PART II
Renaissance
September, 1876—April, 1877
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Noble Hatter Humphries
Following the Nightfall, a series of pamphlets known as The Immortalist Papers were circulated throughout England under Queen Isabelle’s orders. This first pamphlet was published on September 26th, 1876, only days after the Nightfall began:
On the Necessity of the Nightfall, by Rupert Walters
For centuries, immortals have anticipated an age where they would need not fear the sun. That time has finally arrived.
Many of you reading this may be new to immortality, but fret not: I, Rupert Walters, have created these pamphlets to help you adjust to the insularities immortals face in everyday life, from complications of etiquette to the basic workings of your new biology.
Shockingly, some newlydeads have expressed confusion as to why the Nightfall was necessary. The answer is that we are currently undergoing an industrial revolution. Firearms are becoming increasingly deadly—some are even capable of killing immortals. But while technology has advanced, England’s mortal commonwealth has become simpler. European gentlemen have spent centuries attempting to civilize barbarians abroad; why should immortals not extend the same charity for mortals in their own countries? With ritual magic, we can improve living conditions for mortals and immortals alike!
You may have heard that immortals are demons, but nothing could be further from the truth. They are those God has chosen for immortality, and they carry out His wishes. Similarly, it is neither polite nor accurate to refer to mortals as “humans,” for this would imply that immortals are not human.
Perhaps most impolite of all is to refer to your mortal servants as “slaves.” This dehumanizing term insults hard-working servants, and implies that immortals are slave drivers! Slavery remains illegal in England, and you will find that mortal servitude does not resemble it in the least. Indeed, it is positively humane. Before the Nightfall, many impoverished mortals struggled each day to find work, food, and shelter. Now they are guaranteed all three, provided they are sufficiently loyal to Her Majesty and consent to their weekly blood tax.
Purchasing a servant is easy: there are already many purveyors throughout England and in Europe abroad, as well as auctions for particularly fine specimens. If you are an ambitious man with financial endowments, then you may wish to purchase an entire district of London and the servants therein. To do so, contact the gentlemen who own the district’s servants and make them an offer.
It is possible that some of your servants will have difficulty adjusting to the changes happening in England. They may even become unruly. Please know that if a servant disobeys you, it behooves you as a gentleman to remind him of his place, and of all that you provide for him. You are, after all, an appointed agent of God.
Do not be too quick to accept a servant’s request to join our ranks. Immortal bloodlines are sacred, and should not be diluted by what lies in the muddy veins of the average mortal. If you are truly certain that you have a servant who is worthy of immortality, then send a formal request to the newly-formed Preservation Association. They will consider the servant’s merits and decide whether or not his or her immortality would benefit society. Granting immortality without the expressed permission of the Preservation Association is a dire crime that can lead to your imprisonment in the Necropolis.
Yes, fair newlydeads, there is much to remember. But never fear—I shall guide you through these troubled times. Together, we can make the new age a rousing success!
Remain vigilant!
Rupert Walters
~
From Mr. Humphries’s window I watched the Necropolis rise from the ruins of Parliament. A nightmarish tower of twisted bone walls, the Necropolis was built entirely by Reapers. They dug underground for miles, making room for the lower levels, working with tireless efficiency. There were approximately ten thousand of them in England at that time, and ten thousand dead had been used to create them. And how many additional corpses were required to form the Necropolis’s walls? That, I cannot say, but even through the window, I felt its grim shadow hovering over me, paralyzing me with fear—reminding me of Mr. Cillian’s bloodstained teeth. I remained in the bedroom Mr. Humphries had gifted me, forcing myself to remain awake. I measured time by the clock in my room, but it became difficult to distinguish morning from night. Immortals throughout Europe were presently establishing the new system of 24-hour nights, but clocks that reflected this were not yet widely available, so for each “day” I had to commit to memory whether the clock had already struck twelve once. I would later hear others continue to refer to the time as “day,” “night,” “morning,” or “evening,” even though there was never any sunshine. We simply didn’t know what else to do.
The first time I went downstairs again, Mr. Humphries smiled at me from behind his counter. “Did you have a good sleep?”
I shook my head. “I cannot sleep. An incubus haunts my dreams.”
“I see.” Mr. Humphries rubbed his chin, puzzled by this. “Is there a way to keep him out?”
