Chapter Text
Acedia : Latin, acēdia ; sloth, torpor; disinclination to action or labour.
The Year Without a Summer, that’s what they were calling it in the newspapers, but Sirius Black couldn’t honestly say he’d noticed the difference. Sirius had never really been concerned with the weather unless it was getting in the way of his promenading, no matter the level of hysterics the wider public had been thrown into. People were collecting for the poor, or so they said, but the Black family didn’t tend to go in for that sort of thing. Maybe there were some family traditions that Sirius was less keen to break. Yes, this July was colder and wetter than usual, but the girls in London were as soft and warm as ever, and the boys were still willing to take risks for him.
Boys such as the one currently struggling to pull on his riding boots at the end of Sirius’s bed.
And the one tangled up in the sheets beside him, drooling gently onto the pillow.
And the one sprawled over Sirius’s chaise, complaining of a pounding headache.
Sirius let his eyelids flutter closed for a second, hoping that last night’s paramours had not noticed him stir as they began to extricate themselves from his bed. He was fairly sure one of them was named Matthias – perhaps the one with the crop of golden-blonde curls lying in the bed beside him – but, he supposed, it didn’t matter. They would leave discreetly and pretend this had never happened – until it happened again – and nobody would ever find out. Except for his parents, who would be livid, and who had probably already been informed of Sirius’s latest debauchery by the manservant they had packed him off to London with.
Sirius heard a dull thud, a sharp hiss of breath, a sudden crash, and a cry of surprise. He peeled one eyelid open to observe the commotion. It became apparent that the man trying to pull on his riding boots had lost his balance and staggered sideways into the three-panel screen, and was now lying winded on the floor beside it. Sirius felt the man beside him bolt upright at the sound, lose his balance on the edge of the mattress and tumble off, still wrapped in the bedsheet.
Which left Sirius entirely exposed to the scrutiny of three very interested gazes.
Sirius opened his eyes fully to see the men staring – not without looks of approval, of course – before rolling them upward. “Nothing you didn’t see last night.” He quirked an eyebrow, standing and stretching in the golden sunlight that filtered through his bedroom window in great shafts. He pulled a spare blanket from the pile beside his bed and observed as the other men collected themselves, wrapping it around his body and over one shoulder like a Roman toga. It was scratchy wool rather than smooth linen, but one couldn’t have all the finest things in life.
Riding Boots had finally managed to get both shoes on, and was scouting around for the overcoat he’d been wearing when he arrived the night before. Sirius silently wished him luck; there was a sizeable pile of garments strewn at the foot of his bed, and he certainly wasn’t fishing out any of his own to make it easier. Chaise Whiner had gone back to his gentle moping, one pale forearm thrown across his eyes to block out the sunlight. He was wearing a linen shirt long enough to preserve his modesty, and nothing else, although a violent wine stain marred the fabric, as though his throat had been slashed in his sleep. Golden Boy had hauled himself up from the floor and was still blinking sleep out of his pretty periwinkle eyes, one hand raking through his curls while the other patted down his body, as though checking everything was still attached. Sirius hoped he hadn’t been quite that rough, although he couldn’t vouch for what the other two might have done to the poor darling.
“You all ought to leave soon,” Sirius reminded his guests. As young men blessed with means and good looks, they’d certainly all have some social engagement to occupy their day, and while Sirius had a niggling suspicion he’d planned something too, he couldn’t remember and couldn’t bring himself to care. He spared the men no more attention as he strode from the room, almost tripping over a shoe that had been left outside the door. Was that one of his? Oh, he didn’t care. He eased his way down the stairs, making full use of the handrail to avoid putting any more strain than necessary on his sore back and thighs.
That was one benefit to living here alone, he supposed, as he wound his way through the hideously-upholstered drawing-room. When, as a child, he had visited 12 Grimmauld Place with his parents, he’d been relegated to the nursery on the second floor or, when he was older, his own bedroom on the third floor, directly under the rafters. But, as the sole resident at the moment, Sirius had chosen to set himself up in the townhouse’s master bedroom, only one flight of stairs and a short walk from the kitchen.
The kitchen, when he reached it, was disappointingly empty. There was no fire burning in the hearth, no breakfast cooking on the stove, no pot of tea just brewed and waiting for him to pour. The maid – God, he couldn’t even remember her name, what kind of state was he in? – seemed to have taken his words about ‘taking the weekend off’ to heart. Or maybe she’d just grown sick of cleaning up his messes every morning. He couldn’t exactly blame her.
