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Authors: Cameron Rogers

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“Be ye regenerate, cleansed, and purified in the Name of the Ineffable, Great and Eternal God, from all your iniquities, and may the virtue of the Most High descend upon you and abide with you always, so that ye may have the power and strength to accomplish the desires of your heart. Amen. Take your robe and dress yourself.”

And so it went.

         

“O Lord God, Holy Father, Almighty and Merciful One, Who hast created all things, Who knowest all things and can do all things, from Whom nothing is hidden, to Whom nothing is impossible; Thou Who knowest that we perform not these ceremonies to tempt Thy power, but that we may penetrate into the knowledge of hidden things; we pray Thee by Thy Sacred Mercy to cause and to permit that we may arrive at this understanding of secret things, of whatever nature they may be, by Thine aid, O Most Holy
Adonai,
Whose Kingdom and Power shall have no end unto the end of the Ages of Ages. Amen.”

Dorian stepped backward to permit Henry to stand before him, holding the journal containing the conjuration. Dorian took from his robe a clutch of parchments bound in azure ribbon, parchments marked with the appropriate signs and sigils. In his right hand he held the knife. Henry opened the journal, and Dorian read aloud:

“Here be the Symbols of the Secret things, the standards, the ensigns, and the banners of God the Conqueror; and the arms of the Almighty One, to compel the Aerial Potencies. I command ye absolutely by their power and virtue that ye come near unto us, into our presence, from whatsoever part of the world ye may be in, and that ye delay not to obey us in all things wherein we shall command ye by the virtue of God the Mighty One. Come ye promptly, and delay not to appear, and answer us with humility.” Dorian drew in a great and final breath, lifted his eyes from the book, and exclaimed: “I call ye
Voso,
fifty-seventh of the seventy-two Fallen, teacher and shapeshifter,
come!

Silence. Henry felt the stillness of the moment, the complete lack of sound, save breathing. No night birds, no distant town sounds, not even a whisper from the uppermost treetops. And again Dorian called:

“Here again I conjure ye and most urgently command ye; I force, constrain, and exhort ye to the utmost, by the mighty and powerful Name of God,” and he said it, and eleven other names, and a lengthy evocation for immediate appearance. And still nothing. Henry turned the pages and Dorian read. Still nothing.

Finally Dorian said, “Close the book. This is not done with. None of you lose heart nor focus. There is nothing these things respect more than constancy. We will have our audience. Stand away from the circle.”

The three of them stood away as Dorian paced the perimeter widdershins, examining the integrity of the sigil and refreshing its outline with the bucket of chalk dust he retrieved from the bole of a dead tree. This done he returned to his place at the head of the sigil, took a fistful of damp earth, and tossed a part of it to each of the four corners of the Universe. Then he faced north, fell to his knees, placed the knife on the ground before him, spread his arms wide, and called: “The Name of
Adonai Elohim Tzabaoth Shaddai,
Lord God of Armies Almighty, may we successfully perform the works of our hands, and may the Lord be present with us in our heart and on our lips.”

And then he rose, turned, and opened his arms to the circle. Henry again took his place, as did the others. “By the Holy Names of God written in this Book, and by the other Holy and Ineffable Names which are written in the Book of Life, we conjure ye to come to us promptly and without delay, wherefore tarry not, but appear in a beautiful and agreeable form and figure, by virtue of these names we exorcise ye:
Anai, æchhad, Transin, Emeth, Chaia, Iona, Profa, Titache, Ben Ani, Briah, Theit;
all which names are written in Heaven in the characters of the Malachim—
the tongue of the Angels
.”

Again, as Dorian’s voice rang out, silence. And then, somewhere, a bird began to sing. Something trilling. Another picked up the call from behind Henry, and another to his left, distant and unseen. Dorian’s eyes ranged over the blackness beyond the light of the fires, and Henry felt a new weight to the air. Things began to change. There was an intake of breath from Finella’s side of the circle, and Henry watched Dorian’s eyes widen with sudden and satisfied delight.

There came a perfume, heady and sweet.

Henry risked looking over his shoulder, and saw the shoots growing there, climbing toward a vanished sun. Lush grasses sprouted within the perfect circle, a round green bed rising through dead leaves. Flowers foreign to New England were growing and blooming colorfully, the air redolent and heavy with their scent. Henry saw tulips and roses.

Lying on his new bed, eyes closed and slumbering, was a leopard.

