Chapter 8: Pour One Out for Mr. Darcy

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Upon seeing Ms. Peterson’s house, I’m disappointed I haven’t asked to visit until now.

It’s gorgeous. Gorgeous in the looming Victorian sort of way. It has a tower on one side — an actual tower — and it’s painted in red with bold gold finishings. Even though it was one of the first houses built in Capital, it’s so well cared for that only its architecture gives away the age.

“Why aren’t we friends?” I mumble to myself, stepping out of Nathan’s car. “Nathan, where do you find people like this?”

He laughs. “We volunteer together.”

I groan. “Of course you do.”

I’m about to ask a sweet little old cat lady to help me read my demon book. Fantastic.

We walk to the door, passing lightly over the steps to the woman’s wrap-around porch. The stairs don’t squeak at all beneath our feet. Raising his hand, Nathan gets ready to knock, but there’s a telling twist of the knob before he gets the chance. The door swings open, and there stands Ms. Peterson in the flesh.

Wow. Alright then.

Dressed up in a flowing black gown complete with shoulder puffs and ruffles, at first, I’m a little taken aback. The outfit looks like mourning attire. Ms. Peterson’s face is the sort that lets you know she was a bombshell when she was younger. Like, Aubrey-Hepburn levels of gorgeous. It’s set with lines now, but she’s got that fine wine thing down pat: her features are framed by ripples of long silver hair, brushed out and draped over her shoulders.

I want to be you when I grow up, I think. Then I smile and extend my hand, tucking my book under one arm. “Hey there! I’m Lydia. I realize we’ve never met, but…”

She isn’t even looking at me. She’s staring at the book I’m holding, her eyes slowly widening. I see a faint tick in her nostrils — they flare as if she’s just caught a whiff of something foul. Then her eyes flick towards Nathan.

“This is the friend you spoke of?” she asks. Her voice has a slight British lilt to it — the sort you hear in movies whenever a character is supposed to sound sophisticated. It’s horribly out of place. How in the hell did you wind up in Iowa?

“She is.” Nathan smiles warmly at her, and I see a ghost of his expression mirrored on the old woman’s face. Can’t blame her. Nate could charm the scales off a snake. “If this isn’t a good time anymore, we could come back later…”

She purses her lips for a moment, considering, giving a slight tilt of her head. Then she glances back at me again and makes a beckoning motion.

“Come on in then. Bit nippy this morning. Why don’t you get out of the cold?”

I don’t protest. I mean, it is a bit chilly out here - but mostly I just want to get this show on the road. I realize going at mach speed to avoid your trauma isn’t a great idea, but hey, it’s working so far. No need to stop now!

The inside of Ms. Peterson’s house smells divine. Mouth-watering baked-goods divine. I wonder if it would be rude to ask whether she’s got pie in the oven — and if I might have a slice. I smack that thought down. Behave, I chastise myself. Focus.

She leads us down a long, carpeted hallway. Everything is carved out of dark, highly varnished wood that gleams faintly in the light of the iron lanterns dangling from her ceiling. There’s some artwork on the walls — landscapes, mostly, though I notice that most of them have a melancholic air. Dark woods with twisted trees. Open water with a lonely boat in the middle. I peer at that one for a moment, watching the way the fog on the image almost seems to be drifting closer, the light on the boat flickering. All in my head, of course — but wow. Impressive.

We step out onto a closed-in porch, and I pause for a moment at the threshold, my jaw dropping.

It’s a greenhouse, really. The floor-to-ceiling windows are letting in streams of bright morning sunlight, bathing the place in a cheerful glow. All manner of plants line the space beneath those windows: roses, lilacs, geraniums. There are also plenty of flowers I couldn’t hope to name — always been a bit of a black thumb myself. There’s a faint sweetness to the air, the kind that perfume can never quite emulate properly.

“Sit,” Ms. Peterson says, gesturing to a table in the middle of it all. I claim a chair and Nathan does the same, settling in next to me and giving me a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he does.

Ms. Peterson takes her own seat with liquid grace, smoothing her skirts beneath her so that she can fan them out properly below the table. She fixes her gaze on me, then, and I’m finally awarded with a smile of my own. It immediately makes me feel better. In spite of her austere appearance, there’s something about this woman that I instinctively like.

“The book,” she says, reaching out her hand. “May I see it?”

I slide it across the table to her, and for a moment I feel a weird sense of relief that it’s out of my hands. Peterson purses her lips at the sight of the cover before pulling a set of white gloves out of one of the folds in her dress, slipping them on. She murmurs something to herself under her breath, cracking it open to the first page with the careful reverence of a true book lover.

Peterson begins turning the pages carefully, her brows puckering as she does. “…This is cuneiform,” she murmurs, tapping oh-so-gently with her fingertip. “Persian, I think. And old. So very old.” I see a twinkle appear in her eye as she turns another page, and without taking her eyes off the book, she fumbles at a chain around her neck and draws out a pair of spectacles dangling on the other end. She perches them on her nose as she continues.