“I don’t know.” I was struck by the sweetness of his scent—and the emptiness in my belly. I tried to ignore these sensations; no good could come of succumbing to them.
The bell above the door rang, and a monocle-wearing, suitcase-toting man blundered past me. He set his suitcase on Mr. Humphries’s counter, and opened it to reveal pristine papers. He pushed them towards Mr. Humphries, who squinted as he examined them.
“My name is Henry Pennil,” said the man. “I am here representing your new owner, the grand incubus Phillip Winscroft.”
“Mr. Winscroft, you say?” said Mr. Humphries. “Forgive me, but I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting him.”
“You needn’t,” said Mr. Pennil. “He has come into possession of your landlord’s property and the mortals who live within, yourself included. Mr. Winscroft is to receive all of your proceeds, outlined in Section Four of this contract, in exchange for your meal plan—a generous two meals per day—to be provided on the condition that you sell enough hats per week, the exact amount of which is to be decided by Mr. Winscroft.”
“Hold there—did you say . . . all of my proceeds?”
“Not a penny for yourself, unless the good Mr. Winscroft is charitable enough to gift you one, which he may decide to do if you surpass the minimum quota. In addition to this, by signing this contract you agree that you are Mr. Winscroft’s property, and are therefore obliged to perform any additional tasks he requests of you in the future, outlined in Section Six-B. If you violate this contract after signing it, you may face severe legal, financial, and bodily consequences. If you refuse this contract, you forfeit yourself, your establishment, and your property up to the Ministry of Labor, who will redistribute said property, yourself included.”
“I . . . don’t understand,” said Mr. Humphries.
“You will lose everything, sir,” said Mr. Pennil. “Your land, your hats, your personal belongings, and your license as a shopkeeper. Then you will rot in the Necropolis for a few weeks with minimal dietary provisions. Should you survive this stay, then—then, sir—you will be given a new contract to consider.”
“And will this new contract be any less dreadful?”
“It will be nearly identical to this one, sir, but given the loss of your property, the labor it asks of you will most assuredly be more taxing. You will also live among the lowest of men in the communal houses Her Majesty has set up. I have seen them, sir, and I know how many men are intended to live in each room. If you will pardon my candor, sir, there is not enough space for half the intended quantity. It would be best to sign the contract set before you, sir.”
“How is he to sell enough hats if only immortals are buying them?” I asked.
“My respects to you, miss,” said Mr. Pennil. “But this matter is between Mr. Humphries and Mr. Winscroft.”
“This isn’t right,” I said, shocked by what I was hearing. “I’m an immortal. What if I want a word with this Mr. Winscroft?”
“It’s all right, Miss Blackwood,” said Mr. Humphries, who was sweating profusely. “I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble on my behalf.” He looked down at the contract, eyes squinting as he scrutinized its text. “All this is . . . because I’m human? But you’re human, too, are you not?”
“Please use the term ‘mortal,’ sir,” said Mr. Pennil. “I am under a similar contract, ensuring that I perform my own duties. Be thankful that I was the one assigned to your district, sir. Some of my colleagues are not as fond of candor as I am.” To Mr. Pennil’s credit, his expression was quite sympathetic.
“I do appreciate your honesty,” said Mr. Humphries. “I suppose there’s nothing I can do but sign.”
And so he did. I stared, aghast.
“You have made the right decision, sir,” said Mr. Pennil, putting the paper back into his suitcase. “A representative of Mr. Winscroft should be here by the end of the week to collect your assets. If you have any further questions regarding the legal points, here is my card.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pennil,” said Mr. Humphries, sliding the card into his pocket. “God bless.”
Mr. Pennil left without returning the farewell, but he did doff his hat at me on his way out. I felt like yelling after him, but what good would that do? He was simply a pawn, with no more control over the situation than Mr. Humphries.
~
As I tried to sleep later that evening, I heard clatter and chatter from the shop below. I went downstairs and saw that a pair of succubi had come in and were loudly bickering as they tried on hats, sounding much like Gladys did whenever she went shopping.
Troubled by the memory, I climbed the stairs up to the roof and attempted to master flight. This took longer than expected; I was not used to having more than four limbs, and sometimes while trying to flap my wings, I would accidentally flap an arm by mistake. Making matters worse, I was terrified of falling. What if I finally reached a significant height, only for my newborn wings to fail me, causing me to plunge to the ground?
