Help me!!! Had to promise all manner of unwholesome things in order to escape Hell. Oath forces me not to ask for help or to warn anyone. I stole the A. of C. and the R. of S. to try and ward off demon. Worked somewhat, but I don’t know how use! Advice to Theo and death of Gregor part of demon’s plan. Faking death of Gregor, my own idea, of course. Stolen W. of L. was for Gregor. Thought Theo would overcome C. staff. Dingbat. Demon’s goals: snuff family members who were greatest threat to demons. Any ideas?
Mab wrote:
What’s Logistilla’s part?
Ulysses replied:
Logi. envied Mir. her goddess. When a supernatural deity offered her a sibylship, she jumped. Turned out cute fuzzy goddess Abaddon in disguise. Ouch! Since both of us obliged to the same demon, Abdn, he let us help each other. Logi’s part not so bad, merely consigned to silence.
Titus loomed over the table, placing a note of his own next to Ulysses’s. He had written,
When I put down the Silence, do not speak of my staff. Wiser heads will ponder and get back to you. That my staff can interfere with demon magic is closely-guarded secret. Never understood why Father kept secret. Understand now. Had it been known, I would have been on demons’ death list, along with Gregor and Theo. Secret may have saved my life. If you blab, I will consider it a murder attempt and will defend myself as I see fit. COMPRENDO?
Ulysses nodded fervently. Titus looked around at the rest of us. I nodded. So did Mab. Cornelius had withdrawn to the corner, where he sat huddled near the fluting pipes. Logistilla, though craning her neck, was too far away to read the message.
Theo leaned across the table from the far side and took the pencil from Ulysses’s fingers. He tugged on Gregor’s sleeve and then wrote:
The name of the monster who stole our lives: Abaddon.
Looking up again, he met Gregor’s eyes. Something passed between them, some unspoken promise to which the rest of us were not privy.
With a start, I realized Theo was right.
Father was trapped in Hell because he had ripped open a hole to the Inferno. He did this to resurrect Gregor—whom he thought was dead. Really, Gregor had been taken prisoner by Ulysses, who was obeying the orders of Abaddon.
Theo had taken his vow because of his false belief that Gregor’s reward for his many years of service was to burn in Hell. In fact, I believed that part of Father’s motives for rescuing Gregor was that he hoped seeing his brother alive might rouse Theo from his vow-induced folly. But actually, Theo’s trouble was caused by the fact that he swore his oath upon Cornelius’s staff—the staff that Baelor’s Great One woke up so that it worked its magic upon him, despite Cornelius’s best efforts. And this idea—swearing upon the Staff of Persuasion—had been suggested by Ulysses, at the request of Abaddon.
Abaddon was responsible for all the harm my family had suffered in the last century. Logistilla, too, had been tricked by him. His actions had deprived Prospero, Inc. of Gregor and Theo, resulting in difficulty binding new spirits and enforcing our Priority Contracts, which, in turn, led to natural disasters and the death of mortals.
I had a pretty good idea who Baelor’s “Great One” must be.
Finally, we had an enemy, a target against whom we could direct our wrath at the ill treatment of our brothers—assuming we could figure out how to descend into Hell and challenge one of the seven devils who ran the place to personal combat. I could tell from the look in their eyes that Theo and Gregor had in mind something exactly like that.
When they took on Abaddon, I wanted to be with them. I wanted to be there when the creature that nearly destroyed my family fell.
The only injury we could not pin on the Angel of the Bottomless Pit was Mephisto’s madness. That was apparently the Queen of Air and Darkness’s doing. She would have her comeuppance as well.
The demons were right to fear us. No one could smite the Family Prospero and escape unscathed—not when we worked together. Only apart could we be defeated.
Titus touched the butt of his staff to the floor, and the world rushed in upon our ears again.
“Ah! That was . . . disconcerting,” Mab said, covering and uncovering his ears. He tore out the pages upon which Ulysses and Titus had written and handed them to Titus, before pocketing his notebook. “Here, I think that’s all the weirdness I can take at the moment. I’m going down to the kitchens for a cup of coffee. Anyone care to join me?”
