We stopped at the foot of the bridge. The gate was closed. I crouched down and looked at the snow and ice thereon. I spotted cloven hoofprints.
I pointed. “There. Aren’t arched bridges a common passageway for demons?”
“Yes. Let’s have a look,” he said. He bent down and opened his case, pulling out a sharp stake.
“Stakes? I thought those only worked on fangs. They work on demons?” I asked.
“Pins them down but doesn’t vanquish them. Just like your silver bullets, stakes will wound but won’t necessarily kill,” he said, seeing my gun was already drawn.
He unlatched the gate. The small island in the middle of the park was set aside for the conservation of waterfowl, thus earning it the name Duck Island. There was a little cottage on the island. As we passed over the pinnacle of the bridge, I scanned all around. The tracks led across the bridge and onto the island. The demon had not stopped at the crest of the bridge.
“Not a crossroads demon,” Agent Hunter said, eyeing the footprints leading toward the cottage. His clockwork device still clicking madly, we followed the hoofprints onto the island. Moving quickly and quietly, we trailed the beast’s steps to the small cottage. The tiny house, which was mainly used by scholars and conservationists, was abandoned for the winter.
“The beast…it’s only been seen at night?” Agent Hunter asked in a whisper as we approached the quaint gingerbread style cottage.
I nodded.
“It must return to the Otherworld at dawn.”
Agent Hunter signaled to me, and we sneaked up to the door.
Feeling a swell of self-consciousness, I pulled off my eyepatch and shoved it into my pocket. If there was a demon inside, I wanted to see him with both of my eyes. I really didn’t want Agent Hunter staring at my mangled face, but I didn’t have a choice. I needed to do the job right, which meant I needed my eye. And, besides, he’d called me Clemeny. That had to count for something, didn’t it?
Agent Hunter glanced at me, his eyes briefly scanning my face, then set his hand on the door latch.
I readied my gun in front of me.
Motioning to me, and on the count of three, he opened the door.
My gun held in front of me, I stepped into the dark space.
Everything was perfectly still. Sunbeams showed through the window, dust motes floating through the air. The hair on the back of my neck rose. There was a smell of peppermint on the cool air. My good eye—used to working in the dark—quickly adjusted. As I scanned the room, my other eye spotted something in the hearth.
I edged deeper into the room, Agent Hunter following behind me. I moved toward the massive stone fireplace as Agent Hunter checked the adjoining rooms. On a table near the fireplace were cookie crumbles and shredded silvery paper and ribbons from Christmas crackers. The tiny gifts, which popped when you opened them, were usually filled with chocolates, cookies, or small gifts. The beast, it seemed, had enjoyed his share.
The floorboards creaked as Agent Hunter canvassed the other rooms. I squinted, looking more closely at the hearth. My good eye told me that the hearth was cold. But my mooneye saw green fire.
I cleared my throat, bracing myself to use his name once more, then called, “Edwin?”
“Clemeny? What is it? Have you seen something?”
“Point your device here,” I said, motioning to the fireplace.
Agent Hunter knelt beside me, his device in front of him. The machine clicked quickly, the light blinking rapidly.
“How did you know?”
“I see…fire.”
“Where?”
“Here,” I said, waving my hand through the green flames. The heat felt strange—there, but not there all at once. “Green flames.”
Edwin squinted at the unseen—at least to him—hellfire. “This is the portal then. Can you see anything beyond?”
I stared into the dark. At first, I saw only the unholy fire. Closing my right eye, my good eye, allowed me to see more. I could just barely make out shapes of something or someone moving on the other side. I shook my head. “There’s something just out of sight.”
Agent Hunter rose then offered me a hand up. “We must trap him here. We must trap him and get the children out while the gate to the otherworld is still visible.”
“But how?”
Agent Hunter tapped his demon hunting box. “I have an idea.”