“Strange.” She pauses again, before turning the book over in her hands gingerly, getting a look at the spine. “Whoever did this binding did it excellently, with minimal damage to the contents. It’s clear that these texts have been transferred to this book. This one.” She taps the page with the cuneiform, “Is far older than this one.” She indicates another passage, before reading further.

She conveys all of this without bothering to lift her head, thoroughly engrossed. I’m starting to think I might not be getting my book back at all. I mean, if there wasn’t a wandering demon attached to it, I wouldn’t be bothered. Who wants to kill an old lady’s thunder?

“Ah,” she murmurs. “Here.” She’s pushed on to the end of the book, hovering a finger on the last page. “Do you see this? It’s an ex libris. You see this sometimes attached to the collections of wealthy purveyors. Noblemen, especially popular in the nineteenth century.” She carefully spins the book around to face us, indicating the mark. I’d never made it that far - never noticed it. It’s smack in the middle of the last page, a beautiful symbol made of elegant loops and whorls. Weirdly there aren’t any initials — no writing — but as I turn my head from side to side, I think I see a hint of something between the lines. An optical illusion of some sort.

Stolen novel; please report.

“I’m not familiar with this mark. Not, of course, that that means much.” She chuckles. “There are many, and I’m afraid I’ve only memorized the most prominent. But this book clearly had an owner at some point — an owner who was very keen on keeping it, I imagine.” She peers between the two of us, searching our faces. “…Where did you get this?”

My brain happily churns through a likely series of lies as I reach out a hand, making to press a finger against the page. Something about the symbol calls to me in a way I can’t explain. When my skin meets the paper, I swear I see the lines start moving, undulating and rippling. The illusion takes shape, and at the center of the interconnected lines an image forms: an outstretched hand, palm held up as if warding something away. By instinct, I mirror the gesture, pressing my own hand to the page.

I feel something. A tingling, like insects crawling over my skin. A chill moves down my spine and I jerk my hand away.

“Miss Grace.”

I look up. Nathan is staring at me with a worried look in his eyes, and Ms. Peterson is studying me, expression scrutinizing. “Where did you get this book.” There’s a demand in her voice, one that brooks no room for lying.

“The woods,” I blurt.

“The woods,” she echoes. She continues staring at me, waiting.

“I, uh…ran into some people who had it.”

“In the woods.”

I swallow, nodding. “Yes, right.”

“And they gave it to you.”

I scrunch up my face slightly. “Mmm…no. Not exactly.” I feel my face heat under her stare.

“Miss Grace. I don’t think we have time for evasions. Tell me where you got this book. Because I assure you, you did not just find it propped up against a tree trunk.”

I’m taken aback. Glancing sidelong at Nathan, he gives me a helpless shrug. ‘Hey, don’t look at me.’

“I got kidnapped,” I say, going for the honest angle. “Some morons tried to use me in some sort of ritual. I, uh, got away, and I took the book with me.” Okay. Maybe not completely honest, but hey, I don’t want to get thrown out here.

I can feel Nathan’s judgmental look boring into the side of my face. I ignore him.

Ms. Peterson gives me the real bacteria-on-a-Petri-dish treatment, gray eyes weighing my very soul. The corners of her mouth twitch, as if something about what I’ve said amuses her.

But before she can inform me that I’m full of shit (in much more sophisticated terms, I’m sure,) the book on the table begins to vibrate.

I watch as the lines I’d just touched begin to move. It’s not a subtle writhing now, no trick of the light and careful sketching. They’re really moving, twitching and stirring so clearly that both Nathan and Ms. Peterson react to it. The former stands up sharply, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. The latter purses her lips into a bloodless white line, then reaches up towards her throat, fingers curling around another chain at her neck.

The vibrating stops. There’s a brief moment of silence. And then, from the doorway that leads into Ms. Peterson’s house, I hear a low, pitiful meow.

She raises her head, looking towards the sound. “…Mr. Darcy?” She calls. “What’s wrong? Come here, kitty kitty.” She makes a soft clicking noise with her tongue.

There’s another meow. Then another. It’s followed by a horrible, sickening snap. A gut-churning crunch. It’s as if I’m listening to the sounds of someone strapped to a rack, having their joints pulled from their sockets. Ms. Peterson bolts to her feet, color draining out of her face. “Mr. Darcy?!”

Another sound. A yowl. High-pitched at first, then growing deeper and deeper until it turns into a snarl so menacing that I can feel it reverberate in my chest.

The light inside of Ms. Peterson’s house is dim enough that I can only make out a faint outline of whatever creature is stalking towards us - but an outline is enough. It’s big. Big enough that its shoulders are brushing the walls of the hall. Tall, too - almost as tall as Nathan. I hear scraping - the unmistakable sound of claws against wood.

“Um,” I wheeze, helpfully.

“Holy shhhh…” Nate glances at Ms. Peterson. “….ooooot.”

Ms. Peterson remains pale, trembling slightly. She stands slowly, hand still touching the chain around her neck. As the creature looms closer - and a pair of fiery green eyes glows out at us - I feel time slow to a crawl.

