Chapter Two
The Great Hall
The doors of the Great Hall were vast and ornate with a large windrose, depicting the eight ordinal directions of the compass, painted upon the dark wood. A heavy iron chain bound them shut. The padlock that secured it was in the shape of a fanged serpent. I fitted the cast-iron key into the serpent’s mouth and twisted. The lock sprang open.
“Always wondered what was behind these doors,” Mab remarked as I unbound the chains. “Considering all the unrestrained supernatural iniquities in this house, it’s hard to imagine what could be so dire that even Mr. Prospero thought it should be locked up with cold iron.”
“Let’s do this quickly, Mab,” I said. “There is much to do before we depart.”
Planting my feet, I yanked on the iron door handles. The massive oak doors parted slowly, splitting the windrose. Their hinges groaned. Beyond lay a long sunny hall of reddish stone. Alcoves set into its walls held statues carved from different shades of marble. At the far end of the hall, two thrones sat on a raised dais.
It was late afternoon and shafts of sunshine, falling from small, round windows high overhead, pierced the chamber, illuminating the statues along the right wall. Dust motes danced in the light. The effect was striking. Mab took off his hat.
“Whoa!”
Despite the brightness, the air here was cold and dank. Shivering, I walked briskly toward the far end, my footsteps ringing out against the gray and black marble checkerboard floor. Mab followed more slowly, stopping to squint at the first statue on the left: a gray marble figure of a slight young man dressed in a tuxedo and a domino mask.
“That’s Mr. Ulysses … I never forget a perp,” Mab scowled. “Nice likeness.”
Smiling, I paused in a sunbeam and gestured toward the statues. The afternoon sunlight sparkled off my emerald tea gown, causing flashes of green fire to chase each other across its enchanted satin.
“Behold, the family,” I announced. “From youngest to oldest: Ulysses the Gentleman Thief; Gregor the Witchhunter, who is dead; Logistilla the Sorceress; Titus the Silent, whom spirits fear; Cornelius the Cunning, who is blind; Erasmus the Enchanter, whom I abhor; Theophrastus the Demonslayer, whom I adore; and Mephistopheles, who is mad. The last two, down near the thrones, are myself and Father.”
“Impressive!” Mab stalked over to the next statue, examining it suspiciously. “I note that each statue has a round opening between the fingers and thumb of one hand, as if it were meant to hold something.
“Very perceptive of you, Mr. Detective. Long ago, Father used the most potent magic from his books to fashion staffs of immense power. He made one for each of his children but did not feel we were ready for them yet. So, Mephisto fashioned these statues to hold the staffs. They remained in the grip of the statues for many years. Eventually, a day came when Father decided we were mature enough to use them wisely, and he handed them out.” I recalled those carefree days, when Father held all the magic, and only Erasmus and Logistilla showed any interest in the arcane, and sighed. “Sometimes, I wish he had kept them longer.”
“I wish he’d never made ’em at all. Or better yet, that he had drowned his books like that Spearshaker fellow said,” muttered Mab. “Where’d he get those accursed tomes anyway?”
“Father would never say.”
“Bears looking into,” Mab growled. He screwed up his face and scratched at his stubble. “I think I’ve been in this room before. In the old days, before Mr. Prospero put me in a body. My memory worked differently back then, though.”
“You probably were,” I replied. “The stones of this hall have been part of every mansion our family has owned. We had a Great Hall when we lived in Illinois, before that when our family home was in Boston, and even before that, back in Scotland. Once, long ago, these same stones were part of the great Castello Sforzesco, my family’s ancestral home in Milan.”
From the pocket of his trench coat, Mab pulled out his notepad and stubby blue pencil. He examined the statues and noted down the inscriptions above each alcove, which recorded the name of the staff once housed there.
“Must you dawdle, Mab? Time’s a-wasting.”
Mab tipped the brim of his hat. “Ma’am, if I am to find your siblings for you, I need to have some notion of who they are. This seems as good a place to start gathering that information as any.”
I glanced around at the family statues. “True. Very well, Mab, carry on.”
