TUNRABOUT DEMAND

Yorkshire, England, 1880, 

“Yes, Mr. Bolton,” Sir Ashfield replied, exasperated. With a steady hand he pulled the steering wheel of his runabout to the side to avoid another muddy rut as he drove down the forest road. “There is little you can do to prevent me from seeing this gentleman.”

His secretary, seated beside him, Mr. Bolton, rolled his eyes. “Gentleman?” he protested. “The man is a practitioner of the dark arts and an outspoken heathen. I understand his popularity with the youth of today, but you are a good Christian.”

Ashfield said nothing as the manor’s roof appeared above the trees—an old estate from the Regency era, a vision of stately grandeur and restrained elegance from a bygone age when the preternatural was dismissed as mere superstition. Times, however, had changed. The rift anomalies that had been appearing around the globe for decades did more than create new opportunities for science.

Beings of pure energy—dubbed Astrals by the media—could be controlled through esoteric practices. Despite the naturalists’ protests, their existence had sparked renewed interest in the occult. Of course, many like Bolton deemed it unchristian and un-British. None of this could sway Ashfield from his course.

He brought the car to a stop at the roundabout before the polished obsidian porch. Removing his riding goggles, he gazed up at the three-story tower at the center of the manor, where stone gargoyles, overgrown with creeping vines, guarded the weathered parapets.

Taking his walking stick and top hat, he ascended the steps, a hesitant Bolton following in his wake.

They approached the Gothic doors, decorated with a relief of wide-smiled satyrs, making his friend Bolton uneasy.

“Shall we knock?” Ashfield asked.

“You do understand, once inside, there will be no turning back,” Bolton replied.

“I know what I am doing,” Ashfield insisted, raising his hand to the door. Before he could knock, however, the doors flung open.

Stunned, both men observed the interior hallway, a product of the Regency era. Around the base of a double staircase, there was abundant furniture of dark oak and red velvet, numerous mirrors, and paintings inspired by various mythologies.

“By Jove, where are the servants?” Bolton asked.

“They are there, Sir,” Ashfield assured him. “We just can’t see them.”

His companion stamped his foot on the obsidian floor. “Gerald, I insist, this is madness!”

Ashfield took off his gloves. “He’s testing us, Bolton. It’s typical of conjurers. Now, let’s not keep the man waiting. Cheery-o.”

Bolton threw his hands in the air in frustration as Ashfield proceeded inside, clutching his top hat to his chest.

Bolton froze as he looked into one of the large mirrors. “Dear God, where are our reflections?”

Ashfield, standing beside him, was intrigued. “It’s because these are here to watch us, Bolton,”

 “I read of this phenomenon in my studies. Our reflection can be seen somewhere else, like in a crystal ball, or some other object of the conjurer’s choice.”

“I don’t understand how you can be so casual about this,” Bolton remarked.

“Research, dear Bolton. Astrals might not obey the laws of physics; they are susceptible to our emotions. Now, these might be harmless observers. But others might be roused by our fear. Enticed, even, to torment us further.”

Bolton folded his hands behind his back. “My Lord, have you consumed anything?”

“Why, what do you mean?”

His secretary leaned in and whispered: “Have you taken any tinctures to calm your nerves?”

“How do you expect me to drive through Yorkshire traffic?”

Bolton looked at him with desperation, but Ashfield stayed resolute. “Come now. Something tells me he is behind this door,” he said, walking up to the arched doorway between the stairs. The nobleman raised his voice. “Good day! I am Sir Gerald Ashfield.”

There was just the creaking of the floorboards underfoot as he waited for a reply. “I hope we have come at an opportune time. I would have called in advance, but found no …

He stopped when the door lock rattled, and the hinges squeaked.

The door was being opened. 

Mouths agape, the men took in the large living room. It was part library, part alchemist’s lab, where piles of books served as makeshift pedestals for all manner of artifacts and ritual tools.

The floorboards creaked as Ashfield stepped inside. “Mr. Flamegale, are you there?”

“Please, come forth, Mr. Ashfield,” said a shrill voice with a sneer of command.

Moving on, the nobleman was overwhelmed by the scent of sulfur and old paper. Then, past a cupboard filled to the brim with animal bones and bottles containing creatures in formaldehyde, he saw a man with a shaven, chrome head and a pointed beard. He sat upon a throne of dark oak with a wine bottle on a small table beside him.

“Good day, sir. Mr. Flamegale, I presume?”

Just as Bolton moved to join him, he was stopped in front of the archway by an unseen barrier. Before Ashfield could ask what had happened, the entrance slammed shut behind him.

“By Jove, Mr. Bolton!” Ashfield exclaimed as he turned to the door.

