Beyond the lofty silence in the salon, he could hear the muffled gaiety of his fellow travelers in the dining hall across the way, the occasional clink of china, and the ever-present hum of the engines. And then, over it all, came the sound of footsteps, steady and deliberate. For no accountable reason, the sound had the hairs along Winston’s arms standing at attention and sent a shiver of warning down his spine. Slowly, like a man forced to face his executioner, Winston raised his head.
A man strolled directly down the center aisle of the salon, his reflection wavering in the polished marble floor. Attired in the precise lines of a black walking suit, his only nod to color was a scarlet ascot and the glint of gold from his watch chain. His features were lost beneath the brim of his top hat but a glimmer lit his eyes as they locked onto Winston. His stride was languid, as if he enjoyed having Winston watch him, and Winston’s jaw locked, equal parts revulsion and irritation heating his blood. But years of instinct told him not to look away.
The man moved under a shaft of gaslight, and Winston’s blood stilled. Perhaps it was a trick of the light but, for one sharp moment, the man appeared to have scars upon his cheek just as Winston did. His hair was the same wheat color and shaggy, a waving, rumpled mess that mirrored Winston’s. Then the man came closer, and the illusion faded, revealing close-cut reddish brown hair and a face devoid of scars. He stopped directly in front of Winston’s table.
“Hello, Winston Lane.” The voice was smooth, soft even, and enough to send another tremor of foreboding down Winston’s spine. Christ, was this the demon Poppy had warned him about? Only one way to find out.
“Do I know you?” Winston asked plainly. No chance in hell was he revealing his disquiet to this man.
The man’s thin lips furled into a smile. “Now there’s a question.” Without waiting to be asked, he pulled out the chair across from Winston and sat. The scent of coal smoke and patchouli tickled Winston’s nostrils. Crossing one leg over the other, the man sat back and regarded Winston with shadowed eyes. “Do you know me?”
The man was either mad, or he was the demon. Win didn’t like his odds at the moment.
When Win didn’t answer him, the man made a sound of amusement. “Since you have no memory of our earlier meeting, which,” he pulled a thin, gold case from his coat pocket, “is in truth my fault entirely, you may call me Mr. Jones.”
“Mr. Jones,” Winston repeated dubiously. My aunt Fanny. Out of reflex, Win’s hand moved to the place where he kept his gun, only to realize, rather belatedly, that he’d left his coat behind.
“I’ve gone by many names, Loki, Dolus. You might even call me the devil. Which would be missing the point. Who I am is not as important as what I do. I grant bargains in exchange for souls.” With precise movements, the man took out an Egyptian cigarette and lit it, filling the space between them with an aromatic perfume. His thumb drew across his lower lip to catch an errant flake of tobacco before he spoke again. “Ask me next why I am here.”
“How about this,” Win snapped back, “what the bloody hell do you want?”
Abruptly, Jones sat forward, and his eyes were entirely colorless, like chips of ice in a glass. “I’ve come to collect my due.” With that, he reached into his suit coat pocket once more and produced a rolled length of old foolscap. The roll of paper called to Winston in a way he did not understand, nor like. But he felt the familiarity of it with a soul deep shudder.
“Your due?” This was new. Poppy hadn’t said a word about debts. His mouth went dry.
Jones drew on his cigarette again and exhaled slowly, sending interlocking rings of blue smoke drifting into the air. Quite a trick. The man tapped out a line of ash. “It is like this,” Jones said. “On April the fifth, eighteen sixty-nine, you signed this contract.”
“Bollocks! You’re having me on.” But he did not miss that the date was precisely fourteen years prior to the date that he’d been attacked by the werewolf in a dank London alley.
Taking one more draw on his cigarette before setting it down, Jones carefully unrolled the foolscap and pushed the paper forward. One long, polished nail tapped the document that lay between them. “Read it.”
Nothing on Earth could induce Winston to touch that paper. “You’re mad. I’ve never even seen you before.” Shit. But the denial felt like a lie.
Jones took up his cigarette again and inhaled with almost indecent pleasure. “That is your signature, is it not?”
Winston’s own, familiar signature was slashed across the bottom of the paper. Ignoring it, Winston leaned in, and the paper crinkled under his forearms. “I would have remembered this.”
