text: [Themes: love & dating, fantasy]
  
  Dr. Young brings a much larger beaker, still full of what looks like fog, but now the substance is a pale orange color. "This is an imp," he says in the same slightly bored tone he always uses. "It should be more of a challenge. Like all daemons more powerful than the mites, it will speak, though of course its persuasive abilities are rather limited."
  
  The silver container is larger too, and it barely fits on the table at the front of the room. The daemon's preferred form is that of a roughly foot-high person, light orange and covered in a series of bumps and ridges. It is really quite hideous. It says something obscene to the first student to walk up who grimaces and dumps a few fistfuls of juniper incense. This seems to scald the imp, which screeches horribly.
  
  You hang back from the table as the others cluster around, trying to decide what you're going to do. Young isn't the most expressive professor, but he does give some freedom in how you deal with each daemon. You suppose he considers this good practice in applying all the theory to the real world. With the mites, of course, this didn't matter much, since they had hardly any power, but the imp might be different.
  
  Perusing from books from the library for something that might explain Seria's behavior or your new dreams, you came across an interesting prayer recorded by a German monk. He claimed to have found it in an old scroll of Cassiodorus, though part of you doubts the authenticity. Still, the Latin makes sense and fits with some of the other prayers you've read, and it's certainly a step beyond anything you've attempted. As far as you can tell, the prayer is to dispel dormant and lesser daemons. Apparently the monk used it to banish an imp which had become trapped in a grave in his cemetery, rattling bones and general frightening the novices. You're fairly sure it would impress even Young, who gives rare praise to students who manage to surprise him.
  
  On the other hand, you could just drop in a simple wooden amulet. It's quite crude, not much more than a wood chip carved with a few Greek words, but you did make it yourself. It probably wouldn't do much damage to the imp, but Young would likely be pleased that it's your own work, if not overly impressed. There's also little chance of it failing to work altogether, which you can't say for the prayer.
  
  > Amulet
  You'll look like a great fool if you chant for minutes with no effect, so you wait your turn patiently. By the time you get to the front, the imp is glowering and covered in more ugly welts. He yells some foul language, mostly about the mark on yor cheek, but you ignore it and drop the amulet in. He leaps aside just a little to slow, and the wood bounces off his shoulder. He howls and screams curses down on you and your entire family, and you watch as another jagged bump formed where the amulet hit.
  
  Dr. Young only nods and watches the last two or three students complete the exercise. When they're finished, he mutters a quick prayer, and the daemon gives one last cry as it bursts into a thousand tiny fragments. In a moment these too vanish. "Well done by all," Young drones. "You will read the next four chapters in Lawrence's Commentary by Wednesday."
  
  You head to practical metaphysics, thinking perhaps you'll try the prayer the next time Young brings in a daemon. Hopkins is pacing back and forth as usual and gives you a wide smile as you enter. You soon realize why- today's lecture is about daemons of lust.
  
  "The most famous of these creatures are the concupiscent nocturnae, better known as succubi, but they are not the only daemons to use lust. Incubi, of course, but also certain genies and Indian spirits. We will speak mostly of succubi since they are most common in Britain, though looking at you lot I can't imagine why any pretty young succubus would be interested."
  
  The class chuckles, and he continues the lecture. It is only an introduction, and mostly things you've learned already from your own research, but you are startled to learn that the kiss of a succubus is not always fatal. Hopkins explains that there are protective charms and talismans which can shield the wearer from the harmful effects of a kiss and even, he implies, from the mindless slavery which normally follows carnal knowledge of a succubus. He does not go into the details, of course, since only a heathen would want to use such a talisman, though he jokingly tells anyone who wants the information to stay after class. At least, you're fairly sure he was joking.
  
  When the hour ends and everyone departs, you find Hopkins wasn't joking after all. "Hold up a moment, Latimer. You might as well stay too, Aubrey, since I hear you have a lovely young woman in London, and they're hardly less dangerous than succubi." Peter grins. Hopkins' gentle teasing is much easier to take than Keatings' insults.
  
  "I am going to show you a simple charm that will, in all likelihood, keep you alive even if you succumb to temptation. That is, of course, if the succubus ever appears again. It is not foolproof, and young men in the company of beautiful women are notorious fools, but it is better than nothing." Sensing your question, Hopkins continues quickly. "This is rather dangerous, and you were not ready until now. Much more dangerous than the ankhs you wear. The other professors do not approve of these kinds of measures, so they would never teach you such a thing. They are pious and upstanding men, and I, of course, am not." The stooped man chuckles at his little joke.
  
