Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I (4 page)

Hanging up the phone, I regarded Mab as he chafed his arms against the chill. I was more fortunate; a small space heater hummed away to my left, blowing a pleasant dry heat upon me where I sat, behind my great rosewood desk.

“Yes, Mab? Go on. What am I not going to like?”

“I traced Mr. Mephistopheles to Chicago . . . that’s the last known location where he’s approached a Prospero, Inc. office for money. With some additional research, I located a person matching his size and description. The official I talked to described a guy with longish black hair who was wearing a poncho when he was apprehended. Oh, and he answered to ‘Mephisto.’ ”

“Official? Apprehended?” I reached down and turned off the space heater, so as to hear better.

“Prison official, Ma’am. He’s in jail.”

“What was he arrested for? Drunken and disorderly conduct?”

“Apparently, he does have a previous conviction of that nature. But, this is more serious, Ma’am,” Mab paused. “He has been accused of . . . of rape.”

Of all crimes, rape is the one I most abhor. In my youth, my father’s horrible servant Caliban had thrown me down and broken my arm in his attempt to dishonor me. The memory of his betrayal still haunted my nightmares, even centuries later, and my heart went out to all my sisters who had suffered such degradations. My relatives all knew how I felt about this heinous act. Even in their soldiering days, my brothers were careful never to mistreat women.

Were I savaged thus, my own discomfort and humiliation would be nothing compared to the harm my family would suffer. Loss of my innocence would deprive me of my station as Eurynome’s Handmaiden. Since the blessings this station brought included the Water of Life that maintains my family’s immortality, this crime would, in effect, murder my whole family.

Father and I differed sharply as to the proper punishment for monsters who attempt this offense. I had always held that rapists, even attempted rapists, should be killed. Father favored a more lenient sentence. Years after our rise to power, I returned to our island prison to seek my own revenge but found no sign of father’s loathsome servant.

“If my brother has become a rapist, let him rot!” I thumped the rosewood desk. “Even family honor does not demand I protect him under these circumstances. Perhaps Providence will arrange that the Three Shadowed Ones get him. Modern justice is far too gentle.”

“He claims he’s innocent.”

If Mephistopheles were guilty, he could hang for all I cared. In fact, I hoped he would. If he were innocent, however, locking him in prison would make him a helpless target. We might as well hand him over to the Three Shadowed Ones on a platter.

“Okay, Mab. Where is he?”

“Chicago, Ma’am.”

“I’ll have Ariel pack the usual gear, and we’ll leave first thing in the morning.” I rose. “But first, I need something from the Great Hall.”

The doors of the Great Hall were vast and ornate with a large windrose, depicting the eight ordinal directions of the compass, painted upon the dark wood. A heavy iron chain bound them shut. The padlock that secured it was in the shape of a fanged serpent. I fitted the cast-iron key into the serpent’s mouth and twisted. The lock sprang open.

“Always wondered what was behind these doors,” Mab remarked as I unbound the chains. “Considering all the unrestrained supernatural iniquities in this house, it’s hard to imagine what could be so dire that even Mr. Prospero thought it should be locked up with cold iron.”

“Let’s do this quickly, Mab,” I said. “There is much to do before we depart.”

Planting my feet, I yanked on the iron door handles. The massive oak doors parted slowly, splitting the windrose. Their hinges groaned. Beyond lay a long sunny hall of reddish stone. Alcoves set into its walls held statues carved from different shades of marble. At the far end of the hall, two thrones sat on a raised dais.

It was late afternoon and shafts of sunshine, falling from small, round windows high overhead, pierced the chamber, illuminating the statues along the right wall. Dust motes danced in the light. The effect was striking. Mab took off his hat.

“Whoa!”

Despite the brightness, the air here was cold and dank. Shivering, I walked briskly toward the far end, my footsteps ringing out against the gray and black marble checkerboard floor. Mab followed more slowly, stopping to squint at the first statue on the left: a gray marble figure of a slight young man dressed in a tuxedo and a domino mask.

“That’s Mr. Ulysses . . . I never forget a perp,” Mab scowled. “Nice likeness.”

Smiling, I paused in a sunbeam and gestured toward the statues. The afternoon sunlight sparkled off my emerald tea gown, causing flashes of green fire to chase each other across its enchanted satin.

“Behold, the family,” I announced. “From youngest to oldest: Ulysses the Gentleman Thief; Gregor the Witchhunter, who is dead; Logistilla the Sorceress; Titus the Silent, whom spirits fear; Cornelius the Cunning, who is blind; Erasmus the Enchanter, whom I abhor; Theophrastus the Demonslayer, whom I adore; and Mephistopheles, who is mad. The last two, down near the thrones, are myself and Father.”

“Impressive!” Mab stalked over to the next statue, examining it closely. “I notice each statue has a round opening between the fingers and thumb of one hand, as if it were meant to hold something.

“Very perceptive of you, Mr. Detective. Long ago, Father used the most potent magic from his books to fashion staffs of immense power. He made one for each of his children but did not feel we were ready for them yet. So, Mephisto fashioned these statues to hold the staffs. They remained in the grip of the statues for many years. Eventually, a day came when Father decided we were mature enough to use them wisely, and he handed them out.” I recalled those carefree days, when Father held all the magic, and only Erasmus and Logistilla showed any interest in the arcane, and sighed. “Sometimes, I wish he had kept them longer.”

“I wish he’d never made ’em at all. Or better yet, that he had drowned his books like that Spearshaker fellow said,” muttered Mab. “Where’d he get those accursed tomes anyway?”

“Father would never say.”