“Ah, now that was part of the agreement. You were to forget everything upon signing. After all, if my clients remembered their deals, they might try to find a way out of them before payment.” Cigarette dangling between his pale lips, Jones bent over the table to peer at the contract. “See there. Paragraph 13?” Jones pointed to a particular paragraph. “Upon signature, the principal—that would be you—shall lose all memory of the agreement—”
“Why in the bloody hell would anyone in their right mind agree to forget what they’ve signed?” It was all too fantastic. He did not do such things. Christ, but his heart was pounding again. This was why the demon tracked him down? Did Poppy know of it? Nausea boiled within his stomach.
“Well, that is rather the point, isn’t it?” Jones crossed one leg over the other. “You weren’t in your right mind at the time. A fact of which I took advantage. This human notion of fairness and honor makes you weak.” He blew out another chain of smoke rings. “I snare more ‘gentlemen’ this way than any other.” With a snap of his fingers, a waiter appeared with tray in hand.
The waiter set down two double-tiered glasses and a small carafe of water. A clear colored liquid winked and swayed in the bottom of each glass. The ingenious little liquor glasses, with their top tiers filled with ice, were made for only one drink: absinthe. The waiter’s movements were precise yet held a bit of theater, as if he knew well that his patrons expected it in this moment. He’d be correct, generally. Only Winston was in no mood. Such excitement had long dimmed for him. Even so, his eyes stayed on the waiter’s hands as he lifted the water carafe and poured it into the top tier of the glass, which served as a filter. Slowly, the water filled up the tier before dripping down into the lower glass. The second the water hit the absinthe, everything transformed, the liquid turning a luminous and milky peridot color. No sugar was used; this was a high-quality brew. The warm scent of anise drifted up, and Winston’s mouth watered even as his pulse quickened.
Too many days and nights had he lost to the Green Fairy. He’d almost succumbed to her long ago, drowning himself in the euphoric haze she provided. Because he had wanted a woman that he could not—A memory slammed into him, fragmented but strong.
Running a hand over his face, Winston fought for control as the waiter departed. His mind was a fog. Jones’s white eyes bore into Winston. “No more games. You will remember it all. Now.” Jones pushed a glass closer to Winston. “Drink and remember, Winston Lane.”
“No.” A cold sweat broke out over his brow. Winston would not drink. To do so would be his undoing. He knew it instinctively.
Jones’s icy eyes went crimson. “Drink it, or I’ll do it the hard way.”
Winston considered the hard way, but his hand moved of its own accord, as if compelled to obey. Absinthe spilled over his lips, pouring down his throat in a river of fire. The glass teetered as he gasped. Images flashed before his eyes. Drunken laughter, a haze of smoke, Poppy’s smiling eyes, his father’s scowl. You will not marry the daughter of a merchant. Win, I cannot marry you; your father will destroy my family. Jones’s long-fingered hand offering up a bone quill. Sign it and start anew, Winston Lane.
Winston’s thighs banged against the table as he surged up, toppling his glass and sending absinthe across the marble. Jones’s hand snatched up Winston’s wrist and yanked him back down with bone-crushing force.
“Calm yourself.” Jones’s hand was warmer than human flesh, and though Winston wrenched at his arm, the man’s grip was unbreakable. “Really, I detest this part. The next thing will be you begging, and that becomes quite tedious.”
“I never beg,” Winston said through his teeth.
“Well, good. I hate whiners.” Apparently deciding that Winston wasn’t going anywhere, Jones let him go. “Fourteen years ago, I gave you a new life. You wanted to dispose of the position given to you by birth and become a detective. You wanted a certain redheaded chit to be your wife. I gave you those things.”
Gave him Poppy? No, not her. What they had was real. “You cannot manipulate a person’s experiences,” Winston ground out.
Jones selected a fresh cigarette and lit it. “What is a man but what he thinks himself to be? Moreover, what is a life but a collection of memories?” Jones exhaled. “And I, my ignorant fellow, manipulate memories. For a fee, that is.”
“Jesus.”
“No,” Jones smiled, “I am not he.” The smile left. “I altered the memories of you and those within your sphere. Thus it became your truth, their truth.”
“My father did not disown me?” The memory of being disowned was still there, clear as day. I no longer have a son named Winston. From this day forth.
Jones laughed shortly. “Ra’s balls, you are the son of a duke. The spare, yes, but do you honestly think he’d let you go? He was ready to crush all opposition to pull you to heel. No son of his was going to gad about playing at detective.”
Jones was repeating his father’s words. He could hear them play in his head now and felt the same suffocating anger. You marry that chit and every door in London will shut in your face. I’ll see you a beggar before a son of mine gads about playing at detective.