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
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.
FORTY-ONE
Four days before the duel.
