These Kind of Knaves

By George Elmer

If there's one thing Henry Báthory wants, it's to be extraordinary. And when he acquires a book on magic, summoning a demon to give him magical powers seems to be the best way to leave behind a legacy.

 

All he has to do is complete one task.

• Language: English
• Publisher: George Elmer
• Release date: Mar 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781034632184

George Elmer

GEORGE ELMER is an author of dark gothic fantasy, writing for morally ambiguous people searching for worlds with a little magic and bloodshed. Children’s fairy-tale happy endings didn’t quench her insatiable desire for horror, so she set out to write stories without happily ever afters. She combines her various morbid interests to create intricate and plausible worlds. George’s ambition is to buy a château with the profits of her books and run writer’s retreats out of the grounds to help other writers to write their next best novels. Find her online home at GeorgeElmer.co.uk, or on Instagram (@georgethecreative).

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Also by George Elmer

PRECIOUS VILE THINGS

(free eBook available)

First published in 2021

Copyright © 2021 George Elmer

Visit the author’s website at www.GeorgeElmer.co.uk

Cover photograph by CeeMon

Design and formatting by George Elmer

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For those who dream of bigger things.

Men at some time are masters of their fates:

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

- William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act 1 scene ii

Chapter 1

​ The cemetery of Avonditch was shrouded in mist as the long and limping figure of Henry Báthory made its way up towards a specific tree in the far corner.

Not that Henry disliked the company of his fellow humans, far from it in fact, but at ten past six in the morning, he knew it was the perfect time to visit his mother’s grave without the rest of the small town pitching in their two pence on what kind of woman Coraline had been in life.

It also helped that winter had come, if the number of clothes he wished he’d worn was any indication. No-one else was as stupid as him to have left their warm beds, to be sneaking around through frosted grass and watching their breath in the morning mist.

​Coraline Delacroix Báthory’s grave was as far from the rest of the family’s as possible. Her brother, Julien, had made sure of that when he’d organised the cheapest funeral possible for his younger sister ten years ago. He’d even told the fifteen-year-old Henry that it was either Coraline’s stupidity or that brute of her husband that had killed her.

​Henry, facing the twin graves of his mother and baby sister, and with screeching car brakes ringing in his ears, said, Hello again, mum.

​"Bonjour, mon garçon," said Coraline Delacroix Báthory. She appeared before him as she had when the emergency crew had pulled Henry from the wreck. Tacky blood glued her wispy blonde hair to the side of her head, and not even her crushed ribcage or the missing section of her skull could dim the smile she gave him. The only thing differentiating her from then was her translucence, and only Henry could see her.

​There’s something I have to say, Henry said, staring at the bare branches of the oak tree just behind Coraline’s missing right ear.

​"Oh, mon bébé. Coraline reached for him, but passed through his arm in a cold sweep. But there is something I must tell you, if only they would let me speak of it."

​Who? Henry thought the afterlife was rather like Julien’s preaching on the subject. Fluffy white clouds and peaceful, singing cherubs. Who won’t let you speak?

​Coraline choked on her words, faded but still glistening blood trickling from her mouth and the corners of her eyes. "Something is coming, Henri. Something big and dark and terrifying is coming. Something is-"

​She opened her mouth and screamed.

​What few birds roosted in the trees shot up into the air in a flurry of falling feathers and snapped branches. The reverberated echo rattled around in Henry’s head as Coraline kept up the pitch and volume of an irate banshee.

​His ears rung, even after Coraline brought herself under control and tried to fuss over him.

​That, Henry gasped at what he thought was a suitable speaking level, sounds rather ominous.

​Coraline nodded. I cannot speak of it, but is not what I wished to say. Even that is a secret I must keep.

​Then don’t say it, Henry said. Don’t tell me if you can’t even get the fucking words out.

​Coraline’s mouth twitched at the language. But I must. Her hands shook as she held them out above Henry’s shoulders. I have kept my peace for twenty-five years, you deserve to know the truth.

​She opened her mouth, but her entire body went rigid and her eyes rolled back. Her jaw appeared to dislocate in a silent scream.

​Henry stumbled back, landing in a patch of icy grass which trickled down his neck and soaked his favourite trench coat. The leg that had never healed right took the brunt of his fall. And it didn’t help at all when Coraline turned her head in a stiff, jerky motion and stared at him with dull, empty eyes.