Rather than bother trying to get a fire going – it would be an hour before it would be hot enough to cook with, although he was an atrocious chef by all accounts – Sirius shuffled into the pantry and set about finding something he could eat cold. Fluttering over the shelves, his hands found the remains of a block of cheese wrapped in brown paper, just enough left in the wax rind to make a meal of. That would go nicely with some dates, but the best he could scrounge up was a single bitter cooking apple and a bunch of deflated grapes. Disappointed, he chose the grapes. There wasn’t even any bread.
The absence of a fire to warm the cool stone floors, coupled with his lack of undergarments – or, in fact, garments of a sensible nature at all – was beginning to wear on him, and Sirius found himself contemplating moving back to his rooms to dress. That still might have entailed encountering one of his suitors, however, and that idea simply would not do. In his opinion, men were to be used and discarded as simply as a book – though one may revisit from time to time if a volume was particularly gripping. No, he would remain here a while and contemplate plans for the day.
There was still something there in his mind which told Sirius that he was forgetting something, though, he supposed, it mustn’t have been important or he would have remembered. Unexpected houseguests were not uncommon at 12 Grimmauld Place, only because Sirius so rarely remembered the plans he made. It wasn’t his fault, of course, it was the wine. He could not be blamed for the holes in his memory.
Still, Sirius pondered as he chewed morosely on a particularly overripe grape, perhaps a trip to the market was on the cards, seeing as the maid was not around? Though, he did so loathe getting caught up with the riff-raff out in the center of the town. Better to send the help – when they were actually around. Where was Kreacher, anyhow?
“Good morning, sir.”
Sirius started as the cool voice of his manservant sounded from the doorway behind him, and turned to observe the man. He was short in stature, with ears and eyes entirely too large for his head. The servant was wrapped up in an immaculate suit that would have given him an air of grandeur had it not been for his hideous visage. Sirius almost pitied him, though, he supposed that not everyone could be kissed by Aphrodite, as he had been.
“A good morning, indeed.” Sirius scoffed, turning back to the dining table and resuming his pitiful breakfast. “I believe a good morning includes a hot meal and a roaring fire, especially in these most adverse of times.” He spoke with venom in his voice and chewed indignantly.
Kreacher made a start at once, busting around the fireplace as he spoke. “Adverse, sir?”
“That is what the papers say.” Sirius fingered the dog eared corners of yesterday’s Morning Chronicle idly. “There are people starving, you know.”
There was a moment’s pause, and Sirius heard the faint crackling of a birthing flame. “It is unlike you to take note of such a thing, sir.”
Sirius scoffed, though did not take offence. He knew it to be true. “I simply do not see why I should be joining them in their suffering,” Sirius lifted an eyebrow at the servant, who had turned to face his master, “ensure the pantry is restocked forthwith, and prepare me something more substantial than these scraps for lunch.”
Kreacher inclined his head in lieu of a promise, clasping his gloved hands together in front of his body. He made eye contact with Sirius once more as he spoke. “Will Ms Meadowes and Miss McKinnon be joining you for luncheon, or will they be arriving later in the day?”
Ah. That was what he was forgetting.
Upon contemplation of Kreacher's query, Sirius realised that he had no inkling of when his dear friends had arranged to visit. It was better to be safe, they could always throw away any leftover scraps. "We may expect them at any time; ensure they will be catered for."
"Very well, sir." Kreacher bowed his head once more, before disappearing from the room, as a ghost might, in the blink of an eye. Sirius shuddered. Being in the presence of such a vile creature set his teeth on edge.
He concluded that this was clearly a sign that he must acquire more beauty in his life, and was very grateful that he knew his friends would be joining him. They were not to be persuaded, as his companions from the night before could be, however. Not that it mattered. Sirius enjoyed the anonymity of his paramours, and Ms. Meadowes and Miss McKinnon were known not to court with men.
Sirius rose from the table and stretched out his tight shoulders from beneath his makeshift toga. The entire day lay bare in front of him, no correspondence from his family in Hampshire about his schedule for the day. His debut season had been packed so far, balls and luncheons and promenading in the park. They were trying to marry him off, but Sirius was by no means interested. He still had a few seasons of fun in him before any contracts were signed, he felt.
