Creatures of Charm and Hunger

by Molly Tanzer

  This was just a strange occurrence, a coincidence.

  Miriam enjoyed caring for the birds as an act of service to the family that had taken her in, but, really, these dead fowl meant little to her, not with her father’s pale tooth and jawbone fresh in her mind—not to mention the yet-unknown fate of her mother. Regardless, she was grateful that the ducks had provided her with an acceptable cover story for seeming upset.

  However long ago her father had died, the loss was fresh to Miriam, and it was a loss she and the shadow-self within her had to endure in silence, alone. Sadness battled with Miriam’s exhaustion and won; she sat down with the Blackwoods as they stared into the middle distance together, each alone with her own thoughts.

  18

  * * *

  SMUDGE FOLLOWED JANE OUT TO the barn when she went to clean up the mess.

  It was Smudge. She was sure of it. She’d held him in her arms when he’d been a squirmy mewling kitten; she knew his ways like she knew her own. Currently, Smudge was walking as he usually did, tail swishing from side to side like a fuzzy rudder, his posture alert and focused. A confident tomcat out for a stroll.

  Things weren’t any different now.

  Except they were.

  The storm the previous night had raged like Jane’s emotions as she’d summoned forth the Ceaseless Connoisseur from its home in the Quarry of Sensation. The demon had answered, Smudge had awoken from his induced sleep within a circle made of crushed coca leaves and rose petals, and Jane had bound them together with words and a bit of virgin white yarn she’d soaked in a solution of mercury, diabolic essence, and single-malt Scotch whisky. After she’d said the final words, the yarn had glowed an eye-watering shade of azure before disappearing into flesh and fur.

  After that, the cat had stepped delicately out of the circle, head-butted her chin with the chirp that meant he would like to be petted, and then herded her to bed, as Smudge often did when she was late at her work. Today Smudge trotted his same trot, cocked his tail back and forth with the same jaunty confidence, and looked over at her with his inscrutable yellow eyes the same way he always had when she called his name. And yet she knew he was not really himself. There was something within her cat making his motions a bit swifter, a bit keener. A bit more consciously attuned to her.

  Smudge had slept soundly, curled beside Jane’s feet all night. She had been the restless one, tossing and turning after everything she had done. Normally Jane wouldn’t think twice of something so normal as the cat sleeping on her feet, but there were the ducks to be considered. Three ducks with their bellies split and their entrails strewn about the barn. Whatever had done it had dragged them around and around, effectively trapping the remaining birds in a circle of feathers, guts, and blood.

  Jane knew that foxes and other predators sometimes liked to play with their food; it was just the timing of this gruesome attack that gave her pause. That, and when she looked at the carcasses in the dim light of the barn—Nancy’s country pragmatism had made her save the bodies for stock at the very least—she’d noticed their necks were snapped.

  Cleanly, not messily. And there were no bite marks.

  It was uncanny, and she’d done something uncanny the night before. Uncanny, illegal, dangerous . . . whether her actions were ambitious or insane would be for history to decide.

  But even a demon couldn’t be in two places at once—and they could not exist beyond their host. There simply hadn’t been time for Smudge to slip away and murder birds for sport, pleasure, or weirder reasons. The coincidence was just that—coincidence.

  Anyway, why on earth would a demon want to kill a few ducks? What reason could it have to do something so petty and disgusting? Especially the Ceaseless Connoisseur—it was attracted to sensation, most especially blithe sensation. Not violence or destruction. As Jane considered this, it occurred to her that she didn’t need to wonder. The cat was under her control—more so than it had ever been.

  “Smudge,” said Jane, as she swept entrails into a dustpan.

  The cat stared at her from where it sat in a ray of sunshine, its shadow stretched long upon the floor. “Did you do this?”

  The cat blinked slowly, once, and then to her absolute horror, it shook its head no.

