Angel of Ruin

by Kim Wilkins

  15

  Seduce Them to Our Party

  Betty — frantic, stomach fluttering and skull buzzing — paced the kitchen while blockheaded Liza prepared their tea.

  Soon Father Bailey would be missed. Lettice would be at the door asking questions. Gossip would spread. Betty would be blamed.

  The girls. What would they do to her?

  A noise near the door made Betty look up. Deborah. She felt her whole body shrink away from her stepdaughter.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I need to speak to you, Betty.”

  “What do you have to say?”

  Deborah glanced towards Liza. Of course Deborah wanted them to be alone. But if Liza were not there with her, who would protect her?

  “I am …” Betty started.

  “Afraid? Do not be.”

  Betty gazed at Deborah a long time, apprehensive. Then took a deep breath. “Let us walk into the garden. Liza,” she said to the maidservant, “please do not disturb us.”

  She led Deborah out the back door and they sat on the stone bench against the wall. The sky was nearly fully light now, but the coming day did not fill Betty with hope as much as horror. How many hours would pass before someone came looking for Father Bailey?

  Deborah turned to her and, to Betty’s surprise, grasped her hand. “I fear for you, Betty.”

  Terror washed over her. “What do you mean?”

  “You must not question what Mary does any more. You must not question any of us, but especially not Mary. Mary grows dangerous.”

  A small rage ignited in her stomach. “So I am being threatened by you? By my stepdaughter?”

  “This is not a threat. This is a warning, a benevolent warning. Mary will leave you alone if you drop all your investigations into our conduct.”

  “Can you guarantee that? You are not Mary.”

  “I know far more than Mary.”

  “You are but a girl,” Betty said. “How can I take my comfort from you?”

  “What other comfort have you been offered?” Deborah shook her head. “Betty, this is not one of your childish superstitions. This is real, this is danger. I will protect you as much as I can, but if you delve into Mary’s affairs again … I fear for you.”

  Anger and terror fought within her. “And what of Father Bailey?”

  “I will take care of Father Bailey as best I can.”

  “Where is he? Sent to the infernal realm with the devils you worship?”

  “I worship no devils. Father Bailey is in a swoon, wrapped in an arras, under Mary and Anne’s bed.”

  A hot rush of dread moved up Betty’s back. She groaned. “He will die,” she said, “and I shall be blamed.”

  “I think I can save him. I think I can reverse the magic they performed, but you must promise me that you will leave us be, that you will turn a blind eye to our activities, and go on as if nothing has ever happened.”

  “And what of your father? Should he not know what kind of daughters he has raised?”

  Deborah wove her fingers together as though trying to steady them. For the first time in this exchange she dropped her eyes and seemed at a loss for words. “Yes, what of Father?” Slowly, she raised her head and looked at Betty with pleading eyes. “Betty, for the love you bear him and for the love I bear him, he is safer if he knows nothing.”

  Betty knew this to be true. As much as she wanted to be rid of the girls and recognised this as her best opportunity so far, there was too much danger in pursuing it.

  “But are there devils in this house? Should I not fear them?”

  Deborah lifted her eyes upwards, thinking. In that very serious, considerate way that she had, she said, “There is a force in this house that begins to run out of control, but all my endeavours are now bent towards solving that problem. And I do not believe it is necessarily evil, perhaps mischievous. I assure you, this force is not a devil. I believe you have nothing to fear if, as I have said, you stay away from our affairs, and especially from Mary’s.”

  Betty shook her head. “I want to trust you, but … Father Bailey …”

  “Let me think upon it. Today or tomorrow I will do something.”

  “I …”

  “Betty, you have no other choice. You must trust me. I have little love for you, nor you for me, but at the moment we are united by a common enemy and a common love. I will undertake to manage Mary if you undertake to protect yourself and Father.”

  The girl was right. Betty had no choice but to trust her. And to be truthful, she had started to feel a sneaking hope that Deborah could protect her, that this nightmare of bad omens would soon be behind her.