Sirius believed that last night’s company had surely been given enough time to escape the house unnoticed and unbothered by now, and decided that it was his time to finally dress. He was correct, he found after a traipse up the stairs, that his bedroom was now empty – devoid of all evidence that it had played host to any number of visitors save the bedsheets strewn about in an unsightly heap. The washbasin by the window had been filled with freshly warmed water, and a clean rag had been left on the hook. Sirius would have to speak to Kreacher about doing half a job – that his room should have been left in such an unsightly state would simply not do.
Sirius washed his face and hands slowly, reveling in the feeling of the hot water on his skin, still cold after the empty hearth and lack of a hot breakfast. He removed his blanket cape and let it fall to the hardwood floor, before finishing off his morning refresh. Once clean, he dressed in his finest day clothes and smoothed down his hair, pulling a narrow-toothed bone comb through the dark locks that fell to his shoulders. He observed himself in the polished mirror above the vanity cabinet – no, there was absolutely no doubt why he was seen as London’s most eligible bachelor of the season.
Treading carefully over the discarded blanket, Sirius made his way over to the window. The street below bustled with life – the late morning crowds making their way up and down Grimmauld Place filling the air with their dull chatter and the dull clatter of hooves on the cobbled street. Sirius couldn’t understand it – why would one want to spend all that time outside when one could so easily spend the day lounging on a chaise and reading the latest poetry from Byron and Shelley?
Sirius shook his head and retreated to the drawing-room to do just that.
Several hours had passed in languid sluggishness, by which time Sirius had exhausted his new volume as well as the day’s Morning Chronicle when the jingle of the doorbell rang clearly through the house. He made no bid to move, for it was not the role of the gentleman to answer one’s own door, and lay in wait. He so hoped that it would be his dear friends, Ms. Meadowes and Miss McKinnon, though it was always probable that it could be yet another collection for the poor, what with them starving all about the place.
He no longer needed to wonder, for Kreacher had appeared in the doorway, bowing his head before his announcement.
“Ms. Dorcas Meadowes and Miss Marlene McKinnon of Hell Corner, sir.”
Sirius sat up, nodding to his manservant as he smoothed down the front of his shirt and ensured his cravat, a new acquisition from his tailor, was well-displayed above the collar of his waistcoat. “Excellent, show them in.”
Kreacher bowed his head once more, before stepping back and holding out a gloved hand. The two ladies entered the room, each shedding a long, ankle-length pelisse from atop their empire-waisted dresses and flinging them lazily over the servant’s waiting arm. Sirius dismissed him, before gesturing welcomingly to the sofa opposite his seat. The two women took a seat gratefully.
“I am surely glad to see you, friend,” Miss McKinnon began, leaning back against the plush cushions, “for I fear I have been starved of gossip for the past week.”
Ms Meadowes tutted, throwing a warning look to her companion, before returning her gaze to Sirius. “What she means to say is that we have been hearing whisperings about the town of you and a choice few debutantes, and Marlene has been simply dying to know which of the rumours she should believe.”
Sirius smirked, leaning back against the chaise and stretching an arm up in the air casually. “All of them, I should presume.”
Miss McKinnon snorted. “You mean to say that you have seduced not only Garrick Mulciber but Evan Rosier too at one ball? A ball at which you were supposed to be courting the ladies?” She lifted one delicate blond eyebrow, a perfectly scrutinising arch.
Sirius snapped the fingers of his outstretched hand at her words. “Ah, of course! Thank you, Marlene, for I could not recall their names. It was dear Evan Rosier, not Matthias Avery with whom I awoke. There was one other man there, but his name eludes me for the nonce. He was wearing riding boots if that should satisfy your want for gossip.”
Marlene’s lips curled up into a smile, and she shared a look with Dorcas before her companion spoke.
“I hear the Fenwicks’ eldest son is a champion rider,” her dark skin shone under the light of the fireplace as a mischievous grin fell upon her features, “and he was present at the ball last night, I have his name on my dance card as proof.”
“Oh, lovely Benjy!” Marlene beamed. “I turned down a proposal from him just last week – though now I feel I ought to have accepted, if he is spending his evenings with you, Sirius. I’m sure we could have reached some agreement between the four of us.”
“If he asks me then I shall accept,” Dorcas patted Marlene on the knee, before allowing her hand to linger there momentarily, “and I shall enquire after a companion for you, so that all four of us may go on undisturbed.” She shot a look over to Sirius. “At least you may be happy no matter whom you are married off to.”
