The Dark Volume Part 52

He raised an eyebrow at Mrs. Marchmoor, who had not moved, and then addressed the Contessa. "You seem reticent, Rosamonde. Did you not want to renew our compact? Or has your recent ill fortune rendered you as tremulous as these men?"

The Contessa held Phelps' revolver-it was within her power to shoot Vandaariff down.

"Why do you hesitate?" hissed Miss Temple. "After what he was saying, what he would do to you-"

"Be quiet, Celeste!" The Contessa licked her lips, weighing greed and arrogance and hope against the man's outright insanity. For a creature as once splendid as the Contessa to even hesitate, Miss Temple was appalled. The Contessa cleared her throat and spoke in a cool, careful tone.

"I am sure the Comte was merely... exorcising his old rage."

"I was exactly," said Vandaariff, smiling.

"Telling stories."

"I was indeed."

Vandaariff turned to Miss Temple and smirked at her distressed expression. "The Contessa is my good friend, how could we not go on together? Of course, Margaret is a different story. She is imperfect, created from flawed premises, and so we see the result-beautiful enough, yet rebellious, acquisitive... stupid." He called to Chang. "Take her head, I beseech you."

"Enough," the gla.s.s woman whispered.

The chuckle stopped in Vandaariff's throat, and his body stiffened. But despite the redness of his face and the bulging veins in his neck... he continued to smile.

"I may be yours, Margaret," Vandaariff gasped, his face streaming with sweat. "But Francis... is mine."

At once Mrs. Marchmoor rocked on her feet. She released Vandaariff, visibly shaking where she stood, and pivoted her attention solely to Francis Xonck. Still bound to the chair, Xonck had lifted his head to face her, his depthless eyes dark and bright. Miss Temple watched transfixed as each gla.s.s creature strained against the other- unnatural, hypnotic, battling statues-until it seemed that both must shatter. Xonck's mouth hung open, his broken teeth bared. Blue steam rose from Mrs. Marchmoor's damaged arm.

"I cannot! I cannot!" wailed Mrs. Marchmoor, and at once the tension snapped away, the air in the room as crisp as if it had been split by lightning. Miss Temple's eyes burned and she covered her mouth and nose. Mrs. Marchmoor retreated to the canvas-covered window. Vandaariff barked with hoa.r.s.e laughter.

"Well done, Francis-though rather tardy. If you delay like that again... suffice to say that I do not tolerate independence."

He took hold of Francis Xonck's right ear and with a sudden turn of his wrist snapped the upper half clean off, tossing it away to shatter behind the machines. Xonck grunted and an invisible ripple of pain shot through each unprotected mind in the room. Vandaariff mockingly addressed the steaming stub.

"Am I understood?"

The Contessa stepped forward, one hand to her forehead. "Oskar..."

Vandaariff ignored her, calling gaily across the room, "It is no use, Margaret, you will not fit through the bars! You've been damaged- and Francis is your match!"

"What do you want?" the gla.s.s woman whispered.

"Everything," Vandaariff replied. "It would be more efficient to break you apart and pound the pieces into sand... but perhaps that arm can be mended after all. I can mend all manner of broken souls, can't I?"

He looked into Xonck's swirling depths of color with a sour mix of delight and disdain. Miss Temple winced as Xonck's new voice entered her mind, a groping, graveled sc.r.a.pe, deeper than Mrs. Marchmoor's and more sad.

"Oskar... I... I... never-"

"Who asks for destiny?" replied Vandaariff with a strange light in his eyes. "You have been tempered to a harder steel. And perhaps there is justice in it-we have each preserved the other by way of torment.

You are quite new! The corruption is gone, the weakness burned away-your body has undergone the true chemical marriage!"

"You have no idea," whispered Xonck.

"You think not?" Vandaariff laughed coldly. "The arrogance of this world! Your puling grief, Margaret's grasping fear, this beastly hope-"

Mrs. Marchmoor interrupted him. "What do you want?"

He did not reply. Instead, he turned at last to the Contessa, smirking at the pistol in her hand.

"What would you say, Rosamonde? What price to keep Margaret among us?"

The Contessa looked carefully at Mrs. Marchmoor-her ally of just moments before-and shrugged, flinching against the pull of her shoulder.

"Her continued service," she said. "Even if she is no match for Francis, she remains inordinately powerful. And in our absence, she has no doubt discovered any number of useful secrets within the Ministries."

"Excellent practical reasoning, madame. I too am practical, and I think it is extremely important to retain control of this excellent facility-which means, of all things, Xonck."

