Wicked as They Come

by Delilah S. Dawson

  “Oh,” I said with a shudder. “But why can’t you just pretend to be human, then?”

  He looked at me, his eyes hard and flinty. “I don’t mind pretending to be inferior to you personally, and I very much don’t mind feigning marriage,” he said, “but I’ll never betray what I am. The fine people of Manchester may think me a fiend, but prejudice runs both ways. I’ve a bit of pride about me, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with what you are,” I said shyly. “I just don’t want to mess up, and you’re much better at this sort of thing than I am.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll enjoy playing along. You’ll have to be haughty, and I’ll have to act beaten down, when we’re in public.”

  “That sounds kind of fun,” I said.

  “Just don’t forget that it’s a ruse, love,” he said. “Because once we’re outside the walls again, you’ll be entirely in my power. And I’d hate to have to spank you.”

  I choked on the apple I was chewing and couldn’t quite figure out how serious he was. Or how serious I wanted him to be.

  A few hours later, a giant form began to shimmer in the distance. As we walked closer, I could see it, but it didn’t make sense. Gravity shouldn’t have allowed such a place to exist.

  “There it is,” Criminy said, handing me a brass spyglass. “Manchester.”

  I had to blink. The spyglass was incredible. I could see everything in amazing detail. Not that I really wanted to.

  The city rose like a tumor on the landscape, like the shell of a hermit crab with extremely bad taste and a powerful glue gun. It was so much larger than I would have thought possible, an enormous mountain covered in stone and brick and wood. Around the base, in a valley, I could see fields and mines and quarries and refineries and factories belching smoke. A high, hideous wall of dirty gray stone surrounded everything. Razor wire curled around the top edge like deadly cake icing.

  The empty moors seemed harmless and peaceful by comparison.

  Within the wall, the buildings tottered from the mountain and from one another at odd angles, shored up by cables and poles and metal beams. An oily gray fug hung over everything. It was possibly the most depressing place I’d ever seen.

  On the very top of the mountain perched a gigantic white church of a Gothic flavor, with flying buttresses and broken stained glass. At the very pinnacle was the large X from my glance, like a cross fallen on hard times.

  “That’s where our boy will be,” Criminy said, reading my mind. “Right in the ‘holier than thou’ seat, at the very tip top of the broken city, standing on the backs of the suffering.”

  I had a strong feeling that he was right. And I really didn’t want to be inside those walls.

  “We’ll have to go in through the front gate,” Criminy said, taking the spyglass back. “And there are only two gates, so we’ll have to leave through the other one right fast, because they’ll be looking for us after the deed is done. So try to hide your face and act as normal as possible.” He reached up to my bonnet and pulled down a delicate black veil that made me feel like a goth beekeeper. He smiled at the effect and asked, “Can you put on an accent? Try to sound more like me?”

  “How will this do, then?” I said, rather proud of myself.

  He chuckled. “Nice try, love, but that’s a bit much. Tone it down a bit.”

  “The rain in Spain lands mainly on the plain,” I said carefully.

  “The rain in Vane never touches the plain,” he said with a laugh. “Vane is mostly jungles. Do you have any other accents?”

  “Is annoyed an accent?” I said.

  “Let’s just pretend you’re a mute.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him, and he laughed that wild laugh of his. For just a second, I forgot the insurmountable odds we were up against and my worry for Nana. I laughed that way, too, and it felt good.

  By that time, the wide treads of the bus tanks had turned into a dirt road. The ground was starting to get muddy as the grasses dwindled, the few straggling tufts by the road stunted and brown. Bludbunnies were fewer and fewer.

  And then I learned why.

  16

  I saw the thing in the road before I smelled it, but the smell was a close second. I couldn’t tell what it was. Just enough meat had been nibbled off the bones to remove hair and obscure the details. But it was definitely a carcass. And right on top of it was the biggest rat I’d ever seen, about the size of a house cat and covered with bristly, rust-colored hair.