Mab continued taking notes, and I strode forward, seeking that which I had come to find. The click of my heels against the marble echoed through the chamber. I passed the marble likenesses of my various siblings: The statue of my dead brother Gregor, carved from red marble shot through with black, portrayed him as a Catholic cardinal; my sister Logistilla, sculpted in a deep blue stone, looked splendid in her flowing robes with their high pointed shoulders; enormous Titus, portrayed in earth tones, wore his kilt. The statue of Cornelius was of a rare type of purple marble—it pleased him tremendously that his statue was more valuable than all the rest of ours put together. His likeness bore the symbol of “the eye within the triangle” upon its chest, and bandages, carved into the stone, covered its eyes, so that he looked like a male Blind Justice.
Erasmus, who could do nothing without competing with me, had chosen for his statue a dark green marble shot through with black, as if changing the shade made it a different color. The marble of his gauntlet was pitted and dull from years of holding the Staff of Decay.
My brother’s many cruel barbs and unprovoked abuses of me rose to mind, and a burst of anger swept over me. I clenched my fists. It was hard to think rationally about anything related to Erasmus.
Mab came up beside me and ran his hand over the damaged stone.
“Looks deadly. How’d he wield it?”
“He has to wear a gauntlet of Urim.”
“Urim! You mean that imperishable shining stuff the warrior angels wear?” Mab whistled. “That’s …”
“… a waste of good Urim.” I glared at the statue.
“I gather you and Mr. Erasmus don’t quite see eye to eye, ma’am. How did that come about?”
“Frankly, I don’t know. Erasmus is malicious and spiteful and delights in tormenting me.”
Mab eyed me skeptically and raised his stubby pencil. “Can you give an example? Just in case it turns out to be important?”
I caught a strand of my hair that had come free. It gleamed like spun silver in the sunlight. “Our family is from Milan, Mab. Six of us are entirely Italian. The other three are half-Italian. With the exception of Ulysses and Mephisto, we all have Roman noses. Have you ever wondered why I am the only one in my family who is not a brunette?”
“Does seem incongruous,” Mab grunted. “What’s the cause?”
“Ask Erasmus,” I growled, “and the Staff of Decay.”
Only one alcove held a statue of traditional white. A handsome youth in an armored breastplate stood with legs braced, as if attempting to restrain something unwieldy, such as a fire hose. His hair and cloak flared about him, as if he faced into a strong wind. He smiled bravely, showing his teeth. A pair of goggles covered his eyes. The inscription above the alcove read The Staff of Devastation.
Mab looked up from his notebook and jerked his thumb at the statue. “Any idea of his whereabouts?”
“No. Theo turned his back on us in the 1960s. He declared we’d turned into a bunch of unruly criminals and left the family. He gave up magic completely. Said he was tired of all the violence and horror. Even started aging. Must be an old man by now,” I concluded sadly.
My dear brother Theo, how I missed him! The thought of him as aged and weak, or, worse yet, dead, was excruciating. I preferred to think of him as the statue had captured him: young, confident, and filled with joie de vivre.
“Sounds like a decent guy, ma’am. My heart goes out to him.”
“You two would get along swimmingly,” I replied. “He was the only one of the youngsters with sense. If he’s really put aside his magic, he might be safer left alone. It is unlikely a supernatural enemy could find him. Yet, I’m certain he’d want to know that Father is in trouble. It was Theo who nursed Father the time he became so ill, after Gregor died.”
Mab glanced at the inscription above the statue. “What’d his staff do?”
“Blew things to smithereens.”
“Why’d the peace lover get the war staff?” Mab asked.
“Back then, he was Theophrastus the Demonslayer, the bane of dark powers everywhere.”
“Oh,” Mab lowered his voice respectfully. “That Theophrastus!”
“He used to love his staff,” I recalled. “Its blast was so hot that it would tan his skin and bleach his forelock. You should have seen his face when he fired it. Mephisto almost caught his expression on the statue, a sort of exquisite glee.”
“Perhaps we should leave him alone, ma’am. Our showing up might do him more harm than good.” Mab looked across the hall, squinting. “Who’s that?”
