YOUR HIND END HAS BEEN MOUNTED STOP LARGER THAN EXPECTED STOP EDGAR FAINTED ON ARRIVAL STOP REVIVED WITH SMELLING SALTS STOP SEE YOU AT THE STATION STOP
ADELLE ST JAMES
Friday, December 10, 2010
Edgar in the Box
(Found scrawled on a small, rolled up piece of paper in the main sorting room of the Royal Post Office.)
My Master is an Ass. The buffoon shut me into a shipping crate yet again, along with his most valuable trophy. As always. Get my things ready, he told me. As always. Protect my trophy with your life, he told me. As always. I nodded my head, told him I would die before I let anything happen to the Trophy. It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the entire truth. As the lid closed over me I was surrounded by darkness and the smell of preserved demonskin. At least it’s quiet in here.
My Master is an Ass. How the buffoon managed to kill ADRAMORGORAMADOTH is beyond imagining. Proof indeed that God favors fools. He was most likely aiming for one of hordes of minor demons at ADRAMORGORAMADOTH’s feet. The buffoon always shoots high when he gets excited. Afterwards, between the strutting and crowing and stuffing and mounting, the idiot forgot to have the demon’s remains sanctified. The demon speaks to me in my mind as we both travel in this crate. Promises me things. Tells me I deserve better than my lot in life. Find him a new body, he says, and I will be rewarded.
My Master is an Ass. I go to prepare for his arrival. It took me years to find the perfect body. Very few demons have the power to possess a human permanently, and then they only do so at great personal cost. The demon tells me this. So I have found a child, still alive, still human. The gates of his soul have been torn asunder by disease. His spirit is without defense. He is easy picking for a Lord of Hell. Once everything has been arranged, ADRAMORGORAMADOTH will walk the earth wearing the skin of the boy.
My Master is an Ass, but not for much longer. When He walks the Earth once again, I will be exalted. I will finally have my revenge.
-Edgar
(Paul Magee)
My Master is an Ass. The buffoon shut me into a shipping crate yet again, along with his most valuable trophy. As always. Get my things ready, he told me. As always. Protect my trophy with your life, he told me. As always. I nodded my head, told him I would die before I let anything happen to the Trophy. It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the entire truth. As the lid closed over me I was surrounded by darkness and the smell of preserved demonskin. At least it’s quiet in here.
My Master is an Ass. How the buffoon managed to kill ADRAMORGORAMADOTH is beyond imagining. Proof indeed that God favors fools. He was most likely aiming for one of hordes of minor demons at ADRAMORGORAMADOTH’s feet. The buffoon always shoots high when he gets excited. Afterwards, between the strutting and crowing and stuffing and mounting, the idiot forgot to have the demon’s remains sanctified. The demon speaks to me in my mind as we both travel in this crate. Promises me things. Tells me I deserve better than my lot in life. Find him a new body, he says, and I will be rewarded.
My Master is an Ass. I go to prepare for his arrival. It took me years to find the perfect body. Very few demons have the power to possess a human permanently, and then they only do so at great personal cost. The demon tells me this. So I have found a child, still alive, still human. The gates of his soul have been torn asunder by disease. His spirit is without defense. He is easy picking for a Lord of Hell. Once everything has been arranged, ADRAMORGORAMADOTH will walk the earth wearing the skin of the boy.
My Master is an Ass, but not for much longer. When He walks the Earth once again, I will be exalted. I will finally have my revenge.
-Edgar
(Paul Magee)
Letter from Marguerite to Adelle
Dear Adelle,
Thank you for your kind warnings, but I shall not be deterred by a bit of demon muck. The thought of sharing a holiday with you has sustained me through this last rather trying patch. Life at the Royal Nursing College of Magical Afflictions here in London has become one long slog. I believe my course on metaphysical pathophysiology will be the end of me. It would be heaven to escape the sisters at St. Zelda’s Infirmary, the endless days of cleaning bedpans and disposing of extracted succubi. How I long to linger over coffee and hob nobs with you.
Thank you for not mentioning T. by name in your letter. The less said of my recent romantic disappointment, the better.