  “I agree, then,” Betty said, and to say it was a relief. “I shall not tell your father.”

  Anne felt the covers slowly slipping from her upper body. He was coming for her. He was angry and he would repay her. Gently, gently, trying not to wake her, he was tugging the covers down. She was unable to stop him, tried to call out but couldn’t. Could only make a grinding, guttural noise in her throat.

  A long space where nothing happened. She almost relaxed, and then suddenly, with icy hands, he seized her feet.

  She woke with a start. Looked down. Her covers were still in place, no cold hands touched her feet. The exorcist was still in his unnatural sleep in the arras, with the dust and shadows beneath the bed.

  Anne took a deep breath. Her heart was thumping madly in her chest. Merely a nightmare. But it wasn’t merely a nightmare — it was true. A man lay bewitched directly beneath her. She rolled over and watched Mary for a few moments, breathing deeply, sleeping the sleep of the innocent. How could she? Why was she not mad with anxiety as Anne was?

  She wanted so desperately for the angel to return and remove their guilty secret from the room. Surely, when Father Bailey was returned to his home, she would sleep easily again. If the guilt did not trouble her too badly.

  She flipped onto her back and stared into the dark. Over and over, she had berated herself for her guilt. The exorcist had tried to kill Lazodeus, and the revenge they took had saved her beloved from annihilation. No blame lay with her. She was simply saving the creature that she loved most dearly in the world.

  But it felt all wrong.

  Anne closed her eyes and tried to reclaim her lost sleep, but without success. She imagined she could hear the sound of the exorcist’s breathing, or even a struggling, suffocating cough. Finally, she threw back the covers and got out of bed, went to stand by the window.

  A light still burned in the window across the way. Happy people with less complicated lives. She watched the light for a while, trying not to let her thoughts return to the awful secret under the bed. What was taking Lazodeus so long? Did he not realise that if he didn’t return soon, Father Bailey would die for want of food and water? Or would the enchantment protect him?

  Protect him? He was dead in life in the state they had induced. Once again guilt rose, self-hatred on its heels. She put her head in her hands and pressed her fingers savagely into her face. Why can’t you be more like Mary? She loves him more than you do, and he will see it.

  If only he would come.

  “Lazodeus,” she whispered into the dark, but with no expectation. And, indeed, no luck. She watched the light in the opposite window until she was too tired to hold her eyes open any longer, then she went back to bed to dream of icy hands grasping desperately at her ankles.

  When morning came, it was almost a surprise. Daylight once more. It took a few seconds to remember the horror under the bed, but then the memory returned swiftly and slyly. Mary was already out of bed and gone to breakfast. Anne lay there a few moments, then rolled over.

  And found the note.

  Gently positioned half under her pillow, a crisp piece of paper folded in half, then in half again. She did not recognise the writing at first, but soon spied his name at the bottom: Lazodeus.

  Anne,

  I shall be with you soon. I am still recovering in my own world. Please d
o not call me again, because I find it so hard to resist your summons. I know you are afraid, but you must trust me. I will not fail you.

  Since my illness, I find my thoughts returning often to you. It seems so natural, and yet so wrong, for you are mortal and I am an angel.

  Perhaps it is just the gratitude of one whose life was saved by a gentle spirit. Meet me next Thursday at midnight in the park where last we danced. I should like to dance again, and I think I know how to repay your kindness.

  Yours, Lazodeus

  She pressed the letter to her chest, realised she had held her breath for too long. What a fool she was for mistrusting him. Of course he would solve the problem with Father Bailey. She had let her feelings of jealousy towards Mary cloud her judgement. She would wager all she had that he had never written such an intimate note for her sister. She read it over and over, imbuing each word with new significance. If she didn’t know better, if this letter wasn’t addressed to lame Anne Milton, she may even read desire into it. But that couldn’t be so.

  Or could it?

  Thursday was nearly a week away. How she would ever wait that long was a mystery.

