Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I (18 page)

BACK
in the present, I considered this encounter from a new angle. At the time, I had thought Theo seemed like his normal self, only moody. I had not dwelt on the subject because I had assumed he would change his mind and repent his vow, as he always had done in the past. In retrospect, I found the memory disturbing. His giving up the use of magic I understood; Theo had always objected to sorcery and enchantments. But walking away from people in need? Leaving human beings at the mercy of supernatural predators? That did not sound like the brother I knew. Theo never did go put down the Dab Tsog. Father eventually had to send Titus.

What had caused this change in my brother? Regret for Gregor? Fear of Hell? He had never feared Hell before, hence the appellation “Demonslayer.” Could he have become convinced that if he died he would become the victim of all the demons he had slain? Even that would not have daunted the brave knight I recalled from my youth.

All this time, while I had been lonely without Theo’s company, I had trusted, I now realized, that Father would rescue him from his foolish vow before any real harm was done. But now Father was missing—a prisoner in Hell, were the dark angel to be believed—and Theo was old, dying.

The dire facts of his situation struck me anew. If the real Theo—the Theo who loved life and loved our family—did not awaken soon, we would
lose him, most likely before I could contrive another visit. Then, I would be left living an eternal life bereft of the brother I most loved.

I could not wait for Father. If anyone was going to save Theo, it would have to be me, and—since his health might not hold out long enough for me to find another opportunity to return—I was going to have to save him tonight!

RETURNING
to the barn, we found no sign of Mephisto. After a futile search of the barn, Theo checked on the bonfire, where the bear carcass was burning merrily despite the snow, the flames a flickering beacon against the darkening sky. Then, he stomped off to his house, to call more farmhands. The short winter’s day would soon be at an end, and he felt assistance would be needed to find Mephisto before nightfall. Moments later, however, he came stomping out again.

“Mephisto’s in here, watching my television.” Theo stood in his threshold, framed by golden light, and jerked his thumb toward the doorway behind him. Above, the upper windows of the house were blind eyes reflecting the falling snow.

From within the farmhouse, Mephisto’s voice rang out, “Hi, guys. You weren’t around, so I made myself at home. Your nice house keeper made me some sandwiches, Theo. I’ve got an extra one. It’s ham and cheese. Want a bite?”

“No. I do not want a bite,” Theo said wearily. “I am glad to see that you are feeling fit, Mephisto. It’s time for you all to leave now.”

We could not leave yet. Walking out on Theo now would be the same as pulling out a gun and shooting him in the heart myself. Shivering in my ripped trench coat, I called, “What about our agreement? You promised you would answer Mab’s questions.”

Theo nodded stiffly. “Come in. No point standing in the cold.”

He walked inside, stamped his feet, and brushed powdery snow from his coat. I followed him and did the same. As I stepped into the pleasantly warm living room, an old basset hound came trotting over to investigate the strangers invading his house, his nails clicking loudly against the bare wood. He nuzzled Theo’s knee and then sniffed my coat enthusiastically.

“What about me?” Mab stood on the walkway, his hands in his pocket and his shoulders hunched against the cold.

Theo gave him a long, veiled look before finally relenting. “You might as well come in too.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mab muttered. “Just don’t touch anything.”

He entered quickly, as if he feared Theo would change his mind, and moved to stand in front of the old white radiator, warming his hands. The dog approached him slowly on stiff legs. When Mab offered him a piece of muffin from his pockets, the hound quickly forgot his suspicions and gulped down the treat. As he watched Mab scratch the dog behind his ears, Theo seemed mollified.

My brother’s living room was filled with wooden furniture upholstered in fiery red and orange wool. Mephisto lay sprawled across the couch, watching an old faux-wood television. A mahogany writing desk stood to the right of the kitchen door, and a large army trunk covered with a patchwork quilt had been pushed against the wall between the radiator and the stairs. The room smelled of warm bread, with a faint aroma of canine emanating from the flannel dog bed in one corner, near the cold hearth.

It was all cozy and welcoming . . . but wrong.

