The Mesmerist(47)

He remains in the circle, and I feel the very air around him stir, as if it wants to escape. “You have your father’s look about you,” he says. “Before his head left his body.”

Killed by a creature of the dark. His body rip—?

He makes no move to attack, but only studies me, as if I am one of his rats.

I have to concentrate. What can I do?

“Do you know why I call you darkling?”

I do not answer.

“In ancient times, a darkling was a child born with a black soul. Like yours, Jessamine. Death is drawn to you—?your father, your dear mother.” He raises his head higher and thrusts out his chin. “Stand by my side, darkling, and I will show you how to walk beyond death. I can teach you beautiful things. Terrible, beautiful things.”

A candle hisses and burns out. Malachai looks down. Only now do I notice that his gentlemanly appearance has a flaw, for his fingernails drip tears of blood, one of which just snuffed out the candle.

I swallow hard.

“I will never follow you,” I reply under my breath.

“Did you like my message?” he asks, ignoring my answer.

He raises his left hand and swirls a bloody finger in the air, as if writing on parchment. “The letter M, revealed on your spirit board.”

“Mephisto,” I whisper.

He cocks his head. “I believe it stands for Malachai,” he says, “for I have outgrown my former colleagues. Every drop of blood gives me strength over the power of the grave.”

My mind races back to the terrible instrument Balthazar pulled from the dead man’s neck. There have been reports of a creeping shadow at night . . . one that leaves only a trail of crimson blood.

Why?” I ask, and realize that I sound like a small, lost child. “Why are you doing this?”

He is silent for a moment, and then—?“I have mastered death, you see. These servants I have made are only the first step. No longer empty vessels, they have the gift of reason and intellect. They speak and act at my command.”

A speck of red flickers in one of his eyes. “Soon, I will create a race that will not live in fear of God, but will rise up and become so pure and divine, God himself will quake on his throne.”

“You’re sick,” I tell him, trembling as I speak. “They tossed you out of school.”

Malachai cocks his head. “The old Jew? You saw this? My, Jessamine, you are quite gifted. As for my late . . . professor, he died slowly, as will all his kind.”

He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is quiet, almost soothing. “I have seen the smoke of a great fire in the distance. One that will cleanse the world of the filth and scum. A new world will arise from the ashes, and it will be made in my image.”

“Where is Darby?” I repeat, ignoring him, for I fear his voice might lull me into his web. “What have you done with her?”

“Darby?” he questions. “The servant girl? I will find a use for her. She is quite unique. I have already begun my experiments.”

“Mad nutter,” Emily whispers.

I gasp. Now is not the time for flippant remarks.

Malachai regards Emily coolly. His lips tighten, like the cruel edge of a blade. A thin thread of red smoke drifts from his forehead and grazes Emily’s face. She suddenly bolts upright, and fear blazes in her eyes.

“Dance,” Malachai says.

And just like that, Emily begins to do a little jig, a marionette being pulled by strings, small arms and legs bobbing about.

“Stop!” I shout. “You leave her alone!”

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Malachai says. “This power we possess. Sing.”

Emily’s breath is coming fast, her little dance faltering. She opens her mouth:

“Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool? Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full—?”

“STOP!” I cry out.

“One for the master, one for the dame—”

“Be still!” I bellow with all my might.

And Emily crumples to the ground.

There is a moment of silence.

“Interesting,” Malachai finally says, looking at me. “You have power you don’t even seem to understand.”

He takes a step forward. “Come to me, darkling. Come to me, and I will show you how to use that power.” He pauses. “The irony is quite interesting, isn’t it? To shelter Alexander and Cora’s daughter under my wing.”

My blood boils.

“I’ll never help you,” I say through gritted teeth.

He chuckles, and it sounds like flies buzzing in a jar. He reaches into the folds of his jacket and withdraws a small glass vial. Liquid swirls within as he holds it up. “Yersinia pestis,” he says proudly. “The Black Death. England first saw it in the thirteenth century. Rats are the perfect vessel for transmission.”

In my mind’s eye, I see the Rosy Boy, screaming from the vicious bite.

“Even now, I have spread mistrust in the streets, blaming the foreigners and peasants for the sickness. Already they are at each other’s throats, like the dogs they are.”

Hatred boils in my veins. He is a monster—?an evil, wretched creature.

I think of smoke, a powerful white smoke that can choke the life out of the demon in front of me. Thought made material, Balthazar called it. If that is true, I need to think of a weapon—?something I can use to stop him.