  Deborah crept as quietly as she could up the stairs. Mary and Anne were in the kitchen with Liza and a wary Betty. An opportunity which may not be repeated: her sisters rarely left their victim alone, as though their guilt led them to maintain watch.

  She opened the door to the bedroom and went quickly to the bed. Max lay curled up on the bed, sleeping soundly. Kneeling, she lifted the covers. There, under the bed as she had seen it in her scrying mirror, was a velvet-wrapped shape. Father Bailey. She stood and hesitated. Too risky to try to reverse the enchantment while her sisters were still in the house. She chewed her lip as she considered.

  Max. Still Mary’s weak point.

  Deborah picked up the little dog, and he whimpered softly in his sleep. “Come with me, little friend,” she said softly, and took him to her closet. He settled on her bed with a yawn, and went back to sleep. She closed the door and returned downstairs. Took a deep breath and burst into the kitchen.

  “Mary, Max has run off!”

  Mary looked up. Her sleeves were rolled up and her hands were covered in flour. “What do you mean?”

  “I was in Father’s study when I heard him whimpering at the front door. When I let him out, he saw a rat and went dashing after it.”

  “He can’t have got far,” said Mary, wiping her hands on a cloth and hurrying out of the kitchen.

  “Anne, you’d better come help us find him,” Deborah said, and Anne, as was her nature, complied.

  “Which way did he go?” Mary was asking when they joined her near the front door.

  “Down that alley.”

  They crossed the road.

  “There’s no sign of him. I hope he hasn’t been strook by a carriage.” Deborah almost hated herself for putting such an awful fear in Mary’s imagination, but then reminded herself that Max was safe and well and Father Bailey was not.

  “Don’t say such a thing!” Mary cried. “Max! Max! Where are you?”

  “You two go in that direction and I’ll go back the way we came,” Deborah said.

  “He can’t have got far,” Anne said soothingly, laying a hand on Mary’s shoulder.

  “Stupid Deborah. You should never have let him out the front door. You should have let him into the garden.” Mary stalked off towards the junction of the alley with the next street, Anne behind her. When they disappeared around the corner, Deborah dashed back to the house. Betty waited near the door.

  “Deborah, are you —?”

  “Just wait in the kitchen. I shall do what I can, and I shall do it better uninterrupted.” She took the stairs quickly, threw open the bedroom door and dove under the bed. Dust irritated her nose and she sneezed once, loudly. The sound echoed in the room. With effort, she pulled Father Bailey out from under the bed. She tipped him on one side and rolled him over, rolled him out of the arras. By the time he lay exposed, face down on the ground, she was perspiring heavily. Her shaking fingers went to the demon key. Would it even work? She was such a novice. She suspected the reason Mary had been able to induce the swoon was that Lazodeus had been helping her. For all his protestations of illness and powerlessness, Deborah was almost certain that the angel had not been affected at all by the exorcist. The demons in her walls were still there. If they could withstand a Papist’s prayers, then a creature like Lazodeus certainly could.

  She held out the demon key. “Drachiarmus,” she said, remembering the name from Lazodeus’s instructions, “I call upon you with this key as your commander. Release Father Bailey from his unnatural sleep.”

  The notes rang out clearly, and as they did a profound thrill coursed through her, greater than she had ever felt it before. Momentarily, it seemed her body was formed of liquid gold. Then she was flesh and blood again, a laugh caught on her lips and a nervous excitement jittering through her.

  And Father Bailey sat up. “Where am I?”

  She knelt next to him. “Are you recovered?” she asked, astounded that the magic had worked so well. She had expected him only to wake enough to be helped home, not to speak and move so freely. “Completely recovered?”

  Father Bailey shrank from her. “Are you one of the witches?”

  “I have just saved your life, Father Bailey. You must leave now, and you must never return. I cannot vouchsafe you from my sisters’ wrath.”

  “You are a witch,” he breathed.