To my great surprise, Cornelius stood. “I’ll come with you, Spiritling, if you are willing to endure my company.”
Mab’s eyebrows shot up. He glanced at me. I shrugged. He said, “Sure, no problem. Be warned, though, I reserve the right to spill coffee on you if you get all high and mighty with me.”
“It is a chance I shall have to take,” Cornelius replied, rising and carefully falling in step with Mab, his white cane tapping the way before him.
Still holding the torn notebook page, Titus said, “I shall show all this to Erasmus when he wakes. We can then discuss how to proceed.”
“Lot of good Erasmus will do you,” I muttered, turning away.
I left the room and came upon Caliban, returning the instrument he had repaired. He paused and said in a low voice, “Miranda, you are too hard on Erasmus. He blames himself.”
“Blames himself for what?” I snapped. Caliban just looked at me with dark eyes as deep as mountain pools. Realization came slowly and painfully. “Y-you mean . . . for the attack . . . on me?”
He nodded. “He feels if he had taken proper precautions, you would not have been harmed.”
“And he would still have his precious Water of Life,” I muttered.
“Do you really think so badly of him?”
“He hates me! What makes you think his motives are more noble?”
“I was there when he found you last night. I saw his face,” said Caliban, adding, “You may not be his favorite sister, but you are his sister.”
Robbed even of my righteous indignation toward Erasmus, I walked dejectedly back to my room.
It had been a dark day for the Family Prospero.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Crowns and Figurines
The heavens opened and the earth shook. Thunderclouds, dark as pitch, rolled across the sky, raining sleet and hailstones the size of roc’s eggs down upon the island. Gale-force winds tore branches from trees and tossed sea birds about like so much flotsam. The tower creaked, groaning under the onslaught of the winds.
Standing upon the balcony outside my bedroom, I orchestrated the storm. The skies wept at my command, winds and rain dancing to the strains of my flute. The music gave voice to the anguish in my heart, and the elements obeyed the music, raging and storming in time with my torment.
For over an hour I played thus. The tempest shaking the island was kin to the one my father summoned to shipwreck Ferdinand—the real Ferdinand—and his father so many years ago. Eventually, however, I grew weary and withdrew. As I lay down upon my bed, the fervor of the winds abated some, and the noise of the driving sleet changed to the soft patter of rain.
How long I lay, I cannot say. My thoughts chased each other like gray ghosts, each blaming the other for its demise.
If only . . . if only . . . if only . . .
Worn and weary I turned for comfort to . . . an empty gash in the fabric of my soul. My Lady was gone.
All day, this had happened to me; yet, no amount of empty repetition of the sad and dreary fact that She was gone helped it to sink in. I would only just finish reminding myself, when, torn by sorrow, I would again seek comfort by turning to that inner place, now a vast empty abyss, where once Her gentle and comforting presence had dwelt. Habits are hard to break, especially habits born of over five hundred years of dutiful obedience.
“Grieving,” men called this horrible pain: the pain of a lost limb, the pain of a lost loved one, the pain of losing one’s guiding star.
Seeking a distraction, I rose and paced the room. My path took me by the mirror, where, from its sil
very depths, my new reflection mocked me. How young and vulnerable my raven locks made me look—I, who felt as aged as an ancient mountain. “Black as obsidian,” Ferdinand had said. Or had that been Astreus?
Thinking of the elf lord reminded me that I had never returned Astreus’s figurine to my father’s mantel. I crossed the room and reached into the pocket of my white cashmere cloak. Sure enough, the statuette Mephisto had made for me was still there, where I had stuck it when I went to help Zephyrus. I drew it forth.
It was a good likeness of the laughing elf lord with his dancing eyes, evoking within my breast both longing and dread. Astreus’s presence worked upon me like a strong wine, and part of me, the part that could still think of the Book of the Sibyl without weeping, longed to thank him in person.