Flamegale raised his hand in a commanding gesture. “I did not invite Mr. Bolton, Mr. Ashfield.”

The nobleman turned to face him. “My apologies. Mr. Bolton insisted he’d join me. He…”

“I have no patience for feeble minds. Why have you come to me without elaboration?”

“For security,” Ashfield replied. “You see, I am a man of considerable wealth who wishes you to offer lucrative patronage in return for your services.”

“You are well aware of the kind of man I am and the trade I dabble in. Are you a God-fearing man, Mr. Ashfield?”

“I once was. But all my pleas went unanswered. Now I believe what we can see, and some claim you have performed quite the miracles.”

Flamegale was unmoved by his testimony. “And what inspired you to call upon a miracle worker?”

“Like a flame to a moth, I’ve drawn my fair share of parasites, charlatans, and the ungrateful. One individual in particular has drawn my ire—an exceptional villain who not only broke my trust but turned my family against me through lies and deception for her own benefit. Although much of the financial damage has been mitigated, the wounds this creature carved in my family will never heal. There is nothing the penal system can sentence upon this housebreaker to that could bring closure for the crimes committed against my household. Meanwhile, I know that, like a parasite, she is enjoying a life of luxury with another victim. I desire a punishment worthy of the Old Testament before she withers away in an asylum, to be forgotten and buried in some unmarked grave.”

With a wide smile, Flamegale gave him gentle applause. “And it is that visceral, uncompromising hatred that intrigues me, good sir.”

Ashfield was elated by his reply. “So, you’ll fulfill my request?”

But his hope was short-lived when Flamegale’s demeanor changed and his smile faded away. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid I cannot fulfill your request for such a mundane reward.”

“You wish compensation of a different sort?”

Scowling, Flamegale steepled his fingers. “You misunderstand. I do not command my companions as common servants whom I can send on errands. They desire what I desire and act accordingly—whether to provide me with comfort, security, or to punish those who vex me.”

Ashfield shifted uneasily. “Are you implying you need a personal stake in this endeavor?” he asked cautiously.

Resting his left elbow on the throne, Flamegale rubbed his fingers together and elaborated in a low voice, “For instance, Mr. Ashfield, imagine a stranger entering my domain without explanation, offering me a job as if I were a common cutthroat or thug.”

Ashfield straightened in alarm. “Sir, I…”

“Could you imagine, Mr. Ashfield, that a gentleman such as I would take that as an insult?”

“My apologies…”

With an audible thud, Flamegale planted his fist upon the armrest. “I DO NOT ACCEPT APOLOGIES, MR. ASHFIELD!” 

The nobleman looked around in alarm as the room’s temperature dropped, and the candles flickered erratically. Trembling, he watched as Flamegale smiled with delight. “I am a practitioner of the dark arts,” he continued calmly. “My companions and I must be unflinching in our convictions. There can be no apologies, no forgiveness, MR. ASHFIELD! You, of all men, should understand.”

Close to tearing the rim of his top hat, Ashfield nodded in compliance. “Yes, yes, of course.” He stepped back as Flamegale rose from his throne.

“Then give me what I desire,” insisted the oculist.

Backing toward the door, Ashfield was desperate to keep his distance as Flamegale approached. With every step, the necromancer seemed to grow taller.

“Anything,” Ashfield said desperately. “Wealth. Land. A stake in the company! It’s yours!”

“I once desired wealth,” Flamegale replied calmly. “And now that I have it, I desire it no longer. Mr. Ashfield, if you want my services, you must grant me something I truly desire.”

“Ah—anything, sir. What can I do to…”

“Deliver to me the Malibus Codex.A cold chill ran down the nobleman’s back. In preparation for Flamegale’s services, he had come across mentions of the massive tome uncovered in a Syrian monastery, said to contain commentaries and even corrections of the Lesser Key of Solomon—one of the foremost authorities in demonology.

“The Mal—But, sir… that is in the Malian Emperor’s private collection, preserved for study in the vaults of the Imperial Museum.”

“It’s what I desire,” repeated the oculist, emphasizing every syllable.

“But—” Ashfield froze as the door behind him swung open.

Flame gale raised his fist at him. “Did you NOT come here FOR REVENGE?”

Stunned, Ashfield pondered his reply before answering without hesitation, “I have.”

“Then the deal is struck,” Flamegale proclaimed curtly. “Do not return before you have retrieved the Codex. If you fail, I will have to redirect my frustrations at the source of my disappointment. Have I made myself clear, Mr. Ashfield?”

Ashfield swallowed. “Perfectly, sir.”

Suddenly, an unseen force pushed him, sliding him across the checkered tiles and back through the archway. Before he could react, the doors slammed shut with a loud blow.