  The previous night, as the rain had pattered on the roof and Jane had crushed a lead pencil with some wood while scraping a pearl along a bit of red brick, she hadn’t felt afraid. She’d felt confident and in control as she’d spoken the final words—her own addition, and a clever one, in her opinion: “And thou mayest depart for thine own realm when I give thee leave to do so, or upon the very moment of my death, which if it is caused by thy hand or intention, shall result in thine own demise.”

  The rest of it had been good stuff, too, cobbled together from several different summoning spells from several different books—courtesy of the strike chain—along with some ideas of her own. She’d especially liked the line that read: “Thou mayest not lie to me with either thy voice or thy body,” given how reliant every pet owner was on reading nonverbal communication from their animals. Likewise, she was very pleased by “no part of thy flesh, bone, or blood may disobey me, nor mayest thou obey thine own will if it should depart from mine.”

  It had all gone exactly as described, so to Jane, that seemed to indicate it had gone well.

  Jane finished plucking and cleaning the dead birds and scattered fresh sawdust over the blood stains on the barn floor. The surviving poultry relaxed a bit, spreading out from their huddled flock to nibble at some grain. Smudge was still lit from behind by the morning sunshine. The bright light caught the tips of his fluffy mane and the tufts on his ears and around his feline shoulders.

  The ducks and geese did not go near him.

  Of course, they didn’t usually go near Smudge, Jane reminded herself. They typically gave him a wide berth. Even a familiar predator was still a predator.

  She was just trussing the duck carcasses so they could hang for a bit when a shadow darkened the door of the barn. Jane uttered a squawk of surprise that echoed those of the ducks and the geese. She’d been so lost in her own thoughts, she hadn’t heard Miriam’s approach.

  “Sorry,” said Miriam, stepping inside. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “I know,” said Jane.

  She wasn’t angry anymore, and she knew she ought to say so—but she couldn’t make herself. There was something other than anger stoppering her throat—pride, perhaps, or resentment.

  “Jane,” said Miriam, “about yesterday . . .”

  “I’m sorry I yelled,” said Jane.

  “I’m sorry I read your letter,” said Miriam. “And I’m sorry I took the book when you needed it.”

  An awkward silence descended until Miriam asked, “So . . . are you done here?”

  “I am,” said Jane.

  “I should have offered to help, but I really wasn’t feeling well this morning.”

  “No?”

  “It was a long night.”

  Jane felt the flutter of alarm. She hadn’t heard Miriam come home—had she stayed out with Sam? Had they actually done something?

  Would Miriam confide in Jane if they had?

  A strained silence descended as the girls stood together in the warm barn. Sunlight streamed in at the cracks, and the dust from the hay and the grain swirled in the air between them like fairy lights, blinking out when they fell into shadow and then glowing again as they reentered the pale gold of the faint sunshine.

  What had they used to talk about? It seemed incredible how easily they had once chatted away their time as they worked and played, covering seemingly infinite topics of conversation. Now, five minutes of awkward apologies left them with nothing more to say to each other.

  Miriam was clearly at a loss, too. The girl fidgeted like a child as she stood there, biting her lower lip as if to remind herself to keep it stationary.

  Smudge stalked over to rub his face on Miriam’s ankle, as he had always enjoyed doing. Miriam squatted
down to pet him; he flopped over onto his back, writhing a bit before getting to his feet and flopping over again.

  Jane just watched, her neck prickling as her best friend ran her fingers over Smudge’s arched spine. The entire interaction was as typical as could be . . . except it wasn’t.

  That was when something odd happened. As Smudge squirmed and wriggled under Miriam’s gentle touch, to Jane it looked as if the cat’s shadow wasn’t. It remained relatively still—and then, for just a moment, two eyes opened up, almond-shaped and empty, revealing the sawdusty floor of the barn.

  They blinked, disappearing and reappearing, before swiveling to alight on Jane. Every hair on her neck rose as the eyes narrowed—

  “Wicked thing!” cried Miriam, pulling her hand back in annoyance. “Why do I fall for that act of yours every time?”