Over the years, my memory of the next statue had dimmed. Startled by the tears that unexpectedly rose to my eyes, I halted and stared. Portrayed in shiny black marble, a heartbreakingly handsome youth stood with his arms thrown wide and his head tossed back in exultant joy. A keen intelligence lit his elfin features. He wore high boots, loose pants, and long loose sleeves covered by a quartered surcoat, the livery of which depicted a unicorn, three interlocking rings, a curling grass snake, and an eye within a triangle.
“Lively fellow. I don’t remember you mentioning him.” Mab crossed the hall and read the inscription above the alcove. “‘Staff of Summoning’? Hey, isn’t that the one Mr. Mephistopheles lost?”
“That is Mephistopheles. Or, rather, was.…”
“Seriously?” Mab peered closer as I came to join him. “Doesn’t look like the same fellow at all. No … now that you mention it, the features are the same; however, the resemblance ends there.”
“He has his cheerful periods and his morose periods. He was in one of his morose periods when you met him. But this statue is from the days before he lost his wits.”
“So, he wasn’t always crazy? What happened?”
“No one knows. One day, he came back, and he was different.”
“Did he change over a period of years? Or all at once?” Mab asked.
“We don’t know.”
It had been so very long since Mephisto had been sane that, even with the statue before me, I could hardly recall what he had been like. I wondered if perhaps Mab and Theo were right about the nature of magic. On the other hand, even mundane men could go mad. If it were not for magic, Mephisto would have been dead long ago. Madness was preferable to death.
“He doesn’t have his staff anymore. Lost it to some woman who seduced him. I don’t know why she’d keep it. She can’t use it. No one can use the staffs except our family. Perhaps, without his staff, Mephisto’s in no danger from the Three Shadowed Ones.” I shook my head, still finding it difficult to contemplate the notion that my crazy brother could be a rapist.
“Let’s hope,” Mab muttered. He walked by the next column and stopped before the last alcove on the right wall.
“Mr. Prospero.”
My father’s statue held a tome in one hand and pointed toward the horizon with the other. Kind but penetrating eyes peered out from beneath bushy brows. A full beard framed his mouth. Mephisto had done a good job of catching Father’s age and wisdom in the yellow marble. I could almost imagine he stood here before us. If only it were true!
“Nice likeness,” Mab commented again. “Looks just like him.”
“Mephisto did Father’s statue first,” I replied, “That’s how Father got the idea for the others. In fact, Mephisto carved all the statues, except for Ulysses. By the time Ulysses was born, Mephisto was just too far gone. Father hired some Englishman to carve it.”
“What about the inscription here?” Mab peered upward. “It says … ‘The Staff of Eternity.’”
“What!” I hurried to examine the inscription. “That wasn’t there last time I came!”
Our nine staffs had existed, had been an intrinsic part of our experience, for so very long that the idea of a new one was more shocking than I could find words to express. Where had it come from? Why had Father never mentioned it?
“When were you last here?” Mab asked, pencil poised.
“About six years ago.”
Standing on my toes, I ran a finger over the engraved letters. The stone was smooth with crisp sharp edges, with little flecks of stone dust still in the letters. “This carving seems recent. I wonder if Father added it before he retired. Or even last time he was here.”
“When was that?”
“September.”
“That would be about three months ago.” Mab squinted at the inscription, but the mute stone revealed no secrets. He straightened. “Has Mr. Prospero been heard from since then?”
“No. The last time any of his servants saw Father was when he departed for America.”
“So, this ‘finding your brothers’ thing isn’t urgent,” drawled Mab. “I mean, if your father left you a message three months ago …”
I cut him off. “His message was only just brought to my attention by an urging from my Lady. I am certain She would not have taken the trouble had the matter been unimportant. Therefore, until I know otherwise, I must assume some member of my family is in immediate, or at least imminent, danger.”
He walked over to the red stone thrones, splashing through a shaft of sunlight as he went. His footsteps echoed loudly in the empty hall. When he reached the dais, he sat down upon the arm of Father’s throne and began scribbling in his notebook.
