Poe must die

THIRTY-NINE

An angry hugh Larney, backed by Thor and two more men, stood in the snow on the sidewalk in front of Rachel Coltman’s mansion. He drew his ermine trimmed cloak tighter around his small, elegantly dressed body and aimed his pointed chin at Poe, who stood alone at the top of the gray stone stairs leading into the mansion.

“I will have the girl, Poe. Hear me well on this. For the last time, I order you to stand aside.”

“I will not stand aside, Hugh Larney. You have been refused entrance into this house and that refusal will not be withdrawn.”

“As usual, you go far beyond yourself. I cannot have you oppose me. I cannot and I will not.”

“Since I do not utter your name in my prayers, know that I oppose you in all things.” Poe shivered. Fear. And the cold. And as always, from the excitement he felt when near to violence.

Where was Figg? He was supposed to have returned early this morning, but it was almost noon and he had not shown. Was he alive? Dead? Lying wounded in some vile grog shop, the victim of Jonathan’s minions?

“The child is mine whenever I choose, Mister Poe and I so choose now.”

Hugh Larney looked at the men with him. Thor and two others. More than enough to wipe something as insignificant as Edgar Allan Poe from the face of the earth and at the moment that was exactly what Hugh Larney was strongly inclined to do. Last night, Thor had returned with the news that Poe, assisted by his friend with the face of a ravaged bulldog, had removed Dearborn Lapham from Wade Bruenhausen, leaving the Dutchman with hands containing holes where God had made none.

Thor had murdered the doctor but that news did not affect Larney as much as hearing that Poe, Poe had Dearborn. Hugh Larney took no such blow from any man, particularly from a man such as Poe, who spent more time lying facedown in gutters than he did standing on his feet. Larney’s stables were cleaned with better rags than the clothes Poe wore. Poe was a thing to be stepped on, not knelt to.

“For the last time, Mr. Poe, will you stand aside and allow us to enter?”

“No.”

“Then the consequences be on your head, and let me say, I relish this fact, sir. I most certainly relish it.”

“As you did the death of your friend, Miles Standish?”

Larney moved his tiny mouth in circles. Poe’s query was leading to something. Larney was uneasy.

Poe clenched his fists to keep them from shaking. He wore neither greatcoat nor suit jacket. When told by a servant that Hugh Larney was at the front door, he had rushed from the study his mind clouded by the desire to protect Rachel. The last time men had pushed their way into her home, it had resulted in a terrifying ordeal for her, one from which she had not recovered. Poe was not going to let that happen again. Not so long as there was breath in his body.

Where was Figg?

Poe stepped down, slowly walking towards Larney. A foolhardy act, perhaps, but Poe was a man of pride, of strong loyalties, particularly towards women and at the moment he saw himself as Rachel’s only protection.

“Tell me, Hugh Larney, where has Jonathan taken the body of Justin Coltman?” Poe continued his slow walk down the stairs, his fear a slithering icy mass within his stomach.

The smile passed swiftly across Larney’s face. “I see the game now. I do see the game. You hold the child and lure me to you in hopes that I give you the information about-”

He paused, then smiled once more. “Thor will answer all of your questions, Mr. Poe.”

Poe was now on the sidewalk directly in front of Larney and without warning, he slapped Larney in the face.

The act caught everyone by surprise. Including Poe, who was almost unable to breathe because of the excitement.

Figg where are you?

The strains of a piano came from a nearby home. A horse-drawn ice wagon pulled away from the house next door and overhead, birds huddled together for warmth on the wires of telegraph poles.

Larney, his face red where Poe had struck him, spoke in a barely audible voice. “Do you realize what you have done?”

“I–I have challenged you to a duel.” Poe kept his eyes closed.

He heard Larney say,” And the choice of weapons is mine. I do also take it upon myself to declare time and place. I prefer the combat to take place here and now and I choose as a weapon-Thor!”

Poe opened his eyes. Wide.

“Thor, Mr. Poe. And so you lose, as always, sir.”

Poe looked up at the towering Negro, whose smile covered almost the entire bottom half of his round, black face.

Thor’s grin was malevolent. “Lit-tul mon, you and me is goin’ to-”

“A moment if you please!”

Figg strolled towards them, as always favoring his lame right leg. Behind him, Titus Bootham, in tiny round spectacles and grizzly fur coat, climbed from a carriage. Another man waited in the carriage for Bootham to step clear.

“Ain’t goin’ to be no duelin’ with Mr. Poe,” growled Figg. He stopped, his right hand taking the black pistol box from under his left armpit.

Hugh Larney’s voice became more arch, more British. He began using his hands to talk, his wrists going limp. His gloves were gray, handmade, expensive.

