The Demon Collector
Read The Demon Collector Online
Authors: Jon Mayhew
The Demon Collector
Jon Mayhew
For Branwell Johnson,
who read my earliest ace adventures
Contents
Moloch, horrid king besmeared with blood
Of human sacrifice, and parents’ tears,
Though for the noise of drums and timbrels loud
Their children’s cries unheard, passed through fire
To his grim idol.
Paradise Lost
, John Milton
London
,
1854
‘Now answer me these questions three,
Or you shall surely go with me.
Now answer me these questions six,
Or you shall surely be Old Nick’s.
Now answer me these questions nine,
Or you shall surely all be mine.’
‘Riddles Wisely Expounded’, traditional folk ballad
Chapter One
Edgy Taylor screwed his eyes shut and felt his stomach churn as the carriage wheels crunched over the boy’s body. The trap rattled round the corner, its pony wide-eyed, foaming at the mouth. The young girl driving had lost the reins and leaned perilously out, trying to grab them as they flicked and trailed along the street. The horse screamed as its iron-clad hooves rolled the boy in the mud and bounced his skull on the hard cobbles.
Edgy’s little white terrier, Henry, gave a yap of alarm. The boy had been looking over his shoulder and had run blind into the path of the trap. But there could be no mistaking the expression on his face when he turned back.
Terror.
Someone had been chasing him.
The trap clattered on down the street, out of control. Edgy caught a last glimpse of the ashen-faced driver and then it was gone.
Folk in the street stood motionless, staring at the groaning, twisted body. Carriages rattled distantly in other streets but silence froze this one. One or two onlookers peered cautiously, shook their heads, then broke the spell, pulling their hats or bonnets down, fixing their eyes firmly on the pavement and hurrying on. Henry gave a whine.
Edgy ran forward and cradled the boy, lifting him out of the filth that coated the street. Water leached up Edgy’s trouser legs, freezing his bottom half.
The boy looked much the same age as Edgy – thirteen, maybe fourteen. Blood matted his curly brown hair and smeared his face.
Well-dressed
, Edgy thought. The quality of the boy’s suit shone through the muck and dirt that now caked it. Thick material, hand-stitched, neatly crafted bone buttons. His eyes flickered and he gave a strangled gasp.
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Edgy said, trying to sound reassuring.
The boy gave a wet, gargling choke and glanced down at his slowly opening fist. A triangle of bone lay in his palm. The boy lifted his hand, offering it to Edgy.
‘You want me to take it?’ Edgy asked, frowning at the scrap.
‘Keep it safe . . . Salomé . . . Moloch . . . fire . . . death . . .’ the boy croaked. ‘Don’t . . . let anyone . . .’
Edgy took it from his slick palm. ‘I’ll get some help and . . .’
But the boy shook his head, his eyes widening as he looked over Edgy’s shoulder. His back arched and his face contorted, then he fell slack, his head lolling.
‘Someone help!’ Edgy shouted, but people were quickly about their business. Henry gave a snarl.
‘Problem, young man?’ a voice chimed behind him.
Stuffing the fragment into his coat pocket, Edgy glanced over his shoulder. Still crouched down, the first thing he noticed was her shoes.
Pointed. Shining. Black.
How was that possible? Even on a frosty winter evening, the mud from the road splattered everyone, lady or commoner. Henry bared his teeth and crushed his body against Edgy.
Edgy’s eyes tracked up from the unstained hem of her long black dress. Embroidery and lace. Waist sucked in at the middle. A fine chin, her china skin and red lips smiling at him. Black hair raked into a tight bun. And those eyes, as green as envy.
Edgy nodded to the boy in his arms. ‘Ran under a trap. Didn’t stand a chance, ma’am.’
‘No,’ she said, her smile slipping into an imperfect grimace for a second. ‘He didn’t.’
