Willing (14 page)

She let out a startled yelp as the bedroom door swung shut.

Chapter Ten

“I can’t make out these words, here.”

Alisdair crossed the library to stand at her shoulder, glancing down at the ancient handwritten page. He ran his fingertips across the paper, running them just under a string of words, scribbled with flourish into the borders of the page.

“Amor Vincit Omnia,” Alisdair said, and smiled at her.

“Yes, that helps entirely. Thank you.”

She’d been sitting at that table for weeks, craned over a number of seemingly ancient books, scribbling into her notebook whatever notes and details she found useful – writing wishes on bay leaves and burning them, two pence left under a full moon and carried in the pocket will attract money – all sorts of nonsense. Yet, the more intense reading was where her patience wore thin, because these sections were when Alisdair truly engaged her reading, leaning over her, letting her feel his warmth, his breath, smelling his pomade - all the senses piqued in his presence, all while forbidden to touch him – or herself for that matter. She was growing anxious for the full moon, the night when she would finally be allowed to perhaps touch this man she’d grown so fond of, and perhaps be touched by him. Given her frustrations, she felt Alisdair could excuse a bit of sarcasm.

“It’s Latin. It means ‘Love Conquers All.’”

Constance glared down at the page, her brows raised. She was reading the finer details of why and how a willing human altar is used in certain more powerful rites. It seemed rather strange to toss such a sentiment into the margins of such serious subject matter.

“Strangely romantic, isn’t it?”

Alisdair shook his head. “Not at all. Here, look.”

He leaned over her, flipping two pages forward to an image Constance quickly covered with her hand. The first sketch showed a robed figure holding a blade over a naked form on the altar. The second showed the same robed figure plunging the blade into the chest of the naked figure. She gasped at the sight, surging back from the table, shocked and disheartened to see such a thing in a book Alisdair poured over so ravenously.

“No, no. Constance, don’t be upset. Read what she writes.”

Constance glared up at him, darting her eyes toward the pages. She swallowed, trying desperately to ignore the tightness in her chest at the sight. She found the words above the image and began to read:

Images found in the Tomes of the Hellfire Circle. The Hellfire Witches taketh the life force of their altars, stealing from the unwilling. They believe this to be the most powerful method for summoning the darker of the Gods. Yet, we know these acts are an affront to all Gods. No altar should be stained with unwilling blood. Even with the darkest of deities, an altar that is willing is far more powerful.

Alisdair met her gaze, checking to see that she was done reading, then turned back to the page with the doodle – Amor Vincit Omnia.

“See? Even monsters are better won with honey.”

Constance retraced the words on the page, feeling the smooth paper beneath her fingers. The strange buzzing beneath her skin, the tell-tale sign of the ritual’s effect had faded just as Alisdair said. She’d kept it from him, that strange power, the ability to move the world by will alone. She’d seen things move, seen wary glances in response to her, but it had faded quickly, leaving her with only the longing and memory of that thrill, humming just under her skin. “This Hellfire Circle – they killed people?”

“They did, certainly. The Hellfire Club, they called themselves. From what I gather they sacrificed many things, human and animal alike.”

She stared down at the pages of her book. These words, written in the gentle flourish of a woman’s hand, were written over a hundred years before she was born – written by an herbalist, midwife, and healer who would later be burned as a witch.

“Did they ever succeed?”

“I don’t know. I imagine not, given they are not with us to profess to their success.”

Constance turned up to him. “Is that a part of it? Living forever?”

“Some say yes. And much more from what I’ve read. Still, no one knows for certain what the gift will bring.”

He winked at her, but she ignored the jovial gesture in reference to blood sacrifice. The subject didn’t make her feel jovial.

“You’ve all put so much into these rituals and you don’t even know the outcome?”

He gave a half laugh. “When you put it like that-”

“What if it does something awful? What if – what if by summoning some God into your heart, you cease to be you?”

Alisdair raised a brow, pensive. “This is a rather deep thought, love. I had considered that in a way – here.”

With that Alisdair dragged a rather large book over for her to read, skimming through pages until he found what he was looking for.

The gifts of the Golden Rite offer great blessings to the Septon – reward from his chosen God. These gifts cannot be measured, for each to receive will gain as only they would seek.

Constance stared at the words. “Bolderdash.”

Alisdair laughed aloud, rubbing her arm as he did.

“This is vague, poetic drivel. It means nothing.”

“Ah, it means something. People like myself have been performing this rite for thousands of years.”

“And we’ve still no proof that it worked.”

He shrugged. “There are some that say Moses performed it, once upon a time. Charlemagne, Alexander the Great -”

“- Alisdair Newington.”

He smiled. “Precisely.”

Constance turned her attention back to the woman’s gentle handwriting, retracing the Latin words. “If she is right and willing altars are more powerful, why would they have chosen to do such dark things?”

“In the end, I suppose it depends on which deity you aim to summon, perhaps. In the case of the Hellfire Club, they sought the presence of the Devil.”

Constance cringed at this thought.

“- and in their minds, summoning a dark thing like that required an act of darkness. I don’t rightly know.” He sat down beside her. “Perhaps, they simply didn’t have their hands on the right book -”

“M’Lord? You have a visitor, sir.”

They both turned to find Thomas standing in the doorway, his head bowed. Alisdair nodded to Thomas, who quickly turned and headed back out.

Alisdair stood, flipping a few pages back again. “Here, I’d like for you to take a look at this section while I attend to some business. I will return when all is sorted. Your tea will be served in the Conservatory whenever you are hungry.”

With that, he rose to his feet, ran a hand over her hair, smoothing it with an affectionate caress, and disappeared down the hall, leaving her to silence and the smell of ancient books.