I sat down on the arm of the second throne, the “Wife’s Chair” we called it, but the stone was icy cold. Standing, I rubbed my arms and gazed at the painting that hung behind the chair. It was a portrait of my mother, whom I had never met. She had died in childbirth, bringing me into the world. Giovanni Bellini had painted her portrait upon the occasion of her engagement to my father. It showed her young and fresh and vibrant with life.
Beneath the portrait, a brass plaque held an inscription:
Portia Lucia dei Gardelli
Duchess of Milan, 1456
“Thy mother was a piece of Virtue.”
The last was from The Tempest; Shakespeare’s rendition of my father’s description of the only woman Father ever loved.
Beside me, Mab halted his scribbling and asked, “Hey, do you think there could be a relation between this new staff and these Three Shadowed Ones? What does the Staff of Eternity do?”
“I don’t know. Father never mentioned it.”
“Do you think this new staff could have anything to do with Mr. Prospero’s disappearance?”
I shook my head in puzzlement. “I could not tell you, Mab.”
Mab straightened and scowled at me. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but you must know something! Think back. When did you last talk to him?”
“Early September.”
He began scribbling again. “What about?”
“At the end of December, the treaty between the djinn and the efretes comes up for renewal. The djinn have great respect for Father and are more biddable in his presence. And you know how dangerous they can be when they get incensed! Last time they rioted, the resulting earthquake killed over twenty thousand people! Anyway, Father promised to come.”
“Early September. Was that while he was here at Prospero’s Mansion?” Mab’s pencil scratched away.
“No, he was here in late September.”
“You didn’t speak to him then? What? The house is so big you couldn’t find each other?”
I laughed. “Unfortunately, his visit coincided with Prospero, Inc.’s once-a-decade rendezvous with the kami of Mount Fuji, so I was in Japan at the time.”
“No leads there,” Mab grumbled. “Any idea what’s he been working on recently?”
I sighed. “I’ve often asked him what he was up to since he retired, but he always replied with the same answer: ‘Keeping busy.’”
“Mr. Prospero was always one to keep matters to himself,” Mab grunted, “Still, bears looking into. I’d wager my hat …” His voice trailed off. He was staring at the remaining alcove.
Within the last alcove stood a statue of pale jade-green marble. The subject was a young woman. The high stiff collar of her Elizabethan gown framed a strikingly fair face. Her eyes gazed demurely down, but there was a proud cast to her upturned chin. Her delicate green hands were carved so as to hold a flute. Her lips were pursed as if to play. Her features were my own.
In the statue’s delicate hands rested a flute, four feet in length and made of the palest wood. It had been fashioned long ago, wrought from the cloven pine in which the witch Sycorax had imprisoned the spirit Ariel. Its virtue was to command wind, weather, and the Aerie Ones, the race to which Mab and Ariel belonged. Even the lightning bolt, the symbol and servant of my Lady, bowed before its song.
Mab had drawn back his lips, exposing his teeth. “So this is where you keep it.”
Reverently, I drew from the statue’s grasp the gift Father had bestowed upon me. Holding the instrument close, I brushed its cool polished length against my cheek. My flute. My birthright. The key to mystery and magic, to tempests and storms, and to everything I held dear, save my Lady Herself.
Feeling the flute between my fingers brought back memories of the first time I ever heard it. I had been on the island, out by the bluff, plaiting daisies into a wreath for my hair and gathering orchids to brighten up Father’s cold stone study. Caliban had followed me, as always, slinking among the shadows of the trees and ogling me, but, though his presence filled me with revulsion, I no longer feared him, for I knew he dreaded Father’s wrath and dared not approach me again.
As I returned to the mansion, where it stood on the highest point of the island overlooking the vast expanse of the sea to its west and a deep ravine to its east, I heard something new. It sounded like the voices of the Aerie Ones, if the Aerie Ones were both singing and weeping simultaneously.