Sirius waved a hand dismissively. “I fear I shall never be happy so long as I am wed. I wasn’t made for this life – the parties, maybe – but I was not born to marry, and certainly not to father children.” He allowed his hands to rest on his stomach and continued to speak to the ceiling. “I believe that the Lord in His infinite wisdom placed me upon His green earth to have fun, and to thoroughly debase myself in the process; that is what I intend to do if you ladies would care to join me?”
“Well, if it’s debauchery you’re after, I might have just the thing,” Marlene said, leaning forward conspiratorially with a twinkle in her eye. Her breath caught in her mouth as Dorcas stilled her with a hand upon one knee, glancing over one shoulder as Kreacher bustled into the room, a willow-patterned china tea set balanced in his arms. The man’s movements were quick and sharp, his footsteps barely audible on the house’s ancient carpets; he was efficient, Sirius would give him that much, watching as he layout the cups before his guests and filled each with a generous portion of dark tea (over-steeped, typically, and no doubt bitter beyond belief) before retreating again from the room.
“Rather the silent type, your butler,” Dorcas commented lightly, taking a sip of her tea before sifting in a generous helping of sugar with the silver spoon provided.
Sirius declined to touch his own cup of tea – he was far too familiar with Kreacher’s culinary skills to risk that – but propped himself up on one elbow so he could watch while his companions struggled through their own drinks. “One of the many things he does well,” Sirius said, knowing the odds were good that his manservant was currently listening just outside the door, and taking care not to let the smirk he was wearing creep into his voice. “Although, I’m not entirely sure he’s a butler. Jack of many trades, perhaps; he’s been with the family since my grandfather’s time, God rest his soul,” Sirius murmured, rolling his eyes. His grandfather, Pollux, had been a terrible man by all accounts, including his own. “Anyway – Marlene – you were saying?”
“Ah, yes,” Marlene said, taking a deep draught of her tea without so much as wincing, “I trust you to manage your own ‘fun’, as you put it,” – here she paused, fixing him with a gaze that spoke of far too much knowledge of his personal habits – “but if you’re so inclined, I have been organising a small get-together of friends and acquaintances tonight at the townhouse.”
“Your company would certainly liven things up, given the current state of the guest list,” Dorcas added, with a sly glance to Marlene that was met and rebuffed by a single arched eyebrow. “By which, of course, I mean to say that she has neglected to invite anyone.”
Sirius found himself smirking, curling his lip up as he contemplated the situation. Yet another social occasion of the season that readily relied upon his presence – well, it was only natural. “I graciously accept your offer of the company. Will you be providing the entertainment, or do I have to seek out Mr. Rosier again myself?”
Marlene scoffed. “You should know me well enough by now that I would not host such a sordid party.” She rolled her chestnut eyes exaggeratedly toward the ceiling, before chancing a glance at Dorcas, who returned the look tenfold. “We were actually planning a suite of activities far more befitting of the season.”
Sirius’s brow furrowed as he contemplated Marlene’s words. “Have you not heard, my dear friend, that there is no season to be had at the current time?”
“Oh, thank you for the clarification, sir, for my feminine wrists are much too weak to turn the hefty pages of the Morning Chronicle , and a newspaper has never graced my palm so long as I have lived.” Marlene’s voice was flat and laden with her trademarked sarcasm. Dorcas gave a laugh next to her. “The constant chill in the air puts images of the autumn in one’s head, don’t you think? And of Allhallowtide?”
Sirius tutted, leaning back in his chaise once more. “I shall not be carving turnips with you if that is what you should want.”
“Of course not,” Dorcas sounded as though her pride was wounded, “the very idea bores me. We have a far more interesting proposition.”
Sirius remained horizontal, but allowed his eyes to fall upon the dark-haired woman, a brow arched upward. “Go on.”
Dorcas sat up a little straighter in her seat, a sly smile painting itself upon her lips. “We are looking to summon a spirit of the other world – a demonic being.” Her eyes swam with promise.
Sirius sat bolt upright, and grinned.
***
The house in Hell Corner, set back a street from Kensington Square and with views across the countryside towards Brompton, wasn’t what Sirius would call spacious: narrower than Grimmauld Place, darker, with smaller windows and lower ceilings. Despite that, it was still adequate to host a properly sized soirée, which seemed to be what Dorcas had prepared for. Laid out in the parlour was china enough to serve tea for twenty, beside a piano in desperate want of a player. In the kitchen, the ladies’ cook had left a glazed ham hock to keep warm in the oven, and selected three bottles of wine from the cellar, before turning in for the night.
