have kept Poe from acting as his second. Poe was a man of his word, a man of strong loyalty. He’d proven that by the manner in which he had stuck by Rachel Coltman.
Figg looked across the ring at Hugh Larney, who sat with his arm around a pale Dearborn Lapham. The bloody bastard. Surrounded by his friends and him pretending to be as British as the Prime Minister. He’d never have dared to take the child unless certain that Poe would not interfere. Larney knew what had happened to Poe. Figg sensed it.
Thor was back in his corner, sitting on the knee of a second and the ring was more or less cleared. Umpires and timekeepers remained, continuing to discuss the last knockdown among themselves. “Round Mr. Figg!” announced one and the crowd booed, hissed, cheered.
By tradition seconds place one knee on the ground, with the other knee upraised for the fighter to rest on between rounds or while recovering from a knockdown. On Larney’s orders, Thor was taking his rest. Larney moved to stand behind Thor, a hand on his broad, sweaty shoulders, his lips close to the Negro’s ear. Both men smiled across the ring at Figg, who thought
“Time!”
Figg rose from Barnum’s knee, shuffled forward, both arms extended stiffly towards Thor. When both men reached the line drawn in the dirt cellar floor, the umpire yelled, “Commence fighting!”
Thor jabbed quickly with his left, his long reach making Figg lean backwards and, with Figg off-balance, Thor put his head down and charged, butting Figg in the stomach, knocking the wind from him and then the Negro had Figg’s arms pinned to his side, squeezing, threatening to break them.
He lifted Figg in the air and hurled him to the ground, throwing his own body after him, trying to crush Figg’s chest with his 250 pounds. Using instincts learned long ago, Figg rolled clear; Thor missed him by inches.
But Figg was hurt.
His arms ached, his chest felt on fire. The crowd roared and Figg struggled to get to his feet. He was on his hands and knees, trying to clear his head. Two umpires and a timekeeper struggled to keep Thor from kicking him while he was down.
Behind a dazed, pained Figg, Bootham yelled, “Up Mr. Figg! Please get up, sir!”
Figg tried to push himself up and collapsed. He lay open mouthed on the ground and tasted dirt.
* * * *
With only four hours to midnight, Jonathan prepared to summon the spirit of Justin Coltman. He sprinkled salt and water, symbols of life, around Coltman’s coffin. Laertes, shuffling like a man almost dead, lit the two white candles, one at the head, the other at the foot of the coffin.
The incense-a combination of opium, hemlock, henbane, wood, saffron and mandrake-was burning in two wooden bowls. Soon Jonathan would wave eleven puffs of it to Qliphoth, the evil spirit of damnation. And there would be the use of the Athame, the ritual knife, to be held in both hands, point up and offered to the four powers in turn, east, south, west and at the north, he would stop.
To the candle burning at the north point of the magic circle, he would offer eleven more puffs of the incense, then touch the northern point of the circle eleven times with the ritual knife. North, the compass point sacred to devil worshippers.
The forces would gather at Jonathan’s command and he would charge and command the spirit of Justin Coltman through the power of Astoreth, Demon of Death and Lord of the Flies, of Loki, Qliphoth and Satan, all of whom would be ordered to return the body of Justin Coltman to this earth from whence it came.
It was then that Justin Coltman would speak to Jonathan, telling him where the grimoires could be found, the grimoires that would lead the magician to the Throne of Solomon.
Yes, there was the matter of the sacrifice, but that was easily taken care of. Asmodeus’ challenge had been a pitiful one, one simple to deal with. Jonathan had projected his mind to Rachel Coltman, giving her a strong reason for leaving her home immediately and coming to Jonathan.
Rachel Coltman was more drawn to Poe than she would admit and Jonathan, ruthlessly using that weakness, sent Poe’s image to her. He let her hear Poe’s voice. To Rachel’s mind, disturbed by her kidnapping by Hamlet Sproul and by the shock of learning that Paracelsus was indeed the murderous Jonathan, the projected image of Poe was quickly and easily accepted as the writer himself.
She heard and saw Poe in her bedroom. It was Poe who ordered her to get a carriage and team of horses and come with him to an abandoned barn where she would see Justin Coltman
It was Poe she believed, but it was Jonathan she obeyed.
* * * *
The wine had been drugged; he sensed it more than knew it for certain, for Poe was now in a world that he had dreaded all his life, a world that he did not want to focus on. Was he buried alive? Had it happened to him again?
He was in darkness, musty smelling darkness and his mind fought to cling to sanity. What did he remember? The note from Muddy saying come quickly, she needed his help and Poe had gone with the man who’d brought the note to the boarding house, a man claiming to be a farmer in Fordham, employed at the nearby college of Jesuit priests.
Poe, edgy about tonight’s duel in which Figg was risking his life in Poe’s stead, had naturally followed the man from the boarding house. Yes, he remembered that much. Then he’d climbed into the carriage, wondering if he could get to Fordham then back into Manhattan in time for the duel. Someone, no it was two men. Yes two men had forced him to drink wine, held the bottle to his lips, holding his nose so that he had to open his mouth and the bitter taste of the wine had told him it was drugged.
He’d heard Hugh Larney’s voice, then turned to see the man’s little face. After that, there had been blackness. For a brief moment or two, Poe had been conscious and he’d seen Dearborn Lapham sitting across from him in a carriage, a smirking Hugh Larney beside her. Then it was into darkness and distance again. Had Poe died?
And now his mind tormented him. The darkness would not leave and he cried out against it. He saw Jonathan’s face, the face of Valentine Greatrakes and he saw Rachel lying dead while beasts tore at her flesh. The drugged wine claimed him and he passed out.
Passed out in a coffin buried two feet under the earth in a cemetery directly across from City Hall.
* * * *
Merlin held the bottle of water to Figg’s swollen lips. Barnum, whose knee was being used as the boxer’s chair, wiped blood from a cut around an almost closed left eye.
“Twenty-three rounds, Mr. Figg.” The showman frowned with worry. “That left eye of yours is all but closed, I fear. The colored has gone after it with a vengeance, the bastard.”
Figg’s chest heaved. “Doin’ what I’d be doin’, if I was in his black skin.”
Titus Bootham was close to tears. “Let me throw in the sponge, Mr. Figg. You have taken enough punishment for Poe, who is not decent enough to come here tonight and support you. He has no right to carry your colors, sir.”
“I ain’t quittin’. Never quit in me life and ain’t of a mind to now. All I got left is what I am as a man. You throw in the sponge and you are no friend of mine.”
The tears rolled from Bootham’s eyes as he gently wiped Figg’s face. “Yes sir. I–I had no idea it could be like this. The blood, I mean.”
Figg’s smile through swollen, bleeding lips, was hideous. “Always been that way, mate.”
Figg pushed himself off Barnum’s knee, forced his one good eye open as far as he could and limped forward to meet Thor. The colored had given him the worst beating of his life. Worse, Figg had never hit a man so many times and not have him go down. Thor had taken Figg’s best blows, most of them to the body and still he was on his feet, strong, aggressive. Like now.
Thor threw a right uppercut that barely missed Figg’s jaw, then brought his huge left fist straight down as though it were a hammer, missing Figg’s head but hitting his shoulder and sending him staggering sideways.
