Post by Chelliet on Jul 31, 2008 12:19:38 GMT -5
Chapter Four
“Oh Janice, it’s absolutely stunning.” The subject of Rachelle’s praise, Lady Faulks’ new tome, was seated in a place of honor, open on the lectern in the Faulks’ library. The illuminations were exquisitely detailed with all manner of colors and illustrations, and each page was edged in gold leaf. The cover wasn’t the book’s original, but Rachelle only lamented for a moment over that. The new cover was a rich, auburn leather, butter soft with gold lettering on the front and spine proudly proclaiming the book The Dragon’s Hoard.
Reverent fingers touched the pages then turned the book to the last page. The scribe’s bold script sat proudly in the center of the otherwise blank page and proclaimed the following:
I, Ugo of Venice, have told only the truth. This book has been created for my lady patron and it belongs to her. If anyone takes this book from this place, he shall be cursed. He shall be set upon by thieves and murderers. He shall hang. He shall be condemned to the fires of Hell.
Rachelle read it aloud, first in Italian then in English as she translated it in her head. It made her chuckle lightly before turning the book back to its earlier page. The shocked looked on Lady Faulks’ face made her laugh out loud.
“Dear me, does it truly say that?” Janice held her hand to her breast as if the mere thought of such a curse would give her heart palpitations. Rachelle continued smiling and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Yes, it does, but I would worry not one bit. Every true medieval book has one. Books in the 17th century were ghastly expensive, so to keep them from being stolen, the scribes imparted curses on the last page. They were a superstitious lot.”
“Oh, well I suppose there’s nothing to fear then is there?” Lady Faulks laughed a bit nervously, but she no longer looked as if she would faint and Rachelle considered that her good deed of the day.
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Tell me Rachelle, have you found any interesting texts recently?” The two women shared a love of old books though Rachelle sometimes thought that Janice did it only because she wished to appear sophisticated and erudite amongst her friends and acquaintances, most especially among the other members of the book club they both frequented. For all her enthusiasm, poor Janice knew almost nothing about the histories of the books she’d acquired. But all that was forgotten at the question and her eyes lit up with excitement.
“Oh yes, I believe I have. In fact, I am going to a specific bookshop this very night in order to purchase it.” This seemed duly impressive to Lady Faulks and she gasped appreciatively.
“Tonight? After dark? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Perhaps. But I have a chance to get the 16th century original printing of Encylcopedius Demonicus.” She paused for a moment only and, after surmising that that information alone meant nothing to Janice, she continued. “It is a most rare edition. Scribed by Phillipe De’Larouche, a solitary monk from a monastery in Paris, it was said to have been copied for the queen of France herself. As dark as the title sounds, it is supposed to be a compilation of all manner of folklore from around the world, including pagan cultures. But she claimed to find it completely uninspiring and had the book, and the scribe, sent away.”
“Oh my!” Janice exclaimed. Rachelle could see the older woman was duly impressed with her story and she smiled again.
“I shall have to invite you over to see it once I’ve purchased it.” The expression that crossed Janice’s face then had Rachelle’s smile slipping and her enthusiasm waning dramatically. “You don’t like that idea.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t that.” When Janice said nothing else and instead chewed on her bottom lip nervously, Rachelle quit smiling altogether.
“Yes, it is. Don’t worry, I understand. You cannot afford to have anyone see you at my house. You have your reputation to think of.” In that moment of excitement over the book, she’d forgotten that she didn’t really have friends. But who knew it could still hurt so much after so many years?
“Rachelle, I’m sorry.” When Janice would have stepped closer, Rachelle moved back and the look on her face had Lady Faulks stop trying to get closer. It was a mixture of despair and angry, sharp pain. It was only there for an instant, but she’d seen in it Rachelle’s eyes. Immediately she wished she could have taken it all back, but she couldn’t and so they stood there awkwardly for a moment before Rachelle broke the silence.
“So am I,” Rachelle said quietly. Then with back straight and eyes steadfastly forward, she left the library.
