Dravan lamented his decision to send his sister’s coachman Mr. Taurus to get the police. Certainly, it had been necessary, but it also meant that they hadn’t had someone to drive them to the sewer opening closest to the secret chamber. Dravan had needed to expend some magic to send up a light so that a cabby would come to his sister’s house. Then he was forced to pay extra to have the cabby wait at the entrance of the sewer. Even with how much he had placed in the man’s hand, Dravan couldn’t be certain the fellow, who was sweating profusely just looking at the sewer hole, would stay till they came back.

It had been the work of years of practice to be able to draw blood without spilling his top hat off his head. Some of the young lads at the academy sliced the fatty part at the base of their thumbs, but they were fools. Wounding part of the hand meant that the very thing a man used to grasp with was weakened. Youths would argue that they were wounding their left hand, the devil’s hand, so it didn’t really matter. But that itself was also foolish.

It was true that usually he didn’t need to do any climbing after a casting, but habit was a terribly hard thing to break. If he normally cut his hand, then he would either have to make certain he didn’t, or climb down the filthy sewer ladder with an open wound on his hand. Not to mention the blood he would get on his gloves after putting them back on. No, it was foolish.

Instead of that option, which seemed no true option at all, Dravan had slit the left sleeve of all his coats and shirts up to the elbow. The problem had been that the cut shirts and coats tended to fray. This had ultimately been solved by one of Adeline’s orphans, an enterprising lad, who upon meeting Dravan had drawn up a design to prevent Dravan from maiming his expensive clothes.

The left tail coat sleeve had five buttons from wrist to just before the elbow. They were matched to the buttons on the front of his tail coat, so they wouldn’t appear out of place. His white shirt had a similar design, but the buttons were small pearlescent things and unlike most men, his shirt cuffs were attached. They needed to be; otherwise after each spell he would have to reattach them. Ordinarily this would mean his shirts would need to be laundered more often, a terrible expense just to keep them looking white. But the lad had come through again and improved his design. Instead of having detachable cuffs on the left sleeve, he made the left sleeve detachable. This meant that instead of laundering the whole shirt, Dravan could just have multiple left sleeves that could be exchanged and cleansed when convenient.

It was pure genius. Everyone had been delighted. His mother, a human who had been in her eighties at the time had been overcome with joy. She had thought this was a sign that he was beginning to take his duties as the next Lord Cersideon seriously. It had been a hopeful, if unreasonable, thing to wish. Especially over a shirt sleeve.

Dravan sighed and adjusted his rust coloured, satin puff tie before tucking it into his double breasted vest. I may not have cared about clothes or particularly about being presentable, but I did love my mother. I’m glad I was able to find a manner of dress she deemed appropriate before she passed.

Lord Farcical glanced over at the much shorter gnome. “I’m surprised to see you’re nervous. This is hardly more dangerous than our last lark.”

I suppose to him this would be a lark. Dravan shook his head, “Not nervous. Just thinking. Although,” he paused, “knowing that these fellows are most certainly summoning demons puts a damper in a man’s step.” Not Dravan’s step though. Part of his job at the academy was to deal with practitioners believed to be using demons.

“Ha!” John barked out a laugh, “My good man, after being stationed in India for thirty years, I can tell you honestly and solemnly that I always assume the other fellow is summoning demons!”

Clearly, it was the same for Lord Farcical.

Mr. Taurus rolled up with the police. He was holding onto the outside of the police wagon. He was dressed in Lady Adeline’s livery like he was a footman, but that was only because he wasn’t functioning as her coachman at the moment. It was highly unorthodox, but he had been hired for his muscle. This was his real work.

“Lord Cersideon, I have done as requested.” Mr. Taurus said hopping off and introducing the police. “This is Inspector Widget, his father works with the academy.”

“Of course.” Dravan was familiar with the elder Mr. Widget. They had worked together on projects before.

There was an assortment of constables with them. Their eyes were clear and sober, which was frankly a surprise to Dravan. He had heard from Sarah about how the lower class hated the constables, and they were often drunk. He himself had been alive and remembered back in 1829 when the first police officer, assigned the number one, had been hired and then stripped of his position four hours later for being drunk on duty. He had hoped things would get more under control as time progressed, but that was slow to happen it seemed.

