The Reckoning

by Alma Katsu

  “It was a long time ago. You shouldn’t let it trouble you now, not after all we’ve been through together,” Jonathan said to me, and that was true enough: we were hardly a pair of innocent newlyweds, and after all the men and women we each had taken to bed in Adair’s house, what was one more? However, the more I thought about it, or tried not to think about it, the more it hurt, until tears started rolling down my cheeks.

  “Ah, Lanny, don’t cry over Joanna Kilpatrick,” Jonathan said, lifting me up and setting me on the bed to face him. He took the edge of the sheet to daub my tears. “I’d hoped you would never hear about it.”

  “I thought you told me everything,” I said, reproaching him between sobs. “I thought I was your confidante.”

  He took a deep breath. “You were, I assure you. But a young man cannot tell everything that he experiences, especially at that age, to a young lady for whom he has feelings. I was trying to shield you.”

  I should have let our conversation end there—I should have let it lie—but I was still blind to Jonathan’s true nature, so I asked a question better left unsaid. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me? I want no more surprises. I want honesty between us, Jonathan. Don’t ever lie to me, even if you think to spare my feelings.”

  He took a deep breath and eyed me warily, but took me at my word and proceeded to tell me a tale I wished I’d never heard. For it turned out there was a side to the town of St. Andrew that I never knew: men and women who took their pleasures on the sly, a waltz of secret lovers who danced right under the noses of the rest of us. They did not organize their activities—there were no orgies held like Black Masses in the thick north woods—but rather, they were individuals of a common taste who sought to lighten the burden of their hard lives with illicit sexual consort.

  Jonathan was indoctrinated into this group early in his life and admitted to dancing with many partners by the time he was seventeen. He proceeded to name every one of them, for that was what I wanted; hadn’t I begged for there to be no secrets between us? Thank goodness none in my family had been drawn into this sect, though it made me wonder if Nevin had an inkling of the darkness Jonathan was involved in, since he’d warned against him so vigorously. Among Jonathan’s most shocking admissions: he’d had his own mother-in-law, Katherine McDougal, though it had happened years before his arranged marriage to Evangeline. And he once let Titus Abercrombie, the town tutor, touch his cock in the woods behind the schoolhouse, though he allowed the old man no other liberties. “He wanted it so badly,” Jonathan explained, now full of regret, “and I was drunk on the power I held over him.”

  He moved closer to me and took my hand. “Lanny, you must believe me: I fell under Joanna’s influence—quite literally, for it is difficult for a young man to refuse a woman when she has his privates in her hand—and after that I felt, well, do not laugh at me, but I felt shamed, dirtied by what I had done. And the veil was lifted from my eyes; it wouldn’t be an understatement to say that I was consumed with a desire for pleasure and I realized there was no shortage of women who would accommodate me.”

  I managed to find my tongue. “So you had no reason to give yourself to me, an unworldly girl—”

  “That is not what I meant, Lanny! Do not twist my words,” he snapped, though his anger subsided quickly. “I didn’t turn to you because my desires seemed so sordid, so base. It seemed fitting that I should satisfy myself with women who had no expectations of me.”

  “That is why you took up with Sophia.” I understood then why Jonathan had started an affair with Sophia, a new bride to an oafish, insufferable husband.

  “I didn’t expect to come to care for her, to be frank.” Sadness passed over his face. “That was the start of our troubles, Lanny, yours and mine. Because if I hadn’t chosen that moment of weakness, after Sophia’s death, I never would’ve gotten you pregnant—”

  “And my father never would’ve sent me away to Boston.” And . . . neither of us needed to go on. We sat lost in somber thoughts at the recollection of the demon we were sure was on our trail.

  Our time with Byron and the countess ended a week later. As for my premonition that Byron had designs on us, there was one night when we four ended up in bed together, drunk and behind a barred door, safe from inadvertent discovery by a servant. Surprisingly, the evening passed tamely, for Teresa would not let Jonathan have her, and Byron seemed content to observe Jonathan swive me with great gusto. Perhaps all the poet wanted was to see Jonathan in his natural glory, for Byron scarcely looked away as we coupled.