Warmest regards from your bosom friend,
Marguerite
(Heidi Randen)
--
Thank you for your kind warnings, but I shall not be deterred by a bit of demon muck. The thought of sharing a holiday with you has sustained me through this last rather trying patch. Life at the Royal Nursing College of Magical Afflictions here in London has become one long slog. I believe my course on metaphysical pathophysiology will be the end of me. It would be heaven to escape the sisters at St. Zelda’s Infirmary, the endless days of cleaning bedpans and disposing of extracted succubi. How I long to linger over coffee and hob nobs with you.
Thank you for not mentioning T. by name in your letter. The less said of my recent romantic disappointment, the better.
Warmest regards from your bosom friend,
Marguerite
(Heidi Randen)
--
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Letter from Adelle to Marguerite
My Dear Marguerite,
There is good news and bad. First the bad news: our demon problems continue! Basil even spotted one in the foyer! He tried to lodge a complaint with it, but Theo says it is futile, that any demon that doesn’t eat us on sight is probably an underling with no real power to change things. He says the truly powerful demons are gathering on the cliffs. He even tried to show me one through his binoculars our first night here. Theo said it looked part human, part goat, but I think it may have been his imagination because when I looked all I saw was the silhouette of a man.
And speaking of the male silhouette… The good news is Mr. Arthur Harkness has agreed to come and stay with us! His things arrived today by parcel post and we expect his manservant will arrive soon… also by parcel post. One of the boxes contained quite a few framed pictures of Mr. Harkness and I must say he cuts a dashing figure! Basil says I stand no chance as I am “rather too horse-faced to court.” (“Court” was not his exact word, but I will spare you his turn of phrase.) He says I am as flat-chested as Theo. I don’t think I’m as bad as all that, am I? Although no one holds a candle to you. Well, perhaps Mr. Harkness will autograph a photo for me.
I tried to lodge a complaint with our landlord, asking him to pay half of Mr. Harkness’ fee, but he was utterly unkind. (Basil said I should have used my womanly charms. Then he laughed until he choked on his brandy.) He says we should have known about the demonic migration… and I sometimes suspect that Theo did know. My brother and his fascination with demons! Well perhaps Mr. Harkness will take Theo under his wing and put that obsession to good use. In the meanwhile, our landlord has agreed that we may move from the little cottage to the main house on the grounds, Brightwick proper, so that there is room enough for all of us—more than enough room, in fact. The house is large enough to swallow an army! I’m enclosing a photograph so you may see for yourself! The place was obviously grand once but it has fallen into some disrepair. Evidently there was a caretaker but he left in rather a hurry. I will have my work cut out for me, making the place presentable before Mr. Harkness arrives! We have left the little cottage on the grounds to Theo and his endless books and specimens. It’s just as well—the door to the cottage loo was stuck shut, and I suspect that there were rats as I could hear something scratching inside. It drove Champ mad! Oh, that worthless dog!
Basil is put out at me for hiring Mr. Harkness. He says he “had the whole situation neatly in hand, thank you very much,” and he is dreading the demon hunter’s arrival. (Although I suspect he is helping himself to the good man’s cigars!) Basil is quite looking forward to your arrival, however. I feel it’s only fair to warn you.
Well, I’m sure things will be better once you and Arthur are here (Oh! Listen to me! Calling him by his first name!) And we will make the best. Lemonade from lemons as my dear mother would say.
I remain,
Your Faithful Friend,
Adelle
Monday, December 6, 2010
From the Desk of Mr. Arthur Harkness, Demon Hunter
Adelle.
In Response to your Letter, I accept your offer of Employment for the Season! As you might suspect, a Man of My fame and Stature gets Hundreds, if not Thousands of such requests each year. The Sum you offer is nominal at Best, and considerably less than I usually charge for My Services. Certainly less than a Man of My Vigorous Nature and Proven Effectiveness is worth. However, My assistant Edgar (who is good at making Coffee and remembering things, but pretty Useless at anything Important) informed Me that your brother Theodore is one of the few Survivors of the Pox Demonic. As such, the Hunting in your area should be Particularly Good! Bully!