Chapter 13: Of SacrAmental Oil, Honey, and Lemon
Trapping a demon took significantly more work than shooting a werewolf. Of course, hunting werewolves—especially when they were in wolf form—was merely a matter of being fast, smart, and hitting the target. Easier said than done.
Agent Hunter and I parted ways so he could make a report at the palace and inform Her Majesty of the dangers just outside her doorstep, while I went back into the city to Westminster Abbey.
“Sacramental oil?” the young priest asked, looking at me as if I had grown two heads. “Madame, we don’t make it a habit of giving away such items. You need permission from my superiors.”
“Then give me someone superior to talk to.”
The young priest huffed then eyed my clothing. “And just what does an air jockey need with sacramental oil?”
“I’m no air jockey, you foolish, prating knave. Bring me someone else to talk to.”
In a huff, the priest left.
Left to my own devices, I wandered around the tombs of the kings and queens as I waited. I eyed the tomb of fat old Henry VIII. Something about the voluptuous and self-important king always intrigued me. And I half wondered, not for the first time, how long knowledge of the underbelly of our realm had been known to our monarchs.
I heard the sound of footsteps and the swish of robes coming toward me. Someone cleared their throat.
“Are you the young lady asking for the oil?”
I turned to find a very tall priest looking at me down the length of his nose.
“Yes. One bottle should do the trick.”
“And what do you need it for?”
I pulled out my badge.
The man made the sign of the cross. He frowned at me. “I’ll get you what you need, then you must leave this holy place.”
Well, at least he knew who I was. “Very well.”
The man turned on his heel and hastily departed.
“What do you make of that, Hank?” I asked King Henry.
“The priests are paranoid,” a voice answered from behind me. “They spend all their lives worshipping the unseen then fear those who face it head on.”
I turned back to find an old woman standing there. She was tying her bonnet on.
“You think so?”
She nodded. “Know it. Good luck to you, Agent. And Happy Christmas.”
“Same to you,” I said, grinning at the woman. Whomever she was, she was either very wise or had encountered someone from the agency before. At least someone in this city understood what we were about.
I turned back to the king, studying his tomb as I waited.
“So, who was your favorite wife?” I whispered. “Promise I won’t tell.”
No answer. Of course.
It was not long thereafter that I heard the slap of leather on the marble floors and the same familiar swish of cloth.
“Here you are,” the tall priest said, holding out a glass bottle to me.
“And you’re very sure it has been properly anointed?”
“Yes, Agent. Very certain.”
I took the bottle from his trembling hand. “Her Majesty thanks you.”
The man huffed, made the sign of the cross once more, then disappeared into the back.
I turned and headed back outside. Seemed no one at Westminster had much to say today.
I met Agent Hunter midafternoon at a nearby teahouse. The London streets were bustling with pre-Christmas merriment. Everywhere I went, people were hurrying past with packages, vendors were selling geese—and the fashionable turkey like the Yankees ate, another trend the Qu
een had started—plum pudding, and all manner of baked goods. The teahouse where we had agreed to meet was busy. I spotted Agent Hunter in the back. He rose when I joined him at the table, pulling out my chair. He really did have the breeding of a man beyond his current employment. Was there blue blood in his veins?
“I took the liberty of ordering us a pot of spiced tea and plowman’s platters. Will that be all right for you?”
“Yes. Thank you,” I said, slipping into the seat. When was the last time I had been anywhere with a man? A show? A stroll? A…anything? Aside from skulking around with Quinn, I realized my last outing had been with Lionheart at The Mushroom. I almost laughed at the absurdity of the idea.
“Were you able to get the oil?” Agent Hunter asked.
I nodded. “Oil, delivered via a very bitter priest with a very bitter attitude.”
Agent Hunter chuckled. “Where did you procure it?”
“Westminster.”
“Ah, that explains the attitude.”
“How so?
“Yes, well, I believe they assisted Agent Rose on a case not long ago, some doings with a nest of vampires. Since then, Westminster has been less than inclined to help the Society.”
