Creatures of Charm and Hunger

by Molly Tanzer

  She’d explained that while summoning demons into plants was the foundation of modern diablerie, summoning demons into animals was too absurdly risky to be allowed. While it was true that pollen or seeds could spread, greenhouses and indoor cultivation substantially reduced the risk. Not having legs or a conscious will that could be taken over by an enterprising and curious demon, plants had limited ability to wreak havoc.

  An animal, however, could never be completely controlled. These days, only an untrained, uninformed, wild diabolist would be so brazen as to attempt it.

  “I see Nancy has instilled in you her dislike of magical notions and terms,” said Patrice.

  “She’s attempted to,” replied Jane, her tone dry as old leaves.

  “My Jane! How delightful you are! I expected you to be thoughtful and intelligent, but I did not think you would end up with style, hidden away from the world like Rapunzel.”

  Patrice’s smile was so admiring that Jane felt her control slipping. Thankfully, Smudge saved her by leaping away over the mirror and scooting into the darkness.

  “What a cat!” said her father. “I didn’t mean to shock you by calling him a familiar—Edith calls him that, is all. She says you’re almost inseparable. And given her description of your style, Jane—it seemed fitting.”

  “Do you really think I have style?” It slipped out before Jane recalled she was supposed to be cool and calm.

  Patrice looked astonished. “But of course! Just look at you! The cut of your blouse might be plain, but the way you wear it—the way you do your hair, your poise. And really, how could you not, being my daughter?”

  Jane glanced up—not because she heard something, but because she had too much on her mind to concentrate on impressing her father any longer. “I think I should go,” she said quietly.

  Patrice looked concerned. “Is all well?”

  “Yes, just being cautious,” said Jane. “Father . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you for talking with me.”

  Patrice looked very moved, and his voice was a bit thick as they said their good-nights. Jane tidied up quickly but carefully and then chased down Smudge so that she could get out of the Library and into bed. As Jane carried her beloved cat up the stairs, her fingers toying thoughtfully with his fluff, she thought over her night. Patrice Durand had given her quite a lot to think about.

  Jane frowned in the quiet darkness of the old farmhouse, taking comfort in Smudge’s bulk and warmth. If only she’d passed her Test! She felt terrible for deceiving her father, but it was nothing compared to the guilt she felt over what she was going to do with the information he’d knowingly—and also unknowingly—just given her.

  * * *

  THE SKIMMER HER FATHER HAD spoken of ended up being a clever bit of diablerie that employed a diabolically altered jeweler’s loupe that allowed the eye to more quickly assess written passages. It was indeed just the sort of thing a cosmopolitan apprentice might hear about, and easily obtain, but Jane was not a cosmopolitan apprentice.

  Creating a strike chain presented different problems, though they were more easily surmounted, at least for Jane. A strike chain was just a pendant a diabolist could hold over a text to determine whether it contained something useful to the diabolist’s will. Easy enough, save that the pendant itself had to be created from a part of the diabolist. And not only that, but a part sturdy enough to stand up to several applications of some pretty nasty pastes and solutions.

  The book claimed the easiest to sacrifice was a tooth; Jane wasn’t so sure about that, though in the end that was her choice too. A bit of gauze soaked in diabolically infused clove oil packed the wound and healed it quickly enough that all she had to do was pretend to have a sore belly to cover her unwillingness to chew and swallow for a day, but there was no way around taking a pair of pliers and yanking it out to begin with.

  There are no shortcuts to becoming a diabolist—only sacrifices. Her mother had said that to her many, many times over the years.

  Now Jane knew, in reality, there were both.

  It was worth it though. It was always worth it. All diablerie, from the simplest armamentarium to her new strike chain, gave Jane a sense of boundless, unceasing delight. It was the act of creating a miracle, and she never tired of it.