In addition to the Monies that you have promised, I will need a suite of rooms for My Personal use, and a closet or pantry or some-such to house Edgar. I will also require a space above the Mantelpiece to hang My most Important Trophy: The Hind End of ADRAMORGORAMADOTH, Chancellor of Hell and Supervisor of the Devil’s Water Closet. I hang this Magnificent proof of My Manhood in every house I Inhabit!
If the Post Office hasn’t entirely Bolloxed things up, this letter should be accompanied by several crates. These contain Brandy, Cigars, Ammunition, as well as other sundry Necessities for My Existence at Brightwick. Please open the one with the air-holes first, as I have sent Edgar in Advance to prepare for My Arrival. He will put the rest of My things in Order. I will be along Myself post-haste. Try not to get too many of yourselves eaten before My Arrival!
Sincerely,
Arthur Mouritz Abraham Ross Harkness, Esquire
(Paul Magee)
In Response to your Letter, I accept your offer of Employment for the Season! As you might suspect, a Man of My fame and Stature gets Hundreds, if not Thousands of such requests each year. The Sum you offer is nominal at Best, and considerably less than I usually charge for My Services. Certainly less than a Man of My Vigorous Nature and Proven Effectiveness is worth. However, My assistant Edgar (who is good at making Coffee and remembering things, but pretty Useless at anything Important) informed Me that your brother Theodore is one of the few Survivors of the Pox Demonic. As such, the Hunting in your area should be Particularly Good! Bully!
In addition to the Monies that you have promised, I will need a suite of rooms for My Personal use, and a closet or pantry or some-such to house Edgar. I will also require a space above the Mantelpiece to hang My most Important Trophy: The Hind End of ADRAMORGORAMADOTH, Chancellor of Hell and Supervisor of the Devil’s Water Closet. I hang this Magnificent proof of My Manhood in every house I Inhabit!
If the Post Office hasn’t entirely Bolloxed things up, this letter should be accompanied by several crates. These contain Brandy, Cigars, Ammunition, as well as other sundry Necessities for My Existence at Brightwick. Please open the one with the air-holes first, as I have sent Edgar in Advance to prepare for My Arrival. He will put the rest of My things in Order. I will be along Myself post-haste. Try not to get too many of yourselves eaten before My Arrival!
Sincerely,
Arthur Mouritz Abraham Ross Harkness, Esquire
(Paul Magee)
Transcript Left On the Downstairs Secretary Desk
(written on yellowish parchment of unknown providence. Faint foul odor, best not thought about overmuch.)
Hello? You there! You with the quill and all that. Didn’t know you lot could write. Learn something new each day, that’s what mother always told me when she gave me a good clouting.
Why’re you writing that down? I didn’t ask you to do that. Stop it.
You won’t, eh? Well then, I might as well register my complaint with you then. I’ve got more than enough to complain about here; you’ll no doubt run out of ink first.
Hoy! Don’t be putting your pen there! THAT serves as an inkwell for you? Well, I ain’t touching that pen, that’s for certain. But as I was saying, you lot are making a bloody ruin out our holiday here. A holiday, I will add, that been paid for already. Paid for out of my pocket, I further add. I demand compensation, and possibly travel expenses. Or some such.
What’s that? You can talk then. Almost rather you didn’t. No offense, but you sound rather like a cat being strangled slowly.
Wait, what? You don’t agree, and you should know?
I think our relationship could profit by refraining from relating details of our personal lives.
But back to my complaint-- what do you mean you’re not a complaints demon? You have a pen, don’t you? It doesn’t work like that? What, you’ve some sort of trade guild? Oh, you do. Well, fine then. What sort of demon are you?
That’ll do. Just keep taking dictation and I’ll submit this to the proper authorities, whoever they are. Or whatever they are. I could always ask that little runt brother of mine, he’s more than fascinated with your kind. Should have heard him going on about spotting a snark biled warbler the other day. Would have thought he’d met a girl the way he was cackling so happily. Not that the latter is too bloody likely, of course. At least he’s got a hobby. Could be worse, I suppose. My friend Chumley has a nephew who writes poetry, for God’s sake.
Why are you wincing? Oh fine, I’ll come to the point. Are all you demons so bloody testy?
