Creatures of Charm and Hunger

by Molly Tanzer

  There would be no such checks on a creature like Smudge. And no Smudge, either. When a demon took actual possession of a living creature, there was no partnership, no constantly evolving, mutually beneficial relationship of the sort that characterized diabolist/demon relations.

  Miriam heard a creak from the general direction of Jane’s room. Such sounds were not unusual in an old house, but now that Miriam’s blood was up and her curiosity had been whetted, she wondered just what she’d been missing by not paying more attention to her friend.

  Once again, Miriam was reduced to spying at the keyhole. What she saw there astonished her, for she had certainly not expected to catch Jane dressed in a black dress their fashionable aunt would look at twice in a shop window while climbing out her window onto a strangely chic broom that hung impossibly in the air beyond.

  But that was indeed what Jane was doing.

  Jane could fly!

  There she was, sitting astride the broom, like an illustration of a witch out of a children’s fairy book. But of course, the illusion was not complete until Smudge jumped up beside her, from where he sat on Jane’s desk. There, after an uncannily catlike amount of fussing and spinning and getting his tail in Jane’s face, he deigned to sit between her hands. Then they were off, and Miriam lost sight of them.

  Miriam spent a few moments marveling at what an exceptional diabolist Jane truly was. Criminally reckless—that, too—but a criminally reckless genius.

  Then, as Miriam was poised to look away, something caught her roving eye.

  Jane had left the lamp on and a candle burning—so wasteful! But more importantly, in the bright light, something dark was moving.

  It slithered in from the window where Jane and Smudge had just gone out and disappeared so quickly Miriam wondered if she’d really seen it. Then it, whatever it was, reappeared by the candle.

  It seemed like a shadow—but a shadow cast by nothing at all. It flickered as the candle guttered in the evening breeze, changing shape and then settling with the flame—settling into the shape of a cat.

  Not just any cat, either. It was Smudge. The real cat’s features were unmistakable within the unnaturally crisp lines of the shadow-cat’s form, from the fluff of his small but impressive mane to the downward curl of his whiskers, to even the shape of his eyes—for this shadow had eyes, bright slits in the darkness where the pale pink wallpaper of Jane’s room peeped through. Even the flicking of the shadow-cat’s tail was like Smudge’s.

  It was the most uncanny thing Miriam had ever seen in her life. She broke out in a cold sweat as she watched the shadow-cat lick its paw furiously a few times before standing, stretching, and peeling itself off the wall. Miriam gasped and then clapped her hand over her mouth; the shadow-cat gave no indication it had heard her. Miriam wondered if perhaps it couldn’t hear—it was still paper-thin and translucent, like a shadow; or maybe it was too absorbed in stalking a pen that lay at the center of Jane’s desk. In a moment of playful glee eerily reminiscent of a real cat, the phantom used its paw to knock the pen onto the rug below and then leapt down after it before heading for the door where Miriam yet looked on.

  Having no idea how the shadow-cat would get out of the room, or where it might wish to go once it was free, Miriam scurried away from the door as quietly as she could, backwards and crab-fashion on her hands, into the upstairs bathroom. She sat there in the darkness and listened. She wondered if she’d hear anything, what with how loudly her heart was pounding, but when Jane’s door creaked open on its hinges, the noise seemed to slice into her like a knife.

  Why the shadow-cat opened the door, rather than finding some other, more subtle means of egress, Miriam could not say. She only knew that when she finally worked up the courage to look around the corner of the bathroom door, she saw Jane’s was ajar—and saw, too, the tip of the shadow-cat’s tail as it went down the stairs.

  It was on a mission—that was clear enough. Miriam felt torn. She wanted nothing to do with this foul thing and its errands, but she also felt uneasy about it running about unsupervised in her home.

  Continuing to run about in her home. This being wasn’t exploring. It knew its way around.

  Miriam slipped off her shoes to muffle her footfalls and went after it. Treading as lightly as she could on shaking legs, she padded down the stairs, pushing herself to the limits of her weakened state. Even so, she only got there in time to see the Library door easing shut with a creak that felt bone-shaking in the otherwise quiet house.