The ballroom was an absolute crush and it took her nearly ten minutes just to get past the buffet table. It only served to heighten her frustration and she wasn’t a single bit sorry when she stepped on the toes of a woman who simply wouldn’t move out of the way. In fact, it gave her a slight thrill of satisfaction. Lord, when had she turned into such a bloodthirsty woman?
A path cleared in the crowd for an instant and she would have made it if a tall, male body hadn’t stepped in front of her. It was a near miss and she stopped so abruptly to avoid hitting him that her skirts swished forward and seethed around his legs.
“Rachelle.” Her name was spoken in a very regal, very haughty, voice that she recognized instantly. Of course. She should have known. She let her irritation show in her face and body as she looked up into the eyes, so like her own, of her elder brother.
“Clayton.” Clayton was heir apparent to the earldom of the Raines and he looked it. Tall and proud, his jacket needed no padding over his broad shoulders and he was quite handsome. All that dark, dark hair framing the famous Raine eyes; stone blue with flecks of silver liberally decorating it within a ring of midnight. They were unique eyes and showed well enough that all of Lord Raine’s children were legitimate.
“What are you doing here, Rachelle?” It surprised her that he would have the gall to ask her that question. Usually her siblings stayed out of the squabbles between Rachelle and her parents, but tonight Clayton was visibly angry. At her. So she crossed her arms over the bodice of her gown and put on a falsely bright smile.
“I was invited. Why else would I be here?” That only seemed to deepen his anger and she felt a tiny nudge of unease about that. Perhaps she shouldn’t be goading him... Without warning he reached out and took hold of her arm, dragging her across the room to one of the open balconies where they could be afforded some measure of privacy. She tried to pull away discreetly, but he was having none of it. Finally, she resorted to kicking him in the shin once they’d reached the doors and it surprised him enough to release her.
“What in the bloody hell is wrong, Clayton? I swear you’ve just given me bruises.” It was probably true. His grip had certainly been hard enough. Rubbing the arm he’d held she glared at him and took a deliberate step backward.
“I don’t want you here. You need to leave.” That made her mouth nearly drop open and she stared at him for a moment before she could gather herself.
“Why?”
“You made Mother cry today. Usually I stay out of this...this mess you’ve made, but I can’t stand idly by while you torture our parents,” he all but hissed at her.
She’d made her mother cry. It was a revelation that her mother still cared enough to weep over her. It made a part of her feel instantly contrite, but to Clayton she raised her chin and tried to keep her voice steady.
“I was only returning the favor.” She’d said it quietly enough that it forced Clayton to take a step forward to hear her and what he heard made him uneasy. What he saw in his sister’s eyes made him even more uneasy, that combination of age-old wisdom born out of hard lessons learned. He wasn’t used to being disconcerted so much, so of course that made him angrier.
“Mother is nearly beside herself right now because you decided to come tonight. Father isn’t much better. I want you to leave, now,” he repeated, mimicking her pose as he crossed his arms over his chest. Rachelle laughed at that, but it was a brittle, hard laugh that had several curious glances turning their way from the crowd inside. It made Clayton take another half step back.
“If you hadn’t forced me out here with you, Clayton, I would already be gone.” She didn’t wait for him to say anything else and instead swept past him in a flurry of midnight satin and crimson hair back into the ballroom. Miraculously a path opened for her and she made it to her carriage in barely a minute. Staunchly she refused to look at the faces around her as she left, even as she nearly ran over a gentleman who was arriving very late.
She wouldn’t be able to keep the tears back if she didn’t.
“My lady. What’s wrong?” Brian stood outside with the carriage and the look on her face worried him instantly. In the years he’d worked for Lady Rachelle, she’d never once shown him anything but kindness. That someone would upset her was enough to make him angry and he didn’t care that his direct question was a little on the rude side.
“Nothing, Brian. I’m alright. I’d like to take a bit of a walk though. Would you please stay here and wait for me?” She looked on the verge of tears and as much as he adored his employer, he was less than useless to a crying female. So he nodded and watched her walk down the street and turn the corner.
She wasn’t going to cry – she’d certainly done enough of that this morning – but she just might scream. Even knowing that this was the absolute perfect time and place to visit Mr. Ramsey’s shop did little to improve her mood. It took a few blocks of furious walking before she felt even remotely calm. The exertion of trying to practically run in a ball gown that weighed nearly as much as she did left her breathing fast and shallow, but she didn’t mind. It felt good in a way and reminded her that she’d been cooped up inside her house for too long these last several weeks.