The inspector and his constables pulled small cloths out of their pockets and began tying them around their mouths. It was evident the purpose was to protect them from the toxins of the sewer.

“Don’t bother with those.” Dravan said unbuttoning his coat sleeve. “The magic on those rags has expired. However, since you are assisting me, I will provide the protection with no charge.” He unbuttoned his shirt sleeve, exposing the pale flesh of his arm. He drew a small blade made for this purpose from inside his coat and made a cut. The blood sprang forth eagerly, only to be whisked away by the magic as his spells stole the power from his blood.

There were so many spells to cast that by the time he was done, his arm had healed enough it was no longer bleeding. The last spell had pulled blood through his exposed dermis[1], which had been quite painful. With a grimace he began buttoning his clothes. “Now that’s settled. Which one of you fine constables wishes to climb into the sewer first?”

None of London’s finest had ever had the opportunity to have enchantments placed on them before. The men flexed their muscles delighted with how strong they felt. The inspector was wiser. He knew that Dravan hadn’t placed so many enchantments out of his good will. Dravan had done so because if they came across ghouls, always possible, they would need that strength so they wouldn’t die immediately.

Lord Farcical held out a hand, “Remember lads, this isn’t a lark. Keep your voices hushed if you must speak, but if you open your mouth you had best have a bloody good reason! Our lad found some people being held prisoner in a strange, Egyptian-like place, so this is a rescue mission.”

Lord Farcical spoke with the confidence a military commander and a veteran of many campaigns has. His tone stiffened their spines and filled them with the desire to please him. There was no magic in his words. Just practice.

One of the younger lads stepped forward, “I’ll go down first.” He moved with the overeager swagger of youth.

Lord Farcical glanced at Inspector Widget, returning command to the inspector.

“Very well, Constable O’Donald. Proceed.” Constable O’Donald was clearly an Irish Cockney[2]. His name stated his family’s origin better than a sign around his neck, but he had lost the lilt of his ancestors.

Constable O’Donald lifted the sewer lid out of the way and then began his decent into the sewer. When he his feet were firmly on the stone of the ledge, he reached into a pocket and drew a flash stick. It was a one of Mr. Widget’s inventions. About the length of a grown man’s forearm, it was a thin cast iron tube that held a mixture of chemicals and powders. When O’Donald broke off the top everyone on the surface held their breath.

A light flared and O’Donald waved them down. The flash stick was shooting a few sparks, but other than that it was giving off a fairly steady light that illuminated about three meters in every direction.

The reason everyone had held their breath was that around one percent of the times a flash stick was activated they exploded. Most of the alchemical projects that came out of the academy were like that, but this had better odds than most.

Half the constables descended, followed by Lord Farcical, Dravan, Inspector Widget and then the rest of the constables, with the exception of one who stayed to guard the entrance. Ghouls rarely came to the surface, but it was night. The constable had his Beaumont-Adams revolver drawn. The gas street lamps illuminated the street, or at the very least they tried to admirably. A thick and seemly unnatural fog was rolling in.

From the center of the group Dravan directed the party toward the area Cat had led them to earlier. The constables, all silent and stalwart walking on the sewer ledge, exclaimed in surprise when the sewer wall changed to sandstone.

O’Donald touched the wall hesitantly, “It feels grainy. Sir, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Dravan pushed through the stunned constables, “I have. Come on lads, the real interest is up ahead.”

Dravan led them down a hall made of sandstone. He paused at an open door on the left. He poked his head into the room only to be yanked back by Mr. Taurus when they heard a chorus of hisses.

“Let me handle this, your lordship. Your sister would be rather put out if I let anything happen to you.” Mr. Taurus said taking out the length of rope.

Dravan frowned, “Hmm.”

Mr. Taurus had the rope in his hand like he was a cowboy from America’s west. He swung the rope in a circle once, twice, three times and then threw the rope, drawing it tight around the handle of the door. He drew the door closed in a smooth motion.

Dravan looked at the minotaur, “The things I don’t know about you.”

Mr. Taurus shrugged, removed the rope from the door and put it away.

Dravan was about to open the second door, the one Cat had said had a body on a table, when Lord Farcical spoke, “Perhaps we should show these lads to the prisoners before we look into anything else?”

Irritation fluttered across Dravan’s face. “Very well.”

