Malum

By Stacy Bender

A dark, forgotten demon is freed to stride the city streets once more, taking lives as it burns through one body after another. Josephine Chattoway, recently sold into marriage by an absent father, is escorted by her bohemian Aunt Sylvia to meet her erstwhile suitor. Along the way, she discovers the visions which have made her doubt her sanity for so long are real. They are also the key to unlocking powerful ancient protectors which will stand between a demon and countless innocent victims.

With a plucky batch of gargoyles and a not-quite mad scientist, Josephine and Sylvia must fight for a city that doesn't even realize its plight, knowing that if the demon finds Josephine, hell will reign on earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Byrnas Books
• Release date: Apr 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781540140807

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The tightness of her corset did not allow Josephine Chattoway to take deep breaths. She chided herself for the umpteenth time to control her breathing, or she would swoon.

Would you prefer some tea, madam?

Startled by the white gloved steward, but not wishing to meet his gaze, Josephine focused on his starched lapels. Embroidered in gold thread, the emblem of the train on which she and her aunt rode chilled her for a reason she could not explain. The scent of smoke permeated her nostrils, and an echoed screech of metal on metal filled her ears. She knew from experience that it was her mind playing tricks on her. No one in the car was in any way disturbed.

Yes please, and thank you.

The steward nodded, smiled, and moved down the center aisle of the dining car to retrieve their requested items.

You’ve made quite an impression on that poor man. Sylvia Crale’s quick smile and twinkling eyes seemed alien on the face that mirrored Josephine’s mother’s. Josephine knew the two were identical twins, but beyond their physical images, the sisters were nothing alike.

I’m sorry. Josephine’s response was as quick as it was automatic and caused her aunt to frown.

I wish you would stop apologizing for silly things. It’s getting a bit wearing. Besides, there is nothing to be sorry for. If anyone should feel sorry it’s that selfish prat that claims to be your father.

Josephine stared agog at her aunt, and not for the first time. One of the most unladylike things a woman could do was swear, but Sylvia carried it off as if it were nothing. No one ever corrected her.

I know I shouldn’t talk about your father like that in front of you, but the thought of that man makes me so angry. Dorothy could have done so much better. I told her more than once not to marry him, but she insisted he was a good catch. Sylvia pulled and twisted her napkin as she spoke. And what did it get her? Penniless and dead before her time. Her inheritance should have gone to you, my dear, not spent on drink, or gambled away by someone who was supposed to take care of you.

I had a roof over my head, and I was never hungry.

Barely. The man treated you like a char maid. Good Lord, child. The first time I saw you, you were covered in soot.

Josephine looked down at her gloved hands. It had taken endless scrubbing, but she still could not get the dirt out from underneath her nails.

I would like to think that this arrangement with Mr. Whittlock is the one decent thing your father has ever done, but I can’t bring myself to believe it. Sylvia paused long enough in her rant for the steward to place the sandwiches on the table, pour their tea, and move to another table. I have no intention of handing you over to Mr. Whittlock, or his son, until I am positive you’ll be correctly cared for.

But Father said—

I don’t care what your father said. If he’s smart, he’s already left the country. I doubt if he bothered to pay his debts. A dowry is supposed to be settled by the father of the bride, not the father of the groom. And it’s certainly not supposed to end up in your father’s pocket.

Josephine stared at the triangle cut bread in front of her, coated with shrimp paste. The dark blue and gold trim of the plate stood out on the starched white linen of the table cloth. The elegance of the dining car astounded her. Father said Mr. Whittlock was a very respectable man.

Mr. Whittlock is a very wealthy man, and you’re how old? Eighteen? Twenty?

I’ll be twenty-three in May.

Most people would call you an old maid. If your father thought of anyone but himself, he would have presented you to society years ago. You should be married with several children by now.

The pointed comment embarrassed Josephine. It was not her fault she had no suiters, yet she never considered the responsibility lay with her father. The only men that ever came to the house were her father’s friends, and to her relief, they took no notice of her. Josephine’s eyes slid from her plate to the couple across the dining carriage and several tables down. The woman was young and pretty, but the man who sat across from her was at least twice her age. Thankfully, Josephine could no longer see the image of a crying and desperate child superimposed over the physical form of the young, unsmiling woman. Instances such as this had increased as of late, but more so since being handed over into her aunt’s care. Her ability to hide her reactions to the sudden and unwanted appearances was becoming strained.

No, she is not his daughter. She is his wife.

Sylvia’s words snapped Josephine’s attention back to her aunt. Do you think she is happy? asked Josephine, though she already knew the answer.

I doubt it. Old men seeking to reclaim their youth, rarely consider the feelings of the child brides they demand. She probably had dreams of marrying a young and handsome adventurer. I don’t think she ever considered being handed over to someone old and decrepit. If she’s lucky, he’s childless and will die soon.

Josephine could not help but flinch at Sylvia’s harsh words. Why say something so mean?

