The Demi-Monde: 40th Day of Winter, 1004
HerEticalism is a Covenite religion based on female supremacy and the subjugation of men. Rabidly misandric in nature, the HerEtical belief is that Demi-Mondian-wide peace and prosperity – an unfeasibly idyllic outcome given the tag ‘MostBien’ – will only be realised when men (‘non-Femmes’ in Coven-speak) accept a subordinate position within society. HerEticalism has a more aggressive sister-religion known as Suffer-O-Gettism (a contraction of Make-Men-Suffer-O-Gettism) which espouses violence as the only means of bringing change in the Demi-Monde. Suffer-O-Gettes are of the opinion that the removal of the male of the species from the breeding cycle is a vital concomitant to the securing of MostBien. Such are the unnatural and obscene sexual activities of HerEticals that they are lampooned throughout the Demi-Monde as ‘LessBiens’.
– Religions of the Demi-Monde: Otto Weininger, University of Berlin Publications
Trixie barely had a chance to unpin her bonnet before Crockett, the Dashwoods’ butler, attended her. ‘The master asked that you join him in his study immediately you returned home, Miss Trixiebell.’
‘Why the urgency, Crockett? Why does my father want to see me?’
‘The Comrade Commissar has not seen fit to apprise me of the answers to those questions, Miss Trixiebell. I would simply observe that he seems a trifle agitated.’
‘Well, agitated or not, he’ll just have to wait. I have to go and change…’
The butler sidled his considerable bulk between Trixie and the staircase. ‘The master emphasised the word “immediately”, Miss Trixiebell. He was most insistent upon this point.’
‘But look at me. I can’t be presented looking like this.’
‘The word was “immediately”, Miss Trixiebell.’
Her father, decided Trixie when she flounced into his study, looked decidedly unwell. His handsome face was pale and his curly hair, usually so strictly regimented by a thick dressing of macassar oil, was dishevelled. There was even – and here Trixie couldn’t believe her eyes – a spot of blood on the lapel of his high-neck frock coat.
Something must be really amiss if the unbending Comrade Commissar Algernon Dashwood had felt the need to indulge in a little Solution so early in the day. He made it a rule never to imbibe until the sun was set.
Trixie took a seat on the couch to one side of the study, tucking her grimed shoes under her skirt as she did so: the less said about the expedition she’d been about that morning the better. Unfortunately her attempted subterfuge did her no good. ‘Where have you been?’ her father asked suddenly.
When lying, Trixie had long ago come to the conclusion that it was better to stick as close to the truth as possible. ‘I went down to the docks to do some sketching.’
‘The docks? Are you mad, girl? The docks are one of the most dangerous districts in the Rookeries.’
‘I had Luigi…’ she began, but her father wasn’t in the mood to listen to excuses.
‘This madcap escapade is at one with the irresponsible, the downright unacceptable behaviour of a young woman oblivious to and careless of the responsibilities of her rank. Spirits damn it, girl, you are the daughter of a commissar, not some mindless dolly-mop!’
Trixie flinched back from her father’s fury. She was used to being told off by her governess but not by her father. He had always encouraged her to think for herself, he had always indulged her misdemeanours. Her father took a long sip from a glass filled, she fervently hoped, with port wine.
Pray to ABBA it isn’t blood.
Whatever it was, it settled him. When he addressed her he seemed more composed. ‘I had a visit from Vice-Leader Beria this morning.’
Trixie’s eyes widened in amazement and her guts churned in horror.
‘He has a file on you.’
Trixie felt as though she was going to faint. Her senses swam. She slumped back into the couch, drained of strength and energy. Trickles of horror rippled over her skin. If the Checkya had found out she was conducting an unlicensed archaeological dig…
‘I thought that piece of news might bring you to your senses.’
‘But… but… but…’
Oh, for Spirits’ sake, Trixie, get a hold of yourself!
‘A file?’
‘Yes, a very thick file: a very thick file containing some very nasty jottings about the activities of a very silly girl.’
‘But why? Why did he show it to you?’
‘Trixie, don’t be so naive. Beria wishes to coerce you into doing a job for him.’
Trixie swallowed hard. Beria was famous – infamous – for liking young girls. She would kill herself before she let that debauched piece of shit touch her.
Her father obviously understood the foul thoughts Beria’s name had conjured in her mind. ‘It’s not like that, Trixie. Showing me the file was Beria’s not-so-subtle way of making me appreciate the consequences of your not cooperating with him. Believe me, he will never touch a hair of your head… not whilst I’m alive, that is. No, they’ve captured a Daemon, a Grade One Daemon.’
Trixie’s mouth fell open. She almost laughed. Daemons were inventions used to frighten children into being good, monsters evoked by Crowley to keep the hoi polloi cowed and submissive. No one – well, no one educated or with a spark of intelligence – believed in Daemons.