  While the skimmer might have let Jane assess individual passages more rapidly, the strike chain let her know if her reading at any pace would be worthwhile. All she had to do was focus her will while holding the strike chain over a text; a clockwise spin of the tooth meant yes, counterclockwise no. Watching it start to shudder for the first time didn’t lessen the dull ache in Jane’s jaw, but it did make her feel as though all the pain and blood had been worth it.

  In half an hour, Jane had a stack of books comprised of new titles, some she hadn’t seen yet, some that she’d already perused. But at least she knew they deserved her time, and she guessed—correctly, as it turned out—that once she got her thoughts more organized regarding what she wanted to achieve, she could use the strike chain to narrow her reading even further; even within a text.

  The strike chain couldn’t invent new theory for her, nor could it assure her that what she wanted was possible for an apprentice to achieve. Regardless, for the first time since even before her disastrous Test, Jane was going to bed at night knowing she was finally making some real progress.

  13

  * * *

  EDITH HAD CROSSED INTO ENEMY territory several times over the course of her years as a spy, but this was her first experience with something even more nerve-racking: camping.

  It amused Mercurialis how little she enjoyed it. Of course it did. More than once the demon tested her patience by noting how the three hardy Young Talarians who manned the outpost seemed invigorated by living so closely with nature. That was all well and good, but any charms the experience held for them were lost on Edith. First and foremost, the sight of Braune’s castle disturbed her. It clung to the horizon like a tumor, black and rotting—but there were plenty of other reasons to dislike the place, from the coldness of the stream by their camp, to the dampness of her tent, to the earliness of the sunrise.

  She hadn’t expected to enjoy herself. Edith knew people liked wildernesses and went to them voluntarily—just look at her sister and where she’d ended up! Not Edith; she was not one to be moved by the cold splendor of the starry night sky, nor for the first joyous smatter of birdsong before dawn. She found natural places inconvenient more than she found them beautiful, and this one had the additional detriment of being genuinely dangerous.

  They’d been three nights in this dreadful field, three nights without a hot bath or a comfortable bed. The camp had only the most basic of amenities, but Edith was grateful for the few reminders of her lost humanity; she found it difficult to stay cheerful when all she had to sit upon was a damp log, and every cup of tea seemed to go cold immediately after brewing.

  The only person more miserable than Edith was Graham Yellowhorse. Edith’s eye was upon him frequently as he huddled in a big red woolly cap with earflaps and an oversize pea coat, sitting so close to the fire, his boots were in danger of catching. The cold did not agree with him, nor did their camp food. And he barely said a word—not that he ever spoke much to begin with.

  Graham noticed her gaze; Edith had been letting her eyes linger too long. She averted them and sipped her latest cup of quickly cooling tea.

  Say something, said Mercurialis. Hop on over to his log like a friendly toad. There’s no time like the present. And who knows how much present we have left, you and I?

  “This is hardly the time or the place,” Edith muttered under her breath. Graham looked up at her curiously.

  She blushed, apologized, and after a long quiet moment got up from the fire and walked off. Mercurialis laughed and laughed in her mind.

  “I’m glad you’re entertained, at least,” said Edith.

  A copse of thin trees marked the boundary of their camp—or rather, the boundary
was marked by red yarn knotted through the branches like an enormous cat’s cradle. A simple trick but an effective one. Their location had not yet been discovered by any wide-reaching patrols from Braune’s facility or even the occasional planes that flew overhead. It was the sort of diablerie Edith loved, elegant, beautiful, and effective: only someone with what amounted to a specially attuned diabolic compass could locate this place.

  And there were other things protecting them, too.

  She was jumpy. Sitting and waiting was not her style, and yet sit and wait she must.

  Right now, Maja and Zelda were currently out with one of the diabolists who manned this outpost; they weren’t late coming back, not really, but Edith was eager to hear from them. The faint birdsong and the ceaseless rustle of the wind in the grass was wearing on her nerves.