Dorian swallowed. “Voso,” he said. “Voso awaken.”

“I am awake,” it said. Its voice was perfection, warm and rounded. Impossible music falling upon ears of dirt. “What is your need, Dorian.”

Henry closed the journal. Dorian would no longer be needing it.

“You know my name,” Dorian whispered, half to himself. “But then, you know everything, don’t you?”

Henry took his place outside the circle, careful to never lay a toe inside it as he traveled.

The great cat lay with its head on its forepaws, eyes closed. Henry could see its ribs expanding and collapsing with each breath, waiting for Dorian to speak.

“You know why I have conjured you.”

“I know,” the great cat said. “And I tell you that my answering will bring about an undoing in this world and the next. And you will demand my answer nonetheless.”

“Then answer me.”

“You are just a man, Dorian Athelstane. A man who, to me, appears to have died the moment I met you, so short are your lives. And yet you, this imperfect vessel, seek to contain perfect knowledge.”

“You cannot deny me, and you know I will not desist, so why do you hesitate?”

The cat opened its great eyes. “Because such things are about choice. You must choose to fall.”

“Then I choose to fall. Speak.”

The cat roused itself, unfurling and rising to its feet with no wasted movement. Its lazily shifting tail did not break the circle. It did not take its eyes from the master of the circle.

“I can offer you a new form if you desire. That is also within my portfolio. Anything in the stead of what you ask.”

“Speak!”

The leopard inclined its head slightly. “Three times you have chosen.” It rose up on its hind legs, filling out and widening as it did so, toes becoming fingers, mottled fur falling away…

The changing took less than a minute. The end result was a giant twice the mass and height of a normal man, standing nude before them. It seemed to Henry to be an amalgam of every racial aspect of humanity. Blackest skin with deeply Asiatic eyes, and shoulder-length golden hair. Fingernails like long wedges of cut glass, with an eye color to match.

“It is my portfolio to reveal the hidden,” Voso intoned. “But things remain outside even a portfolio that expansive. The one you would learn of is stricken from all records, Celestial and Earthly, by the Hand of God. It has no name, no form, no portfolio, no ritual, no place inside Creation.”

“That,” Dorian replied through gritted teeth, “is not good enough.”

“For harmony it must be,” the Fallen said.


Answer me by the Name and in the Name of
Shaddai,
which is that of God Almighty, strong, powerful, admirable, exalted…

“Dorian Athelstane, who was once Johannes Paole,” the angel said. “Do not press this.”


…and by the Name of
El, Iah, Iah, Iah,
Who hath formed and created the world by the Breath of His Mouth, Who supporteth it by His Power…

“Stop. Your knowledge of what you do is incomplete.”

“…Who ruleth and governeth it by His Wisdom, and Who hath cast ye for your pride into the Land of Darkness and into…”

“Stop.”

“…the Shadow of Death.”

The demon was silent. And then, with reluctance, said, “So be it.”

Voso opened both arms, breaking the circle. Powerful hands found a throat each, pulling the two into the circle, the snap of cartilage seeming to echo forever, the shattering of bone as both heads were brought together loud enough to frighten the night birds.

It was as sudden as it was over. They lay at the Fallen’s feet, face to bloodied face on a bed of green and flowers.

Dorian couldn’t believe it.

“Your circle was not perfect, magus. Your attendants were not adequately prepared.” Its clear eyes turned down to Finella’s bloodied face. “It was undone with a kiss. As these things often are.”

Henry watched Dorian’s throat work, swallowing dry with an open mouth.

“We will not meet again.”

Voso was gone.

         

Dorian orchestrated the concealment of the deaths with detached exactitude. Their robes, clothing, and jewelry were gathered together. The garments were burned, the ashes scattered. The jewelry would be thrown into the foundations of a building under construction in the town.

They lay the bodies together as they worked. Henry tried to look anywhere but her ruined face, and failed. It was a blackened catastrophe. The face he had kissed, the head that held such high ideals, now shattered carrion.

A hand on his shoulder. “You’re done, Henry. Go.”

The sun was breaking through the treetops. Henry’s white robe was wet and brown down the knees and at every hem. His usual clothes were laid out beyond the clearing, near Finella’s and Dysart’s, like another body.

His love had been killed before him. And now he would trade her dignity for one slim chance at freedom.

He no longer knew himself.

Jukes.