“And you really didn’t invite anyone?” Dorcas said with a sigh, lifting the ham onto the side table where it could rest.
Marlene rolled her eyes in Sirius’s direction. “Have I mentioned how sorry I am? Besides, I did extend a few invitations,” she said defensively, “but Alice is at the opera with Mr. Longbottom, Mr. Dearborn is away on business, and Miss Vance cannot abide the chill after sunset. So I am afraid, my dear, that it shall be just the three of us.” The excuses seemed to work; Dorcas offered Marlene one of those small smiles that so often passed between them, the one that seemed to hold a hundred words, and all was forgiven.
Sirius busied himself inspecting the wine on offer, trying to find the best vintage. “Not to force you, ladies, into hastiness,” he said over his shoulder, “but I was promised occult rituals tonight, and I shan’t be leaving without one.”
There was a fervent glint in Dorcas’s eye as she led the way upstairs, into the first-floor drawing-room. Sirius, having never been invited beyond their parlour before, attempted to be surreptitious in his observations. The desk in one corner was littered with scraps of paper and folded letters which surrounded a vase of fresh-cut violets, while one wall of the room had been entirely consumed by stacks of books, some of which were wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with string.
Dorcas reached up, stretching up on the tips of her toes, to take a volume from a shelf above a ghastly portrait which bore so little resemblance to either of the ladies that Sirius was forced to believe it was some obscure relative, or perhaps the house’s previous proprietor. She brushed the cover – worn old leather – and flipped it open.
“The ritual I have been contemplating is in this volume, though I have a few options.” Dorcas waved a hand in dismissal toward the shelves behind her, all without taking her eyes from the page in front of her. She dragged a bony finger down the paper delicately. “There are a few for binding lesser demons, though I know you’ve always opted for a little more glamour, Mr. Black.”
Dorcas lifted an eyebrow in Sirius’s direction, and he returned it. “I’m listening.”
“A Prince,” she paused, looking back down at her book and turning a page with nonchalance, “of Hell.”
He almost found himself laughing. If it had been anyone else who had spoken he would have, but over the years they had known each other he had grown to respect Dorcas too much to embarrass her so. Instead, Sirius forced a look of interest on his face and made an inquiry.
“How is it that you come to know so much of the occult? Are such matters not illegal, after all?”
Dorcas looked up from her page, that eyebrow arched once more and frowned at the man. “A decade, we have known one another, and you still have no idea what pays for these rooms?”
Sirius lifted his shoulders in a shrug and slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. If he was honest, Sirius had assumed that Marlene and Dorcas were subject to the same parentally ordered house arrest as he was – confined to the family townhouse until he found a suitable partner and were allowed to retire to the country manor. It seemed the reality had escaped him. Sirius had not even known that Dorcas earned her own money.
How modern.
“Surely Miss McKinnon simply frightened the landlord into surrendering Hell Corner to you in its entirety?” He glanced at the named woman as he spoke, a smile on his lips to sweeten the mocking. She contorted her face into the most unladylike expression she could muster, before pushing her way past Sirius into the room, letting out a loud, heavy breath.
“Dorcas runs a little business communing with the other world and such like,” Marlene responded as if this were not entirely ridiculous, “and I had been led to believe that you did not place much stock in the law anyway, Mr. Black – or am I mistaken?” She arched an eyebrow, as though daring him to make some jape.
Sirius thought it might be wise not to make a mockery, and, for once, kept his mouth firmly closed. Though he did have several questions he would have liked to voice.
“If the two of you are quite finished,” she said as she waved the book tantalisingly in the air, “we have a ritual to prepare for.”
“Well, if you’ll be needing a virgin we may need to expand the guest list.” Sirius drawled as he stood to one side, allowing the ladies to pass him and begin their descent of the stairs.
Dorcas scoffed, placing a delicate hand upon the banister as she walked. “If you’ll elevate your mind from the typical base filth that occupies it, you’ll find that in this context, ‘ virgin blood ’ signifies that the donor has not participated in such a ritual before.”
Sirius rolled his eyes as they reached the bottom of the staircase, and followed the women into their drawing-room. An oddly patterned tea set was arranged within a large cabinet against the far wall, which displayed, in addition, the spines of several volumes written in arcane runes that Sirius had never seen before. A fire was already burning low in the grate, shedding precious little light into the room; Marlene set about lighting the candlesticks which bordered the round, mahogany table and chairs. There were far more lights than were strictly necessary, but Sirius had to admit that it gave the room a mystical atmosphere that was most pleasing.
