by Kim Wilkins
“Yes.”
“And you cured her stammer?”
“Yes.”
“And have you also spoken with my sister Mary?”
“Yes.”
“And you filled her room with rich objects?”
“Yes.”
Deborah shook her head, exasperated. “I don’t believe it! We had an agreement.”
“No, you tried to force an agreement upon them.”
She studied him for a few moments. A church clock in the distance struck three chimes. Was it that late?
He met her gaze evenly. “What do you want, Deborah Milton?”
“Want?” The question threw her. “I … I know not what I want.”
“I can give you whatever it is you want. Do you want pleasure? I can give you pleasure.”
“Pleasure is not pleasure if it is bestowed so easily,” she said, stepping back. He suddenly felt too close.
He narrowed his eyes slightly, as though trying to read into her mind. “What is it, then?” he asked. “What do you want?”
“Why are you so concerned with giving me what I want? Will my wish be granted in exchange for my soul?”
He looked as though he were trying to cover a smile. “Your soul?” Then he began to laugh. “Is this why you fear me? You fear that I will take your soul?”
“The soul’s fortune is not a matter to be laughed about,” she said, standing her ground even though he had inched forward.
“Deborah, you misunderstand me. You misunderstand us. All the fallen angels … we are misunderstood.”
“Yes, yes, as you have tried to explain ere now.”
“I am your guardian. I am your protector.”
“You are a liar.”
“I have never lied to you. I told you I am an angel and so I am.” His voice rose and his face grew angry.
“You are not very patient for an angel.”
“Forget what you have heard of angels — fallen or otherwise.”
“You ask what I want. I want to know if it is safe to talk with you. I command you to tell me.”
“It is always safe.”
“And there will be no ill consequences, for myself or my sisters, in pursuing such occult knowledge of spirits and demons and fallen angels? I command you to tell me the truth.”
“No ill consequences. None at all.”
She fell silent for a long time, contemplating.
“You will grow old if you wait to be entirely sure, Deborah. Nothing is given to us as a certainty.” He reached under his tunic. “Here, if you desire to know what your sisters do when you are not with them, use this.” He pulled out a small looking glass, embedded in carved stone with a short handle.
“What is it?” she said, warily taking it from his hand.
“It is a scrying mirror, a shewglass. Magic. Go on, look in it.”
She looked in it, but only saw her own face in the moonlight. “I see nothing unusual.”
“Ask it where your sisters are.”
Curious now, she leaned close to the mirror and said, “Show me Anne.” A mist crept across the mirror, and a vision appeared. Anne, sleeping, curled up on her side.
“Now, pass your hand over the mirror to clear the vision.”
She did as he said, and the image disappeared. She realised she hadn’t breathed for nearly a half a minute. “I cannot accept this,” she said, thrusting the mirror out to him. “I do not wish to spy on my sisters.”
“Not just your sisters. Anyone. Your father. Your stepmother. Anyone.”
She held out the mirror. “I don’t want it. Not until I have made up my mind.”
“I cannot take it back.”
“Then I shall break it.”
“It can only be broken by magic as it is a magical device. Deborah, why are you turning away from this power? Did you not want your life to be extraordinary? Did you not want to know of physic and natural philosophy?”
“Yes, yes, I want those things, but I do not wish to pay too dearly for them. And until I am sure of the price, I will not commit myself.”
“Keep the mirror. I can argue with you no longer. Unless you have something else to command me to do, I will take my leave.”
“Certainly, go. And take this with you.” She held out the mirror one more time. He smiled, then vanished without another word.
“I shan’t keep it,” she said aloud, even though she was now alone in the garden. Though perhaps it would be prudent to hide it somewhere, in case someone less responsible found it.
She crept back into the house and up to her closet. She wrapped the mirror in an old shift and hid it under the bed, then climbed between the covers.
Sleep would not come. Her mind was in turmoil. The angel, under command, had assured her she was safe; Amelia had admonished her for her fears; her sisters were so certain that Lazodeus was genuine that they had dealt with him secretly.
