Monstrous Design

by Kat Dunn

  There was only open ground between their hiding place and the door back into the ballroom. In the other direction stretched a long, long expanse of gallery. It was just a matter of time before Wickham found them. Then Camille saw it – their chance.

  Halfway along the gallery was a large set of French windows leading to a balcony. From there they could drop to the lawns below. She caught Olympe’s eye and gestured to it. Olympe nodded.

  ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ Wickham drawled. ‘I like a bit of sport as much as the next Englishman, but we’ve all had quite enough of this, don’t you think?’

  Camille held her finger to her lips again and motioned for Olympe to follow her.

  They shot across the gap as fast as they could.

  The French windows were so close she could see the balcony and the wide open space beyond. A breeze ruffled the hair that had spilled around her face, and she realised the door was open.

  Wait – why was the door open?

  Like a bolt it struck her. It was a trap. Unlocked, enticing. The only way out.

  Camille stumbled to a halt, giddy with panic.

  Wickham met her coming the other way around the chair.

  His handsome face was twisted into a cruel grin. ‘Boo!’

  In an instant, his arms were around her, pinning her arms to her sides. Olympe flung one hand wreathed in sparks towards him, then hesitated. If she shocked Wickham, Camille would get shocked too.

  They had tried to be smart.

  Wickham was smarter.

  ‘Run!’ said Camille, with the last of her breath.

  But it was too late.

  Another figure stepped forward. Eyes dark and necrotic flesh beginning to slough from his bones, Edward blocked Olympe’s retreat.

  Camille felt rather than saw Wickham’s grin, the movement of his jaw against the side of her head.

  ‘Get the girl,’ he snapped, signalling towards Olympe, ‘and end this.’

  2

  The Chapel

  The duc advanced, Ada at his side, striding down the aisle with a gun pointed at James’s head.

  It took a minute for James’s brain to catch up. How was the duc here? This was impossible. It made no sense. Like he had stepped sideways into the wrong universe, into another wedding, one where the duc was leading Ada down the aisle, like the father of the bride.

  But this was all wrong.

  ‘You have something of mine,’ said the duc, stopping a few steps from the altar. His English was pristine, if a little out of fashion. ‘I have come to collect it.’

  Oh. That.

  ‘Who on earth are you, and what are you doing in my house?’ Lady Harford said. Hennie wheeled her forward. She had drawn herself up, every inch fighting against her tremors. Her tone made some instinctive childhood part of James shrivel.

  The duc, however, seemed unaffected. ‘This doesn’t concern you.’

  Ada looked at James, standing next to the altar in his smart suit, and frowned. James could almost see her putting the pieces together.

  ‘I very much think it does concern me if you insist on speaking to my son in this way.’

  James stepped down from the raised dais and stood in front of his mother. ‘Don’t worry, I can take care of this.’

  ‘What is he talking about, James? What is he collecting?’ His mother stopped him with a hand on his arm. Then her expression changed. ‘Did you get yourself in debt?’

  ‘A very grave debt,’ said the duc. ‘I have waited long enough.’

  ‘Oh, you foolish boy. Is this why you wanted to postpone the wedding?’

  James eased himself out of her grip, then turned to the duc, schooling his features into something impassive. ‘Not here. Not in front of my family. Come with me and I’ll take you to what you want.’

  The duc nodded. ‘Only you.’ He pointed to Al. ‘I want no trouble from that one.’

  Al was so shaken he made no quip, simply nodded.

  ‘James! You can’t leave, what about the wedding?’ called Hennie. ‘What will we tell Camille?’

  He flinched. ‘I don’t think Camille’s coming.’

  He hoped she’d managed to run. If he could give her enough time to find Olympe and flee, maybe they stood a chance.

  Alone, he knew his own life was forfeit.

  Ada thought she should feel angry, but she only felt numb.

  James at an altar, at a wedding, waiting for Camille – it was her worst nightmare. The thing she had dreaded since saying goodbye to Camille had been that, in England, without Ada around to remind her of what they had, Camille would slip away from her. The past, stability, home – those things would be too alluring to turn down.