  Smudge had nipped her fingers for his own inscrutable reasons, and now looked pleased with himself as he twisted about in the sawdust.

  His shadow followed him, as shadows ought to do.

  “So,” said Miriam, as she stood, “I suppose I’d better, you know, go and . . . Jane?”

  Jane’s heartbeat was slowing as Smudge’s shadow continued to behave in an entirely mundane fashion. It must have been a trick of the light, or the strain of her shocking morning following a sleepless night.

  “Of course,” said Jane. “I’ll be along shortly. Is it all going well for you?” She surprised herself by asking that last part. She wasn’t sure if she really wanted to know.

  Miriam looked momentarily pained. “I suppose so,” she said. “It’s odd, isn’t it? Everything’s changed so much in such a short time.”

  Jane bit her tongue—the change had started long before that. If anything, their Practical had simply shone a light on it. That seemed like the wrong thing to say, however.

  “It’s good to practice taking things a little more seriously,” she said. “Once we’re Masters, the stakes will be even higher.”

  “Once we’re Masters . . .” Miriam said it like it wasn’t a concept she had been thinking much about—which was odd, given her devotion to her studies. “I suppose you’re right.” She hesitated for a moment and then said, “Goodbye, Jane,” and left.

  Smudge kicked his paws a few more times before sitting up and stretching. Jane watched him carefully, but there was nothing amiss. Nothing except a strange absence on his collar . . .

  “Smudge, where’s your bell got to?”

  Odd that it should have fallen off; it never had before.

  “Let’s go get you another one,” said Jane. She was certain she had one in her sewing kit. “I wonder if you’ll even want to chase birds anymore.”

  Jane recalled why she was in the barn to begin with and grew quiet. Smudge licked his paw, shook it a few times, and licked it again, like any cat might.

  * * *

  THERE WAS NO WAY TO PREDICT how quickly Smudge’s claws, fur, and whiskers would begin to register diabolic essence, and there would be no outward indicator that the change had occurred. Thus, patience was not the only thing required for this next stage in Jane’s efforts.

  The strike chain had helped Jane locate a clever little candle whose flame would turn bright pink when diabolic material was burning. It was such a helpful, clever bit of diablerie that Jane was eager to try it out—so that afternoon she nipped down to the storeroom within the Library to get what she needed.

  Smudge trotted along at her heels by her command. She wasn’t about to let the cat out of her sight. Not yet.

  Nancy was sitting at her desk, as usual. There were a few slips bearing requests by one of her elbows and books to go out by the other. She was so completely absorbed by what she was looking at that Jane wasn’t sure if her mother had heard her approach.

  She stood there for an awkward moment, and then another, before coughing delicately into her hand.

  Nancy looked up. “All right, Jane?”

  “Yes, Mother,” said Jane.

  Jane hesitated. She didn’t know how to ask for what she needed, because what she needed was to be a normal sixteen-year-old girl who’d seen something incredibly strange and wanted to talk to her mother about it.

  Jane, however, was anything but.

  “Need a book?”

  “A component,” said Jane.

  Nancy hadn’t seemed to notice Smudge, who was at that moment sitting up straight, his tail politely curved over his toes.

  Jane checked to make sure her cat’s shadow was acting like a shadow. It was.

  Maybe she could at least try to be a normal sixteen-year-old, just for a moment.

  “Mother . . . the ducks . . .”

  “Hmm?”

  “The ducks. I hung them.”

  Her mother smiled. “Oh, good, thank you, Jane. That was very thoughtful.”

  Jane didn’t quite know how to respond to that; it wasn’t the sort of thing she was used to her mother saying. “But . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “It wasn’t just that they’d been disemboweled.” Jane began to sweat, thinking back to the sight of it. “Their necks had been snapped.”

  Nancy stared at her serenely, as if expecting something more.

