Page 22 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
Blake smiled. He had a trick of not smiling with his mouth; it was all in his eyes. They lit up, even as his mouth turned down at the corners.
“Being sick was quite dignified, considering. When I saw my first demon, I pissed myself. I was only ten, but still. Shows your breeding, doesn’t it?”
Thornby gaped at him. “Demons? But, but—they weren’t demons, were they?”
“No, no. Fairies. Demons are very different. But it’s a similar feeling, I imagine.”
“There are demons? Evil things with horns and fangs and so on?”
“Yes, of course. Most magicians get their power that way. They call up a demon and it does the magic for them. Theurgy, it’s called.”
“Then I saw one once,” Thornby said slowly. “Running down the Strand in broad daylight. Like a hideous baboon, oozing red as if it had been skinned alive. No one else saw it, though.” He could not suppress a shudder. A demon on the Strand. Barrelling past children, rustling ladies’ crinolines and dodging through horses’ legs.
Blake regarded him thoughtfully. “It was probably using an invisibility spell that didn’t work on you. They don’t usually let them run around like that. It had no skin, you say? Was this in ’47?”
“Sounds about right.”
“I remember the case. It killed its master and escaped. They tracked it down, of course, somewhere in Saffron Hill. And you saw it. Good heavens.”
“What a horrible way to make magic.”
“Yes, well, that’s why they keep it so quiet. But theurgy is regarded as the better way. The ‘Royal Road’ they call it. My methods are considered rather common.”
“Common,” Thornby repeated faintly. Then he rallied. “Yes, but of course I knew that about you.” When Blake was smiling, he really looked quite approachable. Thornby took a deep breath and said, deliberately, “Luckily, I like a bit of rough.”
It was a bit of a risk. In fact, he was surprised at how hard his heart began pounding. But Blake didn’t frown or turn away. He stood there, half smiling, accepting the tease. His dark eyes were remarkably expressive. He looked as if he’d like to stop talking and get down to business. Right now.
Thornby’s mouth had gone dry. His pulse was roaring so loud in his ears that surely Blake would be able to hear it. So. Not a mistake, in the blue room. Mr Blake liked men, or at least, liked him. Now that was very, very interesting. He’d thought he had nothing to offer Blake, but obviously there was something that Mr Blake wanted. And he looked as though he wanted it very much indeed.
Which was damned exciting, too. Blake had a nice mouth. Nice broad shoulders. What else nice did he have tucked away beneath that very respectable tailoring?
Thornby looked away with an effort. After all, now was hardly the time. Not when escape from Raskelf might be just a few minutes away. He found himself gazing at the interior of Blake’s huge trunk with its hundreds of bottles and boxes and mysterious shapes. “Anyway, it’s a relief to know you haven’t got any demons in that peculiar trunk of yours,” he said.
Blake looked at the trunk as if remembering something. “Well. But, anyway, it’s very small and well-contained. Not dangerous. You know, you’re rather pale. You should have a mouthful of that brandy before you go.”
“No, I shall come with you.” Thornby stood, an urge to move sweeping through him.
“Why? You should get to the boundary. If I break this spell you should get as far away as possible. That reminds me.” Blake reached into a pocket again. He seemed to have dozens; his tailor must make them for him specially. This time he pulled out a wallet, from which he took a five pound note. He held it out. “You’ll get a long way on that if you’re careful. I wouldn’t stay in England because he’ll probably come after you. That curse is driving him. I will try to stop it, though.”
Thornby found himself staring at more of the needful than he’d seen in months. “I’m not taking your money. Good Lord, I should be paying you! I’m coming with you.”
“But why? The whole point is to get you away from Raskelf.”
“But it’s not only about me, is it? What if some sprite pops out and asks you where it keeps its cuff-links? I’ve no idea how I managed to answer those questions. I suppose it was luck, but I was born here, after all. And I’m heir to this crumbling monstrosity, and maybe that gives me an edge. So, of course I’m coming. And then we’ll both leave.”
“What if someone sees your face?” But Blake was putting the money away. He seemed to have accepted that Thornby wasn’t just going to run for it.
Thornby waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll say I met a way-faring fellow with a miraculous liniment. No one believes anything I say anyway. Even Aunt Amelia doesn’t really believe I can’t leave the estate.”
Blake considered him for a long moment. Thornby found himself unable to look away. The expression on Blake’s face was difficult to identify—it was a searching look, as if he was trying to see something in Thornby that nobody had ever looked for before.
Or perhaps he was just wondering if Thornby was likely to throw up on him again.
Then Blake smiled. Not just with his eyes this time. It was an oddly vulnerable smile that made him look a lot younger. “Come on, then. Let’s see what your father has hidden away.”
“You’d better tell me what we’re looking for. Salt lines, is it? Piles of sand?”
“Not necessarily. Look for anything you can’t explain. Think of your most conservative friend; if it’s not the kind of thing he’d have in his rooms, point it out to me.”