The passages he’d directed her to gave further detail as to the nature of his practices – of the willing altar. Constance struggled with some of the handwriting, but she made it out nonetheless.

She jotted down her notes, summarizing to the best of her ability –

The altar must be willing, must openly give of themselves, otherwise the rite will not work. The altar must be in a state of joy, for best results – ecstasy will give the greatest impact. Chastity is ideal for both altar and performer outside ritual. Refrain from physical contact and release before performing rite. The longer the altar is untouched, the more powerful the energy they offer.

Jesus Alisdair, how long are you going to keep me celibate before we get this right? She thought.

Transfer between altar and Septon is key – the act of blood and fluid transfer may amplify the rite. They must be wholly open to one another, and give of themselves to only one another. As in many rites, the tie between altar and Septon will either make or destroy the magic done in the circle.

Constance read on, tapping her finger to another short string of words –
both must give of themselves to receive
.

Her brow furrowed. Still, she read on, scratching careful notes whenever the urge arose.

The altar’s emotional connection to the rite and its performer will empower this rite.

She took a deep breath and chuckled. Well, he’d certainly done himself a favor keeping her under his own roof.

Constance had woken to the bright glow of the white parlor and the song of birds in the garden outside for almost a month now. She woke some mornings to the bells of her maids, Heidi and Theresa, and other mornings she woke to Alisdair himself, coming to invite her to join him for breakfast. They spent afternoons in the library, took walks in the garden, read together by the fire in the evenings after taking tea together. She’d learned his middle name – Alfred; his greatest fears – small enclosed spaces and large moths, though he claimed he was recovering from the latter; then of his beloved mother, who passed when he was little more than fourteen years old.

Finally, she learned of his childhood spent playing in the alleys of London with Thomas, the man she’d come to know as his footman. He wasn’t the only member of the staff that Alisdair knew as a boy, Heidi having beamed when he confessed to pulling her braids when they were young. He kept them as members of his staff in order to share his wealth. The servant’s quarters were no more meant for servants than for the Queens of Sheba, each of them settling into rooms at night as well kept and comfortable as her own White Parlor. Still, they worked with the same stern air of any other servant in any other house, a sign she realized more of loyalty than of job security.

Living in Alisdair’s estate felt like a dream; waited on by servants, curling up in silk and satin to nap, given an entire new wardrobe, fitted by dressmakers brought in from London. Still, the greatest joy it brought her was to see Alisdair’s face every day. She wanted nothing more than to sabotage these rites of his so she could keep him to herself, so that he might make her stay another month, and then another, always searching for the exact parameters to make these magical rites work. Still, at the rate she was going, he could ask anything of her and she would give it, whether she meant to or not. She hemorrhaged affection when he was near, and only slightly less when he was not.

Constance poured over the book a few more moments, unable to make sense of the words as the memories of their last rite flooded to her mind - of his weight over her, of the way he moved, the way he looked at her. The full moon was just a few days away.

She was looking forward to it more than she wanted him to know.

Constance shifted in her seat, pushing the green satin of her new dress up under her knees, trying to enliven her sleeping limbs. The chair wasn’t built for someone with legs as long as hers, and they were beginning to tingle uncomfortably. This and her backside had fallen asleep.

Constance slumped back, taking in the piles of books now strewn across the library table – tomes of Latin studies, Arabic, French, all manner of herbal and medicinal guides. Still, the most important book lay before her, written in hand, and cherished above all others. Constance stood from the table, took the beautiful leather bound book up, and tucked it back into the bookshelf, taking a moment to stare out at the garden, still bright and beautiful even in the dreary gray afternoon.

Constance slipped down the hall and passed the doors to the grand ballroom, feeling an almost helpless tinge between her legs just at the sight of the doors. She moved past the first of the kitchen doors toward the bright conservatory, casting light into the house and inviting her in. She glanced into the kitchen as she passed, smiling and waving at Heidi and Margaret, the household cook and head of the kitchen. They startled at the sight of her, moving swiftly to crumple and shove a large stretch of paper behind their backs before smiling back and offering their hellos.

“Good afternoon, M’lady. Will you be dining now, then?” Margaret asked.

Constance stepped into the kitchen, watching their strange demeanor as she moved closer. “I would if I might, Margaret. What do you girls have there?”

“Oh, nothing, M’lady! Here, come. I’ll show you to your seat.”

Constance shot Heidi a playful glare. “I know where I sit, woman. What are you hiding?”

Despite Constance’s jovial tone, Heidi’s face betrayed no joy. Constance approached her quickly, reaching behind Heidi’s back before she could protest. She snatched the paper from her hands, yanking it into view. Heidi was so desperate to keep it from her, the paper ripped down the middle, leaving them both with mere pieces of a recent copy of The Star newspaper. Constance glanced down at the images on the page and felt her stomach tighten again, much like it had from the sacrificial sketches in Alisdair’s book. Constance swallowed, letting her eyes focus.

The Pinchon Street murder, it read.

On 10
th
Sept. ’89 the naked body, with arms, of a woman was found wrapped in some sacking under a railway arch in Pinchon St; the head and legs have not yet been found. 

Constance read on to find the Police were searching local neighborhoods for any witnesses, comparing it to
The Whitechapel Mystery
. Constance saw those words and her stomach turned. She felt the cold terror of each passing day all those months that The Ripper graced the front page of every paper. She’d been tucked away in the perfect little world, an estate filled with laughter and warmth – and Alisdair. Yet, here she found herself staring into the memory of those long nights spent fearing that the next client would be the one to take her into an alley and slit her throat.