  “It didn’t look like something a fox could have done,” said Jane, explaining further. “No teeth, no claws. Just a clean break.”

  “Oh.” Her mother mulled this over for a moment, and then smiled. “Foxes are notoriously wily. It’s upsetting, but don’t let it worry you. These things will happen.”

  Jane wasn’t satisfied by this answer at all, but she also got the sense it was the best she would get. Her mother wasn’t really paying attention.

  Then Nancy winked, to Jane’s additional surprise. “Now run along and find your book.”

  “Component,” said Jane.

  Nancy nodded in agreement.

  * * *

  THE NEXT NIGHT, WHEN THE candles were dry and ready, Jane burned a single hair from Smudge’s coat. Nothing happened, as she expected, and nothing happened the second night, either.

  Jane had anticipated this, but waiting still wasn’t easy. She could only check and recheck her equations so many times before her eyes began to cross. But with her mother suddenly at her desk every moment of the day, and Miriam seeming so tired, withdrawn, and distant, Jane was left with no other diversion but work.

  And chores, of course . . .

  The three women had always shared the duties that kept the farmhouse a pleasant place to live. While the girls had both been known to shirk their duties, Nancy never did, which is why it came as a shock when Jane’s mother’s sudden preoccupation with work meant she stopped cleaning, tidying, or cooking.

  The first night when dinner had gone unprepared, a shocked Jane had asked if her mother was in need of some help. Nancy had serenely replied that she would be delighted for Jane to step up and take the initiative, which hadn’t been what Jane was saying at all.

  Not that she minded, not necessarily; she was just concerned and shocked that first night, as she’d prepared a hasty baked savory pudding out of a few early eggs, some stale bread, and their ration of cheese, and she continued to be perturbed when she noticed that Miriam’s chore load remained unchanged.

  Then again, she never would have found Edith’s dress if she hadn’t been newly tasked with dusting the guest room.

  It was a rainy day—but warmer, with the promise of spring. As the rain pattered on the awakening earth beyond the windowsill, Jane decided she need not get through the cleaning quickly. Her eyes were tired from her morning’s reading, the day’s bread—a lumpy, misshapen loaf that Jane hoped would at least taste good—was cooling in the kitchen, and the day before she’d gone to the village to shop, so there was already food in the house for dinner. She had hours before she’d need to even think about cooking anything, so she elected to pass the time by making sure the guest room had been really and truly set to rights.

  When she opened the closet door, she gasped. It had been a month almost
to the day since Edith’s visit, and she’d written them two letters, neither of which had mentioned leaving behind a dress. It was blackest black, with tasteful bits of black lace and some jet beading at the collar and wrists. The buttons up the front were fashioned from a shiny material, formed, or perhaps carved, into the shape of little stars.

  Jane rubbed the wool crepe between her fingers, luxuriating in the sensation, but she stopped when a bit of it snagged on a callus. This wasn’t hers to ruin with her work-rough hands—or was it?

  There, pinned in the dress, was a note. Feeling as though she were doing something illicit, Jane opened the small envelope and gasped in delight.

  Dearest Jane,

  Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you look at my wardrobe. Well, you always have been discerning. Here’s one of your own, from me. Wear it in good health, but wear it in secret until you’re out of the house.

  Congratulations on passing your Test, Jane—I always knew you would!

  Your affectionate aunt,

  Edith Blackwood

  Jane experienced a number of feelings while reading this short missive. How well her aunt understood her—and how little, too! Jane wished they’d parted on better terms . . .

  She wished, too, that she’d actually passed her Test.

  But that wasn’t all the letter said. Beneath, in a hastier scrawl, she read:

  I hope you’re not annoyed at yet another thing that must wait until you leave home, Jane. I do think both will prove worth it.

  It was true that Jane had not passed her Test, and thus did not deserve this dress . . . but it was also true that to maintain the illusion that she had, Jane would need to wear it with pride. The first easy sacrifice of her journey!