As dawn broke, she found herself unwrapping the mirror again, laying it in her lap and gazing at her reflection in its gleaming surface.
“Show me Father,” she said. And there he was, sitting upright in his chair, eyes closed. But he was awake, she knew. He would have woken with the first birdsong. He was probably thinking, planning his epic in his head. She gazed at his face, thought about all that he had taught her: languages, philosophies, art and poetry. Not the key to the secrets of the universe, and yet … perhaps it was enough. She passed her hand over the mirror and wrapped it once more. She hid it securely and vowed not to open it again, climbed into bed and, at length, slept.
8
Flesh to Mix with Flesh
Mary had not seen Deborah all morning, so had assumed she was up early working with Father. When she crept into Deborah’s closet to borrow a ribbon, she certainly didn’t expect to see her younger sister still lying in her bed.
“Oh, Deborah, forgive me. I assumed you were up and gone.”
Deborah sat up sleepily. Her face was puffy and her eyes half-lidded. “So, here is my false sister Mary.”
“False? What do you mean?”
“I have two false sisters. You have both lied to me, you have both betrayed my trust, for each of you has spoken with Lazodeus.”
Mary feigned innocence. “I know not what you mean.”
“The decorations in your secret room, Anne’s easy speech. These were granted by the angel.”
“That is not so,” Mary said, although it confirmed her suspicion that Anne had contacted Lazodeus, damn her. “Wallace gave me the velvets.”
Deborah waved her hand. “You needn’t lie any more. Lazodeus himself told me.”
An awful, hot jealousy grasped her heart. “You have spoken with him?”
“Yes, I have, though you aren’t to think I called him for any other reason than to explain your betrayals to me.”
“You called him and he came?”
“Yes, why do you gape so? You called him, Anne called him, why should I not call him? Is he not my angel also?”
“But … he is no longer ours. We no longer command him.”
“What do you mean? You make no sense.”
“I … He told me we no longer command him.”
A moment of distrust crossed Deborah’s face. “But he responded to my commands.”
Mary shook her head. “It cannot be. I made an awful mistake. I commanded him to be our friend, instead of our servant.”
Deborah glared at her. “Say you are joking, Mary. Say you did nothing so dangerous as to relinquish our command.”
“He said he will still serve us, but as he wishes, rather than as we instruct.”
“Then he may have lied to me. All of those questions I commanded him to answer truthfully, he may have lied to every one.”
“No, no. He is not a liar.”
“I cannot trust the angel. I think that perhaps it were better if none of us ever attempted to make contact again.”
“He does not respond to my calls anyway,” Mary said, dropping her head. Why? Why had Laz
odeus come to Anne and Deborah and not her? Was he punishing her? Did he like her least? A deep well of anger began to boil within her.
“I think I shall rely upon my usual sources for knowledge,” Deborah was saying. “I think I will live without the dubious knowledge that Lazodeus offers.”
“Oh, so you shall rely upon Father? A useless, blind relic?”
“At least I may trust him. At least he behaves consistently.”
“I do not care to listen to such nonsense. I am going to my secret room.”
“And may you spend some time in there contemplating what you have done, how you have betrayed us, how you have let ambition come between the bonds of sisterhood.”
“Don’t be so pious, Deborah. It is unbecoming in a woman of your young age.” Mary walked out with purpose, determined to shout and scream and rage until Lazodeus turned up. She fed Max a biscuit from her drawer, then left him behind to go to her secret room. She centred herself on a rich oriental rug and called, “Lazodeus. Come to me.” Nothing happened.
“I said come to me. I command you to come!” Her voice grew desperate. “I know that in the last few days you have been commanded by both Anne and Deborah, so you must also be commanded by me!”
A long silence followed, and Mary felt a sick whirlwind of anger rising up inside her. She picked up a candelabra and hurled it at the fireplace. Crack. The noise was satisfying. She threw another. “Damn you, Lazodeus. Come to me!” Her voice rose to a shriek. “Come, angel. Be at my command.” She began to pick up the cushions and fling them about, tear them with her hands, kick them and stomp them into the floor. “Where are you?” she shouted. “Damn you, where are you?”