  Criminy didn’t even slow down, but I crowded closer to his side as we approached. The rat didn’t seem concerned by us, either, not until we were about twenty feet away. Then it looked up, tubes and sinews dripping from its mouth, and hissed. The effect of its bloodred eyes in the maroon fur was disturbing.

  Criminy kept walking, dragging me along toward the nasty rat monster. The thing swallowed whatever it had been chewing and jumped off the carcass, hopping toward us with hackles raised. The fur stuck up in spines behind its neck, and it screamed at us. The scream sounded just like that of a human child.

  Without breaking his stride or letting go of my arm, Criminy pulled something out of his boot and threw it. I barely saw the dark blur shoot out of his left hand, and then the rat was twitching on its side, with a black knife sticking out of its forehead.

  We kept walking, and just as we reached the dead rat, Criminy withdrew his knife with a jerk. As he cleaned it on a handkerchief, I pondered the pile of meat.

  “It was a sheep, if you’re wondering,” he muttered.

  And I could see it now over my shoulder, the fuzzy white wool dangling from the general shape of a very chewed-up sheep.

  “How could it possibly get out of the wall?” I asked.

  “They have to bring the grazers out for the fresh grass. They can’t grow enough inside the wall to feed the animals. So they bring a team of shepherds bristling with weapons. But if the blud creatures swarm, they just leave one animal behind, a sacrifice for the rest of the herd. Fits in with their general philosophy.”

  The knife disappeared into his boot. We didn’t break our stride. I looked back at the giant rat and said, “So that’s a bludrat. And the city is full of those things?”

  “Oh, they try to kill them all. But they’re wily buggers. Bold and clever. No matter what the Coppers do, they always find a way back in. If I didn’t hate the things so much, I’d be impressed.”

  The city loomed bigger and bigger as we approached. The wall had seemed tall from far away, but standing in front of the gargantuan door made me feel helpless and tiny. I couldn’t begin to imagine how the two guards could open the two-story metal monstrosity. They each stood in a small building about the size of a closet, one on either side of the door. And they barely looked human, leather top hats laced down the neck, high collars digging into their chins, and bug-eyed goggles obscuring their eyes.

  “Papers,” barked the guard on the right through some sort of speaker, and Criminy led me to the glass wall of the booth. He slid our folded, faded traveling papers into a metal box and withdrew his hand before the guard jerked the box into his booth with a clang.

  Criminy smiled and did his best to look harmless and weak. I stuck my nose in the air and rolled my eyes.

  “State your business.”

  “We’re visiting relatives, sir,” Criminy said, his voice humble and obsequious. I knew he was an actor, but I was still floored that he sounded nothing like himself. “The wife and I. My cousin Anders and his family want to meet the new bride. He’s a clockmaker, sir, and—”

  “Toll!” the guard shouted. “Five coppers or one vial each.”

  The metal box popped violently back out of the booth, and Criminy snatched out our papers and dropped in a handful of coins. The box shot back into the booth.

  “Stand back,” the man said, and Criminy dragged me backward.

  The guard pulled a lever, and with a loud whirring and several clanks, one of the giant doors began to swi
ng outward. I looked at the guard and quickly glanced away. Nothing but his nose and lips was visible under his uniform, but I could read his disgust for me in his sneer. I straightened my shoulders and snuggled my head into Criminy’s shoulder, giving the guard a look of disdainful rebellion. Criminy kissed me on the forehead and chuckled, and the guard spit on the floor and shook his head.

  “It’s only going to get worse,” Criminy muttered into my ear as we walked through the doorway. “Don’t worry, darling. Everyone’s going to hate us.”

  As the door clanged shut behind us, my throat constricted. I wasn’t sure what I had expected to find within the tall wall, but it was worse than I could have imagined. The cobblestone streets were narrow and dirty, rife with puddles. The buildings towered above, blocking the sky. The windows all had a dirty film on them, and the people rushed from place to place as if they were being chased. They all looked at me with disgust, just as the guard had done.

  Head down, Criminy quickly led me through the streets. We were on the main thoroughfare, a winding road lined with restaurants, inns, haberdashers, and milliners, all with painted signs swinging above their doors. Criminy didn’t know where he was, but he knew what he was looking for.

