Chapter Six: London

CHAPTER SIX

London

How could I have been so foolish? Of course it had been Salem that night on the road. He’d started coming to my dreams after I’d shot him. If I’d only been able to think straight, I surely would have realized this . . . but between my attraction to him, my fear of death, and my shock over the loss of my family, I’d been too overwhelmed to realize the obvious truth.

What had Salem meant to do, that night on the road? Had he come to take Gladys and me by force? He hadn’t needed to, in the end. He’d seduced me effortlessly.

It was difficult to not feel weak. I feared I’d betrayed the very memory of my family by becoming a demon that fed through fornication. I told myself that I should have known how lilitu fed; but in the back of my mind, I had known, and simply not cared. I wasn’t ready to accept what that said about me.

On the other hand, Salem had manipulated me. He could have admitted to attacking us that night, but he had not. He could have made sure I fully understood how succubi fed before I agreed to become one, but he had not. Instead, Salem hid these truths, just so I would be transformed into a beautiful new toy . . . and be drawn into his bed.

That meant Salem could not be trusted. I couldn’t even be sure that he would protect me from Mr. Cillian, now that he’d had his way with me.

I decided in that moment that I could not stay in the painted house. If I did, I would continue to feed on him, no matter how little I trusted him. I was certain of this. Even now, as I looked upon his sleeping body, I found myself just as intoxicated as before.

I asked myself if there might be a way to become mortal once more, but I knew of no such method. Besides, if I became mortal again, I’d be condemned to enslavement—perhaps even death, since I’d shot Mr. Cillian. But if I was to remain a succubus, then I wanted to feed on someone whom I loved, and who loved me in turn—someone I could feed upon without shame.

I did not expect to find love before I next had to feed, but the thought of succumbing to Salem again repulsed me as much as it excited me. Yes, I decided; I would leave. And I would do it now, before I hungered for him again, and shamed myself further.

I put on my new dress, raced down to the front door, and ran out.

Fog permeated the air, making it hard to see even with the night vision I’d acquired. My first thought was to fly away, but my wings were not yet strong. It took me a moment to figure out how to flap them, and even when I did, I was not able to lift off the ground. I had faith that my wings would strengthen the more I used them, but for now, I’d have to travel on foot.

Another problem was that I didn’t know where I was going. Blackwood Manor would not be safe, and I doubted that the courts, or whatever was left of them, would accept my claim to it. I did not have any extended family to turn to, save perhaps for my aunt and uncle—the parents to cousin Amelia—but I did not know where they lived . . . or if they still lived. Even if I found them, I didn’t imagine they would respond well to my new form.

I considered going to Rosette, but did not know how loyal she was to Salem. She might tell him I was there for all I knew. What of Mr. Beauxdera, who had tried to warn my family about this? Unfortunately, I had no idea of his whereabouts.

I had no choice but to improvise. I walked on, hoping that I was not putting myself in even greater danger.

The stench of sewage that I’d come to expect from London was not present here. Instead, the air reeked of sweat, sex, and blood. Stranger still, I could sense the general direction of each scent. I could even smell the stains left on my inner thighs. I was entranced and repulsed by how wanton and open the lusts of the world had become, now that I had the nose to smell them with.

It also struck me how empty the city appeared. I saw more stagecoaches than pedestrians. Streets that had once been choked by crowds now held but a few solitary figures. Most were Reapers, who fortunately did not take notice of me. However, I also passed a gentleman in a top hat, who flashed me a fanged grin and said, “Shouldn’t you be at home, little girl?”

The scent of his desire came wafting at me with the force of a locomotive, pungent and hateful. I broke into a run, hurrying away as fast as I could. After a moment I looked behind me, and was relieved to see that the fanged flâneur had disappeared into the fog.

I was still in Mayfair, I reminded myself. Everyone of wealth was being either turned or murdered. Some were likely hiding, having seen the sky and heard the explosions.

As I neared Parliament Street, the air became clouded with soot and smoke. I saw why when I looked to the Houses of Parliament—or rather, the ruins that now lay where they had once stood. Their walls were now blackened husks. St. Stephen’s Tower had collapsed to the ground.