  Apparently, she had been correct.

  God, she prayed it was some sort of clever plan, but she didn’t want to delude herself. Sometimes things fell apart.

  The duc shut the doors to the chapel. ‘Bolt it. I don’t want anyone interfering.’

  James obeyed, looking as white as a sheet. Ada felt a sour moment of pleasure. Good. She wanted him to be uncomfortable. It was as much as he deserved.

  Clémentine had been outside arranging the hired thugs to guard the exits while Ada and the duc had confronted James. Now they were reunited, and Guil had been pushed into the chapel, hands bound, to be locked in with the rest of them.

  With the doors shut, a slumped figure was revealed. A tall man, smartly dressed, hatless with a runnel of blood down one temple and cheek. A pistol lay at his side.

  James gave a cry and fell to his knees. ‘Father! Father, wake up!’ He turned to the duc, eyes blazing. ‘There was no need to hurt my family. I said I’d help you.’

  The duc looked perturbed. ‘This was not done by our hand. We found him like this – of course we did not know who he was then.’

  All thoughts of the wedding left Ada’s mind. If it was possible, James seemed to go even whiter. He was frightened – more frightened than he was of the duc. That couldn’t mean anything good.

  Ada kneeled with him, putting two fingers to the man’s throat. ‘His pulse is strong. I think it’s simply concussion.’

  James didn’t look too reassured, but Ada took the opportunity to mouth, ‘What’s going on?’ She didn’t know if she could trust him, but they had a mutual enemy in the duc and perhaps that would be enough.

  James just shook his head.

  ‘Where is Camille?’ asked the duc. ‘I would advise against any more of your ill-planned theatrics; you have tried my patience too far already. Pass me the gun.’ He directed the last order to Ada, who reluctantly handed it over. She knew the firearm well; it was Camille’s.

  James stood, dusting off his hands. ‘I don’t know where Camille is. I thought she was with my father.’

  Ada looked at the injury to the man’s head with renewed interest. ‘You think Camille did this?’

  ‘No,’ said James simply. ‘I think whoever did this is also responsible for Camille’s disappearance.’

  Ada swallowed. ‘She ran?’

  James looked at her, hollow-eyed. ‘I hope she ran.’

  Ada’s blood turned to ice.

  She had known this couldn’t end well – but perhaps it was going to be worse than she’d dared think.

  Ada hadn’t realised just what kind of money James came from. As he led their party through the house, she was struck by the sheer size of it. She was familiar enough with the luxury of her father’s house, and the grand apartments Camille’s family had occupied before their death – but this was wealth on a different scale.

  The countless pieces of art lining the walls, the statues and rugs and vases, and room after room of sheer excess. James moved through it casually, as though his wealth was wallpaper. Ada supposed it must feel like that, if you grew up in it.

  The duc handed Camille’s pistol to Clémentine.

  ‘Protect yourself, my dear.’

  The words were so quiet, Ada almost wondered if she hadn’t heard them. Clémentine took the pis
tol with a look of thanks.

  Ada prayed James had the sense to take them anywhere but to Olympe.

  Whatever it was James was scared of, she had to believe Camille could handle it.

  It was easier to worry about that than think about what the wedding meant. Slowly, the numbness was wearing off and she began to sense the size and shape of her anger.

  It frightened her.

  The four of them followed James into the house, strung out in a line like a hunting party. Clémentine joined James at the front, Ada behind, the duc bringing up the rear to stop anyone thinking of running.

  ‘You’re the second man to steal my daughter,’ said Clémentine, with worrying casualness. ‘Tell me, what did you want with her? You work for the English government, no?’

  ‘No,’ said James. Ada could only see his face from an angle, but there was no mistaking the tight line of his jaw. She could well imagine the shock he was feeling, meeting Olympe’s mother in such circumstances.

  ‘Then you took her for yourself?’

  ‘Olympe was safe with me, unlike with the duc,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t expect me to believe it was altruism, surely. Are you a man of science too? Or did you merely want to add another curio to your collection?’