“What is your part in all this, Elf? ” I demanded of the little statue, with its twinkling sapphire eyes. It did not answer, of course, but as I regarded the figurine, it struck me that this looked remarkably like a piece of Mephisto’s staff. I examined the figurine more closely, stroking the smooth polished wood and peered into the gems that made its eyes. It was the same general size as Mephisto’s aborted carving of Mab. Mab had claimed that carving was magical. Could this figurine be magical, too?
Impulsively, I tapped it on the mantel, the way Mephisto would tap his staff to call his creatures. Only afterward did the sheer folly of my action strike me. What if it worked? Elves were tricky, and I hardly wished to entertain one in my boudoir! I glanced around nervously, but nothing occurred. Feeling foolish, I put the figurine on the mantel and returned to sit on the foot of my bed.
As I sat there, without hope, my glance fell upon the stone wall of the balcony. I considered what it might be like to seek oblivion by launching myself from that stony height. I imagined plummeting toward the valley, arms outstretched, but dismissed the thought with a shake of my head. Not only would my pride not allow me to take such a coward’s way out, but also this was my father’s island. His airy servants would, likely as not, catch me before I hit the ground, and I would be left very much alive, having to explain my foolishness to a mocking Erasmus.
The rain was still falling, and night was coming. It would soon be time to attempt the summoning of Father. Only, why did I think night was coming? Outside, the sky was no darker, in fact, as the rain lessened, it grew lighter. Yet, my room was dark and gloomy. The darkness seemed to be emanating from the corner near the fireplace. My heart skipped a beat.
Seir of the Shadows!
Determined not to be caught unarmed again, I lunged for my fan, which lay on the mahogany dresser. My hand closed around its cool handle. Only then did I realize that, in my hurry to arm myself, I had left my flute resting against the wall, a mere yard from where darkness was solidifying into the form of the handsome sable incubus.
The pounding of my heart echoed in my ears louder than any thunder. The flute. I could not lose the flute, too!
Seir stepped from the shadows, blood-red eyes glancing about my room. Darkness poured from Gregor’s staff, causing the incubus’s black opera cape to billow. In the semidarkness, his perfect face looked so beautiful, as if a statue carved from black marble by one of the masters of old had come to life. My heart nearly stopped. He turned his head at the sigh of my breath.
Seir’s scarlet eyes met mine, and he gazed at me in fascination, drinking in my features as might a long-parted lover. I kept my eyes trained on him, willing myself not to glance at the flute.
“Sweet Miranda,” he murmured. His lips parted in delight, and he leaned Gregor’s staff against the wall. “All alone.”
An alarming tingle traveled through my body. Just looking at his beauty produced an unpleasantly heady sensation, like honeyed wine laced with poison. Thankfully, I need not endure this. I turned to my Lady for protection.
Only, She was not there . . . oh, Lord!
Trembling, I brandished my fan. Its silvery slats gleamed like the moon in the gloom. Without taking his eyes off my face, he raised his hands, as if to show he was harmless. Glowering, I stood my ground.
“Depart,” I warned, “or you shall follow your companions back to Hell!”
“Your brothers dispatched my companions, did they?” he asked. “I cannot say I am dismayed. Vile creatures, both. They are back in the Inferno, and no longer ‘shadowed,’ so I am, at long last, free from the burden of concerning myself with them. Baelor writhes in the torture pits of the Malbolge, where the Torturers debate with him upon the topic of his recent failures. While Osae sits at Queen Lilith’s feet, basking in her twisted affection and drinking from her cup—his reward for some evil deed he accomplished before his demise. Did he take one of your brothers with him?”
“No” I whispered hoarsely.
“Ah. A pity.”
The thought of Osae being petted and coddled as a reward for assaulting me filled my throat with bile. The idea so disturbed me that I nearly missed Seir’s other piece of information.
“Lilith! The Three Shadowed Ones work for the Queen of Air and Darkness?”
“Did you not know that our original duty was to retrieve the Spear of Longinus?” Seir replied.
“Of course! The Spear of Joseph of Arimathea!” I cried, recalling that after the Vatican raid, Father built the spear into the Staff of Devastation. “That’s why you three started hunting Theo, wasn’t it?”
