Stretching his neck to scope the darkness, Tom fixed his hair and shook the water from his boots, unable to imagine how he’d gotten soaking wet. It hadn’t been raining. Noticing his hands were still not clean, he crouched down to the puddle again and then realized why the stains hadn’t washed off before. The puddle was too thick to be water. Am I bleeding? What happened? Where’s it coming from? Tom took a breath and controlled his thoughts. Standing, he walked slowly down the alleyway and found himself at the edge of the Thames. Scattered all over the ground were lifeless forms, guns and blades still in hand. They were thieves, by the look of it. Tom approached one of them, crouching down and rolling the man over. Yelping, Tom leapt back. The man’s chest was torn and burned badly. Inspecting the others, Tom found the same marks on each body, and he cringed at the havoc. A dark streak crossed the front of a fish market’s windows for at least twenty paces, ending with a swoop to the ground, where a man lay crushed into a barrel, feet sticking up and out the open top like a doll’s. Another man hung from a lamppost by his shirt like a scarecrow. Another one lay in two different places at once. What had he done? Footsteps came from the fog. Tom turned up his head just as the figure of a woman dashed away. She hadn’t been quick enough, and Tom saw her face. She had dark hair, and her irises were violet. Something about her, eerily enough, reminded him of Molly.
“Hello?” A voice came from the dark. Lamplight shone out from around a street corner down the docks. Tom’s concerns for the bodies left him and he ducked low, covering himself in fog. Men in white uniforms were gathering near the light. Someone mentioned those uniforms at the ball, Tom thought, his memories repairing themselves one detail at a time. “Is anyone there?” the voice called again. Tom fled out of sight before the voice got any closer. “Hello? … Come quickly! There’s been an attack! Alert the Bureau!” A shrill whistle split the silence in the neighborhood. Tom didn’t stop running until he heard only his own arid breathing and the damp stamping of his boots.
Nothing dulls or exacerbates one’s fear of the supernatural like the prolonged study of demons. Unlike myself, most scholars of all things weird and taboo are loathe to take steps into the dark corner of knowledge where demon lore resides. I will modestly admit that I was hesitant, but a brief time spent in Thomas Crowe’s company weaned me from the comfort I derived from assuming I knew the world inside and out. It was from Thomas that much of my writings were extracted, and his account of possession changed the way I understood magic.
Thomas’s condition leaves me with more questions than answers. His demon intended to control him, but to what end it is not certain. Perhaps the being wasn’t sure what it wanted most with Thomas. Something else that is troubling is Oi’alli’s role in his possession. If she were able to bring something into this world like what infested Thomas, she was certainly not the only one who had ever managed it. I wonder if magic is what brought these things here to begin with. Is it possible that magic conducts supernatural traffic between here and the next world?
Thomas was rightfully worried about his specific affliction. Possessed individuals are dangerous to themselves and others as it is, but Thomas was loaded with volatile power—a werewolf curse. His greatest fear was losing control of it to something that had no sense of control, compassion or consequence. This is what defines the demon from other unseen presences like ghosts and shades, and it is why we have good reason to fear them so much more.
Demons, in one form or another, exist in texts from every culture that has come to be since the preface of history. They are older than vampires, werewolves and the like; much, much older. However, stories pertaining to them are greater in number than recorded contacts. What is difficult to decide is whether they are few, and transcend locations and ages, or if they are many and do not often make themselves known. Also fundamentally problematic in understanding demons is the mystery surrounding their origins or their state of being. I have concluded that demons are not, and were never human, but I cannot say they have any definite shape. Some say they are spirits who want to be human or that they exist only to plague humanity. Some believe they are manifestations of evil that left the bodies of exceptionally black-hearted tyrants, murderers and thieves. Others yet hypothesize that they are coagulates of intelligent magic and are destructive only in the sense that a natural disaster is, because they are violent phenomena, not violent beings. All conjecture aside, one uncontested fact remains: they are terrifying.
Geoffrey Mylus,
July 12, 1833
****
“Paris?” Molly said, raising an eyebrow and leaning back in her chair. She rested her fork on her napkin and focused her attention on Thomas, sitting opposite her at the dining table. “Why are we going to Paris?”
“I know you’re not happy about it, but …” he began, blowing on a spoonful of stew.
“Why are we even leaving London?” Molly added before he could finish, shaking her head and picking up her fork again so she could stab at a slice of her roast. Thomas had explained his episode to her down to every detail, including waking up at the docks and seeing a woman who had reminded him of her.
“It was nothing like the curse,” he said quietly. “At least under the curse I have some control over my actions and thoughts. This thing…this thing took every scrap of control of both, and ran me around like its toy.” Tom wouldn’t look up and Molly sensed the helplessness he had felt during the ordeal. He wasn’t used to it. She almost cried because she felt as if he were going to.
“I’m sorry, Thomas.” It was all she knew to say. Her throat began to hurt.
“I couldn’t fight back. I couldn’t struggle against it at all. When it took my body away, it took it with ease. I thought several times that I would never have control of it again, and all I could do was watch as this thing did as it pleased. What if it had killed someone…with my hands?” He took his hands from the table and placed them on the arms of his chair, out of view, so Molly wouldn’t see them shaking.