"That is nothing to do with Margaret-"

Again, Vandaariff did not seem to answer her words, but spoke from his own urges, the same poisonous resentment. "These machines are our future, but my vision. You deprived me of Lydia, Rosamonde. Her flesh had become my canvas." Vandaariff's eyes sharpened. "Now my dreams have changed-they have deepened in astonis.h.i.+ng ways... I see how I can go so much further..."

His eyes settled on his target with a hungry gleam and Miss Temple felt her gorge rise.

"My price... is the child."

"The child?" The Contessa shook her head. "But she is not Lydia-She cannot-What will you do with her?"

"Absolutely anything"

Vandaariff looked to the gla.s.s woman, who met his gaze and sucked her lower lip, measuring the foulness she had tasted against survival and a return to servitude. She nodded, the barest dip of her chin. Vandaariff turned to the Contessa. Her face was drawn and her mouth grimly set. "Done."

FRANCESCA TRAPPING screamed. Eloise had plucked up the girl-startling her-and run for the open door. Mrs. Trapping, shocked to life as well, shrieked after them.

"Eloise! You cannot take my daughter from me! Eloise!"

But Mrs. Trapping did not stir from where she stood-wringing her hands, tears on her cheeks-between the corpse of Mr. Leveret and the scarcely recognizable figure of her brother.

Nor was Eloise able to escape. Just at the door she stumbled-her body stopped from afar-and toppled to the floor, face blank, pulling Francesca down with her. The girl had not been occupied. Now she struggled against the unmoving arms of her tutor. Her panicked eyes met those of Francis Xonck, and she screamed even louder.

Miss Temple wheeled to the dais. It was Francis Xonck who had prevented Eloise from taking the girl.

IT WAS not often in Miss Temple's life that she received credit for being intelligent. She had never cared for her studies. She had partic.i.p.ated rarely in discussions of substance-business or finance or politics or religion, which was to say the discussions of men-the only sphere where intelligence might be seen as a factor. Instead, it was her lot to be found (and even this less often than she liked) cunning or clever, animal a.s.sociations-as if one were to admire a badger for digging-less a compliment than a condescending description. Yet in that instant, Miss Temple's mind made a small leap, one that she herself found startling.

It was also at that moment that she noticed a fallen soldier near Eloise move his arm.

Miss Temple took hold of the Doctor's uniform tunic with both hands and shoved him as hard as she could toward the doorway.

"The child is Xoncks!" Miss Temple hissed. "Get her away!"

AS A person who naturally thought the worst of everyone, Miss Temple never doubted the revelations about Eloise and Colonel Trapping (or Eloise and Francis Xonck), though she had not understood why Mrs. Trapping still suffered Eloise's presence. She remembered the Contessa's letter to Caroline Stearne-that she possessed some secret to control Mrs. Trapping. Had Mrs. Marchmoor known it too? Perhaps it had been her taste of Xonck's blood in the garden. Only after that had Andrew Rawsbarthe been ordered to collect vials of blood from each child... and Mrs. Marchmoor had sampled all three vials in the same fas.h.i.+on, turning them to gla.s.s. Yet only Francesca had been taken inside the factory-for only her vial had matched the gla.s.s woman's earlier taste of her hidden parent-brought to provide leverage against both mother and father. Miss Temple was dismayed by the revelation itself, but the West Indies offered innumerable examples of distressing patrimony-one was always seeing features one shouldn't on the most inconvenient faces, and she herself had studiously ignored what might be familiar noses or chins amongst her own plantation's offspring. The thought opened her heart the slightest crack to how troubled and painful the Trapping household must have been-the devastating tangle of loyalties and humiliations and betrayals, the impossibility of anything but the bitterest compromise ...

"FRANCIS!" CRIED Vandaariff. "Francis-stop him!"

"Go to the devil!" barked Svenson. The Doctor stumbled as the force of Xonck's mind struck him, but then he lurched free-free of the same power that had toppled Eloise and overcome Mrs. Marchmoor. Svenson leapt forward to catch the sobbing girl's hands.

"I cannot reach him!" whispered Xonck.

"Reach her!" commanded Vandaariff.

The girl slumped into dead weight. With an exasperated cry in German, Svenson pulled with all his strength, wrenching the slender child away from Eloise, and sprawling onto his seat.

"Stop him!" Vandaariff's voice rose to a shriek. "She is my price! She is my price to spare the lot of you! If she escapes-"

The crack of the Contessa's pistol rang in Miss Temple's ear and a white seam of new wood was ripped from the planks near Svenson's head.

Miss Temple wheeled toward the Contessa and shrieked, desperately waving her arms.

"The soldiers are waking up!"

The Contessa could not help but look-and indeed the green-coated bodies were slowly writhing to life, their limbs like a welter of interlocked snakes-as did everyone else in the room.

