The End

The book had no particular place it was detained in for very long—it showed up in history quite randomly. It was always depicted as an immoral scroll, or more recently, a depressing book with devils crawling off the binding.

It required him to be in this drab place.

He stretched his fingers, viewing the world through a tint of riotous red. It was refreshing but novel to have a human body again. How long had it been since last he was able to breathe? Oh, yes, at the least, a century or more—though he couldn’t be sure. Human time slogged around him in a tedious circle. He couldn’t be bothered with their minuscule ways of recording.

Stealing a body was a breeze—literally, the woman whose brother he borrowed had been deep in that clown show stuff: dark magic. She’d started swaggering around, shaking her hips, and kicking up her skirts. Yowling in a minor demon's language, heavily accented in her clumsy British tongue, she was a sight indeed whipping up a flyspeck tornado.

Thunderstruck, he had stood there, stunned by little. Then he laughed—another surprise—and she had roared in God’s anger (close to it). Still, he wasn’t able to stop convulsing for a good minute. He blamed that on the human body.

Bored after that, he flicked her into her wind tunnel and spun on his heel. But halted before a mirror just inside the door.

Abominable humans. This one was slim and tall, but not remarkable in the beauty department. Clad in shabby winter clothes that let off a wretched odor, he was of the poorer unit. He prided himself in being exquisite and this boy’s look annoyed him—more sickly than normal, he was sure.

But, that was only in the back of his mind.

The book. He required it with a deprived neediness.

It was a very peculiar feeling to experience the wind stir his hair about his face, tickling his ears—that was more vexing than anything—and the frigid molecules of snow biting his tender skin as he made his way on the uneven street. Tripping because of his hole-ridden boots, he looked down and saw it was cobblestone. Maybe it has been longer than a century? When did they start laying stones down for a road? A rubbish waste of time.

He thought it very odd to swing his arms—only because princes don’t do that—and measure the considerable difference of his stride in this body. If only his legs would immediately convey him to his desire. It was absolutely necessary to acquire the book. He must find it before someone else does.

It was just after twilight, and the streets were mostly deserted—not yet an acceptable hour for drunks and ruined women to come out and play. Every now and again he caught sight of a barrow boy scuttling through the snowy street, or a maid in a tattered coat and apron hurrying to the misery of her work.

As he hedged a slough of snow, he staggered and cursed—his voice sounded queer, the utterance coming out rather bizarre. His body was so feeble. He needed strength urgently. Without it, he would not be able to go on.

His chest hurt. Hurt like there was a gaping hole leaking out his life force to leave his body drained of that precious crimson liquid. What he wanted most at this moment was to slash the fabric of those damned humans’ existence to zero and be done with the rotten business—he wouldn’t even need this sickly body if God would grant his wish. He wouldn’t though. God was picky like that. I’m sure he doesn’t want to deal with me. A wayward follower of sorts.

That was the second step, of course. And, yet it was a fair contender for the top place in his priorities—as he would accomplish it by snatching his desire. But he had the book to consider—always.

A misshapen lumbering shadow passed in front of him, barely making it to a crate propped against a wall. It was in an alley off the main thoroughfare. Secluded. Alone. An alteration to his plans, but one he would take. A gentleman in a great coat, the front open and bearing a roughed-up suit underneath, a cap pulled low over his eyes—meant to make him look unremarkable, he was sure, but achieving quite the opposite. The man fully settled himself on the dirty crate and leaned back against the brick wall, a curious mangy rat sniffing at the bottle in his hand. Taking no notice of the creature, he fumbled to unscrew the cap to his bottle of gin.

He stepped quietly into the alleyway, his feet a whisper against the stones. The walls rose on both sides, cutting off the feeble light from the street. The gentleman was blinking at the rat but looked up at him when his shadow bobbed against the walls. “Demmed man, tell me wife that I’ll not be home this night. And ta not bother me with ‘er female worringin’s.”

This man was clearly not a gentleman—for, he was certain, they were not backward-looking drunks who couldn’t speak. Even a gentleman could form an articulate sentence in the worst of times. He advanced until his shadow crossed over the crate. Advanced until he could only see the whites of his eyes in the gloom.

“Wot is it tha’ye want?”

The fine silver blade flashed in the moonlight. It dived, like a small desperate bird going for its prey, into the man’s chest again and again. Blood sprang forth, a rose blooming on the man’s suit, a fine spray of red particles dying the filthy slush scarlet. The knife had its own will—the will of the devil.

He released his hold on the man’s coat and the still-warm body thudded to the ground. The flask of gin clattered away. The inquisitive rodent was long gone, but he could hear hundreds of others emerging from their hideaways, no doubt smelling the fresh kill. They would welcome a feast at such a time when there wasn’t much to eat.

The murderer sat back on his heels, exhaling. The spirit of the man’s demise, the only effectual thing the mortal beast had to offer, flowed into him through the knife. It felt as if a black flower blossomed inside of his heart. He rose and smiled up at the starry sky. Already he was feeling fitter. Stronger.

Soon (the task which must be savored) he would be strong enough to take on his true enemies. The mortal man would be forgotten within the hour. As he walked briskly out of the alley, his knife tucked inside his coat, he whispered their names under his breath.

- - -

“Mortals think they’re right, you know,” he said, incensed. “The humans lay claim to the book and expect you to honor that.” Like they respect anything, he thought.

His partner rolled her eyes. She was once a human and so couldn’t really empathize with the other man’s fury.

She was a murdered soul—though, quite unfortunately in his opinion, not by his hand. I would have been quite creative, you know, he thought a bit dreamily. Though, how much power would I have gained? Slip of a girl—not really worth my time.