Having spent most of the morning convincing herself what she had seen the night before was a byproduct of drinking and emotional distress, Molly had long put the matter to rest when Tom brought it up again at dinner. The problem was not that she didn’t believe what he was telling her, or what she had seen. Truly, it had disturbed her beyond anything she’d ever witnessed, but a great part of her had prepared for the adventures to be over. She was back in London with Thomas and living comfortably in his home, having put the past behind her only the night before. “Thomas, it’s always trouble with you,” she complained, forgetting her sympathy and berating his bad luck. “You’re a mess. You haven’t even cleaned yourself entirely. Look at you,” she went on, pointing at him with her fork. “You can’t stop flirting with disaster long enough to even get properly dressed for your next brush with death.”
“Well I wouldn’t be as intimidating if I shimmered like a porcelain figurine, would I?” he answered calmly and smartly.
“Maybe out at sea, but here in the city, try to fool everyone into thinking you’re the businessman you claim to be, and a prudent way to begin would be with a spotless shirt and trousers.”
“This is all beside the point,” Tom said, waving his spoon and shutting his eyes wearily.
“No, it’s got everything to do with it!” Molly argued. “You’re filthy, and it’s because you can’t help but provoke anyone and anything that offends you, be it vampires, thieves or demons! Have you ever considered that you create these problems yourself?” Setting her fork down, Molly lay her forehead in her hand then sat upright again, looking away from the table and folding her hands in her lap.
“Regardless—” Thomas started, setting down his spoon and picking up his napkin.
“No!” she burst out, turning to look at him again. “Before you slither off the topic, think about it. What’s killing and stealing and being sly ever done for you?”
“I never do anything without justification.”
“Justified or else, there i
s a reason why those deeds are considered evil ones, Thomas. They cause pain.”
“Evil people don’t kill, they harm. Evil people revel in the suffering of others,” argued Tom.
“Well then you’re not evil, Thomas, you’re just selfish,” she snapped. The dining room fell under a thick silence and the clock chimed twelve before either of the pair spoke again. “How are we going to get rid of it, Thomas? Why Paris? I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t believe you. I saw it, too. Something needs to be done, I agree.” She stared at the tablecloth and became conscious of her unfairness.
“I’ll keep my promise,” Tom assured her. “I owe it to you to replace the life I prevented you from having. I want nothing more. But first I need to make sure I live that long.”
Molly nodded quietly and looked him in the eye, finding courage and sincerity in his tone.
“The Helvetii will know what to do. I looked through the library this morning and found a manual of magic that was written in Wallachia, in Gresh, the old werewolf language. They can help me … us. We’ll get into France at Le Havre, travel to Paris and seek assistance from the clan there, then travel east by way of the Gem Road. That will be the easiest part. I am familiar with most of it because of my father. We’ll be welcomed in Wallachia.”
“How severe do you think it is?” Molly asked softly, the hardness in her eyes waning.
“I don’t know,” admitted Tom, leaning back in his chair. “That’s why we won’t wait another day.”
“Does this mean you aren’t looking for your infector any longer? After this is all dealt with may we come home and enjoy life while it lasts?” Molly tried to eat again but couldn’t.
“Yes.” Tom steered a piece of beef around in circles with his fork. “Even if I wanted to go looking, the only clue I have is one I’m likely never to find.”
“What’s that?” she asked quietly.
“Jack Darcy.”
“The name doesn’t mean anything to me.” She sipped her tea.
“He’s led the Order of the Blood Moon for a long time. He’s the captain of The Howl, a legendary ship. It houses thousands of werewolves. Looks like a creeping island, a fortress on the waves.” Tom lifted a chunk of potato up from his stew and sailed it slowly toward the center of his bowl. “That’s what I’ve been able to surmise, anyway.” His brother’s name stung his face when he spoke it. Molly saw the tension in his cheeks. “The Order is a foul bunch. They can’t live on land anymore because of the things they’ve done. Worst of all, they took the Oath of the Blood Moon, the namesake of their order.”
“What does it mean to take it?” Molly set her tea down and listened.
“It’s not a literal oath. It’s a communal frenzy, a ritual that taps the deepest places where the curse hides. Makes you wild, savage, mad. You’ll kill anything that so much as has a heartbeat you can hear. Makes you unstoppable, but at a cost. Takes half your life, even if you’re immortal as can be.” Tom set the chunk of potato on the plate in front of him and chopped it in two.
That afternoon Thomas went back to the library to expand his knowledge about possession. After returning home from his episode, he had sought the shelf in the library to which visions of white, red-speckled flowers had guided him the previous night. Either by coincidence or causality, the only text he owned on demon lore was hiding between two spell journals on the top shelf. Where it had come from he could not remember. His best guess was that he had purchased it unknowingly in a larger lot of books.
