Silence.
Jonathan, weak with the strain of performing the ritual, did not leave the circle. He waited. To leave the circle now, was to die. Asmodeus was in the room.
The smell of the demon king was horrible, beyond even the stench of burning human flesh, which Jonathan had smelled before. The odor was paralyzing, unearthly, a burning beyond all burnings and with it came the terrible sounds-the roar of a dragon, of a bull, the raw sound from the throat of a ram and the sound of a man screaming in maniacal rage.
Jonathan, fighting an awesome fear, lifted his head inches from the floor and saw the demon king.
The sight, sound and smell of him lasted brief seconds but it was terrifying. Jonathan trembled, forcing himself not to run, to stay within the protective magic circle.
The demon king filled the room with his image and presence, seeming to be everywhere at once, beside Jonathan, then hovering over him, taunting, threatening, tempting him to leave the magic circle. Asmodeus’ face changed swiftly into different faces, each more terrible than the last and the demon’s three heads blended into one, then separated before blending into one again. Colors surrounding him came and went, shifting from the red of an open wound, to a black that blended purple with blue then became the deepest black once more. For terrible seconds, Jonathan feared he’d lost control, that for the first time he’d raised forces which he could not control. But the demon king did not enter the circle and Jonathan sent his thoughts out to him, telling Asmodeus of the blood sacrifice that was to be his, of the woman and children who would soon die to give Jonathan more time to locate the Throne of Solomon.
Would Asmodeus accept this sacrifice as he had accepted the others?
The dragon roared, the cold wind blew and Asmodeus opened the mouths on his three heads to show teeth glistening with spit and blood.
Then the colors faded and the cold wind disappeared, and the demon king was gone. Asmodeus would accept the sacrifice. Jonathan had bought himself more time. Now there was no chance of him showing mercy to the woman and children; only if they died could Jonathan live.
When Jonathan sensed that the room was empty, he stood and left the circle, stepping near the black candle facing north and into the blood-scrawled name of the demon Zimmar. Later, Jonathan would smile at the thought of demons being beneath his feet.
EIGHTEEN
Rachel Coltman noticed that Eddy Poe was very much the polite and courtly southerner with the beautiful child Dearborn Lapham, who had arrived at Rachel’s Fifth Avenue home this afternoon with Hugh Larney and Miles Standish. The Eddy who was talking to little Dearborn was not the Eddy who used words with bitter precision. This Eddy Poe had the aristocratic charm of the Virginia in which he’d been raised; Rachel delighted in seeing his pleasantries to this lovely child, whom Hugh Larney had introduced as his niece.
Dearborn, in an ankle-length dress of green taffeta, her golden curls reaching to her waist, stirred her tea with a delicate silver spoon gripped between thumb and forefinger, the other three fingers on her right hand pointing up at the ceiling.
“I shall be an actress, you know. One day I shall.”
Poe, sitting across from her, nodded with a half smile. “A laudable profession, Miss Lapham, one in which my mother excelled.”
The child whore looked at him for several seconds. Her smile came after some small reflection, mildly surprising Rachel who found such poise intimidating in a child. Was it Rachel’s imagination or had Miles Standish actually smirked behind his hand when Hugh Larney had introduced Dearborn as his niece?
Dearborn said, “Did your mother love the stage, sir?”
“I am told she did. She died when I was but a child, just days short of my third birthday. Yes, she loved the stage. She performed some two hundred different roles, this in addition to her chorus and singing work.”
“Your parents were travelling players, sir.”
Poe smiled. “I am the son of an actress, Miss Lapham. It is my boast.”
Dearborn sipped tea, gently placing the cup back on the saucer she held in her left hand. “I have never known my parents, sir.”
Hugh Larney, sitting beside her on a small leather sofa near the fireplace, smiled into his half-filled glass of brandy. “She has a Dutch uncle who sees that her hands are never idle. I myself arrange excursions for our little Dearborn which take her far from this teeming metropolis. Why today, she accompanied me to the country where we had a rousing good time, did we not Dearborn?”
The child looked down at her snow wet boots. “Yes sir. We did see some things indeed, sir.”
She looked at Poe. “You are from the South, sir?”
His smile was gentle. “Yes and no. I was born in Boston-”
“That is far north, is it not, sir?”
“Massachusetts. And not too far north. Then I spent some time in Virginia-”
“Oh, I see, sir.”
“Then it was to England where my family and I lived five years.”
“Is England far, sir? Is it near Virginia?”
“No, my dear. It is indeed far, a long way across the ocean.” She reminds me of Sissy, my dearest wife. She has the beauty and gentleness of darling Sissy, and she is around the age Sissy was when we married.
But Dearborn Lapham was a child whore, one seen in the company of Hugh Larney on more than one occasion, one known to belong to Wade Bruenhausen, the blind, bible-reading Dutch procurer. In the child’s company, Poe had noticed the startling resemblance to his wife and first cousin, a resemblance that had overshadowed what he knew of Dearborn’s life. To think of her as a whore was to resent Hugh Larney more than usual, something Poe didn’t want to do this afternoon for Rachel’s sake.
Rachel said, “I am glad you received my message, Eddy. I cannot tell you how ashamed I am of my behavior to you yesterday.”
“Rachel please-”
“No Eddy, it must be said.”
“It has been said, dearest Rachel.”
“I shall say it again. You are a most treasured friend and one I shall never again deceive or disgrace. I shall follow your advice in this personal matter, I give you my word.”
Except, thought Poe, when it comes to renouncing any and all allegiance to Dr. Paracelsus. You will be guided by me in the matter of the ransom, providing we hear again from Hamlet Sproul. But in truth, you will also be guided by Paracelsus, whom I truly suspect as being more deadly than his appearance conveys.
Miles Standish said, “We assumed you would be in touch with Mrs. Coltman, which is why we are here. I would like to know if you are still in touch with Sproul?”
“No.” Poe’s eyes were on Dearborn Lapham.
Pierce James Figg, sitting near a window, took his gaze from Poe to look out onto the street at the huge black man who stood near Larney’s carriage talking to a tall white man in a top hat and ankle-length red fur coat. Then Figg looked back at Poe. Little Mr. Poe has a sudden interest in the tiny dolly mop, thought the boxer, but I don’t think it’s got anything to do with havin’ a go at her. That’s what the little dandy fella is doin’ what brought her here, the fella with the pointed chin and the look about him of a man who’ll steal shit from a parrot’s cage and sell it to you as mayonnaise. Figg did not trust a man with a mouth as small as Larney’s.
Standish stood with his back to the fire. Rachel noticed that he treated Eddy as though Eddy were a wild beast about to strike unless spoken to in soft tones. Standish said, “Mr. Poe, I would like to know if you feel that the recent attack upon you signals an end to any communication with the ghouls.”
With an effort Poe took his gaze away from Dearborn. “I have no answer for that, Mr. Standish. When time has elapsed and I hear nothing, I will then assume you are correct. The timely intervention of Mr. Figg has reduced the criminal population by two, but I have yet to learn if it has reduced my chances of recovering Justin Coltman.”