After an hour of practicing, I noticed that the hunger I’d felt before had returned in full force. As a mortal, when I did not eat, I’d always found myself unable to think of anything other than food. It seemed to be the same now that I was a succubus. The thought of feeding on Mr. Humphries was absolutely tantalizing at that moment, and I knew it would only become more so with each passing night. The situation was becoming dire.
I decided to visit Rosette Crawford. Perhaps she could suggest alternative ways to feed—or even a way to return to mortality. I was still unsure whether I could trust her, but I could think of no other way to get the answers I sought. Fortunately, I still had her card.
It took twenty minutes for me to walk to Rosette’s home. It looked surprisingly small on the outside. After I rang her doorbell, I saw a silhouette moving in the drapes behind the front door’s window. When the door opened, Rosette looked surprised to see me.
“Miss Blackwood,” she said. “Please, come in.”
A moment later, we sat in her parlor. Rosette did not appear to have any servants, though I did hear cacophonous noises from the other room. An angry voice hissed and growled amidst the crashing sounds. I raised my brow at Rosette, but she waved her hand dismissively. “Just ignore him. How are you adjusting?”
“Not well.” I found myself scowling. “I was not aware how succubi fed, you see.”
Rosette raised a brow in such a way that indicated she thought I must be very stupid indeed. “Do you regret your decision to become one?”
“I do,” I said. “My family was killed because they refused to become demons. Now I have become one myself.”
“It cannot be undone.”
She was quiet for a moment, letting her words leave their mark. I hadn’t assumed that it would be possible for me to become a mortal once more, but the impatient, blunt manner in which she’d spoken left me feeling beaten.
“I take it you don’t support the Nightfall?” she said.
“Of course not.”
Rosette lit a cigarette, and took a perfumed puff. “Well, I suggest you keep quiet about it. You may be a succubus now, but you’re not above suspicion. Even Lord Sotirios might be troubled by your views.”
“I don’t care what he thinks,” I said. “I’ve left him, and I don’t intend on seeing him again.”
Rosette lowered her brow, even as her eyes widened in surprise. “That is . . . disappointing to hear. Take my advice, Maraina: return to Lord Sotirios. Let him feed you each night. It would be in your best interests.” Something in her tone indicated that she meant more by this than it appeared, but it was difficult to tell for sure, and at that moment I didn’t care either way.
“I understand that I must feed,” I said. “But I wish to only feed on a man that I love. I want true love. Eternal love. Love that will last forever.”
Rosette smirked, shaking her head. “I don’t believe in eternal love.”
It hurt to hear her say this. “I’m not surprised in the least,” I retorted.
She chuckled. “It’s not as though other succubi don’t want love. But for many of us, the only way to gain a man’s attention is to be in his bed. Of course, being in his bed is the best way to ensure he’ll never love you.”
“Hence why I refuse to return to Salem, or to feed on anyone else I do not love.”
“You’ll regret trying to starve yourself. Trust me on that.”
I was becoming sick of the superior look she had in her eye. “I can see that I’m wasting my time,” I said, and stood. “Good day, Lady Rosette.”
“Maraina . . . ” Rosette rose to her feet as well, and her expression became surprisingly tender. “I’m sorry about your family. But what if I told you that you could avenge them?”
I frowned, still angry, and now puzzled as well. “How?”
“For now, by returning to Lord Sotirios and getting back in his good graces. That’s all I can tell you at this time.”
In response, I stormed out. Had I been in a different state of mind, I might have listened, and things might have turned out differently. But I was hungry, and bitter, and I did not want to spend another moment in that room with her. I scoffed at the absurdity of what she had suggested. How could returning to Salem possibly help me avenge my family?
And yet . . . the seed had been planted, and with each passing moment I became more convinced that I had to do something, even if I did not yet know what. Even as I walked back to the hat shop, I witnessed mortal servitude on full display: dead-eyed children in rags sweeping the streets; women standing at street corners and shouting that they had “the tastiest blood”; toshers searching through sewage for valuables.