Lord Farcical led the way to the big chamber. “Careful, there may be snakes hiding.”

The police were jumpy, but after a thorough search it appeared the only snakes alive were still hanging in the baskets. One of the men eyed the baskets with distaste, “Inspector, do you… want us to handle them?”

Inspector Widget seemed in no hurry to have untrained men take down a basket filled with poisonous snakes.

Dravan came to his rescue, “If it is alright with you, I’m certain the academy and I could find ample use for them.”

Inspector Widget considered for a fraction of a second. Lord Cersideon, a member of the House of Lords and one of the academy’s demon hunters, had the rank to make such a request. “Very well, Lord Cersideon, I shall have to make a report of this.”

Dravan nodded, “I’ll have a list of how many snakes and their breeds to you by the end of the week.”

This was more information than the inspector could have hoped to get with his limited resources. His men were being beaten or worse on a regular basis by the poor quarters. It cost money to train and outfit his men. Given the poor conditions and poorer treatment they received, many of the constables were louts who couldn’t maintain any other job. The ones he had with him were the best of the best. He couldn’t bring any others, not when Lord Cersideon was requesting their help.

While Lord Farcical directed the constables in hoisting the prisoners out of the oubliette with the aid of Mr. Taurus’ rope. The highland minotaur stood guard over Dravan, outside the room per Dravan’s instruction, while he explored the room with the dead body.

Before entering the room he opened his sleeve and cast a few protection spells on both himself and Mr. Taurus. The room was empty except for a single metal table. Circling it, he concluded that it was most likely a table from a surgery. Not a hacks; it had to be from a surgery with means. “Or a noble.” He murmured.

The table was in the exact center of the room. There was a depression in the floor under the table so that all the blood remained in the center of the room. Had this been a true surgery, there would most likely have been a drain at the base of the depression. However, since this was designed for collecting blood for magic, there was no drain. A thin layer of wasted blood was dry and flaking in the bottom of the depression.

With cold eyes he looked at the blood and shook his head, “Such a waste.” Of course, using another’s blood was horrible, but it seemed to him that spilling blood and then not using it was even worse. It dishonored the sacrifice the other life had made. Even if the sacrifice was forced upon it.

Before approaching the corpse, Dravan took out a pair of spectacles. The spectacles were ones that he re-enchanted once a month so that he could discern a spell without having to read it. This was very helpful when he was dealing with mages that engaged in demonic magic. They were especially jealous of their achievements and tended to trap things.

The genesis of a smile struggled at the edges of his lips. I was right. Of course he was right; he had been doing this for a long time.

“Whoever did this has summoned more than one demon.” Dravan said loud enough for Mr. Taurus to hear him.

Mr. Taurus didn’t look into the room, his voice was casual. He’d seen many things while he was in America. “More than one off the girl or they’ve done this before?”

Dravan circled the corpse, “Both actually. The marks were so clean and precise, only a professional could have made them. However, judging by these markings I would say there are three demon names.”

“They summoned three demons? That’s quite a lot.” Mr. Taurus tucked his thumbs into the sides of his vest and arched his back slightly. His fur was standing on end.

“Hm. No, I wasn’t quite right.” The rasp of Dravan’s hand going over the stubble on his chin was audible from the hall.

“There aren’t three demons?” Mr. Taurus said trying to hold back his excitement.

“No, no. There are. Two new ones they summoned off this corpse and one that they reaffirmed a contract with.”

Mr. Taurus’ ears flicked displaying his anxiety. His voice however remained steady, “Sounds like these blokes will be trouble.”

Dravan nodded slowly, “Yes, this level of sophistication is abnormal in demon summoning. People that resort to it usually lack the patience to have gone through much training, demons being thought to be a short-cut to power,”

Mr. Taurus nodded, that had been his experience with summoners as well.

“but this is quite precise and eloquently done. In fact, I would venture that whoever did this is one of her majesty’s demon hunters.”

Mr. Taurus stiffened. “Did you hear that?” His nose quivered as he swung his head toward the chamber with the police.

“Hmm…?” Dravan looked up. “No—“

His word was cut off by the screams echoing off the sandstone walls.

[1] The epidermis and the dermis make up the skin. The dermis is bottom layer and provides, among other things, elasticity and nourishment to the epidermis.

[2] Second or Third generation Irish immigrant to London.