  He gives you a paper covered in intricate, looping designs and tells you to copy them on your chest with charcoal. "Every night, preferably, since you don't know when she'll be back and it might be hard to do with her legs already wrapped around your waist."
  
  "Sir," Peter interjects, "these are Celtic, are they not?"
  
  Hopkins slaps him on the back. "Well done, my boy, well done indeed. Yes, it was the sorcerers of Britain who first discovered these charms, though similar measures were known to the Persians and perhaps the Chinese far earlier. The Romans mistrusted them, as did the Anglo-Saxons, and the knowledge lived on only in the farthest wilds of Ireland and the Scottish Isles. As I said, it is dangerous magic, so be careful with the lines, Latimer. Still, you've proven yourself able enough in your classes that I think you can be trusted. I wouldn't tell my colleagues, though. They'll have be thrown out for corrupting young minds with pagan witchcraft."
  
  > begin that night
  It takes some time to get the pattern right, but by the time you get into bed you're confident it's an exact replica of the design Hopkins gave you. You aren't sure, but you suspect that Seria might choose tonight to reappear, and if she does you'll be grateful for the charm's protection.
  
  But daemons, of course, do not always meet human expectations. You drift off to sleep and wake the next morning without even a dream. You're not exactly disappointed, though each day that passes without a visit makes you a little more curious about what the succubus might be planning.
  
  A week goes by, and each evening you carefully replace the design on your chest. With it, the two ankhs, and your bowl of herbs, you'd feel a little superstitious were it not for the memory of those dark lips and pointed teeth. Yes, her lips, and her perfect porcelain skin, and her eyes, piercing and terrible but more beautiful than any eyes you can remember, and her body, soft and full and delicate, just perfect for...
  
  You shake your head, trying to think of something else. Your mind has been wandering in that direction more and more lately. Perhaps that's why you're half-eager for Seria to return, if only to dispel some of these fantasies. You aren't terribly religious, but even you realize how sinful and, what's more, dangerous such thoughts can be.
  
  The trouble is, it's hard to distract yourself with Hebrew vocabulary. You sit with Peter in your dormitory room, reviewing your dictionaries and grammars for the midyear examination tomorrow morning. Dr. Faber and Dr. Bullock are the only professors holding exams for their classes. Mathematics should be alright, despite Bullock's distaste for you, but Hebrew seems to get more confusing each day.
  
  Peter asks the meaning of ruach. You think for a moment. "Wind, I think, and something else too."
  
  "Breath, and spirit as well. They can't let one word stand for one thing, they've always got to make it tricky. Zat is ze vay vith Hebrew," Peter adds in Faber's voice.
  
  You smile, though you know he isn't having nearly as much trouble as you are. Then again, he must put in twice the work as you or anyone else, and you'd be shocked if he slept more than two hours most nights. "I can't think anymore tonight. I'll have to take my chances come the dawn."
  
  "Fortune favors the bold. I suppose you'll remain in Covingsford for Christmas?" You nod. You aren't much looking forward to the holiday, given that it's several weeks back at home with your father, but at least you'll get to see Mrs. Littlethwaite and have a break from Hebrew. You should be able to spend your days in the College library too. If the dormitory wasn't shut up you think you'd probably stay there.
  
  "I'll be back in London, at least for most of the holiday. It would be a crime to let Lizzy spend Christmas alone, what with how cold the winters can be in the city."
  
  You snort. "I have no doubt you'll keep her very warm."
  
  "And who knows? Your succubus may come back. If she still wants you, even covered in charcoal, then you know it's true love. I daresay you'll stay pretty warm yourself." You laugh and talk about trifles for a while, then Peter bids you goodnight.
  
  It's best to get a good rest before the examinations, so you touch up your charm, pull a second blanket over yourself, and wait for sleep to take you.
  
  > feel something on your lips
  It is soft and warm, and you smile. You mouth is full of sweetness and the taste of great ripe blackberries. You picture them hanging on the bush, gleaming dark on a summer day. Now it is like wine, and now like honey. It take a second to realize you are not dreaming, but the taste is too delicious to mind very much.
  