  Miriam didn’t know if Nancy was still in the Library or not, but it also seemed like a bad idea for the shadow-cat to be alone in the most authoritative repository of diabolic knowledge in the world.

  Miriam eased open the Library door before descending carefully into the darkness beyond. There was a light burning in the distance, but Miriam hung back in the deep shadows until she accepted that she couldn’t see anything from where she lurked, least of all a cat made of shadow.

  She crept closer to where Nancy was sitting, bathed in lamplight. She was at her desk, her back straight, feet on the floor, her posture perfect. She seemed to be staring into the middle distance—odd, when she’d been unable to look up from her desk much of late. Miriam thought she might be napping until she followed Nancy’s gaze and saw a jagged puff of gray shadow perched atop her desk, its empty eyes level with hers.

  It was speaking in a breathy whisper Miriam could not hear. How frustrating; she dared not draw nearer, but eventually Nancy replied.

  “I know you are disappointed. I had no idea this would take so long, my lord. But I must start taking better care of this body. It is deteriorating. The amount of diabolic essence I must consume in order to obey your will would stress anyone’s system. Please be reasonable, my lord. It upsets my stomach too much to eat, and then no sleep—”

  Nancy stopped and stared intently at the shadow-cat on her desk, nodding occasionally.

  “Lord Indigator,” she said after a moment, “you have demanded my obedience, and that of my demon, but because of your demands upon us, I am dying. I must rest more, I must eat more, I must consume less diabolic essence, I must have more lucid time with my children. They have noticed my . . . absence. Soon that absence will be permanent, as is your wont, but if you desire this body for your own, what good is it to you if it is damaged beyond repair?”

  Listening to this conversation was like a nightmare, it just kept getting worse. And yet she had to listen—carefully, so she had a better chance to remember everything later.

  She’d already learned who had been draining Nancy’s stores of diabolic essence—it had been Nancy! Miriam might learn much if she kept eavesdropping . . .

  “You are already taking a substantial risk with my flesh. Commanding my demon to dissolve my spirit will enable your eventual occupation of this body,” said Nancy, after a few moments spent listening to the cat. “But we know what happens to bodies separated from their souls. If you would dwell permanently within this flesh, you must take care of it.” She paused, then nodded. “Yes, my lord,” she said. “I understand.”

  Nancy’s soul—dissolved so that a demon could occupy her flesh instead! The Pact was supposed to prevent such things. It was supposed to prevent the possibility of them! But Jane’s familiar seemed able to circumvent the foundational premise of human-demon relations.

  It was horrifying to contemplate . . . doubly so for Miriam, who had done something similar, and many times. At least, sort of. She’d had her reasons . . . but this demon also surely felt so, too.

  At least she’d never intended to do it permanently.

  Miriam didn’t think confronting the shadow-cat was a good idea, not when she knew so little about it—but she could confront Jane. Surely Jane could have no idea her familiar was operating in this way in her absence. She and Nancy had their differences, but this was beyond the pale. To permanently steal another’s body . . . such an act had been treated with the utmost horror in Badgerskin and all the other texts Miriam had
read on the subject. And not only was it despicable, it was incredibly difficult diablerie, with the highest of costs on both sides.

  As she’d learned what seemed like so long ago, there were only two ways to go about taking over someone else’s body. One could employ Miriam’s method of sticking to someone, dybbuk-like, and overpowering their will . . . or one could essentially hollow someone out to get inside—and stay inside. It was intended to be a more permanent sort of thing.

  Miriam had borrowed bodies, but she’d never stolen one . . .

  She eased herself out of the Library as silently as she could and headed up the stairs to wait for Jane. She didn’t want to be anywhere near that thing. It was not lost on her that it needed a host with space inside their spirit for someone else—and that’s just what she’d done to herself.

  26

  * * *

  IT WAS VERY LATE WHEN the sound of Jane tiptoeing down the hall reached Miriam’s ears. She peeked out her door and was glad to see her friend was alone as she slipped inside the upstairs bathroom. Miriam followed, knowing she’d surprise Jane—but at the same time, Smudge could obviously not be present for this conversation.