When Finella turned up missing, Jukes would know. There would be an inquiry. Finella’s mother would come to Harvard. And Jukes would know. He would not know the details, but he would know that Finella had died, and that Henry had been there. And Dysart…when his absence was noticed, that would be more than Jukes would be able to contain.

Like something rising from a black ocean the reality of what Henry had to do became clear.
Leave Boston.
Or this thing would track him until it brought him down.

         

He walked home with the sun gone but some light remaining.

After they had burned the clothes, after they had removed the jewelry, Dorian asked that the last be left to him. Henry had not even crouched, touched her, kissed her good-bye.

He could not remember where he had spent the following day. Only that he was aware of being transcendently exhausted, and burning with thirst. His skin tasted like salt.

Mrs. Brown’s boardinghouse glowed ghost-pale in the evening light. Figures gathered on the porch like shades, conversing low. Mustaches and truncheons.

Police.

Standing in the door, lips moving quickly, hands fluttering, speaking his fill, was Newspaper Jack. An old hand touched down on his shoulder from behind, stilled him, drew him gently inside. Mrs. Brown appeared, anxious. Said very little, and then the door closed.

The police stood there, hats tucked under their arms, looking squarely at one another. A conclusion had been made.

The door opened again. Dorian emerged in hat and coat, weighed down with a suitcase in one hand and a heavy package of tied paper in the other. He placed the suitcase down, doffed his hat to the officers, turned, and closed the door behind himself. Then he picked up his luggage, bid a second farewell, and walked down the three wooden steps to the street, limned briefly by the passing of a cab’s lantern, and away from Henry.

And he was gone.

Eventually the police gave up any hope of a second audience and left.

Henry used his key and walked into the kitchen.

         

They had found a body that afternoon, bumping up against one of the cutwaters of the Salt and Pepper bridge. Middle-aged. Male. As yet unidentified.

Headless.

TWO

LONDON, 1847

T
HIS IS LIFE FROM KNEE HEIGHT. YOU WAKE IN THE DARK
beneath woolen blankets. You don’t often see stars and there is no moon. Nonetheless you know and feel the damp on the plaster walls of your little room glistening like silver. You know it is half past four in the morning. Your mother’s door has just opened.

Millicent’s mother opens her door, pokes her head in on the way past, and says, “Time for work, cherub.”

You let out your first real breath of the day and blink a few times. You reach out from under the blankets for the damp cloth your mother leaves there. A few mornings your eyes were stuck together with sleep. You were scared, but you didn’t panic, and your mother wiped your eyes open with warm water and a washrag. Now she leaves one there every night, as a habit.

The rag on your face is sharply cold, and it wakes you up.

There is a clank from downstairs as Millicent’s grandfather fills the kettle. Millicent puts the rag back on the side table and gets out from under her bedcovers.

This is life from knee height. You spend your day with spindle and ribbon making silk roses for ladies’ hats, while your mother holds pins for the mantua maker or offers advice on hosiery and jewelry and shoes.

Millicent has a stool and a table far out the back. When her mother can, she smiles and waves as she walks by, swags of bright material folded over her arm.

Your grandfather is your best friend, and you are your mother’s dream diary. She talks to you as she might talk to herself. You sit, and you listen, and if she should happen to become weepy you hold her hand and tell her Father will be home someday.

         

You are back under your woolen blankets, and the damp on the walls glistens like silver. Downstairs Mama and your grandfather—Papa—talk in low voices, because it is dark now, and they are drinking tea. You close your eyes and all you can see are silk roses.

Millicent wakes. It is dark. She knows she has not been asleep very long. She wonders for a moment why she is awake, and then she knows. Mother has just called her name.

Millicent pushes the heavy covers away and touches her bare feet down upon the cold boards. She rubs her eyes and uses both hands to open the door. She walks down the landing and stands at the top of the stairs.

You are looking down from the top of the stairs into the front room. It is like a portrait of sorts, everyone in their pose.

Mama’s white hands are clasped to the bib of her nightgown. You have never seen her smile like that. You want to hold her hand. On the other side Papa looks as though he might become angry. His bottom lip is pushing up toward his nose and his arms are crossed.

They are both looking at the gentleman at the bottom of the stairs who is smiling softly at you, one ringed hand on the banister, his hat in his hand.

“Hello,” he says, taking one careful step toward you.

Mother wipes her eyes quickly and says, “Millicent, say hello. This is Dorian, your father.”