Edgy knelt in the busy street, twitching under the woman’s steady gaze. ‘I dunno what to do, ma’am,’ he said, nodding to the body again. ‘Can you help?’
The woman looked puzzled for a moment and then gave a short laugh. Edgy didn’t like her light manner – after all, this poor lad had just been killed. It was horrible.
‘Oh, him,’ she said, wrinkling her nose and wafting a dismissive lace glove. ‘Just drag him to the gutter. They’ll collect him soon enough.’
‘But . . .’ Edgy said, dumbfounded. The cold pinched at his damp legs. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Well, you can’t sit in the street all evening, can you? And are you going to bury him yourself?’ Her eyebrows formed a perfect arch.
Edgy gritted his teeth. She spoke as if he were an idiot. Henry whimpered and slid behind Edgy.
‘I don’t s’pose I am, ma’am, but –’ Edgy began.
‘What do they call you?’ the lady cut in. ‘Your name. What is it?’ Her tone was light but there was a steeliness to it.
‘Edgy, ma’am. Edgy Taylor,’ he replied.
‘Yes,’ she said, as if confirming his answer. Her head tilted to one side. ‘Do you know how old you are, Edgy?’
‘Well, I’m not rightly sure,’ he muttered. ‘Twelve, thirteen perhaps?’
‘Nearly thirteen. My, my, how time flies. It’s your birthday soon. Did you know that?’
‘No, ma’am.’ Edgy gave a shake of his head. What was she on about? How could she know when his birthday was when even he didn’t?
‘February the fourteenth. A very significant day,’ she giggled and put a lace-gloved hand to her mouth.
‘I never knew that was my birthday, ma’am,’ Edgy said.
Best to humour her
.
‘And what do you do for a living, Edgy?’ She beamed down at him, twirling the handle of her umbrella in her hand.
‘I’m a prime collector, ma’am,’ Edgy muttered. He could feel his cheeks burning as she stared at him. Into him.
‘A prime collector?’ She raised her eyebrows again.
‘I collect dog sh— droppings, ma’am.’ Even over the stink of the sludge Edgy knelt in, her perfume caressed his face. ‘I sell it to the tanners, ma’am. They use it to cure the hides into leather. They mix it in a big vat, stick the animal skins in it . . .’
She raised a delicate hand. ‘You collect dog droppings?’ A solitary wrinkle furrowed her perfect forehead. ‘This world gets more hellish every day.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Edgy’s eyes scanned the cobblestones.
‘Riddle me this, Edgy Taylor,’ said the lady, bringing her face close to his. The scent of violets and rose water made his head swim. ‘What goes up a mountain and down a mountain but never moves?’
‘Sorry?’ He frowned, shaking his head.
‘It’s a riddle, silly. What goes up a mountain and down a mountain but never moves?’
‘A riddle?’ Edgy knew what it was and he knew the answer. He just hadn’t expected some toff to riddle him while he held a dead body in his arms. Talon delighted in beating the answers to riddles into him. ‘A path. A path goes up and down a mountain but never moves!’ A glow of guilty pride warmed him in spite of the cold and the dead boy. At least he was good at something.
‘Very good,’ the lady nodded, beaming. ‘And what is it that everyone is born with, some die with, but most die without?’
‘This is stupid,’ Edgy spat and shuffled into a squat.
‘Come on, come on.’ She clicked her dainty fingers. ‘What is it that everyone is born with, some die with, but most die without?’ The lady straightened up, waiting for the answer. Her eyes grew wide and she flashed a row of straight, white teeth.
‘I dunno, ma’am.’ He couldn’t think, what with the cold and the strangeness of the situation. ‘A nose?’
‘You’re going to have to do better than that.’ Her voice became flat, disappointment pulled at the corners of her mouth. ‘And remember, it’s dangerous to give your name out to any old stranger, Edgy Taylor. You’re mine now by rights but I’ll let you run free for a while longer. It won’t be long now. See if you can find out the answer. Good day.’