“They should thank us for vanquishing devils in their very midst.”
“They should, but they don’t. Most of the time, they only vaguely understand what we are doing, which is better for all of us.”
“Here you are, sir. Ah, and your lovely wife,” said a very plump woman with red cheeks and an equally red apron. She set down our plates and cups.
Agent Hunter opened his mouth to clarify but thought better of it.
“And cream. And sugar. And honey. I know your husband said you prefer your tea with honey and lemon, but this tea is spiced. I brought orange slices instead. Can I bring you anything else?”
“No, thank you,” Agent Hunter said.
It pleased me to no end that he knew how I took my tea. Was he always so observant?
Pulling out some papers, Agent Hunter said, “I received a report from Agent Fox.”
“On Harry Alperstein? The other boy who went missing?”
He nodded. “Disappearance follows the same pattern with one exception. There is no window in the room.”
“Then how did it get in?”
Agent Hunter drew his chair a little closer to mine and unfolded a sketch of the room Agent Fox had provided. We studied the drawing, our heads close together. Once more, I caught the slightest scent of cinnamon. Heaven.
“The hearth,” Agent Hunter said, tapping his finger on the drawing. “It can travel through the hearth if it must.”
“Then it could show up anywhere, especially now that it knows it’s being hunted. That complicates matters.”
“We must take him down tonight.”
I set the bottle of oil in front of Agent Hunter. “Just tell me what to do.”
Lifting the teapot, Agent Hunter poured me a cup of tea then added a slice of orange.
“First, you must have a cup of spiced holiday tea with orange,” he said with a playful chuckle.
I smiled at him. “Thank you, husband,” I said, reaching out to squeeze his hand in mock playfulness. To my surprise, however, he set his other hand on mine.
“Anytime.”
And then, I might have swooned. Just a little.
Chapter 14: Portals, Peppermint, and Ladies Dancing
In the hours before dusk, Agent Hunter and I readied the trap. We would need to act quickly. The beast must be captured near the hearth and forced to keep the portal open if we wanted to recover the children. There was great risk if we failed, and we both knew it.
We readied the room and lay in wait as the sun went down.
Crouched behind a chair near the hearth, I eyed Agent Hunter’s hiding place. Hunting demons was nothing like hunting wolves. At least they would fight you out in the open.
There was a whoosh of cool air then green fire erupted in the fireplace. I heard jingle bells, and the smell of peppermint seemed to overwhelm the room. I steeled my nerve and waited.
I heard soft crying in the distance. The children? My heart ached.
The whole room seemed to shake as the beast stepped into the room. I watched his cloven hooves from my hiding spot.
One step.
Then another.
And another.
I rose quickly, struck a match, and tossed it at the invisible ring of sacramental oil on the floor. A moment later, the whole circle caught fire.
Confused, Krampus turned and looked at me, his yellow eyes narrowing as he took in the trap. He sneered, his forked tongue shooting out at me.
Agent Hunter emerged from the darkness, his leather journal in his hand. At once, he began reciting an incantation in Latin to exorcise the demon. If this worked, the demon would be immobilized, and we could force it to do our will. At least, that was what Agent Hunter had said. It really was so much easier to shoot something with a silver bullet.
Pulling my knife, I stepped back as Krampus looked from me to Agent Hunter. His manner, the way he was moving, told me something was very wrong.
The demon laughed. “Do you think the new god’s petty words can trap me? You fools.”
The demon crouched then growled.
Agent Hunter spoke the incantation louder, but nothing was happening.
I looked back at the hearth. The green flame was beginning to extinguish.
“Edwin,” I called in warning.
But I was too late.