  Days later, Byron told us he was decamping for Genoa; he had tired of living in a fishbowl, he claimed, with all eyes in the village upon him. He smiled at us like a fox, hope gleaming in his eyes. “You’re welcome to come with us. I’ve been invited to borrow a friend’s villa. There’s room for all.” To my great relief, Jonathan declined the invitation, and by week’s end we were on our way to the next unknown destination. But in the course of that summer, the damage had been done. Watching Byron and Teresa made only too clear what future unhappiness awaited me—while not blameless, Jonathan would always be trapped by his beauty the way Byron had been trapped by his notoriety—and we struck off on our own again, our fragile relationship well on its way to crumbling past the point of salvation.

  TWENTY-ONE

  BOSTON

  After his last encounter with Jonathan, Adair avoided him for an entire day. He kept to his room, where he scoured his books for a mention of this queen, and to the parlor, where—unable to shake his unease—he scowled down on passersby from the huge front window. He resisted the urge to see how Jonathan was coming along. He still smarted from Jonathan’s last remark, that this mysterious and powerful deity was sure to be surprised by his disappearance and would come looking for him.

  Adair knew that he’d acted hastily in bringing Jonathan back from the dead. He wanted to believe that, under other circumstances—if he’d merely been conducting an experiment, for instance, or testing a new spell—he’d have been more patient. He’d have researched the spell’s provenance and brushed up on each ingredient’s properties; in short, he would have prepared thoroughly and known exactly what he was getting into. But he’d rushed to use magic, like a novice who doesn’t know the danger and blunders foolishly into the unknown, and now he would suffer for it.

  Jonathan’s enigmatic reference to a woman with extraordinary powers had rattled Adair. She wouldn’t be a flesh-and-blood woman, of course, but then he was hard-pressed to envision what she would be. Most likely an entity of some kind, a demon or djinn, if there were such things—though he’d never encountered one in his dealings. If she was, indeed, the force that kept the worlds of the dead and living from ever meeting, she would be another type of being altogether. She would be among the most powerful forces in nature, an entity that might be thought of as a deity.

  Only now did he realize his folly: he’d made a grave error by provoking such a force without protecting himself first. It was like calling a tsunami forth without making sure you were a safe distance from the shore. Practitioners of the dark arts wrapped themselves in spells or stood in elaborate circles of charms to be safe from the spirits they unleashed, but he hadn’t thought any precautions would be necessary—not to wrest one soul back from the afterlife. But that soul was Jonathan, and nothing about Jonathan could ever be ordinary, apparently. Adair blamed himself for not looking beyond the obvious, not imagining that extraordinary measures might be required.

  If this queen of the underworld came looking for Jonathan, as Jonathan seemed to feel she would, Adair could see no choice but to let her take him. A damnable outcome, after all this trouble, and he struggled to come up with a way to keep this from happening. He was, after all, the ultimate lure for Lanore. She wouldn’t let hell itself stop her from coming to him if she knew he was alive. It pleased Adair to imagine her shock at learning Jonathan was in his custody. She would be desperate enough to do whatever he asked. But as with everything worthwhi
le, this, too, came at a price: Adair would have to witness her absolute elation at seeing Jonathan again, and be crushed to know that she’d never feel that way for him.

  As for taking possession of Jonathan’s perfect form, he was ready to admit that the body was beyond redemption and would never be fit to occupy. Better to release it and send the gigolo back to his mistress than to wait for her to come for him. Adair permitted himself no regrets. He was a scientist; it had been an experiment and it had failed. He would learn from this and move on, if that’s what it came to.