Because if he has children by a previous marriage, all his money will go to the eldest male heir. And it’s very likely that son will toss her out on her ear the first chance he gets. If no provisions are made for her before the old goat kicks off, she’ll be walking the streets.

Strange images flooded Josephine’s consciousness. Dark figures, filthy streets, stale beer, and something else she could not identify. She felt her heart constrict and tears flood her eyes.

Sylvia grabbed hold of her hand across the linen covered table and hissed, Breathe. Breathe, Josephine. This is not the time to faint. The smelling salts are in our sleeping cabin.

She took several quick breaths. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. The stays are so tight.

You’ll have to get used to a corset, my dear, as you will have to get used to a great many things.

I want to go home. Josephine did not mean to say the words aloud.

Sylvia’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, and she clasped Josephine’s hand tight. I wish you had a home to go back to, my dear, but life, for you, has not been so kind.

Josephine pressed the corner of her napkin to her eyes in an attempt to get herself under control. When she looked up, it was into her aunt’s worried face, but also into the misty image that encircled her. Many masks hung in the air surrounding the ever-smiling imp, while nimble fingers juggled several coins. With a blink, the image disappeared and Sylvia’s worried eyes turned to questions.

Desperate to hide her madness, Josephine blurted, You’re so different from Mama.

The flicker of a sad smile crossed Sylvia’s face. Like night and day. Or perhaps, oil and water is a more appropriate description. Dorothy married for position. I married for love. She was so afraid of being poor. If only she had followed her heart and not listened to her fears. If only she had let me help.

Sylvia let go of Josephine’s hand and gazed out the dining car window at the scenery speeding by. Your mother. She was angry with you, wasn’t she?

Yes.

Do you know why?

I couldn’t do anything right.

She frowned and looked at Josephine. Oh, I doubt that. I’m quite sure you did many things right, my dear. No, I think it was much more than that. Jealousy is a powerful, infectious force. Once it takes hold, it’s almost impossible to root out.

Why would Mama be jealous of me?

The hint of a smile flashed once again across Sylvia’s face before she spoke. I don’t know. She was always jealous of me, growing up. No matter how much she denied it, everyone knew. Even our mother. And you look so much like her. Our mother, your grandmother, that is. She paused and sighed. Sylvia snatched up one of the tiny sandwiches on her plate, and nibbled delicately on the corner. I hope Harold eats while I’m away. He forgets to eat when I’m not there to remind him.

Uncle Harold?

Yes. Who else?

Josephine picked up her own sandwich and attempted to copy her aunt. What’s he like? Would he ever... Not knowing how to phrase such an indecent question, she glanced at the couple they had previously talked about.

What? Leave me destitute? Heaven forbid. Harold would face death itself in an attempt to grant my every whim. He’s such a dear, and I do have to be careful about what I say in front of him. Just because I say I like something doesn’t mean I want it. He once bought me a beautiful white horse because I liked it. Very impractical, we had no place to stable it. We always hire a carriage when we need one. Luckily, Regan was able to use it. With being a barrister, he’s done quite well for himself. Sylvia must have noted Josephine’s look of confusion and added. Your cousin, my eldest son. Regan is a barrister. And a very good one. I know Dorothy and I broke ties with each other well before you were born, but that is no excuse for not informing you about your family. Mother, God rest her soul, would be appalled.

Mama has been gone a long time.

Sylvia scrunched her nose in a very unladylike fashion. Yet another thing I have against your father. Not informing us of her death. Let alone telling anyone about her illness. And you, such a young thing at the time.

Annabelle looked after me.

Thank God for the cook. And doubly so. How that woman put up with your father all those years I’ll never know. If there was ever a candidate for sainthood, she’s it. I would have poisoned the bastard.

Sylvia’s outburst drew several shocked looks from passengers within earshot. When they met her steely gaze, each person resumed their own discussions.

Josephine clutched her teacup so hard she thought the thin porcelain would shatter beneath her fingertips. She dreaded the thought of being asked to leave the train and wondered if the conductor would wait until the next stop or leave them and the trunks they boarded with in the middle of nowhere. Only when the steward returned to their table and asked if they wanted any more tea, did she relax her tense muscles.

Neither woman mentioned Josephine’s father for the remainder of the meal. After the steward cleared away the dishes, Sylvia withdrew a deck of cards from her purse. She set the small silk bag on the corner of the table out of the way.

Have you ever played bridge?

Mama wouldn’t allow cards in the house.

Noting the surprised look on her aunt’s countenance Josephine explained. Mama said they were evil. Father kept his locked in his desk drawer in the study, so she couldn’t find them and burn them.

That seems a little excessive. But then of course, your father did gamble.

She didn’t care if he touched them. Just me. Josephine winced at the memory of finding her father’s cards and the fun she had playing with them. The cards seemed gigantic in her tiny hands. The painted colors and shapes fascinated her. Josephine’s fun ended with her mother’s shrill screams and the sharp sting of the willow switch. No amount of pleading would stay her mother’s hand or tears erase the look of intense hatred upon the woman’s countenance.