Earlier that morning, alone in the library, Thomas had learned that he was afflicted with a variety of demon called a “dreigher”—pronounced, strangely, to rhyme with “meeker”—a being that caused suffering by seizing control of the host and directing its actions in diabolic ways. A garden variety of demon, it was more diabolical in nature than poltergeists and far more precarious a parasite. Though much of its behavior was identical to poltergeists, a hallmark symptom of the dreigher were blackened eyes with white-ring pupils and a memorable, haunting moan, which, according to folklore, delivered swift death to plant life of many varieties.
What interested Tom most was that select flowers were not affected. An etching in the manual described a particular one as being of plain bloom, with white petals that revealed clusters of three red dots most noticeably when facing the sun directly. The author of the text went on to discuss their importance in Eastern European clan religions. The flowers, called moonbloom, held panacea properties that strictly benefitted werewolves in numerous ways, and when eaten, were thought to open a threshold of inner sight, augmenting thought, sight and smell. A dusty essence, called moondown, which collects in the air around the petals was thought to hold magical energy. In combination with seeing stones, they were believed to sharpen prophetic images and illuminate events to come. They were exactly the bloom that he had seen in his sleep for many years as a younger man. But how they reached him at all, he couldn’t understand.
Tom read the manual to its last pages, where the text spoke more of clan religion and the role that genamite had played in it. The Helvetian Stone, a genamite stone captured from the Gauls, was taken east by werewolves long ago and hidden away in the Carpathian Mountains in Wallachia. The stone, as big as a barrel in diameter and affixed to the back of a bronze boar, was claimed by the early followers of the Moondown religion, because of its allegedly infinite magical potential and the myths surrounding its lunar origins. As Tom read further, the manual described the many uses of its power, including control of seasonal change, consistent harvests and hunts, spiritual strength and “the gifts of Luna Mater.” Tom wasn’t sure what the saying implied, other than having to do with the white flowers and their healing properties. Unable to excavate anything further from the manual, he set it aside and thought about Molly and the violet-eyed stranger from the docks.
Hours later Molly came looking for Tom and found him in the library, sitting in front of the long windows and facing the setting sun. Before she said anything, he stood and turned to her with a look of peace on his face.
“Leon is here to see you,” she informed him, hands behind her back and eyes bright.
“Leon? Why?” he asked, mildly surprised.
“He’s invited us to join him on his return trip to France. I told him you would be interested, considering you were thinking of going anyway,” she said, wondering how he would react. “He says that he would like us to stay in Paris for the Society’s upcoming festivities following the inauguration of the new patriarch. You said the Society of Paris was of no danger, so I …”
“No, no it’s all right. You made no mistake. I just didn’t expect Leon to come by to invite us personally. Did he say whose inauguration it is?” Tom asked, walking with Molly to the door.
“He mentioned something about the selection processes, saying the rites of bestowment has undergone changes. All I gather is that he is a candidate for patriarch.”
“The times are affecting even the reliability of the Beaumonte laws, I see. Not to worry, I’ll ask him about it myself.” Tom left his thoughts in the library and put on a good face for Leon, who stood alert and anxious by the front door, Ozias at his side, recounting a war story.
“Leon, how do you do?” asked Tom, shaking the vampire’s hand and presenting his trademark grin.
“Very well, and the same, I am sure,” Leon returned in his rich, cool voice. It reminded Molly of a cello.
“I would love to accept the invitation to join you, but we’ve already made plans to leave for Le Havre tonight. We must be off as soon as possible,” Tom explained.
“How fortunate!” Leon smiled unexpectedly. “Le Fils Courageux is already prepared to launch. I am leaving tonight as well. Considering recent crimes of the London Society and the general political air, I don’t wish to linger.”
“Understandable,” said Tom. “The Legion and the Sons all know your family did not condone their actions, but it is probably wise you do not stay.” Tom looked at Molly for input but received
none. “I suppose, if you are prepared to depart, we could join you.” He looked at Molly again, who showed no disapproval.
“I would be happy to arrange for your transport back to London as well,” Leon added, “as soon as you wish to leave.” He glanced back and forth between Tom and Molly.
“That’s very gracious,” Molly said. She waited for Tom before showing too much enthusiasm.
“We’ll meet you at the docks then?” Tom asked Leon.
“Certainly, I will look forward to seeing you both tonight!” Shaking Tom’s hand and nodding to Molly, he donned a round hat cocked up on the left side. Ozias showed him through the front door.
As soon as he was gone, Molly decided to discuss the matter a bit further with Thomas. “Are you sure you want to go? We can travel on our own if you don’t want to rely on Leon and his word.”
“No, it’s not that,” Tom said. “I could use the time to focus my attention on controlling the possession, and, in the worst scenario, if anything were to happen to me, I could shut myself away and Leon’s crew would ensure that the trip continued uninterrupted.”
“Thomas, I can use what you’ve taught me, if need be,” Molly offered, touching his arm. “I could captain the Scotch Bonnet if you fear you may suddenly not be able.”
“I considered that, but I’ve also reminded myself that I am generally not welcomed in French territory because of past incidences.” The fingers on his right hand toyed with his chin thoughtfully. “We can enter the country on Le Fils Courageux with ease, and no one will be the wiser.”
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