Where were Theo’s treasures: his breastplate of shining Urim and his sword of Toledo steel? Where was the tick of the cuckoo clock Titus made for him, back when cuckoo clocks were a novelty? And, most important, where was the coat of arms I embroidered for him as a thank-you for a time when he stood up for me against Erasmus? Theo had displayed it in every house he had owned since I presented it to him. Yet, it hung nowhere among the many samplers bearing quotes from Psalms and Proverbs that decorated the cedar walls. Nor was there a single photograph of our family. Pictures crowded the mantelpiece and the writing desk, but all featured droopy-eyed hounds or an unidentified woman. I could have been in the living room of a stranger.

Shaken, I moved closer to Mab, sinking to sit on the army trunk beside the radiator.

Theo barked a harsh laugh. “You would sit on that!”

I looked down but could see nothing special about the trunk nor about the pattern in the patchwork quilt covering it. I smoothed a wrinkle in the cloth and considered my strategy. I needed to introduce a topic that would revive the real Theo, the bold and fierce young knight who had been dormant this last half century. It had to be something Theo really cared about.

What better than the other issue that weighed so heavily upon me?

“Theo,” I asked, “How are we going to rescue Father?”

“Father?” Theo sat down in an armchair. Leaving Mab, the hound lay down beside him and put his head on my brother’s feet. “Rescue him from what?”

“I’m guessing she means the part about his being in Hell and all that,” Mab said dryly. “Most ordinary people get a bit distressed when they learn their father’s been dragged bodily into the underworld.”

“Duped by the dark angel, were you?” Theo chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Dark angels lie. You should know that, being a spirit.”

“I do know that. Being a spirit.” Mab regarded Theo coldly. “But, in this case, it fits the facts, being that Mr. Prospero has disappeared and all.”

“Father’s missing?” Theo turned to me. “Disappeared how? When?”

“He came to America in September and never returned home to Prospero’s Island,” I said. “He visited the mansion, though I was out at the time. After that, we know only that he accidentally released the Three Shadowed Ones and asked me to warn the family that they were after our staffs.”

“All three of them!” Theo half rose in his seat. “Merciful Mary!” He took a step forward, disturbing the dog, then paused and glared at me for some reason. “Dam . . . er, darn! That is unwelcome news! And you say Father’s mixed up in all this? Our father?”

“Apparently,” I murmured.

“We don’t know that the dark angel was telling the truth,” Mab offered. “But demons are not averse to using a bit of truth if it will forward their goals. Makes people more likely to believe them the next time. So, we have to at least consider the possibility that Mr. Prospero is a prisoner in that horrific location. Would explain how a demon got past the wards of Prospero’s Mansion. As to what we should do about it?” Mab shrugged. “Well, let me put it this way: he was a nice fella, but you won’t see me going down there to rescue him!”

“Afraid to storm Hell, are you?” Theo stood and put his fist into his hand and grinned fiercely, the old light rekindling in his eyes. “Not me! Remind them what the Demonslayer stands for in ‘Theophrastus the Demon-slayer’!”

I nearly laughed aloud. Theo was ready to storm the gates of Hell. My work was done. Could that have been Father’s plan, to get captured and stir Theo to rescue him? It seemed mighty foolish on the surface, but with Father, one never knew.

Mephisto spoke up from where he lay upon the couch, the back of which was toward me. His voice was muffled, as if his mouth were still full of sandwich.

“That sounds great! We can all go together and rescue Daddy!” he laughed
happily. “What a dopey-head you are, Theo. All this time you’ve been carrying on with this whole ‘Oh, I’m afraid of damnation, I’ve got to suffer and get old!’ routine, and the moment the chips are down, you volunteer to charge into Hell
on purpos
e!”

Theo looked shocked. The gleam of joy died out of his eyes, and he dropped abruptly in his chair.

“You’re right,” he muttered. “I’m far too old.” He rubbed his wrinkled, veined hands and frowned. “How could have I forgotten?”

“Oops,” whispered Mephisto. From the creaking sound, I guessed he was trying to sink farther into the cushions.

A flash of anger towards Mephisto swept through me, but the chagrin with which he had whispered “oops” made it clear that dampening Theo’s newfound enthusiasm had not been his intention.