“…Mr. Darcy?” she breathes, her voice filled with horror.

Then everything happens at once.

The creature leaps from the hallway, and we all get a clear look at it. Like the symbol in the book, it’s a writhing mass of elegant lines, shifting and undulating and ink-black. The eyes are the only source of color - that and a mouth, one it holds open to reveal a sickening red hole. It’s shaped like a jaguar, but far bigger, far more powerful looking, with neck-snapping jaws. As I watch, frozen, it launches itself directly at the target who looks to be the biggest threat.

Nathan.

Do something, I think. Shove him out of the way. Hit it with your chair. MOVE, DAMNIT!

But I don’t move. I stand there, mouth agape, watching uselessly as my friend looks straight down death’s throat.

There’s a high-pitched sound, like air escaping a balloon. The window next to us suddenly has a perfectly round hole in it, a split second before the glass shatters completely. A force slams into the jaguar-ink-thing, sending it thudding back into the wall with a violence that rattles every window-pane. Then a voice - calm, level, authoritative - speaks from the backyard.

“Get behind me. Now.”

Chaos ensues. Nathan instantly whirls on us, spending a brief moment deciding between me and Ms. Peterson. Evidently he must remember that I did track and field in high school, because he moves towards the older woman and snatches her, picking her up like a big Gothic paperweight and leaping through the newly made hole in the greenhouse’s facade. I follow after him, hearing the creature snarling and snapping behind us. I barely get a look at our savior until we’re already halfway to him, my limbs pumping a million miles an hour and my heart in my throat.

Dakota Hunter stands there in his police uniform, a handgun held expertly at the ready, aimed back at the building. The closer I get, the more I notice something strange about the weapon: there’s a gleam to it that almost looks like he’s put fancy LEDs along the metal, glowing symbols etched in what I can see of the grip. I don’t question it, though. I don’t care what Dakota’s packing, so long as he’s aiming at the thing that wants to eat us.

I hear the click of him re-cocking the gun. The ink-jaguar studies us from the greenhouse, recovering from the first shot - I can see the way the lines of black slide in over the gaping hole the first shot left behind. Liquid and sinuous. Beautiful.

Beautiful if it didn’t want to kill us, anyway.

Stepping slowly out onto the grass, it glares at us, all malice. Another growl - low, so low, and I feel it again in my chest - hits us, and I see Nathan shift on his feet. He looks around for a moment, setting Ms. Peterson down as he searches the ground. Seeing a particularly thick stick, he picks it up and holds it like a bat.

“That won’t do anything, sir,” Dakota warns him. “Please, just stay behind…”

The thing charges again. Dakota fires another shot, and I see the way it blurs through the creature, giving off a faint gleam that disappears into the writhing black mass. It shrieks in protest, veering off to the side as the inky tendrils wriggle in the air. Red drips out of its mouth, but somehow I don’t get the impression it’s badly hurt so much as severely pissed off.

It whirls, going in for another attempt. Dakota fires another shot, and this one hits it right between the eyes. Its head snaps back, and it flips head over heels in the air, its own momentum carrying it forward so that it lands limply ten feet away from us.

I can still see its feet twitching. I stare at the swirling lines of its body, watch as its malformed head begins slowly morphing back into place.

“Back up,” Dakota says. There’s no strain in his voice - only that same, mediated calm. “Back up. My car is parked at the front of the house. Run to it.” He uses one hand to grab the keys from his pocket, tossing them towards Nathan. “Get inside.”

Nathan hesitates, eying the Officer, still brandishing his stick.

Dakota glances at him briefly. “That’s an order.”

Nathan moves towards Ms. Peterson again, but she bristles at him. “I’m perfectly capable of running,” she says, hefting up her skirts. She turns and starts doing just that - with admirable speed, I have to say. Just as Nathan turns back towards me, though, a thought jumps to mind. I turn my head back towards the greenhouse.

It came from the book, I realize. Out of that symbol. Because I touched it.

The twitching has intensified now. The head is almost fully restored, and I can see its limbs starting to search for purchase on the ground. In spite of his stoicism, officer Hunter’s face is grim. I have no idea how many bullets are still in that gun of his, but it’s clearly not enough to do the job. He’s just stalling for time.

Time for us to get away.

Officer Dakota Hunter is about to die because my dumb ass touched the demon book’s no-no square.

I decide evisceration is actually less terrible than standing by and letting that happen.

I break into a run. Towards the house.

Just as I thought, the creature’s attention immediately locks on me. It rises to its feet, bounding after me with blinding speed. I hear another BANG from Dakota’s gun, the sound of it grinding to a halt across the dirt. Dakota is shouting at me now, telling me to get to the car, and I feel a trickle of terror at the fact that he’s raised his voice. I get the feeling he doesn’t do that often. We must be really deep in the shit.

I reach the table, snatch the book, and keep on running.

Time, I think. Gotta buy time.

Wait, time for what?

There’s an answer from deep in my gut, an instinctive one that I somehow know with utter certainty:

Lucas is coming.