Why yes, I suppose if someone all chained me up and tossed me out of heaven into a lake of flaming sulphur, it would put me off my feed, too. But I would try to make the best of it. Lemonade out of lemons is wh…
No call for language like that. Get back to your dictating.
Right. So, we’ve got this nice seaside cottage for the month. Nice, at least, until you all fouled the place up. It’s a right proper denial of services attack, it is. I could sue you lot down to your very last set of pitchforks and iron tongs.
I couldn’t? Since when do you demons know anything about law?
Really? Well, I suppose that makes sense if one thinks about it. Can’t say I haven’t had my suspicions.
Be as that may, we’re entitled to a bit of peace and quiet in the house proper, don’t you think? Oh, don’t give me that rot about disturbing migratory patterns I don’t bloody care. I’m not Theo, you know. Notice the lack of a hollow chest?
Say what you like. I’ve earned that belly. You aren’t anything to look at either. Bottom line, all of you need to stop flittering about the house. Stick to fouling the beach, and I’ll call it even.
Or what? You need a threat? I’ve got my blunderbuss, right? How about a nice bit of buckshot about your ears and horns? I could probably toss in a bit of the silverware, too. That’s right, I said silver. That’s your weakness, ain’t it? Hard to avoid getting knowledgeable what with Theo yabbering away at the dinner table each night.
Silver’s for werewolves, then? I suppose there’s a difference?
Well, fine. Still will hurt.
Oh? I’d be willing to wager good odds I won’t miss next time!
Not those odds, no. Father McGiver still tells me there’s a chance for it. How about I just sic my dog Champ on you then? Now, there’s a foul beast if ever there was one. He won’t object to gnawing on you. God bless his fondness for garbage.
Ha! Saw you wince at that one. Got you then. You lay off the property or I’ll be the one crying dog and releasing the havoc of war.
Don’t care how the quote runs, I said it as I like it. Get off, now. Run home and tell your fellow demons what I’ve said.
Dog shall save us.
(David Parish-Whittaker)
Hello? You there! You with the quill and all that. Didn’t know you lot could write. Learn something new each day, that’s what mother always told me when she gave me a good clouting.
Why’re you writing that down? I didn’t ask you to do that. Stop it.
You won’t, eh? Well then, I might as well register my complaint with you then. I’ve got more than enough to complain about here; you’ll no doubt run out of ink first.
Hoy! Don’t be putting your pen there! THAT serves as an inkwell for you? Well, I ain’t touching that pen, that’s for certain. But as I was saying, you lot are making a bloody ruin out our holiday here. A holiday, I will add, that been paid for already. Paid for out of my pocket, I further add. I demand compensation, and possibly travel expenses. Or some such.
What’s that? You can talk then. Almost rather you didn’t. No offense, but you sound rather like a cat being strangled slowly.
Wait, what? You don’t agree, and you should know?
I think our relationship could profit by refraining from relating details of our personal lives.
But back to my complaint-- what do you mean you’re not a complaints demon? You have a pen, don’t you? It doesn’t work like that? What, you’ve some sort of trade guild? Oh, you do. Well, fine then. What sort of demon are you?
That’ll do. Just keep taking dictation and I’ll submit this to the proper authorities, whoever they are. Or whatever they are. I could always ask that little runt brother of mine, he’s more than fascinated with your kind. Should have heard him going on about spotting a snark biled warbler the other day. Would have thought he’d met a girl the way he was cackling so happily. Not that the latter is too bloody likely, of course. At least he’s got a hobby. Could be worse, I suppose. My friend Chumley has a nephew who writes poetry, for God’s sake.
Why are you wincing? Oh fine, I’ll come to the point. Are all you demons so bloody testy?
Why yes, I suppose if someone all chained me up and tossed me out of heaven into a lake of flaming sulphur, it would put me off my feed, too. But I would try to make the best of it. Lemonade out of lemons is wh…
No call for language like that. Get back to your dictating.
Right. So, we’ve got this nice seaside cottage for the month. Nice, at least, until you all fouled the place up. It’s a right proper denial of services attack, it is. I could sue you lot down to your very last set of pitchforks and iron tongs.
I couldn’t? Since when do you demons know anything about law?