It was as if the wind itself had been given tongue. Its song reached into my soul and drew me out from myself, simultaneously embracing me and making me one with the sky. The wind sang, and the sky answered. My body never moved, yet my spirit was swept up into the air. As the winds chanted and the earth danced, the sea leapt from its bed. Walls of water flew up rather than down, ringing us in a fortress of storm and fury.
“Tempest,” Father called it later, and the glorious sound that had drawn me from myself, he named “flute.”
This was the very storm that drove the ship carrying the King of Naples, his handsome son Prince Ferdinand, and my wicked Uncle Antonio—the one responsible for exiling us to our lonely island—against our shores. That same vessel was destined to take us back to civilization.
I could not look upon the flute that had played such music without recalling the wonder of that day when I, an earthborn and duty-bound creature, first tasted freedom. Nor had the desire to return to the sky ever left me.
“My staff,” I murmured, cradling the precious flute, “The Staff of Winds!”
“And the bane of my race.” Mab stomped up beside me. “One whistle from that oversized piccolo, and we Aerie-Born start hopping like rabbits. Doesn’t such a contraption violate the Thirteenth Amendment? I’m going to complain to my congressman.”
I laughed. “Mab, you don’t have a congressman.”
Mab drew himself up as tall as his stocky stature allowed. “Oh, yes I do! I’ve read your constitution through and through, and nowhere does it specify that men need be born of flesh to be protected by its rights. ‘Race, color, and/or previous state of servitude.’ Says it right there. In my case, it’s previous state of servitude.”
“But Mab, you’re not just another race, you’re another species.”
“Are you certain?” Mab’s gaze was fierce. “Haven’t you heard it said that we Aerie Ones are the shades of men who escaped from limbo when the High God broke open the doors of Hell to rescue his son?”
“Really? I thought your people were much older than that.”
“Perhaps we are,” Mab shrugged. “Or perhaps, by the High God, the story meant Odin.”
I looked down the immense hall that held the statues of my brothers and sister. Ghosts of ages past seemed to walk its marble floors, dancing before my mind’s eye. I saw the family gathering to hear Father’s latest tasks for us: Mephisto practicing sword stances; Theo patiently teaching Logistilla to waltz; Titus practicing his golf swing (to Father’s dismay); Erasmus leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed, throwing me a supercilious sneer; grim and pious Gregor and blind Cornelius playing chess while Ulysses filled them in on the latest gossip of the Ton.
Once, all the power, all our staffs, had been under Father’s control. Working together at his behest, we freed mankind from the tyranny of the supernatural. Then, Father put the staffs into our separate hands, and, one by one, each of my siblings deserted our cause. Now, they roamed across the planet, wasting their strength and squandering the gifts Father had granted them. Only Father and I remained at our posts, and now, Father was missing.
With the setting sun, darkness was gathering, obscuring the faces of the statues. I sat down on the arm of the Wife’s Chair again, icy chill and all. My fingers curled about the polished shaft of my long flute.
“Never mind, Mab. Go on back to the office and finish following up whatever petty larceny case you’re working on. I’m not going to warn my family. They just don’t deserve it.”
“Wise decision,” Mab stuck his notebook back in his trench coat. “You’ll only increase your own danger by traipsing around trying to locate these goons. My suggestion is that you hire a lawyer to check out Mr. Mephistopheles’s situation, drop Mr. Cornelius a letter in Braille, and hire a few mundane detectives to locate that Theo chap, to give him the warning just in case. I’ll do the initial legwork myself, if you prefer.”
I nodded. “Yes, I guess that would be best. Maybe you could put Gooseberry in charge of looking for Father.”
Mab scowled, “Ma’am, Gooseberry’s been dead for eighty years.”
“Has it been that long?” I felt a pang of sorrow as I recalled. Gooseberry had been a helpful spirit, adventurous and brave. Whenever I went boating, he had been the Aerie One I called to blow into my sails, and when I was but a child, he had taken me flying over the beaches of Father’s island. We swooped through the air like gulls, racing over the shore, and then soared upward, the earth falling away beneath us until the island appeared to be but a sandcastle in the midst of the tide. Father put a stop to those expeditions, fearing the danger to his darling little angel, but the memory of them shall remain with me so long as I live. The joy of those flights has seldom been paralleled in my long life. It was that joy the music of that first flute concert brought back so vividly.
