Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I (7 page)

“Huh!”

“What’s that, Mab?”

“See those designs on the back of the door, Ma’am?” He jabbed his finger toward the far end of the hall, where the oak doors stood open. “Those faces carved into the four corners? They are guardians. Together, they form
a word. I don’t think it was a coincidence the incubus showed up while we were here. Mr. Prospero had those doors chained with cold iron for a reason. Between the chains and the enchantments woven into the doors themselves, the demon could not have entered this hall any more than I could have. It had to wait until we opened the way for it. Must have had some kind of spirit servant waiting around to inform it if the doors ever opened. The thing could have been hanging around for weeks, months even. When we entered and left the doors ajar . . .” Mab hung his head. “Should have thought of that and insisted we lock it up from the inside. Guess I’d gotten lazy, too used to the outer wards of the house doing their job.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Mab. You had no way of knowing what was in here.”

“On the contrary. I knew it was important enough that Mr. Prospero, who thinks nothing of leaving phoenix feathers and unicorn horns lying around in the open, thought it should be locked up.” He shook his head again. “Still wish I knew how the incubus or its servant got through the outer wards and into the mansion to begin with!”

I frowned. “So do I!”

Mab stared at the door a moment longer and then sat down glumly. “Sure is a shame about those nice statues.”

“Our statues!”

I leapt up and began running up and down the length of the hall, dodging large chunks of fallen debris, trying to see the statues. Those along the right wall, Ulysses, Titus, Cornelius, Mephisto, and my father, were undisturbed, save that the outstretched arm of my father’s statue had broken off and fallen to the floor. The left wall, however, had not fared as well. The reddish marble, which had once portrayed my dead brother Gregor, lay in several large pieces. The statues of Logistilla and Erasmus had been reduced to blue and green rubble, respectively.

I felt as if I had been kicked in the stomach. Most of these statues were older than the United States of America. The statue of Erasmus predated the birth of the younger siblings: Cornelius, Titus, Logistilla, Gregor and Ulysses. It had always stood in some Great Hall, here, or in England, or, long before, in Italy. The statues had seemed eternal, inviolate—like my brothers.

Tears of fury filled my eyes.

“How dare he!” I cried, my fists clenched. “Does he think he can attack Miranda Prospero, immortal Handmaiden of Eurynome, and escape unscathed?”

“Ma’am, not a good idea to challenge the powers of Hell . . .” Mab began warily, but I was running again.

Theo! Theo’s statue!

An enormous chunk of reddish stone that had once been part of the roof blocked his alcove. The Water of Life that keeps us young also makes us more than human. Putting my shoulder against the stone, I drew upon this supernatural strength and shoved the obstacle aside. It grated loudly, then slid.

Beyond, the green head and torso of my statue lay sprawled at the foot of the Wife’s Chair. The delicate hands, so painstakingly fashioned, had shattered. My statue’s fingers lay scattered across the gray-and-black floor like so many shards of jade. It was disconcerting to see myself broken in pieces upon the floor. I suddenly felt frightened.

With my heart beating loudly in my ears, I ran to Theo’s alcove. If the statue of Theophrastus were destroyed, then it would be as if the young knight who had taken such joy from the power he wielded were lost forever. The old man Theo, if he even lived, would never be that boy again. It would be as if the incubus had murdered the brother I had so loved.

Rounding the edge of the alcove, I saw the white body of Theo’s statue standing tall upon its pedestal. Giddy with relief, I laughed and sagged against the wall. Trust Theophrastus the Demonslayer not to let a demon disturb him. I lurched forward and hugged the statue.

I missed Theo so much! As I embraced his marble facsimile, I recalled a cold November day, more than half a century ago. My family stood gathered about Gregor’s grave on the twenty-fifth anniversary of his death. The tools of Father’s spell, which had gone so sorrowfully awry, lay scattered about the chalk pentacle at our feet. Theo had stepped forward and announced in short angry words that he was turning his back on magic and rejoining the human race. I had laughed, reminding him of other resolutions he had made and broken in years past. Once, he had vowed to join the Jesuits, and he had forsworn wine and women more times than I could count. None of his other resolutions had lasted long. I predicted a similar fate for this one. How wrong time had proven me.

As I pressed my cheek against the cool marble, I noticed something white lying in the corner of the alcove. It looked disturbingly like a head. I glanced up.

The statue was headless, sheared off at the neck.

Cautiously, I approached the fallen head, unnerved by the sight of the
likeness of my brother Theo lying decapitated on the floor. At least it seemed undamaged. An oread, a spirit of earth and rock, summoned properly, might be able fuse this clean break, and the statue would be as good as new. I seldom performed such sorcery myself, but Father could do it easily. Or, worse comes to worst, I could humble my pride and ask Erasmus. I knelt and lifted the head.

Where the face had struck the floor, white chips of eye, cheek, and mouth rained down onto the black marble. I turned it over. The left side of the face was whole, but the right side was sheer and smooth. The expression I had loved so dearly was irreparably damaged, lost forever.

MUCH
later, when I finally rose from among the shattered likenesses of my siblings, Mab stood leaning against the edge of the alcove, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trench coat. He tipped up the brim of his fedora.

“So which one of these scoundrels who pass for relatives of yours do we track down first?”