  Jane was struggling out of the black dress—or rather, she was stuck in it. She was also covered in mud and had a few scrapes visible on her legs; something had befallen her out there. Unsure what would frighten Jane the least, for she had not yet noticed she was observed, Miriam coughed into her hand.

  Jane went still, then turned slowly.

  “Let me help you,” whispered Miriam. Even with circumstances being what they were, she couldn’t help smiling at her friend.

  Jane nodded in resignation. A few moments later, she was free of the complicated and tight-fitting garment.

  “I couldn’t get the clasp undone,” muttered Jane. As she pulled on her robe, Miriam saw she was absolutely covered with scrapes and bruises. “I thought I could just get it over my head, but I couldn’t.”

  “So,” said Miriam, “you’ve been spending your nights flying around the countryside on a broom while wearing a black dress. Have you threatened anyone’s little dog, too?”

  Jane looked startled, then sheepish; almost as if she’d been expecting something like this to happen. “Where else was I supposed to wear it?” she said wryly. Then she sobered. “It was a gift from Aunt Edith.”

  Miriam went very still. She felt very badly that she’d let Edith’s plight slip her mind in all the hullabaloo.

  “What is it?”

  “Jane . . . I’m sorry . . . sorry about everything, and sorry for spying on you, but . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Jane hastily. “Turnabout is fair play.”

  “Is it?” Miriam went from almost enjoying the moment they were sharing to remembering how Jane had threatened her. “Then should I declare I’ll expose you, too? Not for the broom, I mean—but for summoning a diabolic familiar? ” She hissed this last in an undertone, lest any pointed, tufted ears be cocked at the bathroom.

  This, Jane was clearly not expecting. She went pale as the tile she leaned against.

  “Of all the reckless, stupid things to do!” said Miriam, still barely speaking above a whisper.

  “It wasn’t stupid!” Miriam goggled at Jane. “Smudge is good. He’s helpful; he hasn’t done anything he shouldn’t. He can’t! I added so many clauses to the summoning. I thought of everything.”

  Miriam realized Jane was pleading with her.

  Jane knew something. She was trying to deny it, to Miriam—and also to herself.

  “Everything?” Miriam crossed her arms. “I don’t think so, Jane. I think you forgot something very important. Because you forgot to bind his shadow! ”

  “His shadow.” All the fight left Jane, and Miriam knew then that she’d been right. All was not well. Jane had been worrying about something—or some things, perhaps.

  “As I was spying on you, after you left . . . it was the uncanniest thing I’ve ever seen. Smudge’s shadow . . . it could peel itself off the wall and do things. And as if that wasn’t bad enough—Jane, it had eyes! Holes in the shadow that blinked and looked around . . . it’s . . .”

  Jane knew. Miriam saw the guilt on her face as she slid down the wall of the bathroom, melting into puddle of terry cloth and bloody, dirty legs.

  “I told myself it’d just been a flight of fancy . . .” Jane whispered.

  “Jane,” said Miriam, unable and also unwilling to keep the disapproval from her voice. “How could you?”

  “I didn’t know! Miriam—the night the ducks were killed, Smudge was with me. And the same for—for Sam, too. So I thought—I didn’t think . . .”

  “Bother the ducks. And bother Sam!”

  “Steady on, Miriam—”

  “I’m talking about your mother, Jane. Smudge—or whatever you summoned into Smudge—is trying to take over Nancy’s body.”

  As Miriam suspected, this was news to Jane. “What?”

  “Smudge’s shadow, it snuck down to the Library to . . . to commune or something with Nancy. She said it had her obedience and her demon’s. She said it’s making her take excessive amounts of diabolic essence so that her own demon can do terrible things. That’s why she’s been so distant and not attending to her duties. The Patron is dissolving her soul so your familiar can take her place!”

  “Smudge would never!” Jane hissed, insistent on both his name and the point. “You said yourself, it was the shadow! Not Smudge himself. Smudge is different. He already has a body.”