Really? Well, I suppose that makes sense if one thinks about it. Can’t say I haven’t had my suspicions.
Be as that may, we’re entitled to a bit of peace and quiet in the house proper, don’t you think? Oh, don’t give me that rot about disturbing migratory patterns I don’t bloody care. I’m not Theo, you know. Notice the lack of a hollow chest?
Say what you like. I’ve earned that belly. You aren’t anything to look at either. Bottom line, all of you need to stop flittering about the house. Stick to fouling the beach, and I’ll call it even.
Or what? You need a threat? I’ve got my blunderbuss, right? How about a nice bit of buckshot about your ears and horns? I could probably toss in a bit of the silverware, too. That’s right, I said silver. That’s your weakness, ain’t it? Hard to avoid getting knowledgeable what with Theo yabbering away at the dinner table each night.
Silver’s for werewolves, then? I suppose there’s a difference?
Well, fine. Still will hurt.
Oh? I’d be willing to wager good odds I won’t miss next time!
Not those odds, no. Father McGiver still tells me there’s a chance for it. How about I just sic my dog Champ on you then? Now, there’s a foul beast if ever there was one. He won’t object to gnawing on you. God bless his fondness for garbage.
Ha! Saw you wince at that one. Got you then. You lay off the property or I’ll be the one crying dog and releasing the havoc of war.
Don’t care how the quote runs, I said it as I like it. Get off, now. Run home and tell your fellow demons what I’ve said.
Dog shall save us.
(David Parish-Whittaker)
Scrawls on an Animal Hide
Remember it? Shadow. Pain. Ground falling away. Your own dangling legs kicking in air. Twisting to look back, only to see the magnificent dark winged beast. Claws in flesh. Scream, we did. A guttural cry. You were sure in those moments you were meat for the chew.
Yet here we are. High on a rocky outcrop. Beast nearby. Wings resting. Red eyes watching.
No. Your body is not intact. Hair gone. Hoofs shredded to five. Do you feel the burning? That is me. The heat inside you that scrawls this note on the animal hide that fell away from our flesh as we were reborn.
I write this because I cannot yet picture my own words in my mind. I see only pictures. Waves crashing below. Dark night. The demon watching us. He’s waiting patiently for you to leave your body to me, his invited guest. I can write with the tip of a finger nail (that’s the part I’ll wiggle next) because we burn so hot we smolder. Do you feel the hot pain? You dislike it, don't you? Agony. Too much to tolerate. You can die now. Just will it. Leave my new body to me!
Not yet?
You want me to write you a command to run, as fast as your four legs can carry us? No, no. As I mentioned, your hooves have been flayed. Your legs bent all wrong. If I order you to run you will flail and fall. Think. What do you really want? Yes. You want to crawl to the beast. To wrap your arms (yes these) around him. Crawl to the beast. Now! Or die and leave my desires just to me.
No? Stubborn.
Look at your body. Can’t you see yourself for what you are? You are like the ones that cut the neck of your mate, stripped her skin, cooked her flesh. Tasty she was, I am sure. Do you want to live in such a body? Nothing recognizable except your beard. (I’ll stroke it.) How horrible, isn’t it? Why remain in such a state? Will yourself to die!
One last task, you say? A throat? A skinning? A feast? Yes, I see an image in our mind, so clear. The one that made your mate meat for the chew? You wish me to feed this human to our master? Yes. I promise your last request. Now be gone. Die dammit! Willfully! Yes, I will see to the task. Damn, you sacrificial goats have become much too demanding these days, but a promise is a promise. Yes. Yes. Ah, that’s better. Feels good to stretch.
Now, first some personal torment. Later the feast. Perhaps by then I'll be hungry myself, and I will join our master for a nibble.
(Al Bogdan)
Yet here we are. High on a rocky outcrop. Beast nearby. Wings resting. Red eyes watching.
No. Your body is not intact. Hair gone. Hoofs shredded to five. Do you feel the burning? That is me. The heat inside you that scrawls this note on the animal hide that fell away from our flesh as we were reborn.