Everyone but Chang. At Miss Temple's cry he launched himself straight for Vandaariff. Fochtmann hurled himself in front of his new master, arms outstretched. Chang struck him on the jaw with the saber hilt, and the tall man flew back like a parasol taken apart by the wind. Vandaariff stumbled into the bra.s.s machinery, and hissed with pain as his bare hand touched the hot metal. Chang raised the blade. Fochtmann, bleeding from his mouth, dove at Chang's legs, knocking him off balance and sending the stroke wide, striking sparks from a snarl of copper wire. Chang kicked Fochtmann viciously below the ribs.

Fochtmann moaned. "You cannot! You cannot!"

Chang kicked him again, then took hold of Vandaariff's coat and threw the old man brutally to the floor. Chang raised the saber. With horror Miss Temple saw the Contessa aiming her pistol at Chang's chest.

Too late, Miss Temple groped for the knife in her boot-but the Contessa's shot also went wide, as Chang stumbled, nearly falling... kicked by Francis Xonck's gla.s.s foot. Chang wheeled as Xonck rose from the nest of machinery. Without the least hesitation he hacked the fat-bladed saber at Xonck's head, but the edge was turned by the plaster cast still sheathing Xonck's right arm, chopping out a hunk of plaster and skidding past the clear blue shoulder. Before Chang could pull the saber back for a second blow, Xonck's plastered arm shot forward like a hammer, striking Chang's head with enough force to sever the gla.s.s arm at the elbow in a shower of sparking shards.

The mental explosion at Xonck's willful amputation staggered Miss Temple, but she kept her senses while across the room others toppled or stood stunned. With an anguished cry she threw herself at the Contessa. Too dazed to shoot at so fast a target, the Contessa clubbed the gun wildly, clipping Miss Temple's head with the b.u.t.t. Miss Temple went to her knees, but slashed out with the knife as she fell, drawing blood on the Contessa's outer thigh. The Contessa screamed and hopped away, the distance allowing her to bring the pistol to bear and fire. The bullet plucked at Miss Temple's curls and tore a jagged gash in the planking. Miss Temple launched herself at the Contessa's bleeding leg and brought the woman down in a heap, the gun bouncing across the floor. The Contessa kicked and clawed for the knife. Miss Temple stabbed her fingers blindly at the woman's eyes. The Contessa twisted her face and very nearly caught Miss Temple's thumb between her snapping teeth. With her free hand Miss Temple slammed the Contessa's bad shoulder. The Contessa screamed-as much with rage as pain-and Miss Temple rolled away toward Robert Vandaariff, who recoiled as if she were an advancing animal, an ugly resolve coloring his eyes like a greasy black film.

Miss Temple slashed at his legs and missed, falling forward. She lunged with a grunt, and missed again, her blow stopped short. The Contessa had taken hold of her foot. Miss Temple kicked fiercely and broke free, but then powerful hands caught her wrist-Fochtmann, risen again-and pried her fingers apart one at a time until her weapon fell to the floor.

"YOU REALLY should have killed her, Rosamonde," rasped Robert Vandaariff. "She is a very vexing creature."

Chang lay near her, gla.s.ses askew, blinking at the blood dripping into his dark eyes. He was alive and awake. The Doctor was gone, along with the girl. Francesca had been saved-she had done that much. Eloise propped herself up on her arms, oblivious to the soldiers around her, all shaking their heads in the same way, all struggling to rise.

Vandaariff's forehead was b.l.o.o.d.y. He clucked his tongue absently at the blue gla.s.s scattered around him.

"Such recklessness, Francis... I do not like your being so free with my property-"

"What is that?" interrupted Mr. Fochtmann, c.o.c.king his head toward the windows where Mrs. Marchmoor had retreated.

Below, through the open windows, came a chorus of shouts...then a loud rhythmic smas.h.i.+ng. The mob below had recovered their nerve and were battering the factory doors.

"The soldiers!" snapped Fochtmann. "You must rouse them-while there's still time!" He turned to Xonck, whose impa.s.sive expression was fixed on the empty doorway. "Order them to fire the cannons!"

"Yes, yes," muttered Vandaariff. "That does seem sensible... Francis?"

"They will not obey Francis," groaned the Contessa, clutching her leg. "They will not know him."

The mob burst into another roar. The doors were down. Their cries echoed higher as the throng flooded into the factory itself.

"I suppose you are right at that," said Vandaariff, struggling to concentrate. "It is very vexing in general..."