But she couldn’t very well walk to the bookshop. It was just too far and even she had the sense enough to realize that a woman in a ball gown, alone, and walking that distance, was fair prey for the scavengers of the night. Raising her hand to the street, she waited for a hack to stop before alighting within and giving the driver the address of Mr. Ramsey’s shop.
It took only a few minutes to get there once they got out of the main thoroughfare’s traffic. The street looked familiar, but darker somehow, as if the moon’s light didn’t seem to quite reach this area of the city. It was puzzling and a little unnerving to say the least. Only the lone street lamp provided any light, but even that seemed dim. For an instant she thought of the rumors that people bandied about with such enthusiasm. Shadowspawn. Demons. Creatures of the night.
Shaking her head at her own foolish imagination, she stepped out of the carriage and paid the man, securing his services for the ride back as well. He agreed to wait, but grudgingly so. She’d had to pay him an extra pound on the spot just to get him to stay.
“What’s a young chit like you doin’ out at such an awful ‘our all by your onesies?” the driver asked as she stepped away and she paused only long enough to answer it before walking directly to the bookshop.
“Business,” she said and left it at that. It was no concern of hers if the driver mistook her for a soiled dove. The quality of her clothing alone should tell him she was no such thing, but then again there were brothels that specialized in expensive tastes. The only reason she knew that of course was because she’d eavesdropped something fierce on her brothers as a young girl. Their retellings of boyish adventures had seemed so exciting when she was eight.
Curling one small hand into a fist, she knocked brusquely upon the door. To her surprise, it opened almost immediately and it wasn’t the rude housekeeper of earlier.
A tall, rail thin man stood in the doorway, dark eyes brooding down on her. His skin was almost sickly pale and she immediately felt sorry for having had such unkind thoughts toward him. The man had obviously been ill.
“Mr. Ramsey?”
“Aye. What d’you want?” His voice was the texture of gravel and had an almost sibilant hiss to it. It was a voice that made the hair on her arms stand up and a shiver run down her spine. She couldn’t explain that little flash of fear for the man didn’t appear strong enough to lift a tea cup let alone be dangerous enough to worry over.
“I’m here to inquire about a particular book you acquired recently.” Bully for her, her voice never wavered though she did shiver a bit. It was getting cold outside and she’d forgotten her wrap in her hasty exit from the Faulks’ ball room.
“Yes, of course. Do come in.” He held the door open for her and she stepped inside. It was like walking into the lion’s den. Or the snake’s pit. Again she chided herself for being overly dramatic. It was a simple bookshop. Nothing more, nothing less.
Shelves upon shelves of books lined the large, open room that opened before her and the sheer number of them made her forget how odd the shop keeper was and the dark thoughts her imagination kept providing her with. Her steps slowed as she tried to take them all in. The smell of old leather and paper assaulted her and she smiled a bit, taking a deep breath of it.
“Which book is it you were looking for, Miss…?” His voice jarred her out of her enjoyment and she nodded.
“Raine. Miss Rachelle Raine. I’m looking for a copy of Encyclopedius Demonicus. Perchance, do you have the French edition? By Phillipe De’Larouche?” Mr. Ramsey’s eyebrows rose up into his receding hair line and he gave a stiff smile, as if he didn’t smile much and had forgotten how.
“Mayhap I do at that.” He rounded an ancient desk piled high with stacks of books in every size and pulled open a low drawer. His body creaked as badly as the chair he sat in and she almost offered to fetch the book herself for him when he retrieved something much larger than a book wrapped in wool. Carefully he set it on the old blotter that sat on the desk and gently unwrapped it.
It was a chest, and a very old one at that. It was dark wood, almost black, and shone with either badly applied polish or years and years of handling. Rachelle was willing to bet it was the latter. A huge metal clasp kept the lid sealed tightly and as she looked at it closer, she realized there was carving in the wood. It was very detailed and though she couldn’t make out most of the images from across the desk, she estimated that the chest itself was worth quite a bit of money all on its own.