  We ducked down an alley. Red lights glittered from the shadows, and I heard a familiar hiss. All of the hairs on the back of my neck rose. It was darker there and more narrow, and I had to jog to keep up with him, my boots’ staccato tapping echoing in a way that made me think of bones in oubliettes. Finally, we stopped before a sign showing a vial of blood and a pair of scissors, with the words Arven Ariel, Barber and Letter calligraphed underneath.

  We stepped through the door and brushed past heavy, moldering curtains. I was expecting a cross between a morgue and a medieval barber, darkness and cobwebs and the smell of meat. But it looked more like a Mexican restaurant. Bright colors, fake palm trees, patterned fans and curtains. The walls were a vivid orange, and the floor was a sparkling, patterned mosaic of blue and lime green. Three plush chairs of maroon velvet waited in a row, each with a tasseled ottoman. A purple parrot on a stand squawked, “Master Arven, ye’ve custom!”

  Criminy was smirking at me. “Not what it seemed, eh?” he said. “It’s always like that in the city.”

  A very normal-looking man in a bowler hat brushed through a beaded curtain and approached us with a blank, professional smile.

  “Can I help you, sir? Letting, shave, or haircut?” he asked, rubbing his hands together in burgundy gloves.

  “A letting,” Criminy said cheerfully. “And information, if you please.”

  “Won’t madam have a seat?” the man asked, leading me to the middle chair. On a tray beside it sat a variety of scissors, straight razors, glass tubes, and antique-looking hypodermic needles. They didn’t look entirely clean.

  “Excuse me, what?” I said, planting my feet.

  “Your blood, darling,” Criminy said. “Three vials, I think.”

  The man tugged on my hand. I didn’t budge.

  “Darling,” I said sweetly through clenched teeth, “I wasn’t aware I’d be donating blood today.”

  “Darling,” Criminy answered me, “we bring different gifts to the marriage, and right now, we need your blood. So won’t you have a seat and relax? I’m told it doesn’t hurt a bit. Just a pinch.”

  I glowered at him. He smiled. I plunked into the chair and gripped the armrests. My gloved fingers tapped. I wasn’t scared of having blood drawn, and especially not of drawing it myself. But I didn’t trust those primitive instruments, even in a world without infection or disease.

  “Now what?” I growled.

  “If madam would unbutton her necklet? I assure you, my professionalism is unparalleled.” He smiled like a gynecologist.

  I reached up and struggled with the buttons, and the man gently rolled down the neck of my gown.

  “Just a pinch, if you’ll hold still, madam,” he murmured, and I turned my head and closed my eyes.

  Something cold and numbing swept over my skin, and then I did feel just a slight pinch. I heard Criminy’s footsteps move away to the other side of the room, and he pretended to be interested in a painting on the wall. I tried to sit very still and forget that a stranger was draining my blood out through my neck. I did the same thing every day for my patients, albeit from the arm. Was it all that different, just because someone was going to drink it instead of testing it?

  Mr. Ariel held a soft cloth to my skin, swiped something cold over it again, and applied something sticky. “We’re done, madam,” he said, and with my eyes still closed, I struggled to rebutton my dress.

  Criminy appeared at my side, his nimble fingers gentle on the buttons as he patted my hand.

  “I’m wondering, sir,” he asked, “where we might find Antonin Scabrous.”

  The man was fiddling with his instruments, and Criminy chose one of the three vials of blood on the tray and subtly nudged it toward him next to a silver coin. Both items disappeared into the man’s vest, and he didn’t turn to us as he murmured, “Tailor, West Darkside. Look for the Inn of the Old Black Dog. Watch out as you cross High Street. They won’t like the two of you. Coppers here are harder than elsewhere.”

  “And the Magistrate?”

  The man grunted. Criminy shoved over another vial.

  “Jonah Goodwill. Lives in the priory beside the church. He’s well guarded and dangerous.”

  “Many thanks,” Criminy said.