  Adair struggled with his doubts as he stood once again outside the room that held Jonathan. Objectively, he knew that bringing Jonathan back from the dead was one of his greatest feats, and yet it felt as though he had failed. And instead of being furious—for he hated failure above all things—Adair wished he could put everything aside and befriend Jonathan again, as though nothing had ever happened.

  He knew he shouldn’t let his guard down around Jonathan. He was a tricky fellow. After all, he’d helped Lanore banish him behind a stone wall, proof that he could be as merciless as she. However, just as Adair was finding it difficult to harden his heart against Lanore, he felt drawn to Jonathan, too, and found himself craving his companionship. He attributed his strange melancholy to exhaustion—and loneliness.

  Another odd consequence, Adair noticed, was that although he desired Jonathan’s company, it was difficult to be around him for long. Within minutes, he would feel an overwhelming urge to flee. It wasn’t a matter of being nervous. It was more like panic, but he knew of no reason why he should have this reaction to Jonathan, and could only think it had to do with Jonathan’s proximity to the next world.

  Adair wanted no part of the afterlife. He was sure that hell awaited him after death. The judgment he was sure to face in the afterlife was the only thing he had left to fear. Despite being secure in his immortality and confident that he’d cast the spell correctly, Adair had always known there would be an end for him. That day might not come until the sun swallowed the earth, when time itself collapsed and the fabric of the universe finally unraveled, but he’d always felt in his bones that there would be this final reckoning. Nothing he’d done would be forgotten, and he’d be held accountable for all his sins and crimes.

  When he knew he could avoid Jonathan no longer, Adair pushed the door open without knocking, to find Jonathan still sitting at the end of the bed, as immobile as a doll placed on a shelf. Again, Adair felt his nerves called to attention, tingling. His stomach twisted with a nameless anxiety, but he would not be deterred. “Come with me,” Adair commanded.

  Adair led Jonathan up a staircase that brought them to the rooftop garden. The space had been made into an outdoor room, complete with miniature trees and leafy green plants, furniture and lighting. Although a gardener kept the plantings trimmed and neat and the housekeeper kept everything spick-and-span, it had developed a forlorn air from disuse. After two centuries without a glimpse of the heavens, Adair ventured out whenever possible for a taste of nature, and found that the view from here was the best in the house. And sure enough, that night the sky was a luxurious expanse of purple with pinpoints of white, as beautiful as anything he’d ever seen. He sat and gratefully absorbed the night sky’s quiet energy for a moment.

  Under the starlight, Adair saw that Jonathan’s transformation had continued and he almost looked like his former self again. His face had undergone a change, something Adair couldn’t put his finger on, but whatever it was, it threw off the once-pleasing, classical proportions. His perfect face was perfect no more. It was more interesting, however. It made him seem like the kind of person a stranger wouldn’t hesitate to approach, as opposed to the imposing beauty he had been before. He’d changed in other ways, subtle but undeniable. He had an ethereal quality that he didn’t have before, almost as though he’d transcended his earthly body. He seemed lighter than air.

  They sat in garden chairs and stared at the canopy of heaven for a while before Adair felt ready to present his case. “Lanore’s trail has run cold. I can be patient no longer, Jonathan. I need you to tell me everything you know.”

  Jonathan hesitated for a moment. “I’ve been gone for months. Anything I know is useless by now. She must feel your presence and knows that you’re free. She’ll be using a different name, and I doubt she’d go back home.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Give me anything you have. The name you know, the address of her house. . . .” He thought of Pendleton and the hacker, and the miracles they’d been able to perform with only a tiny bit of information. He wanted to remain optimistic.

  Jonathan shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

  Adair expected to feel rage bubble up inside him at Jonathan’s refusal, yet it did not. There wasn’t an inkling of the familiar white-hot anger, not in his head, not in his heart. Instead, he was flooded with despair, undone by his need for Lanore. Whether she meant to or not, she’d altered him and he was disturbed by this profound change. He was so weakened by the prospect that she was lost to him forever that he couldn’t imagine going on without her. The depth of his devastation shocked him.