Reapers infested the area. The remains of Parliament were as skeletal as its new guards, and these ruins had become symbolic of not just the old government, but also my old life—a life I had not enjoyed but missed nonetheless.

Unable to face it, I walked away, and found myself unwittingly wandering into the poorer districts. Here, the stench of sewage returned in full force. Later, I would learn that spells had been used to make the wealthier districts smell better. No one saw any need to extend this luxury to the poor. The air was also thick with the noxious fumes of nearby factories—factories like the ones my father had owned.

I held up my dress so that the muddy ground wouldn’t ruin it, even though it was already streaking my shoes and stockings. The buildings here could have been mistaken for rubble. Many had boarded-up windows and doors. Rats scampered through the alleyways in mangy packs. There were also mortals out in these streets, their skin tight against their bones, their filthy scent impossible to ignore. Many were clearly drunk, peeing on walls and shouting slurred obscenities. I passed a woman in a shabby dress begging to be allowed into a flophouse, desperately insisting that she’d pay her doss double tomorrow, if only she were let in tonight.

The mortals leered at me with confusion, lust, and fear. Children with muddy faces watched me from grubby alleyways.

“Look at ‘er!” a woman shrieked, pointing at me. “She’s got wings!”

A group of men approached me, their expressions sinister. I saw the glint of a knife, and was forced to run yet again. Why had I come here? To remind myself of what I had lost? The men were following me, and they seemed to be everywhere, reaching for me, reeking with both lust and hatred.

Then came the low, monotonous wail of a siren. It was loud enough to hush the rabble of the mortals, to stop the men where they stood. Everyone halted and frantically looked around, searching for the source of the noise.

The Reapers came out of nowhere, but were instantly everywhere, filling all the previously-empty spaces, grabbing shoulders, tugging mortals along. Doors were thrust open and filthy mortals pulled out, often barely dressed or not dressed at all. One man was dragged by his ankles, screaming and clawing the mud, making it bunch up beneath his nails.

Most of the Reapers were on foot, but some rode on the backs of horses with white bone bodies. These steeds weren’t precisely skeletons—it was as though their muscles were made of bone. Their eyeless skull heads were engorged, sprouting devilish horns.

The Reapers herded the mortals through the streets. I too was propelled into this stampede, forced to move as the mortals around me did, but the Reapers did not touch me. I remembered that they were under Mr. Cillian’s direct control—if they saw me, so did he. I suspected he did not recognize me in my new form.

Mud soiled my dress as men and women ran from the Reapers, some screaming in terror. The mortals who didn’t move were whipped. I tried flapping my wings again, hoping to escape the chaos, but I still did not have the strength to reach a significant height.

As I looked up, something else caught my eye: a pair of red dots in the darkness, just above a rooftop. Someone was lurking there. However, the figure disappeared immediately, and I could not see where it went.

Reapers and mortals alike pushed me into a square, where a well-dressed winged man stood on a platform—another incubus, I presumed. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls!” he called. “Do not panic. Change is here! No more will you suffer. No more will you be unable to find food or housing. From this point on, it will all be provided for you.”

His voice echoed loudly throughout the entire square. Perhaps it, too, had somehow been magically enhanced.

Not everyone in the crowd was listening, but the Reapers weren’t letting people leave. Those who shouted in anger or tried to push their way out were struck down.

“A new London has awakened,” announced the incubus. “A London that serves the people. Labor you can depend on! Guaranteed food and shelter! We are immortals, sent by God to save you from the squalor and sin you have known all your lives.”

I squeezed my way through the walls of people until I had reached the wall of Reapers at the edge of the crowd. They let me pass through them, which only further angered the mortals behind me. As I moved down another alley, the incubus’s magically-amplified speech cut through the mob’s angry yells:

“There is the small matter of a weekly blood tax, but this is a small price to pay in exchange for unprecedented stability. And the Church of Black Heaven offers even greater rewards than this. If you are loyal, immortality could be yours! Observe as I cut myself—how quickly the wound heals!”

I heard gasps behind me.

For my part, I was shocked by how quickly the Nightfall was changing every facet of England as I knew it. Had other countries fallen so quickly as this? Was the entire world engulfed in shadows?