  I tried to get up from the chair, but the man stopped me with a patronizing hand on my shoulder. “You’ll want to sit a moment, madam. And have a biscuit.”

  It was tough not to give him an earful about phlebotomy, but I kept my mouth shut and took one of the cookies from the tin in his hand. I sighed, and the man looked at Criminy with great curiosity.

  “Your lady doesn’t know much for a Bludman’s wife,” he said.

  Criminy whisked me to my feet and said, “She’s of a gentle constitution, and we’re only newly married.”

  Taking the remaining vial of blood, Criminy guided me out the door and half-dragged me through the maze of streets again. I gripped his hand hard, forcing him to slow down.

  “What do you think I am, your personal walking blood factory?” I whispered out the side of my mouth. “You could have at least warned me. Was that even sanitary?”

  He put his arm around me, and I felt his breath on my ear as he whispered, “We needed information and collateral, and we got them both. And of course it’s sanitary. Didn’t you feel the alcool? It numbs and cleans at once. We’re not aboriginals.”

  “Where are we going now? Are we off to sell my hair next?”

  “Good heavens, why would anyone want your hair? Not that it isn’t lovely,” he said. “You heard the man. We’re going to the Bludmen’s district to speak to an old associate of mine.”

  “I just don’t want to be surprised again,” I said, feeling a bit prickly.

  “You will be, no matter what,” he said. “Might as well expect it.”

  Ignoring my reticence, he pulled me along at a clipped pace, my heels slipping in muck on the cobbles. From time to time, he hugged me to the wall as a horseless carriage went by, leaving only inches to spare between us and the jerky machine. Like the engine of the caravan’s train, the odd carriages had machinery and tubes and wires bursting from the place where horses should have stood. The drivers, perched on rickety benches above and pulling levers, all wore aviator’s hats and goggles and navigated the narrow roads with little regard for pedestrians.

  No wonder the air was so smoggy—the engines puffed green steam out one side and gray smoke out the other. The lack of horse manure was a bonus, but there was also a certain level of disdain inferred by the machines. If a horse stepped on you, it was personal. But if a horseless carriage clipped you, it was indifferent and cruel, and the driver just kept on driving as the snobby faces behind the window turned away.

  We were trotting along a broad avenue when we passed two expensively
dressed ladies wearing high platform boots and strange rose-colored glasses. Their pink-tinged eyes shot daggers at me, and the older one hissed, “Bludhoney.” I felt Criminy tense and snarl, but I kept moving forward, pulling him with me before he tried to defend my honor.

  At the next cross street larger than a drainage ditch, he took a right, murmuring, “That’s enough of High Street.”

  We turned onto an alley specializing in foodstuffs. Butchers and bakers and wine shops stood open, while occasional carts offered lackluster fruits and vegetables. No wonder everyone looked either sickly or florid—even the green things weren’t green. The broccoli was gray, and the apples were the gold of old urine. The entire rainbow of plants ran from whitish yellow to yellowish brown.

  But the bread smelled heavenly, I’ll admit that. And the coffee. And something wafting from a store labeled Chocovanerie. I slowed down to sniff.

  “You don’t want to do that, pet,” Criminy said, dragging me along. “Wait until we get somewhere healthy. This stuff is all ersatz.”

  “What’s ersatz?”

  “Fake,” he said curtly. “No nutritive value. Made of ground-up meal and flavorings, sometimes even sawdust. It’s all the poor can afford. Those vegetables are half-rotten.”

  And then I could smell it, the subtle sickness wafting from the baskets. I rubbed my nose along Criminy’s shoulder, trying to drown the stench with berries.

  At the next big cross street, he started to take a left and then looped back when he saw a Copper on a bludmare standing sentinel. “Residential,” he said. “I’ll just make ’em nervous.”

  So we went, past booksellers and weavers and pet shops crowded with droopy magpies and small, yappy dogs. We wove through poor streets and rich streets, past beggars and dukes and Coppers. I was getting a headache from hunger and thirst and overpowering smells, and my eyes were so full of new things that they were nearly crossed.