Demon Shade (The Demons of Oxford Book 2)

by Kara Silver

  She saw Pierrot, sad and slow, doing something to the old-fashioned roundabout, and she stopped to look at it. He started the music and then the mechanism, and the ride began, moving slowly around its circle. The carved wooden beasts looked so realistic, if fantastic. Their faces were so vivid, their mouths stretched open and their nostrils flared as if they fought for breath, when they sped up, circling faster and their up-and-down and going-nowhere motion jerkier. Soon they were a blur, a kaleidoscope of bared teeth and rolling eyes and straining tendons. How— Must have been a good artist designed it, she supposed, shivering and moving on.

  Where were the others? For the first time, she wondered where they lived, or rather, stayed, when in town. The fair that came to Wyebury for the bank holiday weekend and the circus that appeared at Christmas arrived in caravans. The people lived in them too. She knew that from when she and her friends had gone prying around as kids. But she hadn’t seen anything like that here. There’d be no where to park either. There was no huge park here, between the…rivers. Rivers. Ha! And canals. She’d bet…

  Good thing she had her torch. There was the odd tall lantern on a post, but they didn’t really throw much light down the riverbank, especially down the small side bit, where it joined the canal…and where a whole row of boats were parked. Moored. Tied up. Whatever. Oh, it looked nice. Most of the narrowboats had soft lights on deck, and there was music and the sounds of everyday life—chatter, radio, TV, pots and pans. And the scents of cooking! She realised how hungry she was.

  It didn’t take long to find her aunt and uncle’s boat, their names painted on the side. She heard noises inside and walked around and down to the galley, to be enveloped in delicious herb and spice and tomato smells and a wraparound double hug from her aunt and uncle. When she pulled free and went to speak, Giacobbe shook his head.

  “You don’t need to say anything,” he told her.

  Emilia nodded. “Family,” was all she said.

  “And it’s not bending the truth too much, is it?” Kennedy took the wooden spoon Emilia passed her, holding a hand underneath to stop any drips escaping. “Oh, wow. Yum! That’s delicious.” It could have been served in any fancy restaurant. “I mean, it’s a question of…emphasis, really, right? Because I was here, and I did stay a bit.” Hadn’t she? “There was no need for the college, the department to have gotten involved.”

  “It’s over now. So, off you go!” Emilia turned her around, to face the steps up.

  “Oh?” Kennedy cast a longing look at the bubbling pot of heavenly dinner and took a good sniff.

  Her aunt laughed. “Afterwards. After the show. Performance, remember?”

  “Yes. Of course!” No one could perform after a plate of pasta the size of the one Kennedy was planning to scoff.

  “Oh, and nipote?”

  Niece. It warmed Kennedy. “Yes, zia?”

  “Well done!” Emilia looked delighted at Kennedy’s pronunciation of the word aunt. Or maybe it was the use of it. “Go and visit with Isa before you go to get ready? She needs the company. She’s just along the path.”

  “Of course.” Kennedy hoped Isa was feeling better. She should have a talk with her anyway. Feeling herself smiling, she cast a quick look in the small mirror hung on the wall near the steps. It showed a grin curving the full hot-pink lips of the face of a woman with vibrant red hair and gleaming glass-green eyes. The very pretty face. Kennedy stopped and went to turn to her kin, a question on her lips.

  “Go!” repeated Emilia, her smile as wide as Kennedy’s.

  With one final look at her demon-bright face, Kennedy went. She expected to find her cousin sitting on the edge of the towpath, looking at the water, perhaps, or taking a walk, getting some air. She didn’t expect to see her half-dressed on the back of the boat Kennedy could see at a glance was Tristano’s.

  22

  “Isa?” Kennedy called, not sure if it in fact was her cousin, wearing tiny shorts and an equally tiny vest top, despite the weather, until Isabella turned. “What are you doing? What’s that smell?”

  “Z. Smells,” Isabella qualified, moving aside for Kennedy to clamber on board. “Watch where you go. I’m cleaning.”

  “Using HP sauce?” Kennedy had to turn away from the strong vinegar aroma. She didn’t even like it on food, and here Isabella was with a brown-spotted rag in each hand, dashing around.