  The thing against your lips pushes a little harder, and the flavor grows even more intoxicating. It makes you want to fight and eat and make love, and when you open your eyes you are not even frightened to see her.
  
  Seria lies sprawled across your body, her skin taut and warm against your own. The blankets lie crumpled and forgotten on the floor, as does her gossamer, translucent robe, but you can only look at her. She moves slowly, stretching and rubbing, her fingers dancing along your body and those dark lips coming closer for another kiss.
  
  She sinks her teeth into your lip, just enough to break the skin, and you feel a few drops of blood trickle out. Your eyes meet, and hers are as dark as her lips and just as enticing. With a low roar you grab her arms and spin her around, pinning her wrists to the bed. Seria flicks out her tongue, her body heaving below you, and you finally do what you have been imagining for a long time. Her moans are soft but strong, full of heat and passion, and you go faster and faster.
  
  Her fingers dig into your back, surely drawing blood, but you do not care. It is impossible to think about anything but the woman beneath you, her tangled hair shimmering with dark light each time her body trembles.
  
  At last you finish, and she gives one last moan and, bending up, nips you in the neck with her pointed teeth. Then Seria slumps back and shuts her eyes. You roll beside her, breathing hard and covered in sweat and a little blood.
  
  She purrs and then cocks her head to one side and looks at you, her expression hard to read. "I had forgotten what it was like to be with a guarded man, to be with someone free." Apparently it was quite pleasurable, given that she purrs again. Then Seria leans towards you, her tongue very close to your chest, and traces it just above the complex charcoal pattern. "Keep this, at least until we find you some more permanent protection. I don't want you as a slave, young one. You are much to valuable, much too delicious."
  
  By now you've recovered enough to speak. "But why? Why did you claim me, why do you visit me?"
  
  She smiles. "Because of who you are, of course. Be thankful I did, young one. There are many spirits who want you, all because of the power in your blood, but none so kind as I, and none so clever. They would kill you and drink it, and they would gain a little power, but that would be such a waste! No, you are mine, and we have a greater destiny. And, it seems, there is plenty of pleasure to be had along the way."
  
  So many questions, but your mind is still having trouble focusing on anything but her body and how it felt beneath you. "I...I am no one special," you manage to say.
  
  Seria looks puzzled, and you realize it is the first time you can remember her not being in complete control. "I am not as knowledgeable about mankind as I thought. I imagined you would want to learn about your mother, but perhaps you never wondered who she was."
  
  Your mother? The picture from your father's study jumps into your mind, thin and pretty, but before you can ask, Seria puts a finger to your lips. "No more words, not now, young one. There is much more still to do, but I thank you for the...invigorating ride. Now, I know you have told others about me. You will not tell anyone of this meeting, nor of any more. I will not let anyone interfere with us, do you understand?" She pulls her finger back, dripping with a bit of your blood, and sucks it clean.
  
  > Agree
  "I will tell no one," you say, and Seria purrs again.
  
  She traces your jaw with her finger. "Your obedience is pleasing, no less than your body. Remember, you are mine. Never forget that." She closes your eyelids gently, and you hear the sound like wind. When you open your eyes Seria is gone. In the silent night you are surprised to realize how heavily you were breathing.
  
  It takes a long while to fall asleep, but eventually you do, and when morning comes you are quite refreshed. It takes a second to remember Seria's visit, and you spend more than a few pleasant minutes remembering how she looked and felt. Then you remember the conversation.
  
  You know you cannot tell Hopkins, Thewliss, or any of the others. But there is one man who you must speak with, and about a subject he has never willingly discussed. Who would have thought that a midnight visit from a daemon would be less terrifying than talking to your father? You try to think of the right words, the right story as you dress and gather you things for the midyear examinations, but nothing sounds convincing, not even to you.
  
  Hebrew is first. You meet up with Peter outside the classroom and have a sudden, vivid memory of your time waiting for the entrance exam to begin. So much has happened since August, and what was once just a figure in your dreams has become quite real. You wish you could tell Peter about Seria's visit, but that would likely be a very bad idea. Even if you hadn't promised not to, you doubt succubi enjoy being the subject of tales by young men.
  
