“But…you’re all I have.” Her eyes burned and emotion knotted her throat.
I’m…still here. I’ll never be anywhere else.
“I’m not going to lose you because of them.”
You’re not. You’re losing me because of me. And before she could beg him to stay, in the same way she’d begged Eustace to spare his life, he left, the jerking branches of a hemlock the only evidence of his escape.
***
A dark satisfaction settled over Elizabeth’s house—a false sense of rightness in what had just happened. It tried but failed to settle upon her body as well. She sensed that it felt comfortable here with her, within her lightless walls. It told her this was meant to be, that she was never meant to be in the beast’s life. Standing motionless, she looked around her living room, unable to pinpoint any of the usual shadows. The room looked darker than it should have been.
In a hurry, she flipped on the switch, her lamp taking longer to flicker to life since it fought with the nighttime. But the room illuminated well after a moment, and she breathed a sigh of relief when that eerie satisfaction seemed to move farther away, irked by the change.
What entity was satisfied with the beast’s abandonment? Was it the same who’d stirred the wind upon her arrival, warning her not to stay? What could possibly want him to live in misery?
Having just a hint of an idea, she opened her big book of fairy tales, searching for the demon she wanted to blame. And her understanding began piecing together as she read, making that false sense of rightness—that dark satisfaction—dissipate.
Diableron: it was the official name the French had given the demonic beings in 1351, when the first legend of its kind was born. Thereafter, legends of Diablerons began springing up in every continent, the most recent story documented in 1891. Some thought the name stemmed from the terms diablotin and laideron—small devil and ugly girl—but however it was derived, the Diableron was a being beyond definition: a demon, a black destroyer. They were beings whose origin couldn’t be explained, there to instill fear in faithful hearts, to cause mischief, or to haunt men whose souls were damned. It had been her least favorite creature of folklore as a child, and her father would skip the section, since she hadn’t even been able to look at the illustration. She studied it now, for the first time: its slender body that looked more like a silhouette, with a long, spear-like tail that left an oily trail of blackness behind. It appeared more like a mist than a being itself, hovering over the ground. Despite the melting face of a demon, it could change its form into anything or anyone—whatever would be most haunting to its target.
Logic told her it was too incredible of a concept to believe, but then wasn’t an enchantress or a witch incredible, too? Wasn’t a man who transformed into a beast every night? That was when she saw the asterisk leading her to the bottom of the page: See also section 3. Section three, the one about the beautiful, man-hating enchantress: the Aglaé.
She flipped to it with a strange sense of urgency, wondering how they could be related, and read the footnotes at the end of the section, ones she’d always skipped over before:
Though the origin of Diablerons is not confirmed, it is believed that they are linked to Aglaé. Some folklore hints that they are one in the same, since Diablerons tend to haunt those who Aglaé have cursed. In an early version, a cursed man claimed that he witnessed the demon transform before his very eyes into the same beauty who had cursed him. Whether the Diableron was transforming into the witch or the witch into the Diableron, it was never clear; for both are known to take on the image of whatever will be most damaging to their victims. It is assumed they live as both, using each form to its advantage in order to keep their cursed cursed. One theory is that Aglaé takes the form of Diableron when she senses a battle may ensue with her prey. Diablerons excrete a toxin from the tip of their tails that when injected into the bloodstream, overtakes the mind. For those who live through the injuries sustained, the poison has been known to drug the blood for nearly a day, leaving its prey unconscious before its eventual death.
Whether or not they are one in the same, one fact remains certain: Aglaé and Diableron’s behaviors are paralleled. It is proven that for those who cross paths with either, dark futures await. (For more details on the poison of Diablerons, see page 693.)
Elizabeth didn't bother to study the illustration again when she finished, since the chill at the base of her spine told her she would probably see the demon in person someday.
***
Elizabeth ran on fumes as she filled Regina’s order, vanilla swirling into her latte with a smooth, circular—almost hypnotizing—pattern. She hadn’t been able to sleep after the beast left, every emotion she’d ever felt blooming to the surface like the coffee grounds in her French press. Her morning walk with Henry had been particularly silent.
“What’s bothering you, honey?” Regina’s voice almost made Elizabeth cringe, since every sound from the normal world hit her too harshly. Her head hurt.
She smiled anyway. “Nothing, Regina, I’m fine.”
“Mmm hmm.” One brow lifted, the other low.
“I’m tired.” If Eustace was here, he would have snorted, but he hadn’t shown up. Maybe someday he would view her as a normal human being again.
“You need some tension released?” Brian teased, eyeing her from over the rim of his mug. The past few weeks she’d hardly noticed him at all, since he did well at staying out of her business, and even her shop. But now, with him acting as though three weeks’ time could erase his drunken attack from existence, a hint of those vengeful and loathing thoughts snuck back inside her.
“I may have some tension to release, Mr. Dane.” It came from Henry, the first thing he’d said all morning, and as he said it, he read his paper casually. He wore his reading glasses, which told Elizabeth he genuinely read it this time. He looked up from the paper, staring at Brian over his glasses, and that was all it took for Brian’s eyes to fall to his coffee.
“Anyone seen Eustace this morning?” Old Ray asked, his white brows pulling together and causing a handful of wrinkles to appear on his tan forehead.
“He wouldn’t come out when I stopped by this morning,” Taggart said, folding his arms on the table. “He seemed spooked about something.”
“Eustace doesn’t spook easy,” Regina said.
“That’s the problem.”
An old woman darted through the door, a gleam of sweat on her brow. Elizabeth had never seen her, but for some reason knew who she was. Perhaps it was the embroidered cat on her sweatshirt, or the way she seemed to cower from being in a public place, but whatever it was, this woman with cropped gray hair and a spine the shape of a candy cane was definitely Gina Gray—the same who’d reported her cats missing a few weeks before. She neared the counter, and tears hung in her eyes, filling the many creases of her crow’s-feet. “Someone help,” she croaked, frantic.
Taggart stood. “What is it, Gina?”
“My—my cats.”
“Your cats? They went missing last month.”
Hunched over, she broke into more tears. Regina rubbed her shoulder while glaring at Taggart. “It was the monster,” Gina sobbed.
“You’ll have to calm down and explain, Gina.”
“They’re all skinned.”
Gasps went up from everywhere and Henry straightened in the corner. Elizabeth had, too. “Skinned?” Taggart asked with caution. He wiped his brow as though he had suddenly began to sweat.
“I—I went out to my back porch this morning to look for them, like I always do…because sometimes they come back. And…” She wept again, and there was something utterly heartbreaking about an elderly woman, on her last leg, sobbing in such a childlike way.
Taggart licked his lips, and one hand rested at his lanky side. His forehead glistened. “Gina—”