Back in the early twentieth century, when Father conceived the idea of putting the Aerie Ones into fleshly bodies, Gooseberry had been the first Aerie One to volunteer. He had done a fine job as a fleshly servant. He was never as intelligent as Mab, but he had been loyal and diligent. Then, while out on a case for Father, a thug shot him repeatedly, killing his fleshly body instantly. When the body died, Gooseberry perished, too. This was a shock to Father and me. We had not known Aerie Ones could die.
I sighed. “Well, pick someone else then, someone you trust. Mab … Mab?”
Mab was not listening. He stared into the darkening hall, a strange and inhuman alertness on his craggy features.
“Mistress,” his voice rang oddly. “Beware!”
“People with congressmen don’t have mistresses, Mab.”
“The darkness …”
“The sun is setting, Mab. Those little windows don’t light the room all that well.”
“No,” Mab cried. “Look up!”
High above, sunlight streamed through the tiny round windows. Yet, the sunbeams no longer reached the statues. Instead, they were being dispersed by a gathering gloom. The hall before us was thickening with shadows.
“Shadows … the Three Shadowed Ones!”
Mab grabbed my arm, and we ducked behind the two massive stone thrones.
Darkness billowed through the Great Hall, spreading like ink through water. Silent as shadow it came, wafting toward where Mab and I crouched upon the cold stone behind the thrones and bringing with it the scent of newly-struck matches.
“It can’t be!” I whispered.
“Can’t be what?”
“This billowing darkness. That smell!” I whispered. “I’d swear it came from Gregor’s staff! But it can’t be. We buried the Staff of Darkness with my brother’s body. I was there for the funeral. I saw it go into the coffin!”
“Shh,” Mab cut me off. “Something’s moving!”
We gazed silently into the murk. Something flitted from alcove to alcove, pausing momentarily to peer at each statue. A shiver, like a finger of ice, slid down my spine. Our staffs! It was after our staffs! Silently, I thanked my Lady that I had come and claimed my flute before the intruder arrived!
Whoever it was drew closer, until I could make him out through the clouds of darkness: a black figure in a billowing opera cape, carrying a length of ebony traced with angular red runes.
“That is Gregor’s staff!” I hissed. “If this is one of the Three Shadowed Ones, and they can use our staffs, no wonder Father wanted me to warn the others! What is that thing?”
Mab squinted. I knew he was taking in the creature’s silhouette, motion and gait, and other characteristics a thaumaturge uses to identify his supernatural quarry. “Can’t tell for sure from here. Either cacodemon or incubus.”
A demon! A knot formed in the pit of my stomach. I had been certain he would say shade or, at the worst, djinn. My family had no truck with the denizens of Hell! We were solely devoted to the Forces of Good. Ordinarily, this protected us from the Powers of Darkness. What could have gone wrong? How had this one slipped past the wards that guarded the house?
The demon stepped from the shadows, his footsteps ringing against the marble. His hands, his short spiral horns, and his perfectly chiseled face were smooth and sable-dark, as if the night itself had coalesced into the shape of a man. I stifled a gasp. This creature was unlike any demon I had ever beheld. Despite eyes as red as newly pooled blood, he was handsome enough to beguile the moon, possibly the second handsomest male I had encountered in all my long life.
“Definitely an incubus,” mouthed Mab.
“Do you think he saw us?”
“Only if he can see through the darkness your brother’s staff produces.”
“Not likely then,” I whispered back.
Coming to my statue, the incubus swore softly. A cold shiver trickled down my spine. He had been expecting my flute! Who had told him it would be here?
And why did he continue to stand there, staring in such rapt fascination at the stone likeness of me?
After an uncomfortably long pause, during which chills traveled up my spine, our sable intruder turned away, heading for the center of the hall. From under his opera cape, he drew a crystal bottle. Unstopping it, he released something bright and sparkling. Then, shadows billowed from Gregor’s staff, embracing him, and he was gone.