‘A Daemon? What, a real Daemon? But they’re just figments of fantasy.’
‘Apparently not. And this one isn’t just a common-or-garden-variety Daemon, this one’s sentient. This one has a memory of the Spirit World.’
‘How did they catch it?’ It was a stupid question: as far as Trixie was concerned Daemons didn’t exist, so how could they be captured? It must all be twaddle.
‘I don’t know the details but it seems that Crowley used his magic to lure it from the Spirit World. We’ll know more tonight. Crowley is delivering her…’
‘Her?’
‘Yes, it’s a female Daemon, a she-devil, a succubus. Apparently the Daemon has taken the outward form of a girl of about your age. As I was saying, Crowley is delivering her here tonight.’
‘I’m sorry, father, I’m having a little difficulty with this. I mean… Daemons don’t really exist… it isn’t RaTional.’
Comrade Commissar Dashwood slammed his fist onto his desk so hard that he made both an ink-pot and Trixie jump. ‘Are you so monumentally foolish, Trixie, that you can use the word “RaTional” so openly? Have you listened to nothing I’ve said? The Checkya have a file on you: they think you’re a protoRaTionalist, a potential HerEtical. By the Spirits, Beria even insinuated that you might be a Suffer-O-Gette.’
Shiver and shake time.
‘You must be careful now, Trixie. One more slip and it’s the Lubyanka for you… for us. And don’t think I’ll be able to save you: all of the Dashwood family will be travelling in the same tumbrel. Have you no idea just how evil these people are? Have you forgotten the fate of your friend Lillibeth?’
Trixie shuddered: she still had nightmares about what had happened during the Cleansing, the night when Heydrich and his henchmen had simultaneously assassinated King Henry and Tsar Ivan and seized power in the ForthRight, when they had rounded up all of the Royalists and their families and shot them as Counter-Revolutionaries. She still remembered the screams of the Marlboroughs – who had been dining with them that night – when the Checkya had come to arrest them, had dragged them outside and thrown them into the black, windowless steamers.
She remembered going to the Academy the next day and no one having the courage to ask where Lillibeth Marlborough was. Lillibeth Marlborough: Trixie’s best friend. Overnight Lillibeth became a nonNix: someone never to be mentioned again, someone it was better never to think of again. Even the daguerreotypes showing the school teams that Lillibeth had captained had been removed. And when Trixie had protested they had Censured her.
‘I haven’t forgotten, father, I’ll never forget.’ A tear trickled down Trixie’s cheek.
‘Don’t cry, Trixie. Crying isn’t going to bring Lillibeth or any of them back. What we’ve got to concentrate on is surviving in this crazed world.’
‘So what does Beria want of me?’
‘Apparently Crowley is unwilling to hand the Daemon over to the Checkya for interrogation, which I think is quite sensible of the chap. Crowley might be as mad as a bag of bolts but even he knows that once inside the Lubyanka the chances of getting anything sensible out of the creature, Daemon or not, are negligible. Under torture, people
… Daemons are liable to say anything. So Beria has suggested a more softly-softly approach: seduction rather than rape, so to speak.’
‘That must be a novelty for Beria,’ observed Trixie wryly.
‘Indeed. Beria’s suggestion is that the creature is held under house arrest where it is given an opportunity to commune with a like spirit… that’s “spirit” with a small “s”.’
‘Here?’
A nod from Trixie’s father.
‘Me?’
Another nod.
‘But why me?’
‘Beria has cast his eye over all the daughters of senior Party officials…’
I bet he has.
‘… who are roughly the same age as the form taken by this Daemon. He was, so he says, looking for someone of high intelligence, strong character and who is loyal to the Party. Apparently you scored two out of three. He had you evaluated at Mrs Albemarle’s last social by an odious man named Captain Dabrowski.’
That slimy Polish bastard.
‘Was he the man you hit, Trixie?’
‘Yes, father. He was overly familiar with me.’
‘Bravo. Perhaps you should have hit him harder. Next time perhaps. Well, beaten or not, Dabrowski has recommended you to Beria. It seems the Captain was quite taken by my little Trixie.’
‘So what do I have to do?’
‘This Daemon, who calls itself Norma Williams, will be brought here to live with us. The house will be guarded, of course, but every effort will be made to make this guarding as unobtrusive as possible. The idea is that you and the Daemon will… bond, and gradually over a couple of weeks you will find out the truth about it and the Spirit World.’
‘I don’t know if I like the idea of bonding with a Daemon,’ admitted Trixie. ‘What does this thing look like? Does it have horns and a tail? They always draw Daemons with horns and a tail on the covers of penny dreadfuls.’
‘No horns and no tail, or so I am told. Apparently it looks and acts just like a normal young woman.’
‘Very well: I don’t suppose I have any option in the matter, do