She held her breath while he opened it and let it out in a rush when she saw what sat inside.
Instead of one book, there were seven. They weren’t bound in beautiful leather or scripted in gold, nor were they very appealing to look at it. The original bindings were falling apart and the wood of the covers was poking through on nearly all of them. She couldn’t tell what the original colors had been, but she could very clearly read imprinted on each spine: Encyclopedius Demonicus, volumes 1-7.
Oh so carefully she picked up the first volume, turning it slowly to the last page. Phillipe De’Larouche’s signature sat delicately on the page and she almost gasped in delight.
“This is wonderful, Mr. Ramsey. Absolutely perfect. What is your price?” Usually she haggled a bit with the owners and masked her delight at finding something she knew she would add to her collection, but this was the find of a lifetime and she didn’t care how much he asked for it.
When he didn’t answer, she looked up from the book inquisitively. He was staring at her, those dark eyes never blinking. He balanced himself on his arms, hands spread wide along the edge of the desk as if he were having trouble standing. Or as if he meant to pounce.
“Mr. Ramsey, are you quite alright? Perhaps you should sit down for a bit.” Leaning forward just a bit, she moved to put the book back in the chest when his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. “Mr. Ramsey! What in the world are you doing? Let me go this instant!”
She pulled back, but for such a frail looking man his grip was like steel. Slowly he pulled her closer and the look on his face was one of hunger. She didn’t understand it, but she feared that look; she feared it like a mouse fears the owl.
“You asked my price, Miss Raine,” he said. The hiss was more prevalent now and she leaned as far back as she could, only her arm held out in front of here where he held it. If he meant to kiss her hand like a gentleman, he was going about it the wrong way.
“Y-yes, I did.” She couldn’t keep her voice steady this time, but she gave it a valiant effort. “Please Mr. Ramsey, I will pay you for the books, I promise. There’s no need for this.” He laughed then, a chilling laugh, and leaned over the desk a bit more until her hand hovered but a hair’s breadth from his mouth.
“Yes, my dear, it is quite necessary. And do not worry, I know you will pay. But with what?” Then he laughed again and she couldn’t speak because she was staring at his mouth. There was something terribly wrong with it. “It has been quite some time since a delicate morsel such as yourself has wandered into my humble shop.” He grinned and her eyes grew wide as he exposed lengthened canines. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. The man was insane of course, but he couldn’t be a…a Shadowspawn.
That moment of fear froze her. His breath against the skin of her inner wrist made her quake inside and whatever had kept her quiet until now broke free.
Rather than jerk away, she pushed forward as hard as she could. The scrape of teeth against her skin chilled her blood, but his howl of rage when her fisted hand met his mouth was immediately followed by a split second of freedom. She grasped that second and nearly fell backward in her haste to get away from him.
If all but for the fashion of society, she might have escaped the little shop.
Smooth satin caught beneath her heel as she turned and she managed only two desperate steps before falling to her knees. Her spectacles went flying and she heard them skitter beneath one of the many book shelves. Swearing in a most unladylike way, she grabbed handfuls of her skirt and pushed herself to her feet, but by then it was too late.
Ramsey had leapt upon the top of his desk, his body bent and held like a wild animal. Like a wolf. And like the predator he was, he growled low and pounced.
She screamed as he rushed up behind her, hard hands grabbing both her arms and ripping her up from the floor. Pain lanced through her shoulders and she wondered if his intent was to rip her arms from their sockets. In the same motion, he brought her up hard against the wall, a rain of books falling down upon them both as the shelves dug into painful lines against her back. A sob was forced out of her and she turned her face away when he pressed forward.
He was no longer a man. He was a monster. A demonic monster. Those eyes weren’t human anymore, instead belonging to some possessed, evil soul. Even with her face averted she could feel those eyes boring into her and it made her stomach roil with a combination of fear, disgust, and pain. The fingers on her arms squeezed tighter, tighter, tighter until she cried out against them and swung her face back to his.
The smile on his face was grotesque, full of pointed teeth tinged pink, and the fact that she could see it so clearly meant he was very close. Too close. His breath was rancid and she nearly gagged when drawing in breath enough to scream again.