  At last, a flurry of activity—someone was scuttling down from the lookout platform. It was Amina Hadžić, and she greeted Edith with a brisk “They’re here.” As Graham got to his feet, Amina set to unhooking the woven door to the yarn structure that kept them all out of sight. A few moments later three people crested a depression in the rolling hills and then were safely inside the boundary. It was Zelda, Maja, and their guide—a Swiss named Luca Müller.

  “How did it go?” asked Edith.

  Zelda looked a bit tired. “I think it’s doable, but we’ll need to act quickly. Something is happening. They’ve increased the patrols around the castle—the frequency of them, I mean, not the volume. They actually seem short-staffed, harried.”

  “It’s a recent change,” said Luca. “A few days before you arrived, a caravan left with what seemed like the nonessential personnel. The remaining staff seem harder at work than ever. If you would come with me”—Luca gestured at the office tent—“we can start formulating a plan of attack.”

  “I’m ready,” said Zelda. “Are you ready, Maja?”

  Maja spat on the ground.

  “I couldn’t have put it better if I’d tried,” said Edith.

  Mercurialis, too, agreed with the stout Croatian’s earthy rejoinder. This surprised Edith. The demon had always supported her ambitions as regarded the war effort, but it didn’t care about human politics. It couldn’t; at least, not in any way that a human could care. Being intrigued by a possible outcome or even rooting for the home team was not the same as being emotionally invested in a cause, and diabolists who forgot that were the ones who generally found themselves in a good bit of trouble eventually.

  And yet Mercurialis hadn’t just been amused by Maja; it concurred.

  Even a demon can have a heart, it said, answering the question she hadn’t been able to formulate. At least, the sort of heart humans mean when they speak of having hearts.

  Edith wondered if that was really true or not; Mercurialis sent a wave of song through her mind that, roughly translated, meant it admired her skepticism. Mercurial, indeed . . . but she had too many other things to think about in that moment to consider it for long.

  * * *

  MERCURIALIS DIDN’T JUST APPROVE OF their intentions—it admired their plan.

  Not that it mattered what the demon thought. Its interest had nothing to do with tactical soundness or their likelihood of success. It was simply glad that Edith would assuredly need to draw upon its powers several times. It enjoyed that sort of thing. Mischief was part of its nature, and while infiltrating Dr. Braune’s castle was not exactly a caper, it did require sneaking, deceit, and trickery.

  Edith was less sure she approved. Not only did she have reservations about the way they’d get inside the facility; she also had mixed feelings about their goals.

  The Young Talarians had done much over the years, but they’d never been able to locate the Dark Lab of Dr. Querner, nor ascertain fully what horrors he and Dr. Braune were collaborating upon. Discovering both was now paramount.

  The problem was that Dr. Braune and Dr. Querner were both diabolists; a few of their staff were, too. They’d have wards, they’d have traps, they’d have the advantage of home turf. All things considered, Edith would have preferred instead to go in there with a Valentine tank and a section of infantry. Using diabolism to thwart a diabolist was always unpredictable, fighting fire with fire and all that . . .

  To all these ends, they’d done a lot of brainstorming and contingency planning, but in the end their plan came down to finding someone and getting them to reveal what they wanted to know. Whether it fell to Zelda to beat it out of them or Edith to use subtlety and subterfuge, that didn’t matter. It just had to be done.

  Edith caught Graham looking at her as they checked over their packs and tied their boots—German issue, just like the uniforms they wore. If he perceived her doubts, he didn’t remark upon them.

  Perhaps he perceives something else, said Mercurialis, unhelpfully.

  Edith silently denied this. Graham hadn’t had much to say as they talked over their plan for hours, looking over Luca’s maps, listening to Amina’s descriptions of the castle grounds, and discussing intricacies with an Englishman by the name of George Stuart and a Roma diabolist who simply went by Grizelda.

  Everyone but Grizelda had come along; she had remained behind to watch, so that someone could report back if they failed.

  If they failed . . . at least Edith had said what she needed to say to Jane on her last trip. And she’d given her the dress. That comforted her, as did knowing she’d told Miriam the truth so that it could not be denied to her by others.