I see. Sylvia’s eyes narrowed as she gazed across the small table at Josephine. Playing cards are not evil, my dear. It’s what you do with them that makes a difference. As she talked, Sylvia shuffled the cards. With exaggerated slowness, she placed two rows of five cards each face down on the table. The cards are numbered from one to thirteen. The one is called an ace. Eleven, twelve, and thirteen are Jack, queen, and king. There are four sets of these. Diamond, heart, spade, and club. Where are all four aces?

Josephine could not help glancing at her aunt’s purse. She knew the aces remained there just as she knew the number and suit of each card on the table. How could I know where they are? I should think most, if not all, are still in the deck.

Not taking her eyes off Josephine, and again with exaggerated slowness, her aunt touched each card announcing the number and suit before turning them over. The rest of the cards in her hand, she flipped over and spread along the table. There were no aces to be found. When Josephine refused to say a word, Sylvia filled in the silence.

Your grandmother could do the same thing. She never played a card game because she always knew everyone’s hand. Sometimes she knew things before they happened. Dorothy couldn’t do any of that. She couldn’t even get a simple shell game right. Your mother wasn’t like us, and she hated that. Sylvia picked up the cards and pulled the four aces out of her purse. There is no shame in an ability, though some can be quite difficult to live with. Sylvia seemed to focus on the cards as she shuffled and laid them out again. Josephine watched as three times her aunt repeated her actions without a word before gathering up the cards and placing them back into her purse. The remainder of the time Sylvia stared out the window, with a frown on her beautiful face, and watched as the scenery sped by.

CHAPTER 2

The sound of shattering glass echoed in the darkness. A calloused hand reached in through the break and unlocked the window allowing the two men to slip through and into the mansion.

Where’s the light?

Hold your horses.

We need light.

The striking of the match sizzled in the silence. The shorter of the two men lit the shuttered lamp and blew out the match. What we looking for anyway?

The gold.

With a shake of his head the little man lifted the lantern. You’re drunk, Mason. They cleaned this place out before they started tearing it down. Brooks would have found it by now if the lawyers haven’t already.

That gibface kike didn’t find it. He couldn’t find it.

You’re just pissed he fired you.

Mason raised the iron bar he carried and smashed it into the plastered wall near the other man’s head. He had no right.

The other man glared at Mason. You screwed up Mason. You busted up one of those stone statues.

It was just a damn rock, and an ugly one at that. What did he want with the thing?

I don’t know. He can try and build a boat and fly to the moon for all I care. Now stop trying to scare me, and get on with whatever you want to do.

Mason pulled the bar out of the wall and held it in front of him for a moment. He ground his teeth and balled his other fist. Sunburnt skin flaked off his bulbous nose riddled with broken veins. Dried sweat stains soaked his filthy shirt.

The shorter man glared at Mason as if daring him to strike.

Mason grumbled and stormed off down the hall. Come on, proddy.

The shorter man scowled. I’m no proddy, you jackass.

He followed the larger man and laughed when Mason stumbled over a pile of rubbish in the darkness.

Stop laughing and help me find the treasure.

And where do you suggest we look? The upper floors are all torn up. If there were any secret passages, they aren’t up there. Not anymore.

Then we’ll go down.

You planning on using the stairs, or jumping through that hole in the floor?

Mason stared bleary-eyed at the smaller man. Eventually he moved, and his eyes followed to where the man pointed. An area on the floor was darker than everything around it. Three more steps and Mason would have fallen through the rotting floorboards.

We’re taking the stairs.

They navigated the darkness and found a set of stairs. A broken lock and twisted hinges were the only thing that remained of the door that closed off the entrance. The winding narrow stairway led down into an inky blackness. The steps down to the cellar creaked and groaned in protest as the two men descended. Oil lanterns hung from nails pounded into the joists overhead.

Give me a hand lighting these things.

You do it. Or are you too short to reach?

The little man found a crate and pulled it over beneath one of the lanterns. Fine. Go ahead and fall in another rubbish pile. Maybe you’ll find some rat shit. It’ll certainly make you smell better. While he lit the lantern, Mason stumbled along the floor.

The odor of rot and mold clogged the damp air. Pieces of old, crumbling furniture, bolts of molding cloth, and empty trunks were piled along the walls like the trash they had become.

They say this place is haunted, said the short man after he lit the lamp. He climbed off the crate and dragged it over to the next lamp.

It ain’t haunted. It’s just rotted from the inside out. Mason’s words echoed loud in the darkness.

The little man looked around at the receding shadows. I don’t know about that. There’s some strange things down here. Last week, Brooks sent a crew of darkies down here to clear it out. They all came running back up like the devil himself was chasing them. Brooks tried to get them to go back down, but they said they’d sooner quit.

Rats. Just rats. Didn’t think niggers were afraid of rats.

The short man blew out another match and scowled at Mason. "Rats are just rats. But there are no rats here. Or so they said. It’s like something scared them away. The old spinster who lived here supposedly killed