  The written portion is difficult, but not as bad as you had feared. You develop a bit of a headache by the time it's finished, however, and you bungle several sentences during the oral examination. Dr. Faber frowns, but, as he says, "zat vuz still better zan most of zese idlers." You remember his advice about not trusting succubi and feel a little guilty. None of them, though, knows what it's really like to be marked by Seria.
  
  Mathematics is long and tedious, covering everything you've studied in the last few months and a few topics you're sure Bullock never mentioned. He stands at the front of the room throughout the entire exam, scowling when anyone coughs or sneezes. The two hours cannot pass fast enough, and you follow Peter outside into the cold winter afternoon, confident that you did not fail but nothing more. Seria's visit and her words occupied a large portion of your mind and left little space for cosecants and postulants.
  
  You say goodbye to Peter, his coat tattered and whipping in the chilly breeze. He is off to London and his love, and you begin the walk back to your house. There is no snow, but a thin layer of frost coats the cobbestones and crunches beneath your feet. The mixture of fear and curiosity is familiar by now, though it is curious that it's your father and not Seria causing it.
  
  In a few minutes you are back. No one answers when you ring the brass knocker, so you let yourself in. It is scarcely warmer than outside, and you keep your coat on as you ascend the stairs.
  
  > climb to the study
  The house seems quite empty. You guess that Mrs. Littlethwaite is out buying groceries, but it is curious that Simon is nowhere to be found. Long before you reach your father's study, the familiar scratching grates your ears. Distracted, you open the door without knocking and only realize your mistake too late. Your father glances up and frowns, but he must be too busy to get very angry at the intrusion.
  
  "Why have you returned?" he says, eyes already back on the ledger.
  
  "Because..." you fumble, realizing you never quite decided on a convincing story, and then suddenly it all comes out. "Because a succubus has marked me, and she's done it because of mother." He goes on writing, finishes the sentence, and then looks up again. Only now does he see the rose on your cheek.
  
  "What is the meaning of this? What is this thing?" he thunders, rising to his feet. "This family is respectable, boy, and I will not have us brought into disrepute because you picked up some degenerate fashion from the daemonologists." It seems he was not listening.
  
  Strangely enough, the fact that his eyes are fixed on Seria's mark gives you a kind of confidence. "It wasn't the daemonologists," you say. "It was a succubus. She said it's because of mother, though I don't know much more than that. I need to learn about her. What she was like, where she came from." You pause a moment. "Everything you never said."
  
  Suddenly your father darts forward, and for a moment you think he is going to strike you. His great hand grabs your shoulder, and before you can fully process what's happened, he sinks to his knee. "Forgive me, Amelia," he cries, "forgive me for everything."
  
  It is more emotion than you have witnessed from him in your entire life. Unsure, you hold his arm, and he keeps gripping you shoulder as if he were drowning. But he is not looking at you anymore, now he is gazing up at your mother's portrait. She smiles serenely down at both of you, looking for all the world like a perfectly ordinary woman.
  
  Your father pulls his hand from your shoulder and begins unbuttoning his waistcoat. Alarmed, you try to stop him, but he swats you away. Soon it is off, and then comes the shirt. You feel as though you're in a bad dream. Business must be bad, must be worse than you had imagined. Your father has gone mad. He stands, unsteadily, and points a quivering hand at his side.
  
  There, though it is surrounded by coarse black and gray hair, you see a small golden harp. It looks like a tiny tattoo, and with a shock you recognize it as akin to your own rose. He grabs your shoulder again and begins the tale, slowly at first, but once it has started it is like a great flood.
  
  "Amelia was an angel," he begins, and when you don't understand he says it again. "I knew she was lovely, but I didn't realize her true nature until after the wedding." That was when she marked him. She was loving and kind, precisely as you would imagine an angel to be. He says he still does not know why she married him, and he talks for a while about what a miserable man he is and how he never deserved her. Your father talks for a long time about her laugh and the way she walked, and all the while he continues staring up at her portrait. He stops speaking, and you get the impression he is trying to find the words for the next part of his story.
  
  "She could not have children. She told me that it might be very difficult, a while after the wedding, but I didn't care, not for a few years. I was sure we would have a boy soon. But when it didn't happen I...I...you must understand, I was in London a great deal, away from your mother, and I was weak, and there are many women in the city, and..." His voice trails off into sobbing. You, of course, have no words.
  