“Mr. Poe has often claimed to be a man of honor, a Virginian aristocrat, though one finds it difficult to see how such lineage falls in line with being born of travelling players. It is a fact that dueling is frowned upon, but it is also a fact that it is an almost daily occurrence among men of honor. I repeat, among men of honor. No man of honor backs down from a challenge. It reflects poorly upon himself, upon his lady, who must of course suffer his lack of courage, I would trust. As Mrs. Poe’s friend, you ah Mr., Mr.-”

“You know the name, mate.”

“Yes. Figg, was it not?”

“Was and is. And you would be Mr. Hugh Larney, the man ’oo pleasures hisself with little girls.”

Larney bowed. Thor’s back was to Poe, his widely spaced eyes on Figg. The two fighters locked eyes.

Poe seemed crushed. His eyes were on the ground, as though seeing his sad life pass before his eyes. Challenging Hugh Larney had been an impulsive act, one born of pride, ignorance, an unholy attraction for violence. He was no warrior and pride was not enough to save his life this time. Not this time. And he did so want to live now. There was Rachel and there was the future and Poe wanted to live.

He looked up, eyes on the gray clouds high above him. “I am a man of honor, sir. I will not subject myself or Mrs. Coltman to ridicule, particularly by such a relentlessly mediocre organism as yourself, sir.”

Larney flinched, his nostrils flaring.

Figg said, “The blackamoor ’ere will thrash you into a red ruin. Look at ’im. Tall as a tree, ’e is, and ’e enjoys ’urtin’ people, don’t you Mr. Thor?”

The Negro’s smile was sly. “Ah only does what Master Larney say fo’ me to do.”

“I jes’ bet you do, mate. Well now, why don’t we all say ’ello to this ’ere gent what’s a policeman. ’E’s ’ere to ask Mrs. Coltman about her doctor, what got ’isself murdered last night.”

Poe looked quickly at Figg, who continued. “Murdered, ‘e was. Face all beat in, neck broke. ’Orrible mess, it was.”

“Quel tragique.” Hugh Larney’s eyes went to Thor, then looked away.

“Sergeant Tully is me name and I am here to talk with the lady.” Tully was Irish, a gruff, round man in a brown cloth coat that reached down to the snow. He had a walrus mustache on a red face and kept one hand on his tall top hat as if afraid it would be stolen or driven away by the wind. “I do me talkin’ inside.”

He went on ahead, climbing the stairs, one hand on the railing, the other on his top hat.

Figg said, “Since ‘e’s a copper, I think it best there be no trouble inside the home of Mrs. Coltman. Is that not a wise way of lookin’ at matters, Mr. Larney?”

Larney said nothing. He continued to move his mouth in tiny circles. He was still in control of the situation. Or was he?

Figg said to Poe, “Spent the mornin’ with Mr. Bootham ‘ere. ‘E gets told about the murder of the doctor, Mr. Bootham bein’ a newspaper writer and all. When I hears it was Mrs. Coltman’s doctor what got hisself kilt, I says to meself you best see what is what, so’s you can tell Mr. Poe and ‘e can do some thinkin’ on it. You look to catch yer death of cold out ‘ere. Inside with you, Mr. Poe.”

Larney said, “Mr. Poe and I have business, or is Mr. Poe’s honor a thing of the past. All that concerns him seems to be a thing of the past.”

A shivering Poe said, “The duel shall pro-proceed, sir. I request t-time, for it is not in the dueling code that you alone set time and p-place. Time, sir. I–I shall face your weapon.” He looked at Thor.

Poe drew himself up as tall as he could stand. Dear God, if only he could stop this trembling.

“Dear me,” said Larney, smirking at Poe. “Such bravado. Mrs. Coltman is blessed beyond belief. If only she knew how much. Or cared.”

Poe, coughing into his fist, snapped his head up at Larney, who said, “Very well. Time. One day, two, three? How many?”

“Tomorrow, the next day, the following-” Poe’s coughing became severe.

Larney gently laid a hand on Poe’s arm. “Do take the time to find a handkerchief. Say six days from now. I have guests arriving from Europe then and they do so enjoy native amusements. Perhaps on that day you will decide to crawl and beg-”

Poe spat in his face.

Larney almost lost his balance leaning backward. Thor caught him, then glared at Poe.

Figg had the pistol box open, his hand inside. His eyes took in Larney and all of Larney’s men. “Now nobody do nothin’ sudden ‘cause there is an American policeman inside with Mrs. Coltman and if somethin’ ’appens out ’ere, we are all in a spot of trouble.”

Poe was close to fainting. The cold. The coughing. His poor health. The excitement. But he stood on his feet, gray eyes boring into Hugh Larney.