  “If you must think me so, then at least consider me a good one. Come, rise. My sisters will return soon, and if they see you recovered they will not be satisfied until they have spilled your blood.” She tried to help him to his feet, but he shied away from her.

  “I do not wish to be touched by you.”

  “I cannot stress to you sufficiently, sir, how much danger you are in.”

  At once, he started reciting his exorcism and Deborah pressed her hands to her forehead in exasperation. Think, think. Which demon can be relied upon to induce forgetfulness? She reviewed the lists in her head, found the name and held up the demon key.

  “Shayax, I call upon you with this key as your commander, make this man forget why he is here.”

  Five notes, each more delicious than the last. This time she fought down the thrill, knowing it would rob her of the composure she needed to solve this problem. Instantly, he forgot his exorcism.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  Once again, she was amazed that the key worked so effectively. Then the reason slipped into her consciousness. Lazodeus had used it and his power lingered on it, giving her the command that he boasted.

  “Sir, you have wandered in a fit far from your home.” She helped him up, and this time he took her aid. “I shall lead you to the street below.”

  “Which street am I upon?”

  “Artillery Walk, sir.”

  “But I live on Leake Street.”

  “You have been a number of days away from home. You need to return to your sister and rest.” She led him down the stairs, he with his hand pressed to his eyes in confusion.

  “How did I come to be here?”

  “You have been ill, Father Bailey.” Deborah saw Betty out of the corner of her eye, watching them from the kitchen door. She ushered Father Bailey out onto the street. “Do you know which way to go?”

  He pointed up the hill and Deborah nodded. “Tell your sister you have been unwell, that the Miltons kindly took you in while the fit was upon you. You need to rest until Lord’s Day.”

  His eyes were bewildered. “Yes, yes, I shall tell her that.”

  “And by Lord’s Day, you will no longer recall an acquaintance with Betty Milton or with me. You will have only peace and happiness in your memory.”

  “Peace. Happiness.”

  “Go now. It is time you were away from here.”

  She watched him as he walked unevenly up the hill in the summer haze, and turned the corner. Betty stood behind her. “It
is over then?”

  “For Father Bailey it is,” Deborah said. “You must not be seen to be my ally, Betty. Mary will not like that.”

  “You are not my ally,” Betty said plainly. “Fear not.”

  “I must find my sisters, tell them that Max is retrieved.” She ran up the street, her heart thumping wildly. Her fingers went to the key around her neck. Charged with Lazodeus’s potency, what magical strength it now possessed! But she took little joy in it and that surprised her. All was fear and uncertainty, and nothing like the confidence and happiness one might expect from a girl who had the power of angels.

  “Lazodeus!” Mary stood in the centre of her secret room. He had to come. He had to soothe the boiling rage in her heart. “Angel, come. Deborah has done an awful thing!”

  He appeared in front of her, beautiful and serious in his black clothes, his head tilted to one side as he studied her. “You are angry.”

  “I shall strike her. I shall punch her black and blue.”

  “There is no need.”

  “She released the exorcist.”

  “She is a clever girl, Mary. She removed his memory of the events. She is more clever than I am, for I should have realised that that was the safest way to deal with him. I admire her.”

  Mary drew herself up tall, jealousy mixing with anger. “Oh? You admire her? Well, why do you not go to be with her instead of me if you admire her so much? I suppose that I am too stupid to keep your good company any longer.”

  Lazodeus laughed. “Mary, you are jealous.”

  Mary turned her shoulder to him. “I am not.”

  “You dear fool. Why do you think I come to you instead of her?”

  “I know not, for your passion for her seems unstoppable.”

  “I fear the coldness of Deborah’s embrace. She is all brain, no heart.” His hand was on her shoulder. “Mary? Forgive me complimenting your sister?”

  Mary sighed. She never worried about Anne. Naive, stumbling Anne with her idiot’s gait and her pokey face. But Deborah was beautiful, statuesque, golden-haired and pink-skinned. “She is very beautiful,” she said.