“Oh Janice, it’s absolutely stunning.” The subject of Rachelle’s praise, Lady Faulks’ new tome, was seated in a place of honor, open on the lectern in the Faulks’ library. The illuminations were exquisitely detailed with all manner of colors and illustrations, and each page was edged in gold leaf. The cover wasn’t the book’s original, but Rachelle only lamented for a moment over that. The new cover was a rich, auburn leather, butter soft with gold lettering on the front and spine proudly proclaiming the book The Dragon’s Hoard.
Reverent fingers touched the pages then turned the book to the last page. The scribe’s bold script sat proudly in the center of the otherwise blank page and proclaimed the following:
I, Ugo of Venice, have told only the truth. This book has been created for my lady patron and it belongs to her. If anyone takes this book from this place, he shall be cursed. He shall be set upon by thieves and murderers. He shall hang. He shall be condemned to the fires of Hell.
Rachelle read it aloud, first in Italian then in English as she translated it in her head. It made her chuckle lightly before turning the book back to its earlier page. The shocked looked on Lady Faulks’ face made her laugh out loud.
“Dear me, does it truly say that?” Janice held her hand to her breast as if the mere thought of such a curse would give her heart palpitations. Rachelle continued smiling and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Yes, it does, but I would worry not one bit. Every true medieval book has one. Books in the 17th century were ghastly expensive, so to keep them from being stolen, the scribes imparted curses on the last page. They were a superstitious lot.”
“Oh, well I suppose there’s nothing to fear then is there?” Lady Faulks laughed a bit nervously, but she no longer looked as if she would faint and Rachelle considered that her good deed of the day.
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Tell me Rachelle, have you found any interesting texts recently?” The two women shared a love of old books though Rachelle sometimes thought that Janice did it only because she wished to appear sophisticated and erudite amongst her friends and acquaintances, most especially among the other members of the book club they both frequented. For all her enthusiasm, poor Janice knew almost nothing about the histories of the books she’d acquired. But all that was forgotten at the question and her eyes lit up with excitement.
“Oh yes, I believe I have. In fact, I am going to a specific bookshop this very night in order to purchase it.” This seemed duly impressive to Lady Faulks and she gasped appreciatively.
“Tonight? After dark? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Perhaps. But I have a chance to get the 16th century original printing of Encylcopedius Demonicus.” She paused for a moment only and, after surmising that that information alone meant nothing to Janice, she continued. “It is a most rare edition. Scribed by Phillipe De’Larouche, a solitary monk from a monastery in Paris, it was said to have been copied for the queen of France herself. As dark as the title sounds, it is supposed to be a compilation of all manner of folklore from around the world, including pagan cultures. But she claimed to find it completely uninspiring and had the book, and the scribe, sent away.”
“Oh my!” Janice exclaimed. Rachelle could see the older woman was duly impressed with her story and she smiled again.
“I shall have to invite you over to see it once I’ve purchased it.” The expression that crossed Janice’s face then had Rachelle’s smile slipping and her enthusiasm waning dramatically. “You don’t like that idea.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t that.” When Janice said nothing else and instead chewed on her bottom lip nervously, Rachelle quit smiling altogether.
“Yes, it is. Don’t worry, I understand. You cannot afford to have anyone see you at my house. You have your reputation to think of.” In that moment of excitement over the book, she’d forgotten that she didn’t really have friends. But who knew it could still hurt so much after so many years?
“Rachelle, I’m sorry.” When Janice would have stepped closer, Rachelle moved back and the look on her face had Lady Faulks stop trying to get closer. It was a mixture of despair and angry, sharp pain. It was only there for an instant, but she’d seen in it Rachelle’s eyes. Immediately she wished she could have taken it all back, but she couldn’t and so they stood there awkwardly for a moment before Rachelle broke the silence.
“So am I,” Rachelle said quietly. Then with back straight and eyes steadfastly forward, she left the library.
The ballroom was an absolute crush and it took her nearly ten minutes just to get past the buffet table. It only served to heighten her frustration and she wasn’t a single bit sorry when she stepped on the toes of a woman who simply wouldn’t move out of the way. In fact, it gave her a slight thrill of satisfaction. Lord, when had she turned into such a bloodthirsty woman?