“I shall die, sir, before retracting anything I have said to you today or any other day.”

“And so you shall,” Larney wiped spittle from the side of his face. “And so you shall die, you sniveling little excuse for a man. Thor will grant your death wish, which you have labored under for oh too long, sir. Your wish will be granted. And I shall have the child. Together she and I will look down upon your grave and-”

Figg said, “Mr. Larney.”

“Keep out of this, Englishman!”

“But I’m in it, mate.”

“As a second, perhaps, not-”

“As a fighter, Mr. Larney. As a fighter.”

Larney’s jaw dropped.

“Mr. Poe, ’e ain’t no fighter and you bloody well know it. You picked yer weapon, now ‘e picks ‘is. ‘E picks me.”

“Mr. Figg, Mr. Figg-” Poe gripped Figg’s arm and then the world around Poe began to spin and blood ran from his mouth and he slid down towards the snow.

Figg caught him, held him in both arms and stared down at him for long seconds. Without looking at Larney, the boxer said, “’E ain’t fightin’. Mr. Bootham?”

“Yes Mr. Figg?”

“I would be pleased if you would be my second. You have jes’ ’eard us speak of the duel. It will be boxin’ between me and Mr. Larney’s man ’ere. Kindly speak to Mr. Larney about the details of time, place, conditions.”

Figg looked at Larney. “Yer man beats me, you gets the child. You try and take ’er before the duel and somebody will die and the police will know more than we wants ‘em to know.”

Larney nodded. “I look forward to it, sir. It shall be a pleasant interlude for me.”

“If I win, mate, it won’t be. I am comin’ fer you then and when I ’ave you, there will be nothin’ on earth to stop me from makin’ you tell me what I wants to know and we need say no more about that, do we?”

Larney, cold fear trickling into his brain, nodded once more.

Inside the mansion, Poe said, ‘It occurs to me, Mr. Figg that in six days, Jonathan concludes his evil quest. You fight on the day that could be Jonathan’s biggest triumph.”

“It is the night time we ‘ave to fear, squire. If I remembers correctly, ‘e will not ‘ave ‘is way before midnight. We ‘ave until then.”

The two men were alone in the marble foyer. A tall grandfather clock ticked away the minutes.

Poe said, “I am grateful, Mr. Figg, for your offer.” He coughed, spitting blood into his fist.

“Squire, you best clean up a bit before seein’ the lady.”

Poe looked up towards the second floor. “Yes. I assume Sergeant Tully is with her now. I must go to her.” He looked at Figg. “I shall deem it an honor, sir, if you allow me to be with you on that day.”

Figg sat down in a chair near the entrance to a small bedroom. “Thankin’ you muchly, Mr. Poe. Been a while since I been in a prize ring. Ain’t set foot in one for seven years, not since me leg. I am forty-eight now and I have been a teacher of the science, a bodyguard to those who could afford it but the ring, well, squire, that is another world. Another world, indeed.”

“Bootham will be of great assistance and I should suppose he will rally the English contingent around you.”

“I believe so, squire. Well get you gone and wipe the red away before comin’ upon her lady.”

Halfway up the winding, white marble staircase, Poe stopped and turned to stare down at Figg who sat alone with only the tick of the clock for company, the black pistol box on his lap, his tall top hat resting on the box.

For seconds, the two stared silently at one another and Poe bowed his head in a gesture of respect, something he had not done in the presence of another man for more years than he could remember.

Figg, who sat with an almost regal presence, nodded back. Poe turned and, clinging to the railing, walked slowly upstairs.

FORTY

JONATHAN. THE FIFTH NIGHT

Asmodeus raged outside of the magic circle, filling the barn with his screams, his stench. Jonathan’s powers were tested to their fullest extent and twice, he held onto Laertes to prevent him from fleeing, from leaving the circle and being torn apart.

Asmodeus wanted a blood sacrifice. He would name the victim. Before he could do so, contact between him and Jonathan was broken by the magician’s strong will to survive and the demon king disappeared. But Jonathan knew he would return to demand that the blood rite be given him. It was a test, one final obstacle between Jonathan and the Throne of Solomon. If the magician refused the test, Asmodeus would return again and again and Jonathan’s will would be damaged, for he now knew that he could not concentrate on the ritual while simultaneously opposing the final, furious onslaught of the demon king.

In a spurt of incredible confidence, Jonathan conjured up Asmodeus and agreed to the test. From within the barn and without leaving the protective circle, he agreed to perform the blood rite on the person Asmodeus named.

In a swirl of howling, frozen winds and shrieking devils, Asmodeus named his victim.

Jonathan touched his ash-covered head to the hard, cold ground in acceptance of this final test.