  “It’s the best thing for brass,” Isabella informed her, doing a small pirouette as she dashed from one metal thing to another.

  “Brass?” Kennedy made an apologetic face as she turned down the music Isabella was jigging about to. She could hardly hear her cousin speak about the decibels.

  “Yes, look. The tunnel lamps, the headlights, the horn, the porthole frame…”

  “And a bird on a stick?”

  “That’s the tiller pin. No—” Isabella took the plastic bottle of sauce away from Kennedy when she went to get a cloth and help. “You’ll get dirty and that’s not good for a performance.”

  “Yeah, reeking of spices and vinegar’s not the best,” Kennedy agreed. “But can I smell paint? And turpentine?”

  “Umm.” Isabella finished her dance step. She indicated the roof. “I did some repainting earlier, when the light was better.”

  Kennedy was surprised Isabella could see clearly enough not to slop brown goo everywhere now. She ascended a couple of steps of the ladder to the roof and shone her torch on the kettles and barrels and jugs and pitchers there, all of which gleamed in shiny new reds and blacks, yellows and greens, their flower motifs refreshed.

  She slid down again and turned to her cousin. “Wow. You’ve been busy.”

  “Still am. Careful—the panels on the side are still wet.”

  Kennedy didn’t know much about waterways folk art, except that it was traditional. Seemed Tristan liked the English look for his boat? Or he was more likely to share the boat with his grandfather, wasn’t he? “Well, it’s nice of you to do this for Tristan,” she commented.

  “He does a lot for me.”

  Right.

  Isabella turned the music up a little and did a complicated dance step.

  “You’re feeling better.” Kennedy didn’t know why it had taken her until now to think that. Well, blame the day she’d had. Wonder I have any brain power left. Not to mention energy. She felt as though she were running on fumes, and not the ones hanging about this narrowboat.

  “Yes.” Isabella didn’t pause or face her, but the glimpses Kennedy got showed her Isa’s vibrant Titian-red hair flying glossy and thick about a face that was no longer wan, but glowing pink. And her eyes…Kennedy didn’t even know the shade of green they were. Venetian, popped into her mind.

  “You felt okay the other evening, when we went to that bar.” Kennedy recalled Isabella twirling on the dance floor, laughing, her energy pulling them all along. “So…”

  “So I’ll be back to work soon, yes.” She stretched to rub at some huge round buttons or caps or something that Kennedy had no idea what they did or what they were for,

  “Okay. Well, it’s good that you’re feeling better now. I guess the rest did you good?” In which case, Kennedy was pleased she’d helped. When Isa didn’t reply, Kennedy added, “Or did you get a potion from il Dottore? He mixed me up something, the first time I was here and— Careful!”

  Isabella’s abrupt movement had a lamp swinging madly, casting weird shadows.

  “Nearly, cugina,” Kennedy observed, expecting Isa to correct her attempt at saying cousin in Italian.

  “Kennedy.” Isabella stilled the lamp but still didn’t turn, didn’t pause in her polishing and cleaning that Kennedy now categorised as manic. “You’re free to go. You should go. Get away.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Go. Enjoy the holidays. Enjoy…life.”

  “Is this about…” Tristan. She couldn’t say it, but wondered if Isabella had heard or seen the performances…or what had happened after the lights had dimmed. If she knew that Tri
stan had escorted Kennedy home. That they were— What? Kennedy didn’t know. Didn’t know if Isa had a thing for Tristan, either.

  “Do you want to sit down and we’ll talk about it?” she asked, even if she didn’t know what it was.

  Isabella gave tight little shakes of her head, her hands busy shining the long strips of metal around the door.

  “Are you…angry with me about something?”

  “Angry? Of course not!”

  “Then what? Isa, I need some clues here!”

  Isabella finally swung around. She didn’t really look at Kennedy, didn’t meet her eyes. But Kennedy got a good look at her, as she took up a long-bladed knife.

  “What’s…that for?” Kennedy readied herself, wary, made on guard by the jerkiness and speed of Isa’s movements.