I write this because I cannot yet picture my own words in my mind. I see only pictures. Waves crashing below. Dark night. The demon watching us. He’s waiting patiently for you to leave your body to me, his invited guest. I can write with the tip of a finger nail (that’s the part I’ll wiggle next) because we burn so hot we smolder. Do you feel the hot pain? You dislike it, don't you? Agony. Too much to tolerate. You can die now. Just will it. Leave my new body to me!
Not yet?
You want me to write you a command to run, as fast as your four legs can carry us? No, no. As I mentioned, your hooves have been flayed. Your legs bent all wrong. If I order you to run you will flail and fall. Think. What do you really want? Yes. You want to crawl to the beast. To wrap your arms (yes these) around him. Crawl to the beast. Now! Or die and leave my desires just to me.
No? Stubborn.
Look at your body. Can’t you see yourself for what you are? You are like the ones that cut the neck of your mate, stripped her skin, cooked her flesh. Tasty she was, I am sure. Do you want to live in such a body? Nothing recognizable except your beard. (I’ll stroke it.) How horrible, isn’t it? Why remain in such a state? Will yourself to die!
One last task, you say? A throat? A skinning? A feast? Yes, I see an image in our mind, so clear. The one that made your mate meat for the chew? You wish me to feed this human to our master? Yes. I promise your last request. Now be gone. Die dammit! Willfully! Yes, I will see to the task. Damn, you sacrificial goats have become much too demanding these days, but a promise is a promise. Yes. Yes. Ah, that’s better. Feels good to stretch.
Now, first some personal torment. Later the feast. Perhaps by then I'll be hungry myself, and I will join our master for a nibble.
(Al Bogdan)
Friday, December 3, 2010
From Theo's Field Journal
To Whom It May Concern: (if it concerns anyone at all, which I sincerely doubt.)
Ordinary I use this field journal for my scientific observations. Today however
I am writing this last will and testament in case I am killed while summering here at Brightwick By The Sea. Don’t laugh because it is entirely possible due to the fact that I have something dangerous in my loo. But more on that later. First, the important facts:
1. I am of sound mind. You are supposed to say that in wills. In fact I am of very sound mind, far sounder than any of the so-called adults I know. People sometimes miss this fact because a) they think all thirteen-year-olds are morons and b) I am not of sound body. That is because I had the pox demonic as a little child which made me, as my older brother Basil says “a limpy little runt.” My older sister Adelle says that is also why I am “obsessed” with demons. I believe it is why I am a genius.
2. I am actually dead. (I mean, not at this moment, obviously, but if you are reading this at my funeral or something I am.) I am stating this because I know I have pretended to be dead pretty convincingly on a few occasions but that was back when I was twelve and it was a phase.
3. I leave absolutely nothing to my older sister Adelle and my older brother Basil. Nothing. Jack. Bupkis.
4. I leave all of my research to the archives of the National Museum of Demonology. My telescope, binoculars, and extensive library I leave to a home for wayward orphaned boys fortunate enough to not have a family. I mean “unfortunate,” of course. A slip of the pen.
5. The demon in my loo I leave to her own devices. I can’t say I really know what’s best for her because I only found her on the beach this morning. But I do think that she should be set free. I am only keeping her now because I think she is wounded. She should not be given to any zoo and certainly not to any of those demon hunting bastards. Even if she is the thing that kills me, she should not be stuffed like one of Basil’s mallards. She is far too pretty to be harmed. If she is harmed, I will know and I will haunt you. Laugh all you want. I have my ways.
Sincerely,
Theo St. James
Ordinary I use this field journal for my scientific observations. Today however
I am writing this last will and testament in case I am killed while summering here at Brightwick By The Sea. Don’t laugh because it is entirely possible due to the fact that I have something dangerous in my loo. But more on that later. First, the important facts:
1. I am of sound mind. You are supposed to say that in wills. In fact I am of very sound mind, far sounder than any of the so-called adults I know. People sometimes miss this fact because a) they think all thirteen-year-olds are morons and b) I am not of sound body. That is because I had the pox demonic as a little child which made me, as my older brother Basil says “a limpy little runt.” My older sister Adelle says that is also why I am “obsessed” with demons. I believe it is why I am a genius.
