Darker Still (28 page)

The demon became a morphing form, shifting and flickering like a candle, one moment wearing the handsome face of Denbury and the next a gray and horrid shifting silhouette of ghastly forms from legend and nightmare. It was too terrible to describe, and I turned away from it lest I go blind or turn to stone, like in ancient tales.

The struggle over me continued. The beast was gurgling things in other languages—foul, terrible things, surely—and his clammy hands were suddenly on fire. A claw against my bosom scalded me.

In a shriek I repeated the curse and took my chance to spit in his face. The demon threw his arms up as if my fire had countered his. I could now see the colors Jonathon had described: my green and violet halo fighting back the flamelike light of the enemy, while other threads of light swarmed over us like helping hands. Glancing at the portal that was the painting’s frame, I could see that it was no longer cloudy. It was crystal clear, and I prayed this meant the space was literally open for us to retake the world as we knew it.

Denbury,
my
Jonathon, had never been so full of life and force. He threw the demon off me, lifted me into his arms, and did not hesitate at the frame’s threshold. He leaped with me out and down just as the most horrific cry sounded in the air, a swelling, keening cry of every death knell and warrior’s wail, furious and devastated.

While I wanted to know what the beast meant by “society,” wanted to know if we’d yet be cursed and haunted by more such terrors, there was no time to inquire of the beast. There was no chance to see what else it may be connected to, to investigate if its works of evil were a coordinated effort, or even how it might be an omen of a new dawn of terror upon our land. Having these questions answered might have been good, but in the moment, most importantly, only our lives were at stake. The rest, I shudder to think, may yet be revealed.

The threshold separating body from soul seemed unstable. There was smoke as if the whole painted study was about to ignite, the red and gold light swirling and sparkling, the magic and devilry a potent, unwieldy force.

One might think that after having just been accosted by a nearly identical man, I’d hardly want similar hands to be upon me, seizing and holding me protectively close, but these were the hands and the arms of the man I loved, and they carried me away from destruction.

We lost our balance and fell out into the empty museum room, onto the floor together, Jonathon turning and falling so that his body hit the floor first and I landed safely atop him. His breath was knocked from him in a whooshing swoop, but after a wince of pain and a moment to regain himself, he breathed deeply, relieved.

And then all was silent except for our ragged breaths. Silence meant triumph.

And then Jonathon kissed me. It was gentle and he cradled me fondly, erasing the touch of hell with a touch of heaven. He kissed my whole face, part by part.

“Natalie, my angel. My salvation. My brave, brave, dear one…You have won me back. I am forever in your debt. I love you, dear girl.”

Terror was overcome by joy. All Jonathon’s imperfections were gone, his hair no longer graying, the wrinkles of aging vanished. His eyes regained their brightness and his color was restored. He was just as intoxicating as ever, all youth and vigor, as he should be. And now our two worlds were one.

But what of the demon?

We turned to the painting, and my hands clapped over my mouth to stifle the cry that was strangling my throat.

In that golden frame now stood a monster. He wore the suit of Denbury, but his beautiful face was disfigured, as if melted, scarred and horrible—his eyes a demonic red and black, his teeth jagged and fanglike, his lips curled back in a snarl. His face was cracked, and bone shone through. His hands were giant claws, meant for tearing flesh. The picture was somehow even more terrible than the shifting creature that had held me within. Sometimes a picture of a moment captures more than the moment itself. Horror made manifest.

“My God…” I murmured. My voice was awkward, but it was present and accounted for. And it had withstood the greatest test. I would speak more often. I had spoken to a devil and my voice had not failed. I would speak more to the world, and I would never stop.

“Indeed. God most certainly blessed us.” Jonathon plucked my diary from beneath the bench and handed it to me. My shaking hands took it and clutched it to my chest. “I have a feeling your accounts will do us both great credit”—he looked at the devil we had trapped—“for I’m sure we’ll wake tomorrow hardly believing any of this. I stand here having lived it, and I cannot believe it.”