“Exactly. It was Her Majesty, the Queen of Air and Darkness, who provided that spear to the Roman centurion, Longinus.” He tilted his head, his scarlet eyes regarding me unblinkingly. “Surely, you do not think just any spear could have killed the Son of God?”
“Oh my!” I breathed, stunned.
His words made a sickening kind of sense. Just as Lilith had given the Unicorn Hunters enchanted weapons, she must also have supplied the spear that stabbed Christ on the Cross. She would hate the Savior for reasons similar to those that caused her to hate Eurynome.
This hatred of hers was destroying my family.
First, it had led to Mephisto’s madness. Now, Osae had given Lilith yet another victory against my Lady, robbing Her of one of Her loyal Handmaidens—and it had been centuries since I had come upon another one. No wonder Osae supped from Lilith’s own cup!
Lilith and Abaddon. Between them, the Family Prospero was nearly a memory.
Seir cocked his head and glided closer. “How beautiful you are! Like a white rose on a misty day. Pristine and beautiful and untouched.”
He reached out and touched my cheek, and I let him, mesmerized. Despite my desire to recoil or to slash off his head, my hand would not rise to stop him. Where his sable fingers touched my skin, pleasant tremors raced through my body. My thoughts swam, and I found myself able to think of nothing except how nice it would be to lie down.
Closing my eyes and drawing a ragged breath, I slid the tip of my finger along the edge of my fan. The pain woke me. I stuck the finger in my mouth, licking the blood. The incubus watched in rapt wonder, as if he were as spellbound as I had been moments before.
I swung the fan, slashing at him. He vanished, appearing three feet away.
“Sweet, my love! You need not carry on so. Come to my arms, and I shall show you such wonders as will transport you beyond mere mortal pleasure. Your body shall sing like a harp, and your heart will match mine in its enduring love.”
“You? Enduring love?” I laughed.
Would my brothers hear me if I screamed? Unlikely, the walls were thick, but perhaps Mab waited by the door.
Seir tilted his head. His inhuman eyes trained on my lips. “Do you think we incubi do not love? You do women an unkindness! Women are not such fickle creatures. A few can be fooled with sweet words and gentle caresses, but only the unusually naïve. To truly lead a virtuous woman astray, we must offer her genuine love, or she would see through us as easily as one sees through a transparent window. So, of course, I love you. How could I look at you, so brave and fair, a thing alone and unappreciated in such a cruel, callous world, and not a
dore you?”
“You admit you are trying to lead me astray!”
“I am an incubus. You would hardly believe me if I said otherwise.”
“You are too late,” I muttered, turning away.
Seir turned, too. I heard the sharp intake of his breath and the soft words, “So, that is why I am here!”
Fearing he must have seen my flute, I spun around. He was staring not at my instrument, but at the mantel. I followed the direction of his gaze. The oval mirror above the mantelpiece reflected both the sable incubus and the little wooden figurine with its sapphire eyes. A chill ran up my spine. What I was seeing made no sense.
Then, suddenly, it did.
I crept backward until my back was to the mahogany dresser. Resting against it, I reached behind me and felt around until my fingers closed upon the object I desired.
“Seir? Come to me,” I called softly. When he came, I whispered, “Close your eyes.”
To my amazement, he did. His red eyes closed, and he leaned toward me, as if to meet my kiss. Seeing the incubus, who knew I was still carrying the war fan, close his eyes in trust made me feel obscurely less foolish about having walked toward the Ferdinand I thought to be him on the bluff. With his neck so exposed, it was a pity I no longer wanted to kill him.
I placed the circlet of silver and horn upon his head. In my mind, Father Christmas’s deep voice echoed: “When the time comes to use it, Child, you will know.”
“What becomes of tithed elves?” I whispered softly.
A puff of black snow surrounded Seir, and my heart skipped. I recognized that ebony snow. It was the same stuff that had surrounded Astreus when he walked into Father Christmas’s feast hall on Christmas. The dark, sooty cloud that had made me start with fear and regret having left my flute in my room—because I feared that it contained Seir.
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