Frankly, I doubted we could harrow Hell and survive. The idea was ridiculous. Charge into the maw of Hell, with only our staffs and perhaps a few magical talismans, and face the combined wrath of all the Powers of Hell? We would be dead or worse before we passed the First Circle. No, if Father were in Hell, our only chance of recovering him lay in negotiation.

Even if we wanted to dare it, how would we get there? None of us knew how to reach the Gate to Hell . . . alive, that is. Still, if the thought of marching through Hell, devastating demons while demanding that they return our Father, inspired Theo, far be it from me to point out the impracticality of such a plan.

“We can fix that, you know,” I offered quickly, hoping to stoke Theo’s enthusiasm. I continued, “A drop or two of Water and a visit to Erasmus, and you would be fit to harrow Hell and free Father!” Theo just scowled and shook his head.

Mab had flipped open his notebook and lifted his stubby blue pencil. Now, he asked, “This
Staff of Withering
, it can work in reverse, too?”

“Yep! Saw Erasmus turn a mugger into a baby once. Nasty attack . . . but the baby was cute,” Mephisto offered.

Theo reached up and rubbed his temples, as if his head ached. “Enough chatter. Ask your questions, Spirit, and go!”

“And Father?” I asked.

“I wish you luck rescuing him, but you’re going to have to solve your own problems once I’m gone. You might as well start now.”

“But you’re still here!” I insisted. “And this is
our father
! Do you think we would have a chance in Hell without the Demonslayer?”

“Maybe with Gregor’s . . .” Theo faltered. “No. Without Gregor or myself, the rest of you would never make it. We are the warhorses, so to speak. Erasmus is deadly, even terrifying at times, but his staff is less potent against eternal things.”

“Do you think God will welcome you into Heaven after you abandoned your father?” I asked sternly.

Theo did not answer, but he looked troubled. That was promising, at least.

“So, about these Three Shadowed Ones, Mr. Theophrastus,” Mab asked, pencil poised. “What can you tell us?”

Theo regarded Mab, frowning. “You’re not like any spirit of the air I’ve seen before.”

“I’m of a special cynical variety,” Mab drawled back.

“Ah, well . . . What was the question?”

“Tell Mab about Osae the Red,” I suggested. “I gather you’ve heard of him before?”

“Heard of him?” Theo massaged the muscles of his right thigh. This attracted the attention of the old hound, who rose and laid his muzzle across my brother’s leg. “Osae the Red made my life a living hell for twelve years. Probably would have killed me, too, had Gregor not trapped him behind Solomon’s Seal long enough for me to send him back where he came from. He’s one of three guardians whom the Devil sends to get back his own: the Three Shadowed Ones.”

“And they are?”

“Osae the Red, Baelor of the Baleful Eye, and Seir of the Shadows.”

“Oh!
That
shapechanger!” I exclaimed.

The memories came rushing back. In retrospect, I felt ashamed that I had not recognized the names “Osae” and the “Three Shadowed Ones,” but in my defense, I had not heard them in nearly three hundred years. Human minds were not designed to hold five hundred-plus years of memories. Over time, our memories blurred. Whole decades of my life have fallen into the mists of time. Those events I believed I recalled correctly often disagreed with the recollections of my siblings. Logistilla still swears we first encountered Peter the Great of Russia on the banks of a canal in Venice, while I recall quite clearly meeting him on a bridge over the Danube in Vienna. To this day, we do not know which of us is right.

As Father was fond of saying: “
Faulty memories are part of the price we pay for immortality
.”

“So, all three of them are demons?” Mab grimaced. “Darn. I was hoping . . . well, never mind. Tell me more about this Red chap.”

Theo leaned back and stroked the dog’s droopy ears absentmindedly as he spoke. “He’s a cacodemon, a demon of the appetites. His particular forte is shapechange. He can impersonate any beast or man. Once you catch on, however, he’s easy to spot. He’s not a good actor, and he’s nearly always colored gray and red. Even in his more subtle disguises, some part of him—eyes, fur, claws—is always reddish.”