​That leg wouldn’t help him run.

​It never had.

​When Coraline spoke, it was without her usual honeyed cadence. A deep, rumbling voice came out of her mouth while she stepped towards him with feet inches from the ground. He will come. The one to break the veil will come.

​Henry’s leg decided now was a good time to seize up in protest at the thought of running. Or perhaps the cold had just seeped through his jeans.

​He pulled himself up, heart racing as he gaped at the shade of the woman who had consoled him even ten years after her death. That voice didn’t belong to Coraline Delacroix Báthory, and it wasn’t Coraline Delacroix Báthory who screamed like a banshee again.

​Henry turned on his heel and fled as fast as a leg which didn’t want to bend would allow. His mother’s words still rung in his ears, audible even when contending with the screams.

​Something big and dark and terrifying was coming.

ONCE HE’D FRESHENED up and changed into clothes not soaked with frozen dew, Henry checked the time. He was pushing it if he wanted to be on time for his weekly catch up with his oldest friend.

​With the clock telling him it was almost nine twenty, Henry left for one of the small coffee shops littering the high street.

​The Better Ground Café stood between a hairstylist’s and newsagent’s, with three sets of patio chairs with matching tables scattered around the shop’s entrance. From the outside, at first glance, you might assume the café had been there for a while, what with the faded blue paint, but the sign swinging in the breeze had a freshly painted coffee bean and a fancy white script displaying the shop’s name. And the interior still smelt of paint, underneath the compost-smell of freshly ground coffee.

​Amongst the scant few customers sitting in twos and threes in the booths and around the tables, sat a lone, slender woman with too long limbs and light brown hair left hanging over her shoulders, dressed in a beige blouse and formal black trousers. Anthea did nothing by halves, her slender hands wrapped around what was no doubt a soy cappuccino, as she stared out of the window in a pose which suggested she was richer than you.

​Anthea Fontana lived in a small flat over a pub, and yet she still made Henry’s insides wither and die with inadequacy in his long coat and scuffed boots.

​Henry, she said, as she handed him a five-pound note. Here, your coffee’s on me. You have a plain black coffee, right? You grab that so we can get right to the talking.

​Henry took the money and ordered his plain black coffee in the largest size from the bored and rather sarcastic barista manning the tills.

​Once he’d settled into the sticky vinyl bench in Anthea’s window booth, Anthea steepled her fingers and levelled her gaze right into Henry’s soul.

​I was thinking. She sipped her coffee without getting any of her lip gloss on the rim of the mug. We need to leave this town and start a new life elsewhere.

​Henry almost choked on his own coffee. With what money? Julien’s not exactly forthcoming with my parents’ life insurance money, and there are not a lot of jobs available for someone with no experience from no previous jobs. He paused. Unless you have some little nest egg squirrelled away somewhere you haven’t told me about, we can’t just up and leave.

​Something flashed across Anthea’s face before Henry could fully identify it.

​I might have made a few investments, she said. I thought we could share a place in the city somewhere. Leave the small-town life behind us.

​Henry remembered his drunken father screaming at his mother over the state of employment, even in a too-small flat in a run-down part of Newham. Maybe we could do some research first? he asked. Find out where the best value for money is, that sort of thing. Some places aren’t worth it, no matter how cheap the rent or how nice the landlord seems.

​Anthea nodded, her eyes narrowed in contemplation. It’s something to think about before we make any big decisions. We’re not the sort of people to do well cooped up in one place, are we? But you’ve got me and Ollie, now, and we’re here if you have any other thoughts on the matter, no matter how silly they seem.

​I won’t be able to afford the rent, though, Henry said. Your investment would pay for it until we both get jobs. You won’t be able to keep a pretty flat for long, the logistics just aren’t that good.

​Just think about it, she said. Please, think it over. You’re losing your spirit the more you stay drowning in your sorrow here. A fresh start would be worth the sacrifice of designer clothes or branded food. Consider every option before you turn it down, it could be a miracle in disguise.

​Henry laughed. Miracles always happen to other people.

​Anthea pursed her lips. Perhaps. But they also happen to those who need them the most.