Immediately, shafts of sunlight from above pierced the gloom. I began to rise, but Mab grabbed my arm, yanking me down.
“That thing he dropped, it’s a star spark!” he barked. “As soon as it realizes it’s no longer constrained, it will attempt to return to its proper place.”
“Which is?”
“In the Sphere of the Fixed Stars!”
“Which means?”
“This whole place is about to blow!”
“We can’t lose the Great Hall!”
I raised my flute to my lips and began to play. Music issued forth, swelling and filling the hall with a marvelous noise. The flute’s eerie and lilting voice still sounded to my ear like the lamentation of the air, and perhaps rightly so, for with it I could compel the Aerie Ones to sing, but I could not forbid them from weeping for their lost freedom.
Through the music, I called to the Aerie Ones, commanding them to carry the spark to one of the high round windows, so that it might return to its proper sphere unimpeded. My servants obliged me, and the shimmering ball of orange and red sparks was whisked upward toward the windows by a billowing breeze.
The star spark expanded quickly, showering golden and crimson about the hall as it wafted upwards, shedding a fragrance like sweet ozone.
Fearing it would not reach the window in time, I changed my song, altering my instructions as I ordered some of the Aerie Ones to form an airy cushion between the spark and the rest of the hall, to protect us from the impact of any explosion.
A shuffling gacking noise to my right drew my attention. Mab had left the protective cover of Father’s throne and now moved toward the center of the hall, dancing and jerking like a puppet. His trench coat whipped about him. One hand grasped his hat, holding it in place.
I was contemplating scolding him for endangering us with foolishness when the horrible truth of his situation dawned upon me. The music was compelling his obedience! Yet, an explosion would destroy his fleshly body. Given time, I could have remedied the situation, but time I did not have. I would have to sacrifice Mab’s fleshly body, which was a shame because, without Father, I did not know how to replace it. I hoped being blown apart would not hurt him much.
Then I remembered Gooseberry.
I could protect the Great Hall, or I could save Mab. This hall had been part of my family for over five hundred years. I was not going to let it and everything it represented be destroyed by a demon!
What a shame. I had liked Mab. I was going to miss him.
As I glanced up to wish him a silent goodbye, Mab looked back at me, his eyes wild and beseeching. When he saw me glancing his way, his face lit up with tremendous hope. Then, quick as it had come, despair followed. He knew. He knew I was about to let him die.
Unexpectedly, this troubled me.
If I were in Mab’s place, it occurred to me, I would not wish to die.
Blowing sharply on the flute as if it were a whistle, I recalled the Aerie Ones to me. The desires of Mab’s spirit united with those of his flesh, and he leapt toward the safety of the heavy stone thrones.
With a deafening bang, the star spark exploded into a bloom of fireworks. Mab flew toward me, silhouetted by dazzling red-and-gold light. He plummeted down upon me, and we clutched each other until the brightness dimmed. For a moment, all was silent, except for the ringing in my ears. Then, came the terrible sound of stone grinding against stone, followed by an ear-rending crash. The hall shook.
“Mab?” I whispered, when the shaking finally ended.
“Here, ma’am … Thanks to you,” he replied. “Are you whole?”
“Yes.” I rose and regarded the Great Hall. “Oh my, Mab, oh my!”
Large chunks of red stone lay about the hall. Above, clouds sailed across a blue sky. To the left, flickering tongues of flame licked at the gaping hole in what had once been the wall between the Great Hall and the library. The air was thick with rock dust.
“Mab! The library’s on fire!” I cried, “Father’s books!”
“Let ’em burn. About time we got rid of them,” Mab growled from where he rose to his feet, rubbing his shoulder.
“Some of those volumes are bound with the Seal of Solomon. Who knows what might escape if the seals break!”
“Merciful Setebos!” Mab leapt up, bellowing for the rest of the household to attend him.