“This is quite illegal, you do know?” she drawled.

He waved his hand. He wouldn’t give that a piece of his day—or her for that matter. He only required her for one thing. Also, who cared what humans thought was prohibited?

She had told him of the book’s location, giving only the barest details to get there. Afraid to unveil more, he supposed. He would have disposed of her by this time, but he needed her—not something he appreciated. She basically blackmailed him, for God’s sake!

“The book has evaded many mortals, as you would say, escaping their attempts to chain it or destroy it. The most recent woman to have laid eyes on it was quite struck by the book, binding it to the wall for further scrutiny.” She paused, her eyes distant but round in excitement. Does magic still excite her? He wondered.

“But, the book went to one lonely spot—the windowsill in the nearest church, perched as if looking out. The stained glass gave a wonderfully opaque view of the outside world! At least, I hope it did. If not, what a vast difference it would make. Do you wonder why it showed up there?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling. “No. I don’t. Do stop the unnecessary tittering.”

“It would surface there every morning despite everything until it was taken by some disreputable warlock.” She ignored him or maybe didn’t even hear him. Looking flushed—if a ghost could look flushed—she grinned. Mollycoddled magic, he ridiculed. And who came up with the word ‘warlock?’

“God help me,” He growled. He wished he was able to shut her up, but the one thing he didn’t have control over was ghosts.

“You can’t tell me you don’t want the recalcitrant book in the humans’ hands.” She seemed content to chatter incessantly. He’d slice off her jolly head for an inalterable death to stop the flow of humor from her bloodless lips, when he reached his quarry.

She stopped suddenly and bowed before a portal, gesturing for him to proceed. A moment of black and then a dimly lit room. He examined it critically. They had been transported into a small stone chamber, like a cell, at one end of which hung heavy insubstantial draperies dripping with lace, something of a mismatch.

“I moved these here before my death. Somewhat out of fashion now, I think,” she demurred.

“I don’t give a whit about fashion,” he said with contempt. “And this is a sacred place. Did you get permission?”

“I am allowed to do anything I like. Besides, from whom would I have asked? I wanted to create a little private space—to store personal effects or engage in research. It is my home.”

He sneered, turning up his nose in a painful way. “It is sacred. You may not do whatever you like, impudent girl. It is a place where many ancient and consecrated things have been hived away. Curtains do not belong here.”

She stuck out her tongue at him like it was a joke. But he saw the disapproval in the depths of her eyes. Dubiously wondering if an incantation of some sort had abruptly been placed, he began pulling back the gauzy folds of fabric.

It was a ghastly room, stairs looking like they were staggered on one another and books piled to an imperceptible ceiling. The walls were decorated in wallpaper, seemingly new layers having been put on without taking the many previous sheets off.

There was an infernal brook in the middle of the room, insurmountable piles of books obstructing the way so that the dirt was mud (why ever did they not put a floor down?)—and there was a superficial pool at one end where the ground dipped away! A fancy way to keep priceless Holy books and Trinity scrolls.

He dashed the thoughts away and crowed in delight. This was it!

“Glad you’re happy. I’ll be going now if you please. Good day to you.” Submissively lowering her head and eyes, she curved her hand downward and made to go, like a squire bowing to his master. He recognized the change in her actions as anxiety—she wished to arouse his ire no more.

Her misty substance was still a substance. He leapt forward and grabbed her wrist, smiling at her utter dread, banishing the hope of freedom that flitted through her eyes. Her beseeching countenance was a bit overdone—she might have foreseen this result, but why did she risk it in any event? Fear. Ever fear.

“Ah, no. Do make sure to keep it quiet.” He spoke sternly, like one might talk to an incorrigible child. Shockingly she started tittering and giggling. Then crying. Ah, hysterics. Volatile human emotions.

A slash of sunlight hit the brook, sending the water into liquid gems. Distantly, he heard humans starting up their day, Hansom cab drivers screaming at each other and a barge captain ordering his men to zip to and fro. This place wasn’t as far from the human world as he would prefer—beneath an old Victorian house that was, at the present moment, quite abandoned.

He jolted. Dropping her arm, he flew through the brook, spraying the water up in sheets. He rolled on the other side, bruising his tailbone, ribs, and elbows. He shot up. The time was almost spent. Morning was at hand. This body was for a dark voyage only.

In his periphery he saw her flee, glistening tears glowing where they hit the ground, illuminating runes scratched into the dirt. Strange. The image rushed through his head but was chucked out soon enough.

He reached the first stack of books, toppling it over with a quick thrust of his arms. It hit the next which hit the next, and so on, like a child's domino game.

The stairs teetered, groaning in protest of his chaos. He continued to shove and smash into towers of books, muttering like a madman. The books crashed into the walls, spins cracking, tearing folds of wallpaper off, revealing tapestries that displayed devils grasping scrolls, the world ripped to shreds around them.

Every book was within his reach. Every book would be subject to corruption. It was the will of the devil. He would grin wider if he could.

Befouled water swirled around his feet, pages twisting roughly with the foam. It would have an incandescence, like a candle. He would differentiate it when he saw it.

Stepping backward, he slipped on a soggy book and thumped onto his back. Feeling dizzy, he lay still, the damned human emotion of despair crawling into his chest. And there, on the ceiling, lay his target.

The chains were a piercing red, the book struggled with an ascertained fierceness, emitting quiet rustling growls of frustration.

Finally.

And now, reaching his starved-for object, the murderer shimmered and collapsed to dust.