Dorcas busied herself in the drawers of the cabinet that held her teacup collection, withdrawing from within a bowl of beaten bronze, a narrow rod of charcoal, and a miniature silver bell, all of which she laid upon the table. Meanwhile, Sirius helped himself to one of the chairs, letting an arm drape languidly over the side. The fireplace stood opposite him, and his eye was drawn to the mirror that hung above it: long and oval, set in an ornate, gilt frame, with a veil of black chiffon rucked up over the top of it, ready to be pulled down to obscure the reflection.
“My friends, if we are to spend our evening searching for our future spouses in that mirror of yours, I shall be sorely disappointed,” Sirius sighed, rolling his neck back and looking up to the ornate chandelier which hung above them, “are you entirely certain that we should not need to invite a few more guests?” Sirius quirked an eyebrow, his lips forming a sly smirk.
“While we are not in the market for virginal blood – not by your definition, leastways – we will be needing a sacrifice of some description,” Dorcas stated, her voice as calm as if she were simply turning down some poor man’s proposal or commenting on the state of the weather. She did not look up from the book she had placed down upon the table.
Marlene sat up a little straighter in her seat, clearly attempting not to look ruffled. “Well, it cannot be me, for I fear that letting my blood would foul my complexion for tomorrow’s ball.”
Dorcas opened her mouth to speak, but Sirius cut across her.
“Fear not, my dear friends, this is clearly a job for someone with an impressive repertoire of sin.” Sirius leaned an elbow on the mahogany, resting his chin upon his palm, letting a caddish grin spread across his lips in an attempt to conceal the twist of anxiety that had begun to manifest in the pit of his stomach. Marlene’s eyes flickered over to him, a second of concern that she quickly quelled before Dorcas could notice.
“If you’re certain,” Dorcas said, reaching under the table, “you’ll need this.” In her hand, she held a small knife, its blade barely longer than Sirius’s little finger. He took it from her, his grip tentative despite his best efforts. “Just a prick to the tip of your finger, when I tell you,” she said, pressing the pages of her book open to get a better look at the array of obscure glyphs printed there. She pulled the brass bowl towards her and, with the charcoal, traced out an intricate sigil in its bottom; Sirius watched as she copied the lines and circles, the swirls and angles, each movement far too sure for this to be her first time doing so.
“What demon will this summon?” Marlene asked, leaning over the table to get a better look at her companion’s work.
“Beyond a Prince of Hell? The book doesn’t specify,” Dorcas muttered, not lifting her eyes from the page, as though this weren’t a dire pronouncement. Seeming to realise the weight of her words after a few moments of silence, she continued. “Not that there’s any danger. Summoning a demon entails binding it; we will be perfectly safe.”
Was it too late to back out? Probably; Sirius swallowed his cowardice. This would never work, anyway; in all likelihood, Dorcas was planning some conjurer’s trick to scare him witless. He’d not give her the satisfaction.
“Now, the blood,” Dorcas murmured, reaching out to take Sirius’s right hand and holding it over the bowl, “just a drop,” she reminded him. He pressed the blade to the tip of his finger, grimacing and hissing through his teeth as the metal slipped through his skin as though through butter. A bead of red blossomed on his fingertip, glimmering in the candlelight, and his eyes followed it as it fell onto the brass below.
He remembered to breathe.
Dorcas wet her fingertips between her lips, reaching across the table to snuff out the candle to Marlene’s right. “By ancient Lilith,” she declared, voice clear, as the flame died between her fingers. “By grim Ammut,” she continued, snuffing the next candle along. “Nisroch and Belial, Pazuzu, Humbaba; Isis and Osiris, fierce Beelzebub, foul Kishi, ice-bound Sedna.” With each name declared, another candle extinguished, until only a single flame remained, directly before Sirius. “By moon-blessed Hecate.”
Darkness descended. The plum velvet curtains shut out all light that might enter through the window; the gas lamp in the hallway seemed not to dare creep beneath the door. The red coals in the fireplace provided just enough illumination for Sirius to watch as Dorcas lifted the silver bell in her hand, and rang it once. “Lord of Hell, we call you forth.”