  “The shadow is Smudge!”

  “Maybe it’s Smudge, or maybe it isn’t,” said Jane. “Maybe it’s some other demon. Smudge sleeps next to me every night, he volunteers help even when I don’t ask . . . he wouldn’t do something like you’re saying.”

  “How can you know that?” Miriam loved Nancy; the truth was, she felt closer to her than she ever had with her own mother. Sofia Cantor had been distant and worried most of Miriam’s life; Nancy had been patient, kind, and generous with her time and resources. She wouldn’t let this go. “How much was there in The Book of Known Demons about this Lord Indigator? Could it have some sort of interest in possessing people?”

  Jane looked uncomfortable. Miriam spent a horrified moment wondering if Jane had skimped on her research, but then she said something infinitely worse.

  “Who is the Lord Indigator?”

  “What do you mean, who?”

  “The demon I summoned into Smudge is called the Ceaseless Connoisseur. It’s benevolent. I read and read and read about it to make sure!”

  This brought Miriam up short. “Nancy called it Lord Indigator. It’s Latin, it means . . . the one who sniffs out, usually in reference to honeycombs and truffles.”

  “So,” muttered Jane, “either it tagged along with the demon in Smudge . . .”

  “Or Smudge was never the Connoisseur.”

  Jane looked unhappy. “I’ll go look up Lord Indigator in The Book of Known Demons,” she said.

  “No, I’ll do it. I don’t think Smudge should know.”

  Jane blushed. “He isn’t always with me.”

  “Isn’t he?”

  “These days he is . . . by design. But I don’t see why he’d be suspicious if I went down there by myself. I have before. And he obviously doesn’t follow me into the bathroom . . .”

  But they both took a moment to look around the room, checking for any cat-shaped shadows that might be lurking in the corners.

  “I’m going to turn on the tub,” said Jane, standing up from where she’d slid to the floor. “I was supposed to be taking a bath.”

  “What happened to you out there?” asked Miriam, as Jane spun the taps and the noise from the water deadened the sound of their voices.

  “I fell,” said Jane. “It was my fault; I was . . . I was taking risks.”

  “What kind of risks can one take on a broom? ”

  “If you must know, I was spiraling down around an oak tree. A branch caught on the dress,
and I panicked, and . . . whump.” Jane looked sheepish. “I’m fine though, just a little banged up. The dress too. I must have fallen on the clasp, it’s bent now, and the hem is torn.”

  “I’m glad you’re all right,” said Miriam. “I’ll let you—”

  “Stay,” Jane urged her. “We used to take baths together when we were small.”

  Miriam hesitated. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but I do think I should go down to the Library and see what I can find.”

  “But Mother—”

  “Went to bed ages ago. When I was listening for you, I heard her turn in.”

  Jane eyed the rising water. “Go then, but I’ll soak for a while. Come back and tell me what you find?”

  Miriam carefully shut the bathroom door behind her and then took off down the hall as quickly as she was able. She did pause, though, to once again press her eye to Jane’s keyhole, but did not take comfort in what she saw there. Smudge the cat was curled up on the bed, seemingly sound asleep with his tail curled up over his nose. But behind him on the wall, in the light of the lamp Jane had yet again left on, the shadow was awake. It was grooming itself, licking its spectral paw and then rubbing behind its ears. As Miriam watched, fascinated and horrified, the shadow-cat suddenly leapt to its feet, peering around in all directions with its empty eyes, searching for something.

  Miriam pulled herself away from the keyhole and went back down to the Library as quickly as possible. She headed for The Book of Known Demons.

  First she found the entry for the Ceaseless Connoisseur. She could see why Jane had selected it, given the demon’s easygoing nature. It seemed like exactly the sort of demon Miriam would have selected for her own foray into summoning a familiar—if for some reason she ever decided to do such a dreadful thing.

  With trepidation, Miriam began paging through the book to look for the entry for the Lord Indigator. Not for the first time did she marvel that there were wild diabolists out there in the world, summoning demons without any understanding of what they might be getting themselves into.