  Isa didn’t reply but brought the blade down quickly and cleanly on a lemon she took from a small bag and laid on a board, then a second, then a third. She juiced them with speed and added water to the mix. “For cleaning glass,” she observed. “I’m going to do those next.”

  “But it’s getting really dark!”

  “I’ll have to work quickly then, won’t I?”

  Isabella brushed by her with her bowl and cloths, still not making eye contact. But Kennedy thought she was beginning to understand. Isa wasn’t angry, not with Kennedy or with anything, as far as Kennedy could tell. She was ashamed. Guilty, perhaps. And the manic, frenetic cleaning? A displacement activity, perhaps to work out excess energy, or perhaps to have something to do, something to focus on to stop her thinking. But about what? What was the problem?

  “So you think it’s best if I leave?” Kennedy tried one last time.

  “Ummm.”

  “Because…?”

  “Before. Before you’ve spent your whole life here.”

  And finally Isabella looked at her, from her place farther along the side of the boat. Her red hair fell across her face, almost covering one green eye, but what was visible could have been a painting, one titled Sorrow.

  “I have the performance. I have to do that. I’ll just…” Kennedy gabbled, scrambling off the boat to the towpath. “Maybe we can talk again, tomorrow?”

  Isabella didn’t answer, and Kennedy didn’t expect her to. Wow. Isa might have a lot more energy and force to her this evening, but she still struck Kennedy as unwell. She hadn’t been eating—could she have binged, be trying to work off the calories? Better that than purging, perhaps. But…

  No. Fuck that. I have to talk to the others about it. The family. Kennedy retraced her steps and hurried back along the towpath, trying to shake off her unease, not just about her cousin, but about…everything.

  She focused on replacing the disquiet with determination. She had a show to do, and she damn well intended to make every step, every gesture, every word, count. Because, from what Isabella had said, this performance could very well be Kennedy’s final one.

  23

  But her uncle and aunt’s narrowboat was dark, just one tiny light, a candle, Kennedy saw, flickering in a tin at the front. Looking back the way she’d just come, and then looking ahead, showed her no lights, just dark shapes of boats hardly moving on the still water, a few with small lights wavering or throwing out a small dull gleam. If she hadn’t known the canal boats were there, she didn’t think she’d have known what they were.

  Oh, of course. Everyone must be at the fairground. She tried not to hurry, not to seem on edge at the dark and silence as she made her way, but scurried from one pool of lantern light to another, soaking up the glow and warmth from each one. She closed her fingers around the small flashlight in her pocket, then changed to her other pocket to grip her knife instead. Should she have one tool in either hand? It felt like overkill, or more like a demon hunter, than a demon. But she was…sort of both, wasn’t she? Or maybe mage was a more politically correct title than killer? Like Human Resources was now Human Assets?

  And that sounded too much like what she’d been involved in last term for her liking. All pretence, all attempt at casual gone, she sped to the main stretch of water and then the island in between that and the next river. Once she slowed, the fact she was no longer required with the i comessi troupe beat at her, the sense of finality, of, well, loss, hitting hard. Something made her examine the advertising poster on the gate. She had never read it, or the small leaflet properly, and now, when she did, she saw this was the last performance. So, this was her swan song?

  Well, she’d enjoy it. The others wouldn’t need her to dash about the ground in costume and raise awareness of the performance later, so she’d take her time, see the place properly. She’d liked the annual fair back home, the glee and screeches of the crowd, the music and whir of the rides, the sickly sugar and grease of the food kiosks. This wasn’t like that. No gaudy colours and designs painted onto the amusements, no cheesy music blaring, no groups of screaming kids and teens.

  Kennedy tried to analyse the differences. This island, for a start. Sheltered and held by trees and bushes, lapped by water—like a pocket of calm. Not like the large, open park at the top of Wyebury, one side backing onto the university campus, making a connection there for sports and leisure, and the busy road one side of it going down into the town, to the pubs and shops and commerce there. That park was used nonstop, all day and most of the evening for its fields, picnic benches, sports facilities, and as a shortcut, a crossroads. This? She doubted many people came here. Hence that muffled, remote atmosphere.