  James didn’t answer, only gestured them through a door. They had come to a ballroom It was empty.

  ‘Well?’ asked the duc. ‘Where is she?’

  James shrugged. ‘She should be here. If she’s not…’

  The duc cocked his pistol. ‘I am asking you again. Where is Olympe?’

  Ada’s gaze darted between the two men, mouth dry. Her two enemies. Maybe she should intervene. Maybe she could simply step back and let the two of them take each other out. Not that she rated James’s chances.

  ‘I don’t know. I think you might be too late.’

  ‘Explain.’

  James closed his eyes. Then he began to speak.

  ‘It was a man called Wickham who sent me to France. He was my surgical tutor at university; he also studied electricity and the human body. I was meant to bring Olympe to him, but instead I took her for myself. When he realised I had betrayed him, he threatened to kill us to get to her.’ He opened his eyes. He seemed resigned to whatever fate waited for him. ‘Like I said, you’re too late. You have no idea what he’s capable of.’

  Ada gasped. ‘This is the person you think attacked your father?’

  James nodded.

  It took everything she had not to ask about Camille. She had worked too hard to regain the duc’s trust to squander it.

  The duc didn’t rage as she expected. He drew himself together, sharp as tempered steel.

  ‘Then they have made a grave mistake.’ He cocked the pistol, eyes narrowing. ‘Olympe is mine.’

  3

  The Long Gallery

  Olympe stood frozen in fear by the door that could have been their escape, but now Edward was in her way. Wickham’s arm was still tight around Camille’s neck, holding her in a headlock. The more she struggled, the more she strangled herself.

  A cascade of blue sparks washed over Olympe, crackling and flaring like a shield. The air was sharp with the scent of electricity, and Camille’s hair began to rise like a halo.

  Something had changed in Olympe while she had been in England. Camille had never seen her exert such control over her power – she had always thought of Olympe’s power as primal, chaotic, a storm to be contained, not directed.

  She’d been wrong.

  It stung to think it, because it meant that maybe James had got something right. Whatever work they’d been doing together seemed to have paid off.

  ‘I see you, Edward.’ Olympe’s voice rang out clear and unwavering. ‘I know you don’t want to hurt us.’

  Edward didn’t respond, but he watched Olympe with an intensity that made Camille’s skin crawl. The blue sparks of her shield cast a glow over his mottled face. She thought of the way he’d looked at Olympe back in the operating theatre. The curiosity, and the guilt. He’d hesitated before, shown them mercy when Wickham wasn’t around. Was it too much to hope he might do so again?

  Hesitantly, Olympe took a step forward and held out a hand, letting the electricity pour back up her arm, leaving her palm bare.

  ‘He treats you like a monster to do his dirty work – but you’re not one. I think you’re like me. Different – but human.’

  Edward looked down at himself, the stitches holding him together, the discolouration and rot setting in. ‘Perhaps. But I think I’m running on borrowed time.’

  Olympe considered him for a moment, then brought her hands together. In her cupped palms the sparks gathered, wound together and bloomed like an eerie flower. ‘This isn’t like the rest of them either. Does that make us less?’

  He said nothing, eyes trained on her hands.

  ‘I think it makes us more.’

  ‘For god’s sake, get on with it,’ Wickham snapped, tightening his grip on Camille, who clawed at his arm, trying to draw breath.

  ‘Why?’ Edward looked past Olympe, to Wickham.

  ‘Because I am giving you an order. Or do I have another traitor on my hands? We deal with these two first, then James. It’s time for a clean house.’

  Edward flinched. ‘Don’t touch James.’

  Wickham snorted. ‘Your sentiment is touching, but misplaced. Why be loyal to someone who crossed you the first chance he got?’

  ‘Perhaps he saw in you what I was too deluded to realise. You go too far. Why should I take your orders?’

  ‘Because your life is mine,’ snarled Wickham. ‘You would be dead without me, so do as I say and I won’t sell you to a freak show.’