"He must stop them!" cried Fochtmann. Vandaariff shut his eyes. The Contessa attempted to s.h.i.+ft her body, and grimaced. Xonck ignored them all, occupied as he was with the delicate task of stepping free of the bra.s.s boxes. Fochtmann pointed with dismay.

"What... what is he doing?"

Miss Temple swallowed, quite unable to avert her eyes, not only because of the man's nudity (she had not quite apprehended it, because of the bindings and hoses, yet was now provoked to inevitable and insistent questions about how the gla.s.s flesh actually worked and, as she stared, its elasticity), but also because she was fascinated to see another gla.s.s body move-for Xonck, lean and strong like Chang, was of an entirely different weight and figure to the three gla.s.s ladies. Miss Temple swallowed again, her mouth terribly dry. Watching Xonck was like watching a tiger on a chain; she marveled at the unfamiliar muscles s.h.i.+fting powerfully with each step. But her gaze was drawn again to Xonck's groin as he turned, lurid memories bubbling in her mind, though this was like nothing anyone had ever seen... the dark whorls of color, so s.h.i.+ning and so soft, disgusting and ripe, arrogant and tender, lewd and alluring... she wondered if his body would be cold to the touch... she wondered at its taste. Xonck flexed the fingers of his one hand, grimacing at the steaming, shattered stump, and picked away stray flecks of gla.s.s where they clung.

The mob burst into another roar, which was followed by the high-pitched screeching of disabled machinery and a spattering of gunfire.

"If they come up here," called Aspiche hoa.r.s.ely, "it will be finished."

Phelps turned to Mrs. Marchmoor. "Madame-what instructions have you given them, what summons?"

"Those men will destroy you too," Fochtmann yelled to the gla.s.s woman. "As soon as they see you-like any monster! You can stop them! All you represent will be needlessly lost!"

"What I represent?" hissed Mrs. Marchmoor.

"O for G.o.d's sake!"

Fochtmann s.n.a.t.c.hed up Miss Temple's knife and hurled it with all his strength across the room. The blade struck Mrs. Marchmoor's cheek, snicking off a sliver of gla.s.s in a puff of blue smoke.

"She does not matter!" Aspiche shouted at Fochtmann. "They are still coming for you !"

Fochtmann snorted and looked down for the Contessa's pistol, only to find Charlotte Trapping standing with the pistol in her hand. He reached out with one brusque, impatient arm.

"Mrs. Trapping, I will have that weapon. If you cooperate, as a gentleman I can promise you-"

Mrs. Trapping fired the pistol into Fochtmann's body, spinning the tall man headlong onto the floor. He raised his head once and she fired a second time, the bullet spattering the top of his bald head as if it had been swatted by a shovel.

CHARLOTTE TRAPPING pointed the pistol at Vandaariff's chest... but then her aim wavered to the Contessa, still on the ground, and finally to the gla.s.s monstrosity of her brother.

From the floor below came the crash of cannons and the rattle of gunfire. Around them all the soldiers awkwardly regained their senses, collecting their carbines, trying to make sense of the carnage before them.

Tears streamed down the face of Mrs. Trapping. She opened her mouth but then flinched as her brother's power touched her mind.

She gasped as he withdrew, and her eyes cleared with a terrible understanding of how he could-and would, and how fully-now possess her. With an anguished cry she pressed the pistol to her own head, but before her finger could tighten on the trigger, her features went blank and the pistol clattered to the floor.

Mrs. Marchmoor had finally turned her attention to the soldiers moving stiffly toward her. Smoke seeped from the crack on her face, and the white bandage at her broken wrist dripped blue.

Phelps ran for the door, followed a moment later by Aspiche. Eloise was already gone. Robert Vandaariff stared at Xonck, dumbly enthralled by the rebellion of his creature.

Xonck's hand slipped behind his sister's head to gather her red curls, angling her pa.s.sive face up to his. With a whimper of dread, Miss Temple watched Xonck's blue tongue dip between Charlotte Trapping's coral lips, just an instant of tease before the full of his ravaged mouth fell upon her.

Chang lurched up and thrust his arm across Miss Temple's chest. Before she realized what was about to happen he threw his body over hers, turning his battered leather coat to where Francis Xonck, staring into the terrified eyes of his sister, raised one bare foot and brought it down on the 296 sh.e.l.l's plunger.

CHANG LIFTED Miss Temple to her feet, even as another volley of cannon from the floor below-felt but barely heard, her ears still ringing from the blast-made him stumble. The window bars where Mrs. Marchmoor had stood were coated in fine blue dust, and the unlucky soldiers who had been nearest lay horrid and unrecognizable, blasted through and apart by innumerable razor-sharp gla.s.s grains. Charlotte Trapping's body was nothing more than red tattered shreds.