Odd, Matthew thought.
He took the book from its place. It was a battered brown leather edition titled The Lesser Key Of Solomon. Matthew recalled seeing an edition of this book before, in the ruins of Simon Chapel’s library just before his involvement with Tyranthus Slaughter. In a way, this book had caused him quite a lot of misery, for that copy he’d found in Chapel’s library had been hollowed out and literally held a key to unlock a book—The History of Locks As Regards The Craft of Ancient Egypt and Rome—that had concealed a bagful of Professor Fell’s money. Which had put him nearly on the road to ruin, regarding his future fate and the health of Hudson Greathouse. But now…finding a second copy of this book, here in the professor’s own library…
Odd.
This book appeared to be only a book, not a depository. Matthew opened it and began to turn through the yellowed pages, and at once he realized that the God Professor Fell was playing to be might have another side altogether.
The Lesser Key Of Solomon was a book describing the demons of Hell.
In Latin script and prints of woodcut drawings, the descriptions of these dark dwellers were quite vivid. The demonic entities appeared as such things as animalish creatures with blade-like claws, spidery denizens of nightmare worlds and shadowy combinations of man, beast and insect. They were given titles, as befitted the nobility of the netherworld.
Matthew came upon a page depicting the stork-like Earl Malthus. The text reported this monstrosity as an expert in building towers filled with ammunition and weapons, and who was noted for speaking in a disturbingly rough voice.
He turned the pages. There was Prince Sitri and Marquis Phenex, Duke Vepar and King Belial. There was Count Renove, Prince Vassago, King Zagan and Duke Sallos. More pages were turned, and more demons revealed in all their ghastly inhuman but human-like shades: King Baal, Duke Barbatos, Prince Seere, Marquis Andras, Count Murmur, Duke Ashtaroth, President Caim, Duke Dantalion, Marquis Shax and on and on. It took a steady hand and a steely nerve to view these woodcut impressions and read this text of otherworldly horrors. Each demon had a specialty…king of liars, activator of corpses, deliverer of madness, creator of storms, destroyer of cities and the dignity of men, power over the spirits of the dead, the sowing of the bitter seeds of jealousy and discord, the transformation of men into wolves and crows and creatures of the night, the power to burn anything on earth to utter ash.
And, as he turned the pages, Matthew realized with a start of further horror that not only did this book depict the demons of Hell, but it also contained spells and rituals to call them from their caverns at the end of time to do the bidding of men.
This room suddenly seemed much too small and too terribly dark. Matthew wished to put the book away, to get it out of his hands lest it blister the flesh, and yet…
…and yet…
It had caught him. He, who had seen through the artifice of an evil man in positioning an innocent woman as a witch in a town called Fount Royal. He, who had no belief in witches and demons and things that went bump in the night. He, who viewed facts as facts and superstitions as the coinage of a past century. He, who would champion himself for that woman named Rachel Howarth but would not give a cup of warm piss to the idea of demons riding the currents of the whirlwinds. He, who did not believe in such fantasy.
But…perhaps the owner of this book did?
And he believed so strongly that he had shared another copy with his associate Simon Chapel, who had—perhaps in his own revulsion or sense of irony—turned it into a key-box?
Matthew had to get out of this room. He needed light and air. He took the Lesser Key with him, through the louvered doors onto the balcony. Sunlight and warm air hit him in the face. He smelled the salt of the sea and saw the bright glittering shine of morning light upon the waves below. The balcony had a white stone railing and balustrade. At both corners, just beyond the railing, were ledges upon which was situated a white stone seahorse standing up nearly as large as a real stallion, a remarkable job of sculpture. Matthew held the book at his side and drew in long draughts of the sea air to clear his head. He wasn’t sure what he had stumbled upon, but he felt quite sure he had stumbled upon something.
And then he saw her, down below, sitting cross-legged upon her rock.
Fancy, they called her. Her body nude and brown and glistening, her long hair black as a raven’s wing, her face turned toward the far horizon where the waves broke upon an unknown shore. To them, Fancy. To him…possibly Pretty Girl Who Sits Alone. And to him, another one to champion. To save. To free, if he could. It was in his nature to do so, and calling himself Nathan Spade in this vile gathering of greedy men and women did not change that. Could not change that. Would not change that.
“Mornin’,” came the voice behind him.
And a second voice, following: “…boyo.”
Matthew turned quickly toward the two brothers, as they came onto the balcony from shadow into sunlight that seemed suddenly blighted in its wet and sultry heat.
“Spadey himself,” said Mack, with a cold grin on a face that appeared red-eyed and bloated, the same as his twin’s. Both men were carrying bottles they’d picked up from the drink table in the library, and Matthew judged them to have been downing the liquor since the breaking of dawn a couple of hours ago. That, or they’d been drunk all night and had emerged to replenish their supply. Both men wore the breeches of their red suits, and both had spilled upon their wrinkled gray shirts copious amounts of liquid danger. Their sleeves were rolled up to display the thick forearms of tavern brawlers, ready to strike.
“…all by himself,” Jack added. He stood in the doorway as Mack got up nearly chin to chin with Matthew. Yes, the breath could have knocked over one of the stone seahorses, and Matthew steeled himself not to retreat from its sour flames.
“Where’s your knife-thrower now?” Mack asked.
“Ain’t here,” said Jack.
“’Tis a pity,” said Mack.
“Solid shame,” Jack lamented.
“Oh the agony of it, to be young and handsome, and so mannered and smart to boot…and yet be forgot about, up here alone.”
“Way up here,” Jack said, and now he drank from his uncorked bottle and came upon the balcony with his eyes narrowed into slits. “All alone.”
Matthew’s heart was beating hard. The sweat pulsed at his temples. By the greatest effort he kept fear out of his face, even as the Thackers positioned themselves on either side of him, shoulders pressed against his body and pinioning him in. “I was just on my way to breakfast,” he said. “If you’ll pardon me?”
“Mack,” said Jack, and another drink went down his pipe, “I don’t think Spadey likes us.”
“Don’t like us worth a shitty shillin’,” said Mack, who also swigged from his own bottle. “And him such a worldly gentleman. Makes me feel like he thinks he’s better than most.”
“Better’n us, you’re sayin’,” Jack prodded.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m sayin’.”
“Said correctly, brother.”
“So sad to say.”
“Sad,” said Jack.
“Awful most,” said Mack, with his grin still in place and his green eyes showing a dull glare.
“Oh, mercy me.” Jack had taken note of the figure on the rock. “Looky what Spadey’s been lookin’ at.”
Mack saw, and nodded gravely. “Looky, looky. But don’t touch the nooky.”
“Think he’d like to touch it,” said Jack.