A path cleared in the crowd for an instant and she would have made it if a tall, male body hadn’t stepped in front of her. It was a near miss and she stopped so abruptly to avoid hitting him that her skirts swished forward and seethed around his legs.
“Rachelle.” Her name was spoken in a very regal, very haughty, voice that she recognized instantly. Of course. She should have known. She let her irritation show in her face and body as she looked up into the eyes, so like her own, of her elder brother.
“Clayton.” Clayton was heir apparent to the earldom of the Raines and he looked it. Tall and proud, his jacket needed no padding over his broad shoulders and he was quite handsome. All that dark, dark hair framing the famous Raine eyes; stone blue with flecks of silver liberally decorating it within a ring of midnight. They were unique eyes and showed well enough that all of Lord Raine’s children were legitimate.
“What are you doing here, Rachelle?” It surprised her that he would have the gall to ask her that question. Usually her siblings stayed out of the squabbles between Rachelle and her parents, but tonight Clayton was visibly angry. At her. So she crossed her arms over the bodice of her gown and put on a falsely bright smile.
“I was invited. Why else would I be here?” That only seemed to deepen his anger and she felt a tiny nudge of unease about that. Perhaps she shouldn’t be goading him... Without warning he reached out and took hold of her arm, dragging her across the room to one of the open balconies where they could be afforded some measure of privacy. She tried to pull away discreetly, but he was having none of it. Finally, she resorted to kicking him in the shin once they’d reached the doors and it surprised him enough to release her.
“What in the bloody hell is wrong, Clayton? I swear you’ve just given me bruises.” It was probably true. His grip had certainly been hard enough. Rubbing the arm he’d held she glared at him and took a deliberate step backward.
“I don’t want you here. You need to leave.” That made her mouth nearly drop open and she stared at him for a moment before she could gather herself.
“Why?”
“You made Mother cry today. Usually I stay out of this...this mess you’ve made, but I can’t stand idly by while you torture our parents,” he all but hissed at her.
She’d made her mother cry. It was a revelation that her mother still cared enough to weep over her. It made a part of her feel instantly contrite, but to Clayton she raised her chin and tried to keep her voice steady.
“I was only returning the favor.” She’d said it quietly enough that it forced Clayton to take a step forward to hear her and what he heard made him uneasy. What he saw in his sister’s eyes made him even more uneasy, that combination of age-old wisdom born out of hard lessons learned. He wasn’t used to being disconcerted so much, so of course that made him angrier.
“Mother is nearly beside herself right now because you decided to come tonight. Father isn’t much better. I want you to leave, now,” he repeated, mimicking her pose as he crossed his arms over his chest. Rachelle laughed at that, but it was a brittle, hard laugh that had several curious glances turning their way from the crowd inside. It made Clayton take another half step back.
“If you hadn’t forced me out here with you, Clayton, I would already be gone.” She didn’t wait for him to say anything else and instead swept past him in a flurry of midnight satin and crimson hair back into the ballroom. Miraculously a path opened for her and she made it to her carriage in barely a minute. Staunchly she refused to look at the faces around her as she left, even as she nearly ran over a gentleman who was arriving very late.
She wouldn’t be able to keep the tears back if she didn’t.
“My lady. What’s wrong?” Brian stood outside with the carriage and the look on her face worried him instantly. In the years he’d worked for Lady Rachelle, she’d never once shown him anything but kindness. That someone would upset her was enough to make him angry and he didn’t care that his direct question was a little on the rude side.
“Nothing, Brian. I’m alright. I’d like to take a bit of a walk though. Would you please stay here and wait for me?” She looked on the verge of tears and as much as he adored his employer, he was less than useless to a crying female. So he nodded and watched her walk down the street and turn the corner.
She wasn’t going to cry – she’d certainly done enough of that this morning – but she just might scream. Even knowing that this was the absolute perfect time and place to visit Mr. Ramsey’s shop did little to improve her mood. It took a few blocks of furious walking before she felt even remotely calm. The exertion of trying to practically run in a ball gown that weighed nearly as much as she did left her breathing fast and shallow, but she didn’t mind. It felt good in a way and reminded her that she’d been cooped up inside her house for too long these last several weeks.