​Henry didn’t reply, he already knew what she would say next. She’d been saying it for the last seven years.

​Like, Anthea said, the miracle of you drinking more water and less alcohol.

​Henry rolled his eyes. That’s not possible. He wished the coffee had a bit more kick to it so he could get through the conversation with his sanity intact. I drink enough water to stave off any headaches.

​Just last week, Anthea daintily held her mug in one hand, you came bursting into my flat because you thought Julien was trying to kill you. Your breath stank of whiskey, and you slept for twelve hours. At what point will you accept that your liver is more pickled than a pickled egg?

​My liver, Henry said, is fine. Thanks for asking, I have registered your concern and will now file it for consideration.

​Are you, though? Anthea forewent politeness and took a large swig of her coffee. Henry wondered if she’d put whiskey in it. Are you fine? You haven’t consumed this much alcohol since our last year at uni.

​That, Henry downed the rest of his coffee, was because Matthew Green sabotaged my coursework. Just because I chose to write about the role of magic and ritual in Ancient Rome before he could, it didn’t mean he could spill Pepsi all over it. I had to reprint all fifty pages. Fifty pages, and I only just met the submission deadline!

​I handed mine in a week before the deadline, she smirked. Not fifty seconds before it.

​Some of us, Henry said with feigned dignity, had other responsibilities while we learnt, and therefore couldn’t spend all our time in the library completing assignments.

​Binge drinking doesn’t count.

​I don’t binge drink. I could stop if I wanted to. Then, at Anthea’s raised eyebrow, he added, I just don’t want to stop. Life is shit. Let me pickle my liver to death in peace.

​Anthea set her mug down by her elbow. She placed her hands over Henry’s. They were warm and sent tingles up his arm.

​Are you safe? she asked. If you need a space to get your head on straight, or even just to sleep, I have a couch with your name on it.

​But that would mean that he would owe her, and Henry didn’t want to owe anyone anything. He had some pride, even after that time Anthea caught him struggling to pull his trousers up after taking a shit in the middle of the night. He owed her far too much already.

​And there definitely needed to be a shift in the conversation, or Henry might do something he’d regret. Other than running away from small towns and alcohol consumption, he ignored Anthea’s unimpressed face at his tactlessness in changing the subject, is there anything else we have to discuss in this meeting? Do we need to make agendas and minutes while we synchronise our watches?

​Henry. It was impressive, for someone who disliked children, how much Anthea sounded like a mother.

​Are we going to have an object to hold so we know who’s allowed to talk at what time? Would Oliver let us use his hat? Henry grinned. Is Oliver the secretary? He’s good at keeping secrets, mostly, unless they’re embarrassing. Is he our official secret keeper?

​Anthea’s hand, still wrapped around his, gave his wrist a painful squeeze. How much, she said in a low and dangerous voice, have you had to drink this morning?

​Henry blinked at her. In my defence, it was rather cold in the cemetery.

​It’s almost winter, and you own three scarves. Could you not have taken one of those with you?

​Such blows to his pride, Henry knew, were less painful than Anthea’s Angry Teacher Face.

​I tripped over a rock. It was mostly true. The scarf got wet.

​And what’s wrong with a hot drink and warm clothes? Those are better for your health.

​Would she mourn for him, if Henry told her he didn’t expect to live beyond his thirtieth birthday? Horror movies always suggested that people who saw ghosts and had issues never lasted long in the world. People always killed them off for real.

​This discussion, she sighed, is not over. We are having a long and painful conversation about what makes up healthy coping mechanisms. We’ll start with talking therapy and go from there.

​Henry could feel his sanity start to slip away from him.

​Ew, talking about feelings.

​Was it time for him to change the conversation again?

​How’s Beryl?

​Beryl was the black adder Henry had found a few years ago and decided he was keeping. Beryl also stayed with Anthea, Henry thought Julien would take offence to a venomous snake if he found it living in his house.

​As it was, Beryl was rather glad to see him when Henry arrived at Anthea’s flat and lifted her out of the terrarium in Anthea’s kitchen to feed her dead mice.

​Anthea’s kitchen, like the rest of her flat, appeared as if someone had taken a large country estate and shrunk it to fit in a flat.

