The knocker was a brass rendition of an imp, a heavy ring clutched between its bared teeth. Jakob’s mouth twisted in distaste.
“What is the point of trumpeting one’s depravity?” Sam wondered as Jakob pounded on the door so hard the window glass rattled in its frames. “It seems counterproductive.”
If Sam were dealing with the Devil, she wouldn’t advertise it. Better to be the picture of innocence, so that everyone would underestimate you and let you into their confidences. From there, you could do as you liked.
“At least it’s honest,” Hel said, with an edge to her words. Sam gave her a sharp look.
“Just because you’re not spilling all your secrets doesn’t mean you’re dishonest,” Sam retorted tartly. “Trust can’t exist if nothing’s left to it.”
“It’s called lying by omission,” Hel said.
“Bishop!” Jakob pounded on the door again, as much, Sam suspected, to stop them bickering as to summon the man in question.
At last there was a clatter of books, and the sound of glass shattering. This was followed by what sounded like cursing in several languages?—Sam thought she recognized Aramaic, Phoenician, and... Italian??—and the unlatching of a prodigious number of locks.
Until at last, the door cracked open. Crows burst from the door in a shadowy torrent. Sam cried out as their wings battered against her, claws scrabbling, but even as she raised her arms, they were gone, as if they’d never been.
In their place, Éamonn Bishop lounged in the doorway?—there was no other word for what he was doing?—in an exquisite crimson dressing gown patterned with black leaves. It had a gold silk lining, which Sam knew because it wasn’t closed. It hung there like a dare, along with the rest of him.
Sam averted her eyes, horribly embarrassed for him. Hel stared right at him, flat challenge in her gaze.
“What can I do for”?—Mr. Bishop raised an eyebrow?—“all three of you? Well, how unexpectedly adventurous of you. Perhaps you’re worth more of my time than I thought.”
Jakob made a sound of disgust. “Cover up, man, there are ladies present.”
“Oh. I see. How disappointing.” Mr. Bishop held Jakob’s gaze as he looped the belt of his robe loosely around him. Despite his posturing, Mr. Bishop had seen better days. He flinched from the light, the skin beneath his eyes bruised, and his nails looked ragged. “What are you here for, then, if not for me?”
Hel put a hand on the doorframe. “You’ll want to invite us in for this.”
“Will I?” Bishop said, looking bemused. “How vampiric of you. Well then, if you say so.” He backed away from the door, before turning and picking up a delicate glass of absinthe from a crumbling grotesque that looked as if it might have been stolen from a cathedral somewhere, leaving them to follow him inside.
He led them to what in any other house would be the parlor. Sam dizzied as they stepped over the threshold, the song going dead silent. She caught herself against the wall and saw arcane sigils between her fingers. Craning her head back, she followed their scrawl over the walls?—words written over and over again, in a dozen different tongues, until their tangled letters bristled like thorns. An attempt to trap something inside? Or keep something out. Sam trembled, brushing her hands over her arms. She couldn’t channel. Something about the sigils had stripped it from her, leaving her feeling oddly naked.
The scent of ashes rose from a cold grey hearth that had been shaped like a green man’s head, giving the appearance of a devilish creature swallowing the flames. Black crepe hung over the brass mirrors, and the corners burned with candelabras. An oil painting dominated the room, depicting a man in agony as he was torn to shreds by reveling women.
Mr. Bishop sprawled unceremoniously on a red brocade sofa with rather less stuffing and more tears than Sam had thought were strictly usual amidst the uncomfortably wealthy. It was the feathers, she realized with slow creeping horror. He’d removed all the feathers. The walls seemed to have great rents in them, too, as if something monstrous had gotten loose, as if it had torn apart the walls in its attempt to escape.
Mr. Bishop gestured to the deflated sofa across from him. None of them sat. He didn’t appear to notice.
“So.” Mr. Bishop yawned, hooking his arms behind the dark wood frame of the sofa. “What brings you to my doorstep on this obscenely gorgeous autumn afternoon, if not for entertainment? Let me guess, you decided to sell your soul, and you’re looking for instruction? No, worse?—you were tricked into a deal with the Devil, and now you must find your way out of it? Am I close?”
Jakob frowned. “What in God’s name happened to your walls?”
“Oh, he has critiques,” Mr. Bishop said, examining his nails. “How wonderful. So glad you woke me up for this. A round of applause for?—who are you again?”
“It’s the middle of the day,” Jakob said, offended on principal. “And it’s a valid critique. This is not?—it’s not...normal.”
“Said like a man who believes normal is something to aspire to,” Mr. Bishop said. “Instead of an embarrassing deficiency of imagination.”
“This?—it’s not a design choice!” Jakob said, words failing him as he struggled to keep up with Mr. Bishop’s nimble parries. “It’sdamageto your house. It’s?—”
“Van Helsing,” Hel cut him off. “Stop biting every baited hook.”
Mr. Bishop smiled lazily.
“I just want to know what happened to his walls,” Jakob said, sounding exasperated. “It’s a good question. A normal question. A question anyone coming in here would ask.”
“Hehappened to them,” Hel said.