But she couldn’t very well walk to the bookshop. It was just too far and even she had the sense enough to realize that a woman in a ball gown, alone, and walking that distance, was fair prey for the scavengers of the night. Raising her hand to the street, she waited for a hack to stop before alighting within and giving the driver the address of Mr. Ramsey’s shop.
It took only a few minutes to get there once they got out of the main thoroughfare’s traffic. The street looked familiar, but darker somehow, as if the moon’s light didn’t seem to quite reach this area of the city. It was puzzling and a little unnerving to say the least. Only the lone street lamp provided any light, but even that seemed dim. For an instant she thought of the rumors that people bandied about with such enthusiasm. Shadowspawn. Demons. Creatures of the night.
Shaking her head at her own foolish imagination, she stepped out of the carriage and paid the man, securing his services for the ride back as well. He agreed to wait, but grudgingly so. She’d had to pay him an extra pound on the spot just to get him to stay.
“What’s a young chit like you doin’ out at such an awful ‘our all by your onesies?” the driver asked as she stepped away and she paused only long enough to answer it before walking directly to the bookshop.
“Business,” she said and left it at that. It was no concern of hers if the driver mistook her for a soiled dove. The quality of her clothing alone should tell him she was no such thing, but then again there were brothels that specialized in expensive tastes. The only reason she knew that of course was because she’d eavesdropped something fierce on her brothers as a young girl. Their retellings of boyish adventures had seemed so exciting when she was eight.
Curling one small hand into a fist, she knocked brusquely upon the door. To her surprise, it opened almost immediately and it wasn’t the rude housekeeper of earlier.
A tall, rail thin man stood in the doorway, dark eyes brooding down on her. His skin was almost sickly pale and she immediately felt sorry for having had such unkind thoughts toward him. The man had obviously been ill.
“Mr. Ramsey?”
“Aye. What d’you want?” His voice was the texture of gravel and had an almost sibilant hiss to it. It was a voice that made the hair on her arms stand up and a shiver run down her spine. She couldn’t explain that little flash of fear for the man didn’t appear strong enough to lift a tea cup let alone be dangerous enough to worry over.
“I’m here to inquire about a particular book you acquired recently.” Bully for her, her voice never wavered though she did shiver a bit. It was getting cold outside and she’d forgotten her wrap in her hasty exit from the Faulks’ ball room.
“Yes, of course. Do come in.” He held the door open for her and she stepped inside. It was like walking into the lion’s den. Or the snake’s pit. Again she chided herself for being overly dramatic. It was a simple bookshop. Nothing more, nothing less.
Shelves upon shelves of books lined the large, open room that opened before her and the sheer number of them made her forget how odd the shop keeper was and the dark thoughts her imagination kept providing her with. Her steps slowed as she tried to take them all in. The smell of old leather and paper assaulted her and she smiled a bit, taking a deep breath of it.
“Which book is it you were looking for, Miss…?” His voice jarred her out of her enjoyment and she nodded.
“Raine. Miss Rachelle Raine. I’m looking for a copy of Encyclopedius Demonicus. Perchance, do you have the French edition? By Phillipe De’Larouche?” Mr. Ramsey’s eyebrows rose up into his receding hair line and he gave a stiff smile, as if he didn’t smile much and had forgotten how.
“Mayhap I do at that.” He rounded an ancient desk piled high with stacks of books in every size and pulled open a low drawer. His body creaked as badly as the chair he sat in and she almost offered to fetch the book herself for him when he retrieved something much larger than a book wrapped in wool. Carefully he set it on the old blotter that sat on the desk and gently unwrapped it.
It was a chest, and a very old one at that. It was dark wood, almost black, and shone with either badly applied polish or years and years of handling. Rachelle was willing to bet it was the latter. A huge metal clasp kept the lid sealed tightly and as she looked at it closer, she realized there was carving in the wood. It was very detailed and though she couldn’t make out most of the images from across the desk, she estimated that the chest itself was worth quite a bit of money all on its own.