         

Millicent is hoisted out of the carriage and placed gently upon the ground. Her new shoes click crisply upon the cobbles, and her new dress still itches. Dorian takes his wife by her white-gloved hand and assists her from the carriage. She smiles uncommonly wide, her eyes almost disappearing, and she presses herself close to this man. It makes Millicent feel strange to see her mother behaving this way.

“Tonight was wonderful,” Mama confides, scrunching her shoulders to her ears ever so briefly. “I cannot recall the last time I had a theater party.” They had eaten early in order to get to the play on time. Millicent had three extra cushions placed upon her chair so that she could reach her plate, and the room had been full to the brim with ladies dressed in things soft and sparkling, and men who were all straight lines and mustaches. People had glanced discreetly at them, for Millicent was the only child in the room. That a husband and wife would bring their child to dine at a club was decidedly uncommon, but Dorian was unfazed—smiling generously at anyone hapless enough to have their gaze apprehended—and Mama had giggled at the brashness of her husband and the novelty of it all. Everyone there was so bright, and dressed so neat and so fine…more elegant even than Mrs. Sutcliffe, and Millicent had seen her buy five hats all on the same day. There had been music, proper music, played by people with real instruments. The food was nice but Millicent hadn’t been able to look away from the violins. It had grown something warm inside her, and filled her head with light. When the time came to leave she had been almost unable to bear it.

“What did you think of the pheasant,” Dorian asks her, bending at the waist and straightening the shoulders of her dress. His breath plumes about her face.

“It was very nice. Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you,
Father,
” Mama corrects, midfuss and wrist-deep in her purse.

“Thank you, Father,” says Millicent.

Mama takes the heavy key from her purse, climbs the few stairs to their door, and opens it. She enters their narrow house, singing. Papa is in the kitchen, at the table by the stove, nursing a mug of tea. “Home, then,” he says.

Mama kisses him heavily upon his thin-skinned cheek and the old man doesn’t react. “It was wonderful,” she says again.

“You must come with us next time, Papa,” Dorian says, placing his low-crowned hat upon the table.

“Now that you’re back,” Papa says, his chair squeaking upon the stone, “I’ll be a-bed. Good night, Mary.” He kisses his daughter on her cheek. “And good night to you, Miss Millicent Mumble.” He leans down and presses his lips to Millicent’s forehead. They’re cold, and his touch is whiskery, and it makes her smile. “You look beautiful,” he confides, just between them.

Dorian laughs generously. “How on Earth did you come to call her that?”

Millicent’s grandfather stands straight, chin up. Millicent catches a glimpse of him as a younger man, hard-chested and strong. “She would talk in her sleep, as an infant. It were a sweet sound. Not something a man wouldn’t treasure now.”

Dorian’s response is not quick, and for Millicent it is like watching someone stumble in the street. Mama wears a smile as she clasps her husband’s hand supportively, and shrugs her shoulders to her ears once more as though there were too much joy at his presence to be contained.

It makes Millicent anxious. She looks to her grandfather. “Will you tuck me in, Papa?”

“Oh no, Millicent!” Dorian exclaims. “Not tonight. Tonight you may stay up with us.” Dorian sweeps her up. “And we’ll have cocoa, and talk about all the things we shall change about this house. You’ve no objection now, do you, Papa?”

The old man sighs, takes his candle, and walks through the door, toward the stairs. “Good night all.”

“Good night, Papa.”

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Mama says and takes the remaining candle into the pantry to look for chocolate, leaving Dorian and Millicent in the kitchen by the light of the stove’s open door.

“You’ve been very reserved, young lady,” Father says. He smells like cigars, too, and the perfume he wears makes her nose wrinkle. “Do you not like your new shoes and dress? Wasn’t the play so very fine? Have you never eaten so well? And there’s so much more to come yet. I’m a man of means, my little one, and there’s nothing shall be denied you.”

“I’ve had a very nice time, thank you, Father.”

“Millicent,” Dorian says, quietly, looking to the pantry where Mama’s light is still flickering off the assembled jars and tins. “Do you not like me?”

“Sir…Father,” she says. “If I might be very forward…”

“Yes, Millicent?”

“Who are you?”

Dorian blinks, remaining still like someone who has heard something he does not understand, or who has been caught in a lie.

Mama reenters, waving the chocolate tin. “I’ve found it,” she says, and tends to the stove. Father puts Millicent back down, stands, and offers to draw water.

Water splashing into the kettle, he sings to himself.