“Bears looking into,” Mab growled. He screwed up his face and scratched at his stubble. “I think I’ve been in this room before. In the old days, before Mr. Prospero put me in a body. My memory worked differently back then, though.”

“You probably were,” I replied. “The stones of this hall have been part of every mansion our family has owned. We had a Great Hall when we lived in Illinois, before that when our family home was in Boston, and even before that, back in Scotland. Once, long ago, these same stones were part of the great
Castello Sforzesco
, my family’s ancestral home in Milan.”

From the pocket of his trench coat, Mab pulled out his notepad and stubby blue pencil. He examined the statues and noted down the inscriptions
above each alcove, which recorded the name of the staff once housed there.

“Must you dawdle, Mab? Time’s a-wasting.”

Mab tipped the brim of his hat. “Ma’am, if I am to find your siblings for you, I need to have some notion of who they are. This seems as good a place to start gathering that information as any.”

I glanced around at the family statues. “True. Very well, Mab, carry on.”

Mab continued taking notes, and I strode forward, seeking that which I had come to find. The click of my heels against the marble echoed through the chamber. I passed the marble likenesses of my various siblings: The statue of my dead brother Gregor, carved from red marble shot through with black, portrayed him as a Catholic cardinal; my sister Logistilla, sculpted in a deep blue stone, looked splendid in her flowing robes with their high pointed shoulders; enormous Titus, portrayed in earth tones, wore his kilt. The statue of Cornelius was of a rare type of purple marble—it pleased him tremendously that his statue was more valuable than all the rest of ours put together. His likeness bore the symbol of “the eye within the triangle” upon its chest, and bandages, carved into the stone, covered its eyes, so that he looked like a male Blind Justice.

Erasmus, who could do nothing without competing with me, had chosen for his statue a dark green marble shot through with black, as if changing the shade made it a different color. The marble of his gauntlet was pitted and dull from years of holding the
Staff of Decay
.

My brother’s many cruel barbs and unprovoked abuses of me rose to mind, and a burst of wrath swept over me. I clenched my fists. It was hard to think rationally about anything related to Erasmus.

Mab came up beside me and ran his hand over the damaged stone.

“Looks deadly. How’d he wield it?”

“He has to wear a gauntlet of Urim.”

“Urim! You mean that imperishable shining stuff the warrior angels wear?” Mab whistled. “That’s . . .”

“. . . a waste of good Urim.” I glared at the statue.

“I gather you and Mr. Erasmus don’t quite see eye to eye, Ma’am. How did that come about?”

“Frankly, I don’t know. Erasmus is malicious and spiteful and delights in tormenting me.”

Mab eyed me skeptically and raised his stubby pencil. “Can you give an example? Just in case it turns out to be important?”

I caught a strand of my hair that had come free. It gleamed like spun silver in the sunlight. “Our family is from Milan, Mab. Six of us are entirely Italian. The other three are half-Italian. With the exception of Ulysses and Mephisto, we all have Roman noses. Have you ever wondered why I am the only one in my family who is not a brunette?”

“Does seem incongruous,” Mab grunted. “What’s the cause?”

“Ask Erasmus,” I growled, “and the
Staff of Decay
.”

Only one alcove held a statue of traditional white. A handsome youth in an armored breastplate stood with legs braced, as if attempting to restrain something unwieldy, such as a fire hose. His hair and cloak flared about him, as if he faced into a strong wind. He smiled bravely, showing his teeth. A pair of goggles covered his eyes. The inscription above the alcove read
The Staff of Devastation
.

Mab looked up from his notebook and jerked his thumb at the statue. “Any idea of his whereabouts?”

“No. Theo turned his back on us in the 1960s. He declared we’d turned into a bunch of unruly criminals and left the family. He gave up magic completely. Said he was tired of all the violence and horror. Even started aging. Must be an old man by now,” I concluded sadly.

My dear brother Theo, how I missed him! The thought of him as aged and weak, or, worse yet, dead, was excruciating. I preferred to think of him as the statue had captured him: young, confident, and filled with
joie de vivre
.

“Sounds like a decent guy, Ma’am. My heart goes out to him.”

“You two would get along swimmingly,” I replied. “He was the only one of the youngsters with sense. If he’s really put aside his magic, he might be safer left alone. It is unlikely a supernatural enemy could find him. Yet, I’m certain he’d want to know that Father is in trouble. It was Theo who nursed Father the time he became so ill, after Gregor died.”

Mab glanced at the inscription above the statue. “What’d his staff do?”

“Blew things to smithereens.”

“Why’d the peace lover get the war staff?” Mab asked.

“Back then, he was Theophrastus the Demonslayer, the bane of dark powers everywhere.”

“Oh,” Mab lowered his voice respectfully. “
That
Theophrastus!”

“He used to love his staff,” I recalled. “Its blast was so hot that it would tan his skin and bleach his forelock. You should have seen his face when he fired it. Mephisto almost caught his expression on the statue, a sort of exquisite glee.”

“Perhaps we should leave him alone, Ma’am. Our showing up might do him more harm than good.” Mab looked across the hall, squinting. “Who’s that?”

Over the years, my memory of the next statue had dimmed. Startled by the tears that unexpectedly rose to my eyes, I halted and stared. Portrayed in shiny black marble, a heartbreakingly handsome youth stood with his arms thrown wide and his head tossed back in exultant joy. A keen intelligence lit his elfin features. He wore high boots, loose pants, and long loose sleeves covered by a quartered surcoat, the livery of which depicted a unicorn, three interlocking rings, a curling grass snake, and an eye within a triangle.