Page 6 of Dead Beat

Darlington was bracing her with his arms, keeping her from falling forward. They were both on their knees on the floor of the room of a baby who had never been a baby and who would never grow to be a child. Janie Keep lay shuddering in the corner, weeping, rocking back and forth.

Alex could feel herself shaking, her teeth chattering. She wanted to lean into Darlington’s body, to be comforted, to be reassured. She wanted to swallow his goodness and let it infect her with some noble sense of purpose she could cling to. She thought of the Christmas morning she’d spent at Il Bastone, the only good Christmas she could remember. She thought of the smell of pine boughs and the piles of pancakes Dawes had made, of Darlington in his coat and pajamas shoveling snow off the walk. Life. Comfort. Safety. She just wanted to keep a bit more of it for herself, something good and real to hold on to when her time was finally up.

Death was waiting. She just needed it to wait a little longer.

The Voynich Coffin

Salt from Zipaquirá; paper pulp

Provenance: Lethe; contemporary

Coffin is, of course, a misnomer. To the best of our knowledge demons cannot be killed until they have fully taken on the form of a host, becoming what folklore would describe as a vampire. Even then, both literature and limited experience indicate they’re challenging to permanently destroy. However, their affinity for puzzles does make them relatively easy to trap.

The Voynich Coffin was created using the digitized pages of the legendary manuscript, methodically stamping them into sheaf after sheaf of salt paper, folding corner after corner to create what might be best described as an origami labyrinth. The walls were bound using a variation on an enchantment created by Michael McGovern (’63) in his third year as Dante and as a means of protecting society rituals which explicitly called for the invocation of demons. It’s worth noting that McGovern seems to have plagiarized the bulk of this ritual from the work of the Count of St. Germain, a source whom he failed to credit.

—from the Lethe Armory Catalogue as revised and edited by Pamela Dawes, Oculus

3

When they arrived at Il Bastone, Dawes had a fire burning in the parlor grate and big pot of pastina simmering on the stove. The house gave a disapproving little shudder as they entered, the crystals in the chandelier tinkling above. “I’m okay,” Alex whispered, laying a hand on the post as they passed through the front door, though she wasn’t entirely sure that was true.

Tripp was setting the table, bundled into what he called the Salton Suit but which was really more of a cross between a shroud and a straitjacket that was laced with salt and bound with containment incantations. It left him covered in boils, but it was the only way Il Bastone would let him past the stoop, and much like the human he’d been, Not Tripp didn’t like to feel left out. He had moved to a small apartment across the street where he’d happily nested with his big-screen TV and recliner and a bizarre assortment of family photographs and sailing memorabilia. Their rules were simple: no preying on humans, no solo field trips in case of temptation. Alex had assumed Tripp would get bored and restless, but he seemed content to watch an endless stream of YouTube videos and play sous-chef to Dawes.

“He’s lazy,” Turner had said contemptuously.

“He’s lonely,” Dawes had shot back. “And he can’t go home because he’s a demon now. He just needs … purpose.”

Alex was glad Tripp was low on energy and ambition. It made him easier to manage.

Dawes bundled Alex into the butter-yellow crocheted blanket her sister in Westport had sent for the holidays, then settled her at the dining room table with a bowl of soup and a big glass of what she said was Sancerre. Soup made from scratch helped to offset contact with the demonic. Wine helped offset Alex’s desire to set fire to all of New Haven then steal a car and watch it burn in her rearview mirror.

Darlington shrugged his coat from his shoulders and placed the Voynich Coffin on the table. Dawes slapped Tripp’s hand as he reached for it.

“Sorry,” Tripp said. “My bad.”

“Do you want to end up stuck in there?” Dawes demanded.

Turner finished brushing the damp off his parka. “I can think of worse places for him.”

“It isn’t straight,” said Tripp, squinting at the puzzle box and holding up his fingers as if he were lining up the sights of a rifle.

Alex made herself look, then look again. “Damn. He’s right.”

“It’s fine,” Turner said, but then he frowned and sat down hard. “The angles aren’t ninety degrees anymore.”

Dawes hovered by the table, a plate of grilled bread in her hands. “Does that … Is it losing its structure?”

“Possibly,” Darlington replied. He leaned back in his chair, the picture of ease despite the night’s events. Every sign of the demon had disappeared, and he was once more the golden boy of Lethe, a gentleman who frequently went to war with monsters and occasionally became one himself. “We’ve crammed twenty-two demons of varying forms and appetites into an untested magical object. And we have no idea what they might be getting up to in there.”

Alex rubbed her eyes, fighting her fatigue. Maybe setting fire to the city was the way to go. She had pictured the Voynich Coffin as a kind of salt prison where each demon was contained in a cell, locked into its fascination for a puzzle that couldn’t be solved. She hadn’t imagined them all meeting up in the yard for a smoke and a chat.

“You’re saying we have twenty-two hellish fiends planning a prison break?” Alex asked.

Darlington shrugged. “Maybe they’ll settle for a riot.”

“Comforting,” Turner said. Carefully, he lifted the coffin from the table and returned it to the lead-lined case they kept in a linen closet on the other side of Il Bastone. They were in uncertain territory, and if something did go wrong and the coffin gave way, no one wanted it anywhere near the treasures of the armory or the gas line in the kitchen.

“We can’t go on like this,” he said when he returned. “We’re on borrowed time with that thing.”