  Eventually he recovers enough to whisper that Charles is only your half brother, his mother a Lambeth whore. "But she forgave me, that was the hardest thing. She wept and prayed, and then she forgave what I had done. The evil I had done, and to a woman so innocent, so kind! She cared for Charles like he was her own. Her prayers must have been answered, too, because a few years later you were born, and..."
  
  He stops, and outside the study you can hear a sound like the rushing of the wind.
  
  > The door slams open
  Seria's eyes are like fire and her face is utterly terrifying. Without a word she strides into the study, grabs you by the throat, and throws you against the wall. You land with a crash and look up just in time to watch her slap your father, hard enough to send him careening into his own desk, which snaps under the weight and sends a flurry of books, papers, and the scale to the floor.
  
  "You were her husband," she says coldly, and her voice makes you want to run and hide under what remains of the desk.
  
  Your father stares up at Seria, his cut and bruised. "Amelia's husband," he croaks out.
  
  Seria kicks him in the stomach and he collapses entirely. She turns to you. "Why did you tell him? Why did you disobey me?"
  
  You stand slowly. "I needed to know about my mother. I needed to know why you chose me." You take a few unsteady steps towards the succubus, praying that you haven't gone mad and that you clothes have not damaged the pattern. Seria is breathing hard, fists clenched. You know that she is stronger by far than you, that one flick of those tiny wrists would probably mean your death.
  
  "It was not your place to disobey me, you miserable, oh!" You cut off her words with a kiss. She resists for the smallest moment and then grabs your coat, pulling you close. You reach around to caress her and spend a few terrifying, intensely pleasurable minutes exploring her lips and body. You're fairly confident that, between last night and now, you know every inch, but you hope you get the chance to check again.
  
  When you finally break apart, Seria's eyes are back to their usually dark beauty. She gazes at you, her lips still in a shocked little o, and then reaches out to touch the rose on your cheek. "You are mine," she murmurs, "but I am yours, all yours." She seems ready to make love right there, but you notice your father groaning on the floor. She licks her lips. "I suppose I can wait."
  
  You pull him from the rubble and into the center of the room, and after a while he revives enough to cry. It is a startling sight, but by now you've seen so many that it hardly seems unusual. Seria gives him another kick, this one a little gentler. "Will you finish the story or shall I?"
  
  He groans and whispers that it must be him. "You were born. Such a beautiful boy. Amelia was so happy. So happy for those first few days." He coughs, and then a spasm seems to go through his body. "And then...and then..." He breaks off into sobbing once more. Seria looks at him coldly. When he gives no sign of continuing, she turns to face you.
  
  > say "And then they murdered her."
  You stare into her dark eyes. The words do not make sense. No one murdered your mother, she died from eclampsia right after you were born. If anyone killed her it was you, but you know that kind of talk is only foolishness. Seria stares back for a long time and then, in a low voice, adds "the daemonologists."
  
  Your father gives a great cry, but you do not hear him. The daemonologists could not have killed your mother, they are sworn only to fight against evil spirits, against daemons, never against angels. It is impossible, absurd, unthinkable.
  
  "No," you say, shaking a little, "it cannot be. Not the daemonologists I know."
  
  Seria grabs your hand and holds it, tight. "The daemonologists who said I must be a monster but who gave you nothing but bits of metal to defend against me? Who fight among themselves and care more about prestige and little quarrels than with protecting the innocent? They care only for status, only for prestige and power, and your mother had plenty of power."
  
  Her words are like knives, but as you gaze into her eyes they make terrible sense. You do not want to believe them, you want her to be quiet, but she continues. "They must have sensed her aura for a long time, living so close to the College, even if she tried to hide. But the birth was difficult, and so, when you were only a few days old and healthy, she ventured out into the countryside for a walk, perhaps to clear her thoughts, to enjoy the sunshine and the grass. I imagine she hated to stay cooped up indoors. That's where they caught her, and that's where they killed her, leaving you, just born and already all alone in the world, to fend for yourself."
  
  Your father struggles to his knees and clutches at your leg. "She was killed, but you were not alone, my son. You had a father..." Seria catches him with another slap, and he falls to his back. You share in her surge of anger. You had no father, or as good as none. When did he care, when did he speak to you or tell you anything about your mother or your heritage? How can he try to claim innocence when he chose some whore over his own wife?
  