He took the painting from the wall and flipped it over, and we gasped again. All the markings on the back were wet, as if the carved runes dripped paint. But the red paint had become like blood, spattering onto the floor. I didn’t hazard to pick up the substance in my fingers; the vague coppery scent told me that there was, indeed, blood in this infernal mixture.

I withdrew the knife from between my corset and bodice and handed it to him. He smirked, taking it. “Good girl…Thank you.”

Grimly, Jonathon accepted the gore dripping onto his boots as he leaned the top of the painting against the wall, pierced the top with the knife, and tore at the corner of the canvas. Slowly, painstakingly, cutting every few inches, he tore the canvas from top to bottom. There was still a bit of hazy red and gold glow, the magic still ripe and fresh, and I feared for him.

“Jonathon…the light…” I murmured, gesturing to the veritable halo the painting wore. “Be careful.”

He nodded. “But we cannot leave it whole. We cannot leave this as an accessible doorway.”

I could not argue with him. He set to work ripping apart the two-dimensional object that had inexplicably held his soul prisoner.

I wish I could describe the sounds that came from the canvas, but they are too wretched to put to paper. I know that sound will haunt me to the end of my days, so I needn’t immortalize it here. Imagine the terrible. Then give it soft whispers. And it is more terrible still.

Mr. Smith ducked his head in, glancing and narrowing his eyes at Jonathon, taking stock of him before turning to me. “I didn’t hear you call or cry out, Miss Stewart, though I did hear some mighty awful noises of animals and such…”

“Indeed,” I replied, my voice still breathless. “All is accounted for, Mr. Smith. We are victorious, and all is well. I thank you for being on guard.”

If Mr. Smith had seen the particulars of the dreadful tumult, and if he had an opinion about it, he didn’t show it. His face was, as ever, impassive. He nodded to me and then to Jonathon with formal politeness. “I’ll be in the carriage out front when you’re ready, Miss Stewart, Lord Denbury. Mrs. Northe is desperate to see you.”

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Smith,” Jonathon said, bowing. “I am blessed to have such friends. I’d take your hand but…mine is a bit soiled.”

Mr. Smith nodded again and made a face as he turned away. I had to clap my hand over my mouth. An ungodly stench had begun to waft from the frayed threads, as if putrefaction was setting in immediately. And the slats of the painting that remained showcased a face that was rotting away. Terrible upon terrible.

We laid the waste in the center of the room, piling it in the middle of the frame laid upon the ground. The red fluid that had begun to drip from the runes was now a thin film of greasy liquid that smeared and streaked the floor around where the remnants were laid.

“I’d like to set fire to it. But it is too much of a risk to the museum.”

“Indeed,” I said. “Just let it be. We can undertake only so much risk. Lock this horror behind a closed door. There’s beauty outside. While you may need a while to regain art appreciation, I could give you a tour. I know this place intimately.”

Jonathon looked at me, and his striking face was full of apprehension. “Oh, Natalie, I want to revel in my newfound freedom, but how much freedom can I have if everyone suspects me of committing those horrible murders? Surely, I cannot stay in this city, but if I’m dead in England…” He raked his hands through his hair. “I don’t know where to go.”

“Mrs. Northe first. Plans later. She’ll want to know everything, and she’s the most sensible woman in the world, so she’ll know what to do.” I then indicated my diary. “And I must continue this dread retelling. These pages are my friend, and nothing calms me or engages me as much as writing in them. Except…” I gave him a beguiling look.

He grinned and we even forgot the disgusting particulars at the center of the room, forgot what he would do with himself again in the world as we indulged in a particularly questing embrace. His hands were bolder than ever before and I rejoiced that in this outside world, he still seemed to find me lovely in every way. Our passion managed to cross the threshold and still live. I pulled away, gasping.

“Now
that
I have to write down.”

And so I do.

Later…

I sit in Mrs. Northe’s study, her being better than her word, as always.

What on earth will the museum do when they discover what remains of their troublesome masterpiece? Will I be blamed? Will Mrs. Northe? But I couldn’t worry about that at the moment. The more troublesome fact was that Lord Denbury was a wanted man. He’d have to flee. No jury would believe this.