  And the fair itself was different. Its selling point was the traditional nature of the rides and amusements, plus the booths and stalls and of course the big top theatre tent. Kennedy pulled out her phone and snapped some photos. She’d be needing a souvenir. Unless…well, Beatrice wasn’t the only part to be played in the commedia, was it? She could take on another role? If they asked her to stay, well, just because her cousin had flown into some sort of jealous snit, that didn’t mean Kennedy was persona non grata, right? Actually, that would probably be demon non grata.

  Well, she seemed to be one here, with most other people enjoying the fair in groups or couples, still giggling as they emerged from the mirror maze, stumbling and sinking to a bench after a turn on the helter-skelter or roundabout. She walked down the short row that housed the antique penny arcade, with all its original games and machines. Even the smell of the wood here seemed older.

  “Oh, I remember the fair from before The Clerks!”

  The drawling male tones snagged her attention—a lecturer or professor of some kind preparing to pontificate to his audience, however small it was. It could almost have been Berkley, except this guy was younger and dark-haired. Just as fond of the sound of his own voice though.

  “Before the commedia show?” queried another young guy with the small gang, and Kennedy snapped to.

  The Clerks was the translation of i comessi, the commedia players? Wow. She’d never thought to ask. She scuttled nearer as the first man’s voice swooped and pitched, explaining how he, a local—which also explained the voice—had been coming to the fair ever since he was a young lad, and had seen it go through changes and…

  His girlfriend broke in to wonder if that had influenced his specialist area of historical study. Kennedy betted that whatever it was, it was some tiny niche or other about two inches wide. She missed a bit of the discourse.

  “Yes, so annoying that the concept as a whole is a mishmash.” Professor Whoever jerked his chin to indicate the fair. “A palimpsest, one could say, of the ages!”

  “Couldn’t one claim it was living history, reshaped by evolving leisure needs?” asked the second guy, to receive a flat, “No.”

  “Now, the dark ride they had before the players…”

  Kennedy’s heart thumped. This…this was something. She didn’t have to be careful about not being caught eavesdropping: the lecturer was drawing a small crowd as he explained dark rides were ride-through attractions in a space-constrained building, using visual—and not only—tricks to creat
e…illusions.

  “Optical and physical. Oh yes. It was a real Madhouse. One of the few existing.”

  “Oh?”

  “A haunted house, giving the impression the building was turning upside down!”

  Kennedy barely caught the explanation from one of the others as to how it was accomplished, about seats within a rotating drum swinging slightly while the surroundings of the room rotated. She was glued to Professor Number One recounting that these attractions were themed to stories and scenarios, always macabre.

  “And this one was one step up from the usual ‘hexed by a witch or cursed by a ghost’. It was the last safe building after hell had opened and the demons were legion—until it itself was attacked by demons, of course!”

  “Well, there’s no need for that scenario now, is there?” asked his girlfriend. “I mean, the themes of some versions of the commedia play are so similar that—”

  She was drowned under a chorus of groans and pleas not to start on her dissertation now, thank you.

  Her head pounding, Kennedy slunk away. That…had to be a coincidence, didn’t it? That— She was shaken from her thoughts by people brushing past her, all making their way towards the theatre. All? Yes, the fairgoers were leaving the rides and stalls and heading there. Made sense in that the attractions would be closed, during the performance, but the way the audience was going there, as if drawn…

  “Beatrice!”

  “Kennedy,” she mumbled to herself in response, squinting over the flurries of people to catch someone gesticulating at her from the dressing tent. Oh yes. She had to get into costume and makeup. Lucky The Lovers came on late in the scenes, after the household people. She shook her head to clear it. She’d keep her wits about her, make sure she caught everything tonight. Because usually she didn’t. She seemed…to perform automatically, as if guided.

  Well, Tristan guides me. And the others, she argued, scrambling into her dress. She took care not to rip it. It was beautiful, made her beautiful. Or maybe that was the makeup, or the way she styled her hair, very unlike how she looked every day. In real life. Because this wasn’t. It’s an illusion, just like prof guy was saying.