  She’d put her affairs in order.

  Largely. She hadn’t had the conversation she truly wanted with her sister, Nancy. Dearest, impossible Nancy—the calmest woman Edith had ever known and yet the least equipped to deal with upheaval in her life. How it rankled that she presented herself as the sensible one who had the good head on her shoulders when what she did most with that head was stick it deep, deep into the sand.

  She’d just have to make it back. Clearly, she still had a piece of her mind with a big N branded upon it. She couldn’t die until she’d given it to Nancy, gift-wrapped with a big bow on it, if possible.

  The fate of the war might be at hand, and you’re thinking about telling off your sister . . .

  Mercurialis was right to recall her to the present, but Edith felt it didn’t have to sound so smug about it.

  * * *

  THEY TREKKED TOWARD BRAUNE’S CASTLE that same afternoon—single file, keeping to the lengthening shadows, and all holding links of a chain clutched in their hands. Another interesting use of the Art, of Luca’s own design: the illusion was stronger the more people were included.

  Edith had wanted to ask a lot of questions about it, and about Luca’s demon, but there hadn’t been time.

  It was just before dusk when the castle hove into view, looking as it always did: like it should be swaddled by fog, with jagged lightning bolts illuminating it from above. The few windows were ablaze with light; those inside were working well into the evening.

  Edith caught Zelda’s eye and nodded. Their hope had been to sneak inside as people were eagerly going about their final few tasks and not paying much mind to who might be poking around. Indeed, a few trucks were still out front of the portcullis, and uniformed men were loading and sometimes unloading crates, but at a leisurely pace instead of the efficient clip of rested soldiers first thing in the morning.

  Luca had a map of the castle that he’d made not long after the Talarians had discovered it two months ago. Edith had helped with that raid, too, though remotely. She’d supplied a bit of her special foundation that had allowed Luca to seamlessly blend in among the officers. He’d only had the one shot; what with rationing, Edith had barely enough for herself, but the war effort meant making sacrifices of many sorts.

  Resources were always the biggest limitation on feats of diablerie, and their resources had never been lower.

  They all had a few tricks up their sleeves that afternoon. Edith wasn’t the only Société member who donated to the cause. George Stuart had given
Edith two phials, one with sand that would stick someone to the ground on the spot; the other would soften nearly any surface enough that Edith could push her way through it. Luca had a sack of pebbles that bounced like rubber balls; Maja had an egg that when cracked filled a room with the sound of twittering birds. They had weapons less arcane, as well; Edith had her Astra 300 nestled in her pocket alongside a few armamentaria.

  And me!

  And, of course, she had Mercurialis.

  They were close to the castle. Edith waved to get everyone’s attention. She got out her compact mirror and dusted everyone’s faces with her special powder, dear as it was to her these days. While it wouldn’t fully transform anyone’s appearance, it would make most people see a familiar face instead of a strange one if they didn’t look too hard.

  Edith had more on than just powder. She had downed a potion to increase her uptake of the diabolic material in her bespoke sweets, as well as applying several other cosmetics to mask her decidedly non-Aryan features. She’d dabbed a bit here and there on Amina, too—and for a few exhilarating moments, on Graham.

  The plan was to divide into two groups so that they could enact a simultaneous infiltration of both entrances of the castle, for there was a modern rear gate as well as the original. Edith wished Zelda was coming with her; alas, she was taking Maja and George Stuart in the side entrance to better access the Records Department. There were more guards that way.

  Edith was taking Luca, Amina, and Graham through the front. Except for the inevitable sentries posted at the gate and at the door, the route to Braune’s medical facility in the great hall was circuitous and largely unobserved—only one checkpoint.

  Edith caught Maja’s eye. She looked determined and unhappy; Edith felt about the same.

  Graham’s eye she did not seek.

  A few hand signals were exchanged between Edith and her team, and then they settled in to wait for a patrol or a truck to come by. They’d slip past the gates by marching with a company, and then disperse into the crowd.