My flute had come through the disaster intact. Raising it to my lips, I played a favorite passage from The Rite of Spring. The music soared and moaned, echoing my shock and sorrow and yet lifting me above it. Overhead, clouds gathered rapidly, and a downpour quickly quenched the flames. Once the fire was out, I switched to a pastoral movement from Beethoven’s Sixth. Its gentle soothing strains dispersed the clouds, allowing the early winter sun to shine upon the damp library.
By this time, Ariel had arrived to direct the clean-up effort. Dry books were moved to the far side of the library; damp ones hurried off to the bindery. It pained my heart to see six-hundred-year-old volumes drip with water, but better damp books than burnt ones.
* * *
The sky was growing dark, and the first stars of the evening could be seen above the Great Hall. The steady drip-drip of water, still falling from the edges of the rent, echoed throughout the hall, pattering down upon the great chunks of red stone scattered across the floor. This hall had stood remarkably unchanged, despite its several moves, for over five hundred years. Seeing it thus nearly moved me to tears.
The biggest question on my mind, however, was: how had the demon breached Father’s wards? We had fought supernatural monstrosities, even—upon a rare occasion—demons, for half a millennium, but none of them had ever attacked us in Father’s house. It was a safe refuge, inviolate! To have an intruder, and an infernal one at that, break into my house and violate our refuge made me feel simultaneously helpless and furious.
Worse, why had the demon been able to use Gregor’s staff? And why was the staff not in Elgin, Illinois, in my brother’s grave?
I made my way across the rock-strewn floor, splashing through puddles as I walked. About halfway down the hall, I found Mab sitting on a chunk of broken stone. Water sluiced off his trench coat. He held his wet hat in his hand.
“Ma’am,” he said wearily, “I realize you will not listen to me, but I’d like to respectfully suggest you get away from this house. You’re not safe here. The perpetrator could return any time.”
“Are you all right, Mab?” I asked, ignoring him.
“Yeah. I’m all right,” Mab rubbed his shoulder. “If you won’t flee, ma’am, may I, at least, have your permission to refresh the wards that protect the house, so this won’t happen again?”
“Of course!” I paused. “Thank goodness we were in the hall when this happened!”
“You can say that again!” Mab nodded. “North Wind only knows what might have been released if that fire had been allowed to burn unattended. I’ve heard stories about some of the forbidden powers Mr. Prospero, in his foolishness, keeps bound—stories that would scare your socks off.”
“That is not all.” My fingers flexed about my flute protectively. “If we had arrived a few moments later, my staff would still have been in the hands of my statue when the incubus came.”
Mab scowled and put on his hat. “Forgive me, ma’am, if I don’t dance a jig over the preservation of your precious little flute, but I think I’ve done enough dancing to its tune today.”
“You don’t understand, that’s …” I began.
“You can say that again,” Mab interrupted.
“That’s what the demon was after,” I finished, “He was looking for my flute!”
“Shame he didn’t get all the staffs. World would be better off with those atrocious pieces of kindling in the hands of people who can’t use them,” Mab grumbled. Then, his head snapped up. “That black staff! You said it was Mr. Gregor’s … the demon was using it!” An expression of supernatural horror came over his features. “Holy Croesus! Are you telling me that if we’d arrived a few minutes later, some minion of Hell would now be in command of my entire race?”
“Yes.”
Mab’s craggy face froze in a grimace of terror. Then, he stood and reached out his hand.
“Tell you what. Hand me the damned thing. I’ll solve the problem once and forever.”
“Luckily for us both, it’s not damned yet.” I added, “Not that I would give it to you under any circumstance, but just to satisfy my intellectual curiosity, what, specifically, would you do with it?”
Mab shuffled his feet and scratched his head. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. “Take it down to the wood shop and saw it into a thousand tiny pieces. Then, I’d give a piece to each of us Aerie Ones, as a perverse kind of memento.”
“Kind thought, Mab, but no.”
I ran my fingers down the polished grain of the flute and imagined its soulful voice singing out amidst the smoke and moaning in the flaming pits of Hell, its gentle beauty perverted to nefarious ends. The thought of losing it—of being stuck in the mundane world without its voice to remind me of higher things—disturbed me tremendously, perhaps even more than it disturbed Mab.
“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?”