  But your father will not stay down. "She was killed, my angel was murdered, but..." With a sudden roar, Seria slams her elbow into his neck. He gives a horrible gasp and lies still for a few seconds, but somehow rises again, looking nearly dead. You cannot listen to any more of his words. He would not give them until Seria came, why should he have the chance to say them now?
  
  > strike him down
  He has no right to speak, not after everything he's done. You aim a quick kick to his head, and then another and another. Every unsaid word, every disdainful look you can remember is avenged with those kicks, and finally your father falls down and does not rise, his face barely recognizable.
  
  Seria's eyes glitter like black pearls, and she grabs your shirt. She pulls you close, her voice deep and husky. "Take me. Now."
  
  You obey, and soon you both have shed your clothes. Bodies locked together, you feel her, hot all over, and it makes you forget everything you have learned these past minutes. Those darks lips are everywhere, and everywhere they touch burns with a cruel and insatiable fire. Your lusts burn together, and it seems nothing could ever quench them.
  
  You last longer than the night before, and when you finish she purrs contentedly. Lazily playing with the strands of her hair, your eyes drift to your father. He has not moved. Seria glances at him too and states, quite matter-of-factly, "He is dead."
  
  You nod. You had not intended to kill him, but now that it is done you do not feel guilty. He was an adulterer, and against your mother. He let you think her death was your fault, let you join the College, the ones who killed her. His sin probably drove her out of the house, drove her to her death. You can feel her eyes watching from her portrait and are filled with a sudden rage. Death is too good for the fat old bastard, and with a great roar you begin to pummel his lifeless body.
  
  Seria lets you go for a minutes and then grabs your arm. "Enough. Save your hatred and wrath, we will need them both. This man disgraced your mother and mistreated you, but the ones who killed her live and breath. I doubt they even remember the deed." You nod, fully intent on marching straight to the College to slaughter every daemonologist you can find, but she keeps speaking. "No, young one, you are not strong enough, not yet. Your mother's blood gives you great power, but it will only bear fruit in time. If you strike now it will be in vain, and the wretches will add another of our family to their list of murders."
  
  "Our family?"
  
  She smiles. "Yes, cousin. Amelia was my aunt, my mother's sister. The divide between angels and daemons is not sharp. What does it matter that my mother chose the darkness and yours the light? Blood is what matters, and revenge against those who spilled it." Suddenly she bends forward and bites your ear, just enough to get a few drops of the stuff. It is barely visible on her lips, but you could hardly miss the way she licks it off.
  
  "Return to the College. Continue with your studies until everything is ready. Rest assured, soon it will all be in place, and together we will avenge your mother. I will visit often, for I know I will not be able to resist tasting you again. You are mine, and I am yours." Seria gives you one last kiss, and then she is gone.
  
  > Time passes...
  Mrs. Littlethwaite returns a few hours after Seria's departure, wizened arms laden with food from the market. When she sees your father's body, you do not even have to lie. "Business was not going well, and I feared his debts had grown, feared he had gone to thugs and criminals. What is to become of us now?" she wails. You do your best to comfort her, a little shaken that his death would cause such a reaction, but you know you had no choice.
  
  Charles returns a few days later to take possession of the house and full control of the Latimer business interests. If he is at all affected, he does not show it. His analysis is sober. "Father made a string of bad investments, and then some ill fortune compounded the problems. He was too stubborn to listen to my advice, and I suppose he thought he could handle his creditors. But what's done is done. With luck they'll catch the killers, and in time I will rebuild our family's reputation and wealth." You also learn that your father gave Simon his notice a week before, another casulty of his bad investments. Charles assures you that your tuition will still be paid. "We are not so desparate as that."
  
  Christmas comes and goes, a somewhat solemn holiday. Charles returns to London most of the time, so you are left alone with Mrs. Littlethwaite. You speak of little things, but you no longer have any interest in discussing your studies at the College, and the sight of your father's body seems to have rattled her quite severely. You spend most of your time in your room reading, or walking alone around the town and countryside in the crisp air and snow. You've taken to picturing your mother's death, surrounded by a gang of daemonologists, probably the same professors you've trusted all this time. Sometimes you are not certain you'll be able to wait for Seria's plan, the anger is too strong. Despite her promise, she does not return. You can be patient, however, since her absence means your revenge will come quicker.
  