The demon stepped out of the circle and lunged at Agent Hunter, slapping the book from his hand. Agent Hunter reacted quickly, pulling a wooden stake from his belt. The beast grabbed the stick. When he did so, the wood began to grow, new shoots, leaves, and branches rapidly appearing. The beast hit Agent Hunter on the head with the stake, which had turned into a club in the beast’s grasp, then grabbed Agent Hunter by the neck of his shirt and flung him aside. Agent Hunter hit the wall hard, slumping to the ground.
My heart skipped a beat, my fury boiling over.
My dagger drawn, I lunged toward the beast, who took a swipe at me. Anticipating the move, I ducked low. The demon missed. Reaching out, I slashed at him, but I missed. I turned, pulling my pistol, and took aim.
With a long, clawed hand, the demon reached out and grabbed my arm. To my great shock, the beast cried out in pain when his hand landed on the vambraces I always wore to protect me from the nipping jaws of werewolves.
He let go.
I yanked my arm back, took aim, and shot.
But the beast fled. The monster ducked then raced out of the room. I’d missed.
I ran to Edwin who was only half-conscious, blood leaking from a cut above his eye. “Go,” he whispered. “Go.”
Nodding, I turned and ran outside.
Krampus hurried off into the night. I could see his hulking shadow and heard the jangling of bells. In the distance, the palace guards’ hounds started baying. They smelled the danger.
The monster fled through the park and turned toward Downing Street. I rushed after him, but the creature’s cloven hooves carried him along with supernatural speed. It took everything I had to keep him in sight. I watched as the monster quickly scaled up the side of a building. Though the townhouses there had once been a popular home for the Chancellor of the Exchequer and other high positions, of late, the street was neglected. The official residences were rarely used. Alleys not far away were known for crime, prostitution, and other misdoings, not part of my normal beat.
Racing behind the creature, I climbed up a ladder then crawled up onto the rooftops behind him. The beast leapt from rooftop to rooftop, the moonlight illuminating his massive silhouette. I raced after him, pausing only to take another shot.
The creature ducked behind a chimney just in time. I saw a spray of brick dust.
Dammit.
The demon emerged once more, casting a glance back at me, his yellow eyes shining. He grinned, then jumped across the roof, and then
slipped into a garret window at eleven Downing Street.
From inside the house, I heard a scream.
Racing behind the creature, I scrambled over the narrow pitch to the garret. The window was open. Taking a calculated jump, I slipped inside, my pistol ready. But there was no one in the room.
Once more, I heard someone yell. The sound came from the floor below. I raced down the dimly lit hallway and ran down the stairs. At the end of the stairwell, a man in his nightgown wearing a stocking cap appeared from inside one of the rooms. He was holding a lamp and staring at me like he’d seen the ghost from Mister Dickens’ story.
Down the hallway in the opposite direction, a child screamed. I raced down the hall, the man hurrying behind me.
I pushed open the door in time to see Krampus holding a young boy, his clawed hand covering the child’s mouth. The boy’s eyes were wide with fear.
No. No, no, no.
Krampus glared at me. Then he turned his attention to the small fireplace.
“Stop. Stop now, or I’ll shoot,” I said, taking aim.
With a wave of his hand, the beast called up a blaze of green fire in the fireplace.
“And kill the child? He deserves to die, rotten little boy,” Krampus said.
“Arthur!” the man behind me called out in fear.
Without another thought, the beast jumped into the fireplace, dragging the boy along with him.
“No,” I shouted. I leapt after them. I grabbed the child by the foot and pulled hard, trying to yank the boy out of the monster’s grasp.
But then something came loose. The little boy slipped from my grip, and I stumbled. I landed on the floor in front of the hearth. The green fire dissipated. The portal sealed. I looked from the fireplace to the striped sock in my hand.
He had gotten away.
And I had lost the boy.
Sitting by the hearth in front of me was a wooden box. The lid was open. Inside were eleven tiny wooden ballerinas.
Eleven ladies dancing.
One to go.
And if we failed now, given who we figured the next target to be, it would cost Agent Hunter and me our heads.
Peppermint and Pentacles Page 7