Darker Still (22 page)

I related all of this to Mrs. Northe, who was incredulous, but she commended me so highly for my deduction about the saints that you’d have thought I’d cured some disease with my brilliance. I couldn’t stop blushing. Once I was presentable as a lady again, she seated me in her study and we discussed the matter.

“This is the key!” she cried. “Not only to the victims, but perhaps to even more. Well done, Natalie!”

She took her seat opposite me and leaned in, speaking excitedly. “Naming has great power,” Mrs. Northe said, “despite Shakespeare’s protestation, a phrase our devil was all too eager to quote. Countless instances in works of folktale and faith invoke the power of the name. Poor Hagar, banished when she was about to give birth, is unnamed in the Bible until God calls her by name and establishes her for the ages. There are times when names are avoided, as in the case of something very evil, when things or persons shall not be named. Speaking the name is thought to give the unspeakable some power. Other instances may occur to you.”

I grinned and a small sound of amusement came from me. I signed out many letters. “Rumpelstiltskin.”

Mrs. Northe laughed.

I gestured to my forearm, thinking of my dream, Denbury’s arm, and Barbara’s corpse.

“It would seem carving the names is part of harnessing that power. I can’t piece it together yet, and that may speak to greater spell-crafting. I can’t think this only has to do with poor Lord Denbury. This devil has a bigger game afoot.” She scratched her head. “Runes. Allusions to many faiths mixed with base signs of witchcraft and paganism, the stuff from which all faith was born. It has no one ownership. And that frightens me.”

“Why?” I signed.

“Well, if it were just full of the telltale signs of the Golden Dawn, theosophy, or some sort of subverted Masonic rite, we could just adhere to that for our answer, couldn’t we? Just find the right restricted, scandalous book? But this is something new, and like I’d said, all those jealous gods pitted against one another in this ragtag assortment of religious weaponry. Jealousy makes sane men mad and gentle persons into murderers. Who knows what demons may do with it? Now how do we turn that very power back upon the beast?

“Let’s think through the procedure Lord Denbury related. It’s that phrase the demon said. I know that’s the key, but it’s not complete enough to send him back.” She pointed at the phrase, running her finger over it and tapping one particular word. “This word does not make sense. It is not Latin. Part of it, but not the whole.”

I cringed as she said a few of the words aloud, but she did so in English, rather than Latin—so that any power of the word was hopefully dispelled in translation.

“I send the
soulren
through the door…” She made a face. “In Latin or English, it doesn’t make any sense. But once we wrap our minds around that final piece, we’ll have the spell. Perhaps with the name thrown in—do you recall if he used the name Jonathon or John in the midst of the incantation? Because I find it hard to believe the beast wouldn’t have been specific about it.”

“John,” I signed. “But the fiend gave no name. Without his, can we reverse the spell?”

“I don’t know, and how could we gain such access? How do we lure and keep him close without his suspecting?”

An idea began to form like a ghost in the back of my mind. It terrified me, but the moment I began to dream it up, much like following the fiend, I knew it was right. I could speak in Denbury’s world. It was time I started speaking in this one. No one would suspect me. Until it mattered most.

I took a deep breath and tried to speak, ignoring how much I hated the sound. The words were rough, and they came at great cost, amid tears, and it took a long time to wrestle with each sentence, to muscle each word. Mrs. Northe took my hand, patiently encouraging me.

Something supernatural had cured my voice. I had to imagine it possible here.

I thought of the press of Jonathon’s spirit, a helping and encouraging hand, from one heart to another. I tried. And I spoke, though it seemed to take years to make my point.

“I spoke in Lord Denbury’s world,” I said, my voice slow. Dull. I struggled against my distaste. But I thought about the ease of my voice within the painting. It had grown strong there, and that helped me now. “I need to speak…in
this
world. If the devil comes…in ritual…
I’ll
lure him close enough…to reverse the spell. He saw me. At the Art Association. And…I do not flatter myself to say that he liked what he saw.” I shuddered. “He made that quite clear. But he won’t suspect a woman he thinks mute, will he?”

Mrs. Northe watched me, worried, as if she wanted to fight this but couldn’t.

“The longer we delay…the more women will die,” I said.

We sat in silence for a while before Mrs. Northe said, “You must go to Denbury once more. Keep up his spirits. We need him whole. He’ll need to be a strong anchor of soul and conscience if this can be reversed well. You bring hope into his darkened world. And he’ll need every shred of it. Do you love him?”

I was unprepared for the question, but there was no use fighting it. “Yes.” The word came out very clearly.

“Good. That will help.”

Mrs. Northe did not agree to my plan, but she did not argue against it. The struggle on her face told me she wasn’t sure she could. Then she arranged to take me home, and I crept in here to my bedchamber to relate all this.

I shall begin practicing, softly and in English, the phrase that must be said. Mrs. Northe and I will puzzle over the word we cannot make sense out of—I dare to use the Latin—
animusren
. A word that is and isn’t Latin at once. But if I don’t know what it means, then I have no power. But once I do…I will take the magic. And wield it.

Facing the impossible seems to be what I was made for, and I only pray my courage matches the boldness of my plans. I pray for Cecilia and all her kind. May they be safe this night. May Providence grant them a way out of a life that few would choose to live.

June 18

The
Herald
appears to have missed the irony that it has included in its paper today. On the page opposite the text I have included is another hasty sketch of an infernal-looking Denbury, with an upside-down pentagram, which I learned from Mrs. Northe is oft used as a Satanist symbol, though right-side up the pentagram is a symbol of luck and prosperity and remains a fine talisman.