2. I am actually dead. (I mean, not at this moment, obviously, but if you are reading this at my funeral or something I am.) I am stating this because I know I have pretended to be dead pretty convincingly on a few occasions but that was back when I was twelve and it was a phase.
3. I leave absolutely nothing to my older sister Adelle and my older brother Basil. Nothing. Jack. Bupkis.
4. I leave all of my research to the archives of the National Museum of Demonology. My telescope, binoculars, and extensive library I leave to a home for wayward orphaned boys fortunate enough to not have a family. I mean “unfortunate,” of course. A slip of the pen.
5. The demon in my loo I leave to her own devices. I can’t say I really know what’s best for her because I only found her on the beach this morning. But I do think that she should be set free. I am only keeping her now because I think she is wounded. She should not be given to any zoo and certainly not to any of those demon hunting bastards. Even if she is the thing that kills me, she should not be stuffed like one of Basil’s mallards. She is far too pretty to be harmed. If she is harmed, I will know and I will haunt you. Laugh all you want. I have my ways.
Sincerely,
Theo St. James
Letter One, From Adelle to Marguerite
My Dear Marguerite,
I know I said that you should stay here at Brightwick for the holidays and of course I meant it. After all that you have been through I believe the sea air would do you wonders. But do you recall that I told you Basil rented the house for cheap? Well, now that we are here the reason is abundantly clear: We forgot about the demonic migrations! Our first night here the sky was so thick with demons they blotted out the moon. We are beside ourselves—except, of course, for Theo, who is enjoying it. He has unpacked his binoculars and his necromancy books and begun to sketch them in his notebook—he can tell you every subspecies, I’m sure. All I can say is that some of them are preposterously large—just yesterday one carried off a goat! Of course Champ is barking like mad. We will be lucky if he doesn’t get carried off himself (in fact, last night he was so loud I almost wished he would be!) Basil is not much better, tromping about with his blunderbuss taking pot shots at the sky. It’s lucky that my brother is such a horrible shot or he would bring one down on our heads. I have written to a real demon hunter—a one Mr. Arthur Harkness—in hopes that I may hire him to stay here at Brightwick for our protection. He is rumored to be rather odd but quite excellent at what he does (and rather good-looking, so there’s that). I hope to hear back from him soon. But in the meantime, I know it is too late for you to change your plans but I wanted to give you fair warning. There is a curfew of course and the beach is so covered in droppings as to be untraversable. You have been through such personal hell lately (if you’ll pardon my language) and I feel horrible bringing you into a literal one. I promise we will have fun in spite of it all! Just bring your adventurous spirit (and your wellies).
See you in a few days,
Your loyal childhood friend,
Adelle
I know I said that you should stay here at Brightwick for the holidays and of course I meant it. After all that you have been through I believe the sea air would do you wonders. But do you recall that I told you Basil rented the house for cheap? Well, now that we are here the reason is abundantly clear: We forgot about the demonic migrations! Our first night here the sky was so thick with demons they blotted out the moon. We are beside ourselves—except, of course, for Theo, who is enjoying it. He has unpacked his binoculars and his necromancy books and begun to sketch them in his notebook—he can tell you every subspecies, I’m sure. All I can say is that some of them are preposterously large—just yesterday one carried off a goat! Of course Champ is barking like mad. We will be lucky if he doesn’t get carried off himself (in fact, last night he was so loud I almost wished he would be!) Basil is not much better, tromping about with his blunderbuss taking pot shots at the sky. It’s lucky that my brother is such a horrible shot or he would bring one down on our heads. I have written to a real demon hunter—a one Mr. Arthur Harkness—in hopes that I may hire him to stay here at Brightwick for our protection. He is rumored to be rather odd but quite excellent at what he does (and rather good-looking, so there’s that). I hope to hear back from him soon. But in the meantime, I know it is too late for you to change your plans but I wanted to give you fair warning. There is a curfew of course and the beach is so covered in droppings as to be untraversable. You have been through such personal hell lately (if you’ll pardon my language) and I feel horrible bringing you into a literal one. I promise we will have fun in spite of it all! Just bring your adventurous spirit (and your wellies).
See you in a few days,
Your loyal childhood friend,
Adelle
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