​Henry sat on an elaborate kitchen chair of painted white wood and gold embroidered padding. The tables, cabinets and counters had the same white-painted design. Everything had that planned chaotic feel to it, the tiles and paint on the walls, the rugs on the floor, even the skull-shaped knobs on the doors co-ordinated with everything.

​Anthea herself was at the farmhouse sink, washing her hands after digging out the bag of mice from some hidden place.

​Henry, she said, her back to him as she stared out of the window and let the water run, "you will tell me if you need a quick getaway, right?"

​Henry’s hand jerked with the unexpected question, and Beryl reared up.

​Before anyone could do anything, Beryl struck and slithered off somewhere.

​Henry stared at his hand while Anthea rushed from the room mumbling about dangerous pets and trigger-happy neighbours.

​Already, the area surrounding the twin punctures had grown red and inflamed. Just looking at it made bile tickle Henry’s throat. Was it just him, or was everything blurred around the edges? The pulsing pain in his hand was worse than the time Julien had whacked him on the head with a frying pan.

​Anthea returned with a subdued black mass in her arms that she dumped in the terrarium.

​Henry? She waved a flesh-coloured blob in front of his face.

​The motion was enough to cause his stomach to roil, and he struggled to throw himself from the chair as he gagged.

​Shit, Anthea pulled her phone from her back pocket, and her thumbs flew across the screen. This is bad.

​The gagging became painful when he couldn’t get air into his lungs. His hand, now twice its usual bony size, collapsed under him. He groaned when his chin hit the floor, and Anthea sighed from above as she described Henry’s pitiful existence in rapid detail to someone on the other end of her conversation.

​But then, the wooden floor came into focus. The herringbone pattern, stained to a darker wood, emerged before his eyes. Henry raised the swollen hand. The swelling had reduced, the puncture marks had faded as the skin returned to its regular ivory pallor.

​Anthea’s voice wavered and cut off as she hung up. Her honey brown eyes were wide as she grabbed his hand to inspect every inch. But there was nothing to suggest just minutes ago he had suffered a snake bite.

​It should have killed you, Anthea said. You’re so skinny, the poison should have killed you before an ambulance could arrive.

​I have, Henry sat up, a rather good immune system. His head’s fluff-filled ringing told him he should have remained on the floor.

​You look like a half-starved corpse on a good day. Anthea poked his hand with her nail, it was more like a stinging nettle short of pain than a continued exposure to boiling water pain. You shouldn’t be alive right now.

​Thank you? He snatched his hand back. Can I have some water, please? My throat’s kind of dry right now.

​Your throat is always dry, she said. You should drink more water and less alcohol and coffee, they dehydrate you.

​Anthea, he said. Don’t tell anyone about this. I don’t know what this is, and if people question it, they’ll come to conclusions I can’t dispute. Please, not even Oliver.

​Anthea sighed. Fine. But I want a full explanation when you know what’s going on. In fact, her eyes lit up, if you don’t know, it means I can experiment on you. Now, come lie down on the couch while I get my stuff.

​Henry resigned himself to his fate as a guinea pig. At least he might get a nap in before lunch.

​But Henry did not, in fact, end up getting a nap before lunch.

​It took Anthea exactly forty-five minutes of poking, prodding and waving smouldering sage around before she admitted defeat and declared there wasn’t anything physically wrong with Henry.

​Well, she grinned, anything more than there usually is. I don’t understand how there isn’t anything new. Why aren’t you dead from the venom?

​Henry raised his head from where he’d been counting the loose threads in Anthea’s throw blanket. I’m lucky?

​Anthea snorted. No-one’s that lucky. No, there’s something else going on. I’m going to find out what it is, and then I can bore you to death with science.

​Henry thought that listening to science was a bit more interesting than just sitting and staring at paint, but before he could plan an adequate answer, the keys in the door jingled and it banged shut behind someone.

​Oliver! Anthea screeched. I’ve told you a million times, don’t slam the door. It’ll damage the paint, and then who’ll have to deal with the fucking landlord!

​A lanky form with riotous dark curls and oversized glasses covering flint grey eyes bounced into the living room. Oliver had the sort of complexion to appear tanned all year-round, no matter how often he stayed inside, a fact he lorded over Henry, who just imitated