  Come January you return to your lodgings in the College dormitory. Classes are much more interesting, now that you've learned the theory and the basics, though Hebrew is still a dull slog. Peter is a day late, and when he returns he is thrilled to tell you that he and Lizzy are engaged. "It will have to be a long engagement," he admits, "but her father is no longer opposed. No more secret meetings, unless perhaps I need a strong distraction form my studies." You are pleased for your friend, the first real happiness you have felt in a while, aside from picturing the moment when you strike down your mother's killers.
  
  Those fantasies have made it more and more difficult not to draw attention during your classes. You want to interrupt Faber and Thewliss and Hopkins and ask them why they cornered your mother, or at least why they sheltered her killers. You realize that most of them probably had nothing to do with the foul deed, but you have little doubt that they've done similar things in the past. The illusion is shattered, they are nothing but self-serving, greedy wretches. You've even begun to dislike your fellow students, all except Peter. How can they sit in class, day after day, and learn to fight daemons, when the ones they should be fighting are standing right in front of them?
  
  > One day in your Practicum
  Dr. Young is lecturing on the power of daemons over certain diseases and ailments. It is dull stuff, and with the hour almost gone it nearly lulls you to sleep, but your ears prick up when he mentions childbirth. "The common natural dangers can also be excacerbated by daemons, especially daemons of lust. Succubi, for instance, favor eclampsia, and they relish the chance to induce that terrible disease in a woman. Thompson reports the case of a particularly devilish daemon in Edinburgh who infected no less than 40 women. Saint Bonaventure describes something similar, and he advised a mixture of lily and hawthorne bark as an effectual remedy. Nicholson, whose biases against hawthorne are well-known, reccommends the creation of an amulet, made of brass and inscribed with the Magnificat. Georg Strutt, the great Prussian of our own day, disagrees, since he considers..."
  
  Eclampsia. Your father always claimed your mother died from eclampsia. It was nearly the only thing he said about her, and now you've learned it can be caused by succubi. At least, you think bitterly, Young claims it can be caused by succubi. You wonder if your father knew that, if he chose that lie so that, one day, you might blame a daemon instead of the daemonologists.
  
  The rage grows strong and hot inside you. You can see Young but you don't hear his words. He is middle-aged, just old enough, perhaps, to have been among your mother's killers. How dare he stand and talk about saving women from harm, how dare he be so calm and expressionless. You realize that this anger cannot be controlled. You need to do something, now, or you'll explode. Thankfully the class is ending. You only need to wait a minute more, and with all your strength you focus on the paper in front of you. You count the words and then the letters you've written there. The full heat of your rage dissapates, and soon Young dismisses the class. The other students file out slowly and you bring up the rear.
  
  As you near the door, Dr. Young turns and nods. The anger changes, turns cold and and calculating. There is no one else in the room, he suspects nothing. Now is your chance to strike, to pay them back for what they did to your mother.
  
  > Attack
  You step closer and clench your hand into a fist. Young does not notice. Suddenly you get the urge to speak, to tell him that you've seen through the facade. "Sir," you ask, "I was wondering if angels ever cause these kinds of ailments."
  
  Young shakes his head. "Of course not, Latimer. They are by nature good and pure, the very opposite of the daemons. They assist in childbirth to protect both mother and baby."
  
  "As I thought. But then, why would a pack of daemonologists surround an angel and murder her?"
  
  He looks at you, confused, and opens his mouth to respond, but it is too late. You land a punch right on his jaw, and he falls to the ground. He manages to splutter a few words, though you do not understand the language, and then you strangle him. He claws at your hands, but your grip is strong. Slowly you feel the life ebbing away. You think he is dead, and you want to dance in triumph.
  
  "I knew it, I knew it all along!" you hear behind you. You turn to find Dr. Bullock, his face blazing with an awful light, but by the time you release Young his fist has already crashed into the side of your head. You stagger away. Bullock shouts something in Latin, and what feels like a tiny hurricane slams into your body. You black out for a moment and fall, and by sheer luck knock your skull against a chair at the worst angle. You just barely see Bullock running towards you, cursing that he won't get the chance to find out what daemon you serve, and then your vision fades forever.
  
  "I...mother, I tried," you murmur with your last breath. Hopefully Seria's plan will still work without you, because you could only kill one of the murderers. Still, you die happy, knowing you did what you could to avenge your mother's death.