  Only one choice remained, and that was to ask Jonathan for his help. If anyone knew the secrets to Lanore’s heart, it would be him, and yet . . . Adair couldn’t imagine asking. Adair was unaccustomed to asking for anything: he’d always taken what he desired, at any cost, whether it was the life of someone who possessed knowledge that he craved, or the maidenhead of a comely girl fate put in his path. How ironic that he was now reduced to confiding in Jonathan, his former rival, a man who had never truly loved Lanore and had taken her love for granted. It seemed that fate would not spare him this indignity; as a matter of fact, it seemed to Adair that fate was going to considerable lengths to humble him.

  Adair sighed, his breath as heavy as water. “I need your help, Jonathan. I won’t harm Lanore, I swear. I’m not looking for revenge. I only want to see her again. Lanore has changed me somehow. I can’t think of her without going weak. I am helpless before her, if you can imagine. I admit that I spent decades behind that cursed wall, planning exactly what I would do to her when I found her. I wanted to break her neck; I wanted to hear her beg for my mercy. I thought about subjecting her to torments that now sicken me. To think that I ever contemplated doing such things to her! I cannot hurt her, Jonathan: I love her. Even the thought that someone might harm her alarms me. I only want to see her again, I give you my word.”

  He braced for laughter, for Jonathan to ridicule him, but Jonathan did neither of these things. He sat quietly and seemed to turn the thought over in his mind before he said, “People don’t change, Adair. The world just changes around them. Why should I believe what you’ve told me?”

  Adair drew back from him. “How can you say that people do not change? Look at you. The Jonathan I knew could love no one more than he loved himself, and yet eventually you fell in love and wed, and came to feel love as deeply and selflessly as Lanore. Can you not accept that I have changed as well? I would think my behavior would be proof enough. Do I seem like a man seeking revenge? Have I done anything to hurt you? I’ve admitted my weakness to you: what more evidence do you need?”

  Jonathan let slip a half smile. “True, I wouldn’t think such vulnerability possible of you or, if you’re lying, that you’d be able to do so this convincingly. I almost believe that you’re telling the truth.”

  Adair felt a wave of gratitude wash through him at Jonathan’s words. He was being whipsawed by his emotions, moved so profoundly and intimately that he would not have thought another person could understand what he was going through. And yet Jonathan did, and believed him, and Adair took great comfort from this. He then realized how rarely he confided in anyone about anything. He’d not had a confidant for as long as he could remember.

  Jonathan shifted his gaze to the starlit sky. “I think you are being honest with me. You have changed, Adair. And you’re right that she’s weakened you. . . . You�
��re no longer the ogre that you were. But that’s what love does. If it makes you strong in some ways, it makes you weak in others. What you gain, you lose elsewhere.”

  You lose elsewhere. The corners of Adair’s mouth twitched; perhaps more than just his emotional state was being affected. After all, it was probably all connected, his mental and physical state and his extraordinary powers. He hadn’t thought that his power might depend on the hardness of his heart or the iron of his will. He’d spent centuries building upon his knowledge of the physical world and cultivating a special kind of energy from the unseen one. But it was possible that he was now frittering it all away with the effort of finding Lanore. Perhaps he couldn’t afford to be in love.

  And yet, his need to see her was undeniable. He had to find her and look at her, touch her skin and stand in her presence one more time, even if it used up the last of his strength, even if it killed him. He couldn’t believe that pursuing Lanore would be the death of him; to the contrary, he sensed that being with her would bring him back to the way he was before, whole and strong.

  “Jonathan, all I know is that I must see her. No one knows Lanore’s heart better than you. Now that you know I intend her no harm, tell me how to win her.”

  As little as Adair cared to be pitied, he was glad to see Jonathan’s expression soften. “Well . . . first, you must accept that she may never love you, Adair. Too much may have transpired between the two of you for her to ever trust you. Without trust, there cannot be love.”