  Olympe’s eyes flashed. ‘I think you’re the monster.’

  Still, Edward did nothing, frozen in a war with himself.

  ‘Fine,’ said Wickham. ‘I will do it myself.’

  With his free hand, he drew a knife and stabbed Camille in the back of the knee. She yelled, pain racing up her thigh, and buckled to the ground.

  ‘And stay down.’

  She tried to drag herself up, but her leg went out from under her.

  Knife raised, Wickham lunged at Olympe.

  In a crackle of blue and the smell of singed hair, Olympe threw out a net of sparks that wrapped around him. He gave a grunt of pain. His skin began blistering red where the electricity made contact, but Olympe held steady, keeping the current flowing from her hands. In her black eyes, a thousand stars danced, as cold and blue as ice.

  ‘I am not your prize,’ she said, voice low and dangerous. ‘I am not an object to be traded and fought for. If you won’t leave me and my friends alone by choice, perhaps I will have to make you.’

  The net tightened, his hair charring, eyes wide as the sparks bit into his face. Camille held tight to the chair for support; she didn’t know whether to try and stop her.

  ‘Please.’ Wickham forced words through his clenched jaw. ‘Don’t kill me.’

  ‘Why not?’ Olympe hissed. But the fervour had gone out of her eyes, her control on the net sputtered. As it lifted from his skin, the smell of charred flesh filled the air.

  With a cry, the current snapped and Olympe fell back, staring at her own shaking hands. ‘I can’t.’ She met Camille’s eye. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Wickham, now free, fixed his grip on the knife, his face a cross-hatch of raw skin and burns.

  But Edward got there first.

  In a single motion, he was between Olympe, hand closing around Wickham’s throat. There was only a second to see the panic in Wickham’s eyes, before Edward lifted his tutor off the floor. Wickham scrabbled at his hand, face red, eyes bulging.

  ‘Stop,’ he rasped. ‘What are you doing? I order you to put me down.’

  With Olympe behind him, Edward’s face was cast again into shadow. The light from her sparks had lent him a lifelike glow; now he was painted only in shades of death.

  ‘She might not be able to kill you,’ he said. ‘But I ca
n.’

  Edward looked at Olympe, pain on his once handsome face. She reached for him, but he squeezed Wickham’s neck tighter.

  It snapped.

  Olympe gasped in horror, hands over her mouth.

  Edward flung Wickham to the floor like a ragdoll. His head lolled back so that his sightless, glassy eyes looked at Camille. His knife had fallen next to him. Camille saw her chance and closed her hand around it.

  ‘Thank you.’ Edward moved towards Olympe, stiff and slow, touching a coil of her hair that had pulled free of its braid. ‘Take care of James.’

  She looked at him in hope and confusion and fear. ‘Take care of him yourself—’

  A shot rang out and Edward jerked, toppling into Olympe before collapsing onto the floor. Olympe screamed, a spatter of dark red blood spraying across her face.

  A woman Camille didn’t recognise strode through the open door. Her hair was wild and loose around her shoulders, her dress elegant but muddied, and she held her head high. Camille narrowed her eyes. There was something familiar about her – something in the tilt of her chin.

  She stopped in the centre of the room, pistol still smoking.

  ‘Get your hands off my daughter.’

  4

  The Long Gallery

  The smell of gunpowder and blood lingered in the air.

  Ada stood beside the duc in the doorway to the long gallery, taking in the scene. Two bodies on the floor – three, if you counted Camille, collapsed and bloodied. And at the centre of it all, Olympe.

  The battalion was reunited; in a straight game, the numbers were on their side.

  But she remembered what Guil had told her: play the players, not the game. There were too many moving parts and Ada didn’t know where on the board everyone would fall.

  Clémentine dropped Camille’s pistol and dashed across the gallery to Olympe.

  Well, they would soon see where one set of pieces would land.

  Olympe drifted forwards, the electric current faded from her, leaving a pale bluish-grey blush to her skin, like a suddenly calmed sea. Dangerously calm.