We barreled towards the rear bumper of a deep-green Chevrolet at seventy-five miles an hour. The car loomed in our windshield, its brake lights flashed. Yet we neither slowed nor swerved. At the very last possible moment, as I was commending my soul to my Lady, Mab veered away, missing the other vehicle by a hair’s width.

Relief flooded through me. I leaned back against the seat, trying to catch my breath.

I had not slept well after the attack on Prospero’s Mansion and had risen in the wee hours to face a busy morning. After solving two last-minute, work-related emergencies, I had joined Mab at SeaTac well before the sun rose. Using speeds only available to a souped-up jet with an Aerie One pilot, with the
Staff of the Winds
to quiet wind resistance, we flew the Lear to Illinois, landing at Wilhelmi Field in record time, far faster than any commercial flight. Now, as we drove our rental car to the correctional center, I would have liked a few moments of peace in which to marshal my thoughts.

“We have to go back, Mab,” I murmured. “I left my stomach around that last turn.”

“Very glib, Ma’am.” Mab was only half paying attention to me as he spun the steering wheel.

“Must you drive so wildly? In the air, you’re an ace. On the road, you’re a terror!”

“Don’t worry, Ma’am. I’ve been darting in and about things longer than men have drawn breath. It’s second nature to me.”

“As a wind, certainly. But you’re not a wind at the moment! You’re a fleshly body driving his employer in a car! If you’re not more careful, someone’s going to report us to the police!” My voice rose as Mab performed another near miss. “How can you be sure the car can take this kind of abuse?”

“Nothing to worry about, Ma’am. Back at the rental place, before we left the airport, I had a chat with the oreads making up this car and the salamanders manning the engine. They won’t let us down,” Mab replied, jerking the steering wheel hard to the left.

“It’s not the oreads I’m worried about!” I clung to the armrest and squeezed my eyes shut.

“I thought you said we were in a hurry?” Mab’s voice continued calmly. “A matter of life and death and all that.”

“True, but it won’t help my family if I am killed in a car crash while trying to warn them.” I opened my eyes again and sighed. “In the old days, this would have been so much easier! Father would have used the
Staff of Transportation
, and—
voilà
—we would all be standing in the company warehouse nearest to our destination.”

“A crummy way for humans to behave,” Mab muttered. “How come Mr. Prospero gave it up? He’s never struck me as the self-controlled type.”

“Ulysses has the
Staff of Transportation
now.”

“Ever strike you as something strange there?” Mab glanced at me without really turning his head. “Mr. Prospero used his magic books to make the staffs, right? So, why can’t he just use the books to cast the same spells again? Why can’t he make two transportation staffs, or a dozen?”

“I don’t know, but it’s irritating. In the old days, Prospero, Incorporated had a reputation for delivering all orders by the next day, which was a real feat in the days before trucks and planes! Once Ulysses got his staff, he refused to participate. He just wanted to play. I complained, but Father just smiled and said Ulysses would come around.”

“Did he?”

“No. Instead, the others went the way of Ulysses,” I said, “which is terribly annoying, as not having my family’s aid anymore leads to all sorts of difficulties.”

“Difficulties?” Mab asked. “What kind?”

“Contracts that need to be renegotiated,” I replied. “Over the centuries, some of our agreements have gotten out of kilter, resulting in fluctuating weather patterns, rising water levels, and other dangers.” I sighed. “If my brothers—or, more importantly, their staffs—were available to help, we could have the weather back on an even keel.”

Mab grunted. “Much as I hate to see magic in the hands of humans, I felt a damn bit more comfortable back when those human hands were Mr. Prospero’s. Whatever possessed him to give the stuff to his kids?”

“I don’t know, Mab,” I gazed sadly out the window. “Poor Father. I miss him. I hope he’s not in too much trouble.”

Mab turned to look at me, ignoring the road. “Miss Miranda, why don’t we go look for Mr. Prospero? Why are we going after your good-for-nothing brother when the old man might be in danger? We’ll send the amateurs and the mundanes to warn your brothers. Meanwhile, we can handle what really matters.”

“Mab . . . the road!”

“Er? Oh, yeah.”

Personally, I was inclined to agree with Mab. It still galled me that my brothers—well, with the exception of Cornelius—had deserted Prospero, Inc. By leaving, they had failed Father, which was almost the same as saying they had failed the human race. Father, on the other hand, had never hesitated to put his principles first and his personal desires second.

“Those were not his instructions, Mab,” I resolved. I had been obedient to my father’s wishes for five hundred years. It would be impertinent for me to start second-guessing him now.

“All right,” Mab raised his hands in a brief posture of surrender, before returning them to the wheel “It’s no skin off my nose. Though, about these instructions . . . how did you find out about them if you haven’t heard from Mr. Prospero since September?”

“Father left a message.” I described my experience with Father’s journals and the phoenix lamp.

“Huh!” murmured Mab. “Didn’t know he could do that. So, as long as we’re committed, Ma’am, what’s our plan concerning your brother?”

“We go in and question him. If he’s guilty, we leave him. If he’s innocent, we break him out,” I replied firmly.

“This may come as a surprise to you, Ma’am,” drawled Mab, “but breaking people out of prison is against the law. Wouldn’t it be better to hire him a good lawyer?”

“My family has had the opportunity to observe a great deal of human justice. Its practice fluctuates widely and is seldom just. I don’t mind abandoning the guilty to its whims, but no innocent relative of mine is going to be left to the ravages of mortals. Our eternal lives are too valuable to risk!”