I moved on, and soon came to another district. This one seemed to have already had its meeting, for there were Reapers standing at every corner. Mortals remained inside their homes, though some were peeking out the windows in fear. By now I was exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to rest.

“You have wings,” a voice asked from behind me. “Are you one of them?”

I turned around to find a man standing outside a hat shop, grasping the knob of the open door. He looked to be in his late thirties. His demeanor was nervous, but not hostile, and I smelled no lust on him. “I am,” I said.

“Can you tell me what’s happening?” asked the hatter. “Surely it is more than they claim.”

The Reapers watched us. Though they made no moves, the sight of them was still enough to fill me with fear. I very much wished to get off these streets. Perhaps this man could help me to do so.

“If you let me inside,” I told him, “then I shall tell you everything I know.”

The hatter nodded, and I followed him into his shop. He closed the door behind me, and drew the drapes over the windows. I still didn’t smell any lust on him—only fear.

Seeing him clearly now, I observed that he had dark gold hair, and an earnest quality to his face. Though his clothes were somewhat shabby, he had bathed and shaved fairly recently. I would not have called him attractive, but he wasn’t ugly or unkempt, as many of the mortals in this part of London had been.

“Thank you,” I said. “I was worried about those Reapers out there.”

“Is that what they’re called?” asked the hatter.

“Yes.” I rubbed my eyes; they felt sore from the glare of the gas lamps. “You’re right. They’re lying about what the Nightfall really is. They’re demons, vampires, monsters . . . the labor of which they speak is to be glorified enslavement.”

“But slavery’s illegal.”

“Do you think that matters to them?” I sighed, and looked down at my muddy dress. “I . . . became one of them to survive. My family . . . they refused. And now they’re gone.”

I didn’t mean to reveal so much to the hatter. The story simply spooled out of me like a ball of yarn. Perhaps I simply needed to confide in someone, and the hatter was the only one there.

He rubbed his chin, as if he were unsure whether he believed me. Finally, he bowed and said, “My name is Hector, ma’am. Hector Humphries.”

I hesitated. “Maraina Blackwood.”

“You have my condolences for your family, Maraina. I myself lost my brother a few months ago. Cholera.”

“I am sorry for your loss.”

“It’s nothing compared to yours.” He looked down for a moment, then met my eyes again. “Do you have a place to stay here in London?”

I shook my head.

“You may stay here if you’d like,” said the hatter. “Now that my brother has passed, I have a spare bed. We used to run the shop together, you see.”

“I cannot take advantage of such hospitality—”

“I insist. I don’t believe that most of your kind would so easily tell me what’s afoot, and . . . it’s appreciated very much. I assure you that the bed is clean and free of infection. You may use it as long as you need.”

Under normal circumstances, I would have continued to refuse him. But that night, I had nowhere else to go.

Mr. Humphries guided me through narrow shelves, up a narrow flight of stairs, and through a narrow hallway. I had scarcely ever been in such a cramped, dusty environment, and I could not help but compare it to Blackwood Manor, where there was always room to spare, and everything was always immaculately clean. And yet Mr. Humphries was still better off than many mortals, having an establishment as he did. Was this what affluence meant for those who had not been born with wealth? Perhaps it was the disdain I felt for the upper class now that so many of its members had accepted demonhood, but I noticed for the first time how unbalanced our society was.

After Mr. Humphries left me in the spare bedroom, I stripped and crawled into the tiny bed. Once more I struggled to find a comfortable position, my wings and breasts constantly in the way. I felt the imprint of the springs in the mattress, and even with the covers on I shivered from the cold.

It occurred to me that sleeping might be a mistake, as Salem had been entering my dreams for months. Who was to say he wouldn’t do so again? If he had not yet learned of my departure, then he would soon, and I had a feeling that he would look for me. To sleep was to expose myself. He might even be able to discern my location simply by entering my dreams.

So I forced my eyes to remain open—to stare into the dark and let my worries consume me, so that fear would keep me awake.

There was so little I was certain of. How would I sleep without fearing Salem’s intrusions? Was there a way I might somehow become mortal once more? Most of all, who would I feed on if I continued to avoid Salem?

Perhaps . . . Mr. Humphries? No, I told myself. That would not do. That would not do at all.