Already her rage was diminishing. She sank to the floor among the cushions and wailed. “I hate you, angel. I hate you,” she said, and naming the awesome swell of emotions that she felt seemed to help. “I despise you, I …”
She trailed off as she noticed movement near the ceiling. A long curtain of gold cloth which she had not seen before, was gently unfurling. “Lazodeus?” she said, hope rushing back into her heart. “Are you here, angel?”
The curtain fell to the ground with a soft whump. She watched it with expectation. Something moved behind it. “Lazodeus?” she asked again, quieter, hopping lightly to her feet.
No answer.
“Who is there?” she said, and her voice wavered slightly.
A man’s hand appeared around the edge of the curtain. He wore a gem on each finger. Mary took a step back. If not Lazodeus then who was it?
A man with a long black wig drew the curtain back and stepped out. He was tall and imposing, with a small moustache, dressed in fine gold and blue clothes.
Mary gasped, fell immediately into a curtsy. She had seen him in many portraits. “Your Majesty.” When she dared look up, the King was approaching her, his finger held to his lips in a gesture to be silent. She stood straight and waited for him, her heart beating wildly. Had Lazodeus finally decided to grant her request? Did that mean he was nearby, watching? She glanced quickly about the room, but was soon distracted by a brush of the King’s fingers across her shoulder.
“Your Majesty, I —”
He pressed his finger against her lip. Said, “Shhh.” She curled her tongue around his finger and drew it into her mouth. He caught her around the curve of her back and pressed her against him. How was this possible? Or was anything possible for Lazodeus, with his angel magic? If so, she had been a fool to let him go. The King found her lips with his, pressed hard against them, his moustache bristling against her soft skin. He groaned softly, and she felt a swooning sensation of power. The King, the mightiest man in the land, groaning at her charms. She felt a laugh bubbling on her lips, allowed it to spill over. The King drew back and smiled at her, then indicated she should undress.
He stood back as she unlaced her bodice, slipped it over her head, loosened her skirt and stepped out of it to stand proudly in her shift. He raised his hand to encourage her to continue. As he did and his cuff rode up over his wrist, she thought she saw a red, scabrous patch on his arm. She hardly gave it a second thought as she wriggled out of her shift and stood naked in front of him. A cool breeze crept in the window, making the curtains in the room dance slowly, and bringing gooseflesh up on her skin. The King admired her with a hungry gaze. He stepped closer, taking the weight of her breasts in his hands. A guttural sigh escaped his lips.
“For your enjoyment, Your Majesty,” she said in spite of his charge to remain silent.
“On the floor,” he whispered, and his voice was low and strange, almost a croak. “And say nothing else.”
She lowered herself to the floor and lay back among the cushions, allowed her knees to fall apart slightly, teasing him with the sight of her quim. He gazed down upon her, and his face was a mask of violent longing. She ran her hands over her breasts, inviting him. He knelt next to her, and she reached up for his jacket, trying to push it from his shoulders. He flicked her hand away and shook his head. Instead he loosened his member from the front of his breeches, put a knee either side of her shoulder and forced himself into her mouth. She gagged at first, and then caught his rhythm and watched his face above her. His eyes were closed in ecstasy. She put her hands up to cup his buttocks, and felt that his skin was rough and scaly. Did he have some skin disease? Is this why he didn’t want to undress? Why, this was perfect: she had learned something about the King that perhaps none but the closest to him knew. Her hands crept around to the front of his tunic, eased out his shirt and slid her hands under it. The skin on his belly was rough, and so red it frightened her. She hoped he wouldn’t pass this illness to her. He fought her hands back down and pinned them at her sides. This was uncomfortable and tiresome. She tried to take pleasure in his pleasure, but wished for him to make love to her in the usual fashion. At least that felt like someone was holding her, appreciating all of her instead of just a single orifice. She closed her eyes, bored, to await his climax. He began to grunt loudly, then the grunts turned to moans, then to yelps. She opened her eyes to watch him, but when she saw what knelt above her, a shock went to her heart.