Watching it all, I was reminded of a time when Father had taken me to visit one of the factories he owned. The floor had been filthy, and the air had stank of soot and blood. Many of the workers were children, some with missing fingers or arms—amputated, no doubt, due to injuries from the machinery. “I always hire children as young as the law will allow,” Father had whispered to me, with a cheeky smile. “Like horses, their spirits are best broken from a young age.” From that point on, I’d forever been frightened that if I upset him enough, Father might force me to work in one of his factories.
A few blocks away from Rosette’s address, I saw a gentleman with wings slap a mortal slave girl. Years before, I’d seen Father hit Mother in exactly the same way. She’d fled from the room sobbing, hands covering her face. I’d wondered then if the same thing would happen to me when I was married.
Now I found myself feeling similarly concerned about the slave girl. I wanted to comfort her, but I feared catching the Reapers’ attention. Indeed, when I looked up, I saw a flock of the dreadful things in the sky. They had bird-like wings with bone feathers, but I presumed some spell was keeping them aloft.
Their empty eye sockets were scanning the streets below. Perhaps Mr. Cillian was still searching for me.
~
When I returned to the hat shop, two figures followed me in. I hid behind one of the aisles and watched them.
One was a bulbous gentleman in gaudy, foppish clothes that did not become him. His face was both piggish and rat-like, with oily skin, an unkempt blonde mustache, and a vast, stubbly chain of chins. As his grin was fanged, I judged him to be a vampire.
His companion was a small girl with eyes that held an impish curiosity. I say “girl,” even though she seemed to be only a little younger than myself, because she did not strike me as a terribly mature creature. Her hair was tied into two high black pigtails with red ribbons, and her frilly black and red dress fit tightly around her frame. Her tiny, bat-like wings revealed her to be a succubus like myself.
“I like that one!” she said, pointing to a tiny red top hat.
The vampire smiled and placed the hat upon her head, but it immediately slid off. She tried again, but it fell off once more.
“Stupid thing,” she said. “Do I need to pin it on or something?”
“That’s the idea, yes,” said Mr. Humphries, wandering over. “I can help, if you’d like.”
“Later,” said the vampire, his voice greasy with mock-politeness. “First, I require help choosing a hat of my own.”
“What sort of hat are you looking for?” Mr. Humphries asked.
“I don’t know. What do you recommend?”
“Perhaps this top hat? It is made from real beaver hide, and will withstand the rain.”
The vampire let out an irritated sniff. “Top hats are painfully ordinary.”
“Would you prefer something a little more eccentric then, sir? Perhaps this fez?”
“What do you take me for, an Arab?”
“Forgive me, sir—it was wrong of me to even suggest it. Perhaps a bowler? This one has a feather in it.”
“Goodness no. It disgusts me.”
“Would you fancy a derby?”
“A derby would not befit a man of my stature. I’d expect you to know that, hatter.” He let out another irritated sniff. “I must say, I’m disappointed by the lack of variety in your products.”
Mr. Humphries smiled nervously. “I am so sorry that they’re not to your liking, sir. There’s another hat shop over on—”
“You’re sorry?” barked the vampire. “You think your bloody apologies matter one jot to me? I’ve been all over London searching for a hat, and not one hatter has been able to satisfy me. Are you all so busy sniffing glue that you can’t provide decent wears for the discerning gentleman?”
Mr. Humphries kept his smile, even as his skin turned red in embarrassment. “My apologies, sir. I—”
The vampire responded with a loud outburst: “I say again, I care not for your apologies! How dare you make me repeat myself. You are a mortal. You will show respect to your betters!”
“Of course, sir,” said Mr. Humphries, who looked very overwhelmed now. “I respect you very much, as I do all demons—” He stopped, catching himself too late.
The vampire neared Mr. Humphries. “All what?”
“All immort—” Mr. Humphries began, but it was too late. The vampire roared in anger and raised his cane, which I now saw was topped with sharp hook. He struck Mr. Humphries in the head, and the poor man fell to the ground. I looked away, my pulse racing.
“I am an immortal, you insolent hatter!” As he spoke, I heard a series of wet pummeling sounds. When they finally ceased, the vampire wheezed a moment and grunted, “Come, my sweet. Let’s go.”
The girl still clutched the little red hat. She stared in horror at Mr. Humphries, and then at me, before scurrying after the vampire.
Shaking, I ran to Mr. Humphries and crouched down. He lay face down, groaning in pain. The vampire had struck his back, and the holes in his jacket were coated with blood.