The irony occurs to me in regards to the symbol and the place. A five-pointed star. The Five Points.

The Devil is full of homage.

But here is his damage, from the
New
York
Herald
:

June 18, 1880

Five Points Demon Slays Again

The reign of terror continues. The tortured body of Laura May was found in a squalid room at 13 Orange Street late last night, her head at an odd angle and burn marks all over her body. It’s said the method of the burns has not been determined. And once again, witnesses tell of seeing a well-dressed gentleman before the attack.

Though police have extensively questioned area residents, officers have no leads on any suspect and will not confirm whether they believe this is the same killer who struck at Cross Street. It seems the Five Points is the very Devil’s playground, and he abuses his own home with impunity. Perhaps we can hope that the district may simply cannibalize itself and thus eat its way out of existence and the city will breathe a sigh of relief.

The opinions at the end anger me. The Five Points and the people living there aren’t to blame for this; they could have hardly asked for such terrors to be theirs. I recall my father’s friends speaking out on the behalf of the ward—that people there needed to be taken seriously, not treated with derision. My heart goes out to Laura and all those who live in such fear as to be silent, their lives bought and sold for a price.

But really, if newspapers are only going to mock rather than seek justice, why talk to a reporter at all and try to fight for the truth? Poor Laura. Saint Laura. Would that I had known her and could have saved her, as I hoped I’d been sent to save Cecilia…but in turn, her life was traded for another.

“Saint Laura.”

You see, I put her homage in quotes because I’m forcing myself to say things. I can whisper in this world better than I can speak. Last night I went to sleep murmuring the dread phrase over and over again, the Latin, the
spell
, hoping a ghost of a voice will be voice enough when it comes time to use it.

I am shocked I did not dream last night. But then again, the mind is not always predictable. Still, I would have liked to be warned of Laura. Or would I? It isn’t like I could have found her. Being wrapped up in this madness has given me such a sense of responsibility for what occurs.

What if we can’t determine the last piece of the word puzzle?

I pray it’s a small enough omission that will not render the entire magic useless.

Any spare moment that I’m not watched, I practice the alphabet quietly and aloud. As if I were a child learning a skill I’d long since sworn off. And while my speech hardly sounds as effortless as my words did when I was within the portrait, I think about things that are just and good. I think of angels. I pray. I muse on Mother. I think about Jonathon, and my heart swells. At this, speaking comes easier.

I knew I had to go to him during the day, and thankfully Father said he’d be in meetings but if I wanted to come and sketch, I was welcome to it. And so I did, making one sketch in case Father asked what I’d done, and then I made my way to where I was needed most.

Later, at my home

(Ignoring dinner
again–
oh, but how could I eat? My stomach is all in knots.)

I gritted my teeth on seeing the painting. It was like a punch to my stomach. Jonathon looked gray and sunken, with nearly all the gorgeous vitality sucked out of him. Another scar, this time upon the opposite cheek. Not only would more innocents die if we could not reverse this curse, but Jonathon would wither away into nothingness. I’d give anything to see his perfection once more.

I stood before him for a moment, took a deep breath, and then stepped through.

“Oh, Natalie, you’re safe,” he said as I fell into his arms. “When we didn’t meet in dreams—I didn’t know…” He stroked my hair and clutched me tighter, his relief making him bold. And I let him. In fact, I clutched him in turn. I held him to me. He moaned in pleasure, a delicious sound.

“But you were there with me. I felt your hand on my shoulder. My angel.”

“Did you?” He lit with pride. “I wanted to be with you so much.”

Then he drew away, racked by a violent cough. He was a ghost of himself, pale and sickly. The cuff of his sleeve was bloody—likely the carved wounds on his arm had been reopened during the murder. I moved to caress his cheek, and as I did, a crease on his face eased again into the smooth picture of youth I so admired. I had an effect upon him, and it was for the better.

“Do I look as terrible as I feel?” he asked with a worried laugh.

“Yes,” I replied. It was the truth. I had no kerchief, but I ripped at the lace of my sleeve to dab at his wound. We both winced. I led Jonathon to the window. Even if it was false sunlight, we would let it warm us as it would.

“What happened? All I saw out there were swirling madness, smoke, and laughter, a mad jumble. I heard more screams…”

“Do you want to know? I warn you it isn’t pleasant.”

He nodded, wincing again, not from pain, but in bracing himself for the news.

“It was the same as the first. He did strike. I managed to save a Cecilia, but he found another unfortunate woman.”

Denbury turned away, seething, his fists clenched. “Take that beast down! If it means killing me, so be it! Kill my body, then. I can’t let this—”

I grabbed him and turned him to face me. “No! It doesn’t have to come to that. We have information now! Mrs. Northe and I believe we have figured out the structure of the counter-curse. We hope. Save for the one word that doesn’t quite translate. But we hope that one word won’t render the whole phrase useless. We have a plan.”

His pained expression filled with anxious hope.

I spoke evenly and described the mission. “The phrase he used on you will be used against him by someone he would not expect, someone ‘accidentally’ in his path, someone he would see as an easy target, an offering from the gods, as it were.”

Jonathon’s eyes widened as he watched my face. I was sure to keep it defiant and proud to hide my fear. “You?” he breathed.

When I nodded, his face clouded. “It’s too dangerous. There has to be some other way.”

I spoke to reassure him, more confident than I felt. I had to be strong for him. “I can speak here with you. Somehow you gave me that gift. I must believe that I can speak beyond this place. But not until I’ve made him believe otherwise. I need you to answer me something—”