Sirius heard Marlene’s breath hitch to his left; Dorcas’s hand clenched around his own. The rush of blood roared in his ears as a moment passed in darkness, then another, and another. Nothing happened.
He was about to say as much when his eyes caught on something in the mirror. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, his mind making a fool of him. But there, in the reflection, clearer by the second: a shadow.
***
There had been more lost souls of late than during a typical summer, not that that was anything for Remus to complain about.
The lesser beings cowered at his feet as they delivered the offerings – the souls who had wandered too far from the paths, down the alleys and snickets where his subjects waited. He had heard whisperings from them that the air was colder – a chill had befallen the Overworld that had stuck in the air like a fly in syrup, and it was delicious. People were starving, their crops dead, killed by the smoke and fire from the mountain – or so the tales went.
Remus was not interested in the particulars about it all. He just unhinged his jaw and devoured their swollen bellies, another offering from his adoring public.
Being a Prince of Hell surely had its perks.
That wasn’t to say that he had not worked for all that he had. All those centuries of underling work, carrying and delivering souls to the King had gotten him to this point, where he was valued and feared above all others. One day, he too may rise in the ranks, if only he had reason to devour his master. That was still above him, however. For the time being.
The moon hung large and red in the sky always, and always he felt it charge him, along with those souls he was delivered to consume. There were no seasons here, no days or years. Time simply passed, and didn’t, simultaneously. Remus had tried to follow the passage of the Overworld’s centuries in order to keep track of how long he had been alive, but it was impossible to follow. Time streams tangled and knotted like wires behind a television; he still remembered the discovery of flame, the invention of the steam engine, and the advent of TikTok, and they had all happened at once. The tiny souls that came from Above fascinated him, but only enough to allow him a few moments’ pauses to play with his food.
He had been brought a feast this one night – he assumed it to be nighttime, though one could never tell, for there was no sun. A family cowered before him, their clothes were ragged and stained. Poor. Probably dead of malnourishment, or perhaps something more interesting. Their eyes fell upon his face, bright and shining like beetles under the moonlight. They looked just as everyone did when they saw him – petrified.
What language they or he spoke did not matter, for all could understand him when he chose. “From where do you hail?” He used a voice he knew would not, at least, reduce their minds to liquid. He was merciful, after all.
They were still cowering, and the two children looked to their mother with fear. Remus gave himself a visage with eyes so that he might roll them.
“After all, they do say that one should know where one’s food comes from before they eat it, do they not?” He attempted a chuckle, before realising as they grasped their ears that the sound would send them insane. Ah, well. They weren’t giving him much anyway.
He gave himself an arm so that he might pick up the runt, and inspected it with his new eyes. Skinny, but that swollen stomach characteristic of hunger was present. Delicious. He opened what one might call his mouth and dropped the runt in, crunching down upon the bones with sharp teeth, cutting off the scream. The others were making quite the racket as he did, attempting to run from him and save themselves from the very same fate.
So it was to be a hunt? Oh, Remus thought to himself as he prepared for the chase, this should be fun.
He pounced but found himself hooked back as if some fool had caught his ankle in a trap. There was a strange pull from behind where his navel might have been, had he had one in this form, and he could hear a voice – soft, feminine – recounting some ancient gibberish. It was giving him the equivalent of a headache when one did not have a head.
He felt as if he were trapped in a vice, his body being pressed and squeezed like a piece of rotting fruit. He was being forced down into some grotesque approximation of himself; some small, pathetic creature, dull and weak. The darkness that always surrounded him became cold and alien, and a dim red light hit his newly minuscule body.
The light of the moon was gone, replaced only by an ember.
***
Were it not for Dorcas’s grip on his hand, now vice-tight, Sirius might have thought himself alone in the room with this… with what? In the dim firelight, he could make out a tall form, broad shoulders, a hint of a jawline traced in red, and two eyes that burned with malice, sunken into pools of shadow. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from Dorcas’s ‘Prince of Hell’, but this was hardly a monstrous visage. The shadowy figure seemed nothing more than a man. And a skinny one at that.
The disappointment wore off in seconds. It had worked , actually worked. Sirius’s mouth worked fruitlessly, trying to produce some words, even an exclamation of shock would do, but no sound was forthcoming. He could only sit there, agape and aghast, paralysed as the figure reached out towards him across the table. A hand closed around his upper arm, burning-hot through the fabric of his shirt, accompanied by the feeling of falling as his surroundings lurched into total darkness.
