know.” She held his penetrating gaze. “That is why I need your help.”
Again he made no response. She tried to catch glimpses of his thoughts, like she had done with Jean, but the darkness that surrounded him prevented her from doing so. A dark version of her shield, she realised, only it was stronger. Much stronger.
I shall confront the other, he said.
She started. “You?”
That question carried more unvoiced queries, ones that she realised too late stirred his anger. His shield condensed and the cold around him increased. Mercedes intensified her own shield in defence, but he bore down on her as if it didn’t exist.