Nelly Bly! Nelly Bly! Bring the broom along,

We’ll sweep the kitchen clean, my dear,

And have a little song.

Poke the wood, my lady love

And make the fire burn,

And while I take the banjo down,

Just give the mush a turn…

Mama laughs to herself. “Whatever is that nonsense you’re singing?”

Father smiles politely, placing the kettle upon the stove. “Something I picked up on my travels. The Americans are quite fond of it at the moment.”

Millicent pulls out Papa’s chair and sits herself upon it. She knows she will not be making roses tomorrow…and that Mama shall not be holding pins for the mantua maker. Everything is different now.

         

Millicent has spent the day by the window. Her hands feel strange and weightless. They should be making roses.

Mama didn’t come to Millicent’s door this morning. Millicent walked to Mama’s room and knocked. Mama laughed and said to go away and Father said they would be down soon. Papa made her a breakfast of tea and toast, and then Millicent went and sat at the window.

“Mama’s acting strange, isn’t she, cherub,” Papa says. He is standing behind Millicent, looking out at the road through bushes gone leafless with the cold. Sunday is his rest day. Six days a week he works as a handyman for families about town.

“Papa, why don’t you like Father?”

“Ah, you’ve heard your mother and I having words,” he says. Millicent nods. Papa sits himself down on the window seat and thinks at his folded hands. “Well,” he says. “Your mother and I knew your father before you came along. He was a younger man then and, as you’ll learn when you grow older, young men don’t often think as much of others as they should.”

“Was he bad to Mama, Papa?”

Papa thought again. “I might say he would have hurt your Mama’s feelings, had I not had words with him. As a younger man he could have made her very sad.”

“Mama has been very sad, Papa.”

Papa nodded and patted her knee. “And you’ve been a veritable paladin, you have, helping her all your life as you’ve done. And a hard worker, too.”

“Will she be happy now?”

“I hope so, cherub.”

         

Millicent is woken by the pounding of the great knocker on the front door. Outside someone is calling Father’s name. Shouting it at the walls. Instantly the house comes alive. Exclamations from Papa downstairs, curses from Father in the next room. Puzzled grumbles and shrieks from Mama. Doors open. Feet tramp. The knocker is slammed down over and over, reverberating through the house. Still the voice keeps calling, thick with a strange accent.

“Dorian! Dorian! Dorian!”

Millicent struggles out of bed, opening her door with both hands, rubbing her eyes.

Through the balustrade you watch Papa stagger from his room, candle in hand, yelling at the door. Father rushes past behind you, almost knocking you over, and gallops down the stairs, making it to the front door just inches ahead of Papa.

Wrenching it open, one hand extended backward to fend off Papa, Father is fallen upon.

“Dorian! Dios querido, mi amigo…!”

Swarthy-faced and loose-limbed the stranger collapses onto Father, one arm slung around his shoulder. In the stranger’s sweat-sheened hand a long blade flashes.

Papa exclaims, “What is the meaning of this!” and reaches for the walking stick kept by the front door. The stranger reacts violently, shoving Father away and thrusting the blade toward Papa.

Father slaps a hand down upon the man’s wrist and disarms him with the other. “Luis, no.
Todo está bien.
You are safe with me.”

“Safe? I am next! It tells me so! It tells me it has told you so! It tells you now! You know this.”

Father’s head turns slightly toward where Papa stands, dumb-struck by this scene. The cold night air fills the room. Mama stands by you, peering around the corner like a child.

“Me ha dicho esto.”

“Then do as it asks,
cabrón
! I will not die for you.”

Father turns and looks up at his wife, at Millicent, at Papa who stands by the door with a face like a thundercloud. “We will step outside, and disturb my family no longer. Come with me, Luis.” Father takes his coat from the stand by the door and disappears outside with the strange man who came into their house waving a knife. After a long moment Mama places a hand on Millicent’s shoulder and walks her back to bed.

         

Millicent sits upon her bed, listening to the words being said in the kitchen. Papa is louder than the others and Mama wants him to be quiet, but Millicent knows he is angry with Father. Millicent is worried for Mama.

After a while Papa stops talking and Millicent hears him go to his bed. She hears Mama and Father talking low just outside her door, and then the door to Mama’s chamber opens, then closes. And then Millicent’s door quietly opens and Father peers in. His face is bright and smiling in the candlelight.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello, Father,” says Millicent, carefully.

BOOK: The Music of Razors
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