The only account of the truth lies in these pages. As much as I commend my narrative style, I can hardly believe my own eyes, let alone trust a jury to take the words written here as fact. But I swear upon my mother’s grave—a thing I would not do lightly as my mother’s spirit yet lives—this is our truth.

Mrs. Northe was wonderfully kind to Jonathon, better than I’d hoped. She greeted him like a long-lost son and indicated where Mr. Northe’s old room and his clothes remained.

“You might think it morbid for a woman to keep her dead husband’s clothes at the ready,” she told Jonathon with a winning smile. “But I have learned that having spare clothing on hand, of every kind, comes in frightfully useful in times of crisis.”

Indeed, no one is quite as useful as Evelyn Northe. I brought my small bag with me, not making mention of it and stowing it unobtrusively by the door.

“Surely, if for nothing but dear Miss Stewart’s sake,” Jonathon began, “you’d like to hear the events. Please trust me that I never meant the girl harm, though you see those bruises—” He grimaced, examining marks I’d yet to see. “It was a demon, I assure you, though that sounds utterly mad—”

Mrs. Northe hushed him with a wave of her hand. “You’ve been through harrowing experiences the likes of which I have never seen. I expect you, Lord Denbury, to tell me all about them over tea, coffee, or hard liquor, whatever your preference, once you’ve changed and refreshed yourself. Natalie, the same.”

I checked my face in the nearby foyer mirror and was in for a shock, having not realized that I bore such telltale signs. There were little burn marks around my throat, likely where the claws had gotten me. I shuddered, violated. My torn skirts were enough to remind me that a demon’s hands had been where only Jonathon’s bold caress had gone during one bout of mutual passion, and I burned with sudden shame. My emotions were as tumultuous and unwieldy as a thunderstorm.

Mrs. Northe was studying me. She noticed my blush and the tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks.

“Lord Denbury, would you mind helping yourself? I didn’t keep my staff on tonight as I expected we’d be in for odd fortunes and I hate countering housekeeper superstition. But I do believe our valiant Miss Stewart needs a bit of tending to,” she said, coming closer.

“Of course.” Jonathon approached me and held out his hand, his questing, gentle eyes asking permission. I gave him my hand. He kissed it gently. “Miss Stewart was a heroine like I’ve never seen. I tell you, Mrs. Northe, there is not a more incredible woman upon this earth than her,” he said quietly, as he released my hand and bowed.

The tears fell from my eyes. I found that in his gentle stare, I could smile, though the terrors of the night were gnawing at me, the rush and shock of the moment fading into a cold chill.

“I don’t doubt it,” Mrs. Northe replied. “Come, sir.”

Once she showed Denbury to his refreshment, she came back to lead me into a boudoir to get out of the torn clothes. She brought a cool ointment to ease the sting of the burns left by the demon’s touch and said nothing, but her face was warm and gentle as she waited for me to speak when ready. Everything I didn’t want to have to say was explained by the physical evidence that Mrs. Northe examined like any good detective.

“The wretch didn’t get far,” I spat, my voice hard and sure. The night’s events had emboldened my words like nothing before could have done. I indicated the torn bloomers Mrs. Northe held as I slipped fresh undergarments onto my legs. “But it was far enough,” I added, and there my voice broke.

I fell into helpless sobs, trying to exorcise the terror with a good cry. Mrs. Northe held me and made no effort to stop the flow. She let it run its course. Her empathy was genuine. Likely her gifts had her feeling exactly what I was feeling, and that was a blessing, for my mind was a complex knot I was having difficulty untangling.

“Would you like to speak privately to me? Or will you and Lord Denbury give me an account in the parlor?”

I wiped my eyes, my muscles willing themselves back to control again, their helpless tremors abating. “I’d like to have his hand to hold while recounting the horrors, if you don’t mind…” I blushed suddenly. “Unless you find that inappropriate. These events have taxed all propriety—”