She held her breath while he opened it and let it out in a rush when she saw what sat inside.
Instead of one book, there were seven. They weren’t bound in beautiful leather or scripted in gold, nor were they very appealing to look at it. The original bindings were falling apart and the wood of the covers was poking through on nearly all of them. She couldn’t tell what the original colors had been, but she could very clearly read imprinted on each spine: Encyclopedius Demonicus, volumes 1-7.
Oh so carefully she picked up the first volume, turning it slowly to the last page. Phillipe De’Larouche’s signature sat delicately on the page and she almost gasped in delight.
“This is wonderful, Mr. Ramsey. Absolutely perfect. What is your price?” Usually she haggled a bit with the owners and masked her delight at finding something she knew she would add to her collection, but this was the find of a lifetime and she didn’t care how much he asked for it.
When he didn’t answer, she looked up from the book inquisitively. He was staring at her, those dark eyes never blinking. He balanced himself on his arms, hands spread wide along the edge of the desk as if he were having trouble standing. Or as if he meant to pounce.
“Mr. Ramsey, are you quite alright? Perhaps you should sit down for a bit.” Leaning forward just a bit, she moved to put the book back in the chest when his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. “Mr. Ramsey! What in the world are you doing? Let me go this instant!”
She pulled back, but for such a frail looking man his grip was like steel. Slowly he pulled her closer and the look on his face was one of hunger. She didn’t understand it, but she feared that look; she feared it like a mouse fears the owl.
“You asked my price, Miss Raine,” he said. The hiss was more prevalent now and she leaned as far back as she could, only her arm held out in front of here where he held it. If he meant to kiss her hand like a gentleman, he was going about it the wrong way.
“Y-yes, I did.” She couldn’t keep her voice steady this time, but she gave it a valiant effort. “Please Mr. Ramsey, I will pay you for the books, I promise. There’s no need for this.” He laughed then, a chilling laugh, and leaned over the desk a bit more until her hand hovered but a hair’s breadth from his mouth.
“Yes, my dear, it is quite necessary. And do not worry, I know you will pay. But with what?” Then he laughed again and she couldn’t speak because she was staring at his mouth. There was something terribly wrong with it. “It has been quite some time since a delicate morsel such as yourself has wandered into my humble shop.” He grinned and her eyes grew wide as he exposed lengthened canines. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. The man was insane of course, but he couldn’t be a…a Shadowspawn.
That moment of fear froze her. His breath against the skin of her inner wrist made her quake inside and whatever had kept her quiet until now broke free.
Rather than jerk away, she pushed forward as hard as she could. The scrape of teeth against her skin chilled her blood, but his howl of rage when her fisted hand met his mouth was immediately followed by a split second of freedom. She grasped that second and nearly fell backward in her haste to get away from him.
If all but for the fashion of society, she might have escaped the little shop.
Smooth satin caught beneath her heel as she turned and she managed only two desperate steps before falling to her knees. Her spectacles went flying and she heard them skitter beneath one of the many book shelves. Swearing in a most unladylike way, she grabbed handfuls of her skirt and pushed herself to her feet, but by then it was too late.
Ramsey had leapt upon the top of his desk, his body bent and held like a wild animal. Like a wolf. And like the predator he was, he growled low and pounced.
She screamed as he rushed up behind her, hard hands grabbing both her arms and ripping her up from the floor. Pain lanced through her shoulders and she wondered if his intent was to rip her arms from their sockets. In the same motion, he brought her up hard against the wall, a rain of books falling down upon them both as the shelves dug into painful lines against her back. A sob was forced out of her and she turned her face away when he pressed forward.
He was no longer a man. He was a monster. A demonic monster. Those eyes weren’t human anymore, instead belonging to some possessed, evil soul. Even with her face averted she could feel those eyes boring into her and it made her stomach roil with a combination of fear, disgust, and pain. The fingers on her arms squeezed tighter, tighter, tighter until she cried out against them and swung her face back to his.
The smile on his face was grotesque, full of pointed teeth tinged pink, and the fact that she could see it so clearly meant he was very close. Too close. His breath was rancid and she nearly gagged when drawing in breath enough to scream again.