It was no longer the King. It was a scarlet, scabrous thing, a man-sized toad in fine clothes, its eager face a twisted confusion of bug’s eyes, cat’s mouth, goat’s beard, pig’s snout. Had she not had its member rammed so firmly down her throat, she would have screamed loud enough to shatter the earth. As it was, she choked out a shocked grunt, and brought her teeth down hard on its flesh. It yelped and immediately withdrew, clapping a clammy hand over her mouth to stop her screaming. She struggled against it violently, but it had her pinned down.
“Don’t scream, Mary,” it said in the horrible, whiskery croak that she had taken for the King’s whisper earlier.
But all she could do was scream, even though her cries remained trapped beneath its palm. Horror was shuddering up through her body in furious tremors. She had forgotten the King, the angel, the whole mess. Escape was everything. She strained against the creature, kicking her legs savagely and trying to turn her head. Seconds drew out into infinity and her heart felt as if it might burst with terror.
“Mary, be calm.” Another voice. She looked around wildly. Oh, thank God, thank God. It was Lazodeus. The creature released her and cringed away from the angel. She drew her breath to scream but this time Lazodeus dropped his hand over her mouth. “Shh now, Mary, shh. Don’t scream, or your sisters will come running in here.” He lifted his hand slowly and she drew a great breath.
“What is it? What is that thing?”
Lazodeus turned to the creature and with a gesture of his hand, it disappeared. He returned his attention to Mary. “You must be calm. I will explain all, but first be calm.”
She nodded. An unbearable pressure built up behind her eyes and she began to sob. Lazodeus cradled her in his arms, shushed her softly. The horror of the last few minutes, the dashed hopes of the last few months, all weighed upon her like a millstone. As she clung to him damply, she sob
bed and sobbed until her body shook. Slowly, she became aware of the marvellous warmth of his body, the achingly gentle movements of his hands as he stroked her hair. Her skin prickled, and she suddenly felt unbearably vulnerable in her nakedness. She sat up, pushed him away and crossed her arms over her breasts.
“I am sorry,” she said. “Forgive me, I should dress.”
“Mary, do not be ashamed. I have known you since you were a child. Your nakedness is no disgrace.”
“I feel strange,” she said, and as she said it she knew it for one of the profoundest statements she had ever uttered. “I do not know how I feel.” Sweet, aching, empty. “You make me feel strange.”
He collected her in his arms once again, pushed her hands away from her breasts and tentatively reached out his own hand. Gently, his index finger caressed a nipple. She gasped. A tremor fluttered up her thighs. “Do you like the strange feeling, Mary?” he asked.
She nodded, her eyes glued to his.
His hand trailed down, down. Her belly twitched as he grazed it. He leaned in and kissed her above the navel, below the navel. His fingers descended. Mary felt her breathing become shallow. What incredible pleasure as he deftly found his mark between her legs.
“Oh,” she said, for all other words had been robbed of her.
“Lie back. Let me show you.”
She felt unsafe, her self-control slipping through her grasp, the world beneath her listing slowly to one side. He pushed her back among the cushions, stretched out at his full, spectacular length beside her. His full lips descended over one nipple, his fingers moving deliciously inside her, long hot strokes which created tingles and spaces of pleasure which she had never known existed. Too late she realised that this may be what she made her lovers feel, that Lazodeus may be taking from her the very power she took from them. Too late. She was cresting a wave which was rushing to shore; all she could do was abandon her body to its fate. An incredible, shuddering pleasure-pain shot up inside her. She felt herself moving with it, collapsing over it. It lasted a few moments and then died away, leaving her buzzing lightly with warm satisfaction.
Lazodeus sat up and grabbed her shift, laid it gently over her. “Is this angel magic?” she gasped.