by Lani Lenore
Anne hated puppets. She was completely biased against them since the jester.
The most terrifying thing about it was not the simple fact that it was a puppet, however. The hands of the thing had been converted to weapons. This one that she was nearly too horrified to look at had one long arm that was a corkscrew. The other was the lower spike of an ice pick.
Anne forced herself to look away, but it was much too late to have her fear with ignorance. The dangers were no longer invisible.
There were dozens of them.
Marionettes of all sorts hung from the ceiling inertly, all of their bodies laced with weapons. One fancily–dressed lady even had her whole body embedded with a pair of scissors. Anne saw them all now, could hear the sound of the strings tightening as they swung gently. It was smothering.
Her breath was picking up but she wrestled to keep it down. She needed air. The shaft was too cramped! She forced herself to only look straight ahead, but the space in front of her seemed to get narrower as she looked on. It was too hot! The air was too dirty! She was going to sneeze…
Anne’s legs gave way beneath her before she could convince them that they had enough strength to keep walking. The ground was rushing up to meet her–but then she lost her breath as something caught her around the middle. The shadows of the shaft were closing in. She was flying.
Before she gave in completely to the darkness, she heard a mild rattle of wood from somewhere above.
3
In the blackness, Anne dreamed. This was a real dream, and not something she’d simply perceived to be the twisted illusions of her mind. In fact, it was the same thing she’d been dreaming before she’d ever gotten into this mess.
She was dressed like an enchanting doll, standing in a room of large tile that seemed to span for miles. Sounds of a battle touched her ears, and when she lifted her eyes, she saw Armand. As in her first vision, he was battling–fighting for her. This time, not a mouse. A large rat.
With the sword of red glass, he cut down the rodent, chopping through its head. Blood ran out across the pale floor of the battleground, and the nutcracker slumped to the floor, holding his bleeding arm.
It’s just as before. And just as before, she ran to him.
The blood collected in her dress, weighing her down like hands tugging at her. Still, she ran on. She felt panic, concern, only for him and not for herself. What was wrong? He was bleeding. He shouldn’t bleed.
Anne ran until she fell, still some distance away. Her body hit the floor hard, but somehow, it didn’t seem to hurt. She moved a little, tried to pull herself back up–only she couldn’t, paralyzed from the waist down. She twisted her head to look behind her, and even though the dress she wore was long and full, she could somehow see her legs. They had turned to porcelain, unmoving.
She could hear Armand’s heartbeat, pumping, but slowly fading. She couldn’t get to him. Her hands reached forward to drag herself onward, but she couldn’t grip the floor because of the blood.
“Armand,” she heard herself say. “I didn’t mean what I said.”
Anne awoke. Not in her soft bed, but in the shafts that she’d spent the last five hours–minutes–in. She was sitting, propped against the wall. There was warmth inside, and she felt a little better despite her aching head.
Looking to the side, she saw Armand standing a short distance away, leaning against the wall. His body was slouched, arms hanging loose at his sides. He was staring straight ahead at the wall across from him–or at least that was what she guessed. With him, one never knew what to expect.
Beyond him, she could see a large cloth hanging in the shaft, blocking the opening so that she could see no further. At least now they were past the puppets. Anne wondered if she’d awoken them. She wondered if he’d had to fight them all while somehow managing to keep her from harm.
She was afraid to ask.
“I can’t believe I fainted,” she said, looking away from him and rubbing her throbbing temples.
He said nothing. Was he angry? She wondered if that bothered her.
“Did we make it to the Shaman?”
This was also a very touchy subject. Perhaps he’d been forced to take them off in the wrong direction just to avoid danger because of her.
“Not far,” he said, stepping away from the wall. At the sound of that, she nearly sighed with relief.
He walked to her position and she examined him in the bit of light that came from behind the hanging cloth. There was a spot of something on his face. Was it blood? He offered a hand down to her and she accepted it without fuss, standing on shaky legs.
He moved to the curtain and lifted it slightly, turning back to her. Still, she could not see what was behind it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to go first.
“Whatever he says, keep your mouth shut,” Armand warned sternly. “Be sure to stand behind me. And if you can help it, stand still.”
He made a notion for her to go past the curtain. Feeling a bit apprehensive, she walked toward it.
“Before I even ask, I know I shouldn’t bother, but why should I do these things?”
“I don’t want him to have a good look at you. Your body shifts too much. He’ll know you’re not a toy.”
Anne breathed out a laugh as she passed by him, crossing her arms defensively as if the notion was ridiculous. But, of course she knew what he must have meant. Even with the thick, scratchy material of the doll dress, she was obviously not made out of china or wood.
“What in the world are you talking about?” she blurted before she could stop herself.
Instantaneously, she felt a firm smack on her rear end. A gasp and a jump of surprise came as a response.
“That,” he said simply, stepping past her beyond the curtain and letting it fall back into place.
Not realizing her actions, Anne instinctually covered the targeted area–as if there was any more threat to it now that he was in front of her.
“You’ve been looking!” she accused in shocked disgust. Though she didn’t know why she should have been surprised. Every toy desires the feel of flesh. His own words to her.
“It’s hard to miss,” he tossed out casually. She ground her teeth together, continuing to hold her hands behind her as she followed him.
The area they’d come into was not what she’d expected. In fact, the only thing in front of them now was a small area with a vent. It was open.
The nutcracker led her through it and into a room Anne recognized but had never seen much of–one of the guest bedrooms on the second floor. Within the room that was glowing faintly with wall lamps, two members of the extended Ellington family slept soundly. Anne couldn’t see who they were, and didn’t see any reason to care. Armand was trudging relentlessly toward the folding doors of the armoire and she did her best to keep up.
A foul odor–like rot–drifted into her nostrils.
The nutcracker pulled the doors apart quietly and the smell hit with full force. Anne covered her mouth and nose with her sleeve, nearly choking. Armand didn’t seem to be affected. He stepped inside and she followed him, lighting up the cat’s eye when he’d closed the doors once again. When she glanced around, she was confused.
There was nothing of interest here. The guests had put their bags inside, had unpacked them with their shoes sitting out and their clothes hanging, but there was nothing strange about it. It was just a regular armoire–save for the smell.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” she asked, talking while she held her nose.
She watched him take a deep breath, looking around in the armoire until his eyes drifted upward.
“Definitely.”
He moved off to the side and her eyes followed him. Did he actually know what he was doing? He’d gotten nearly to the wall before she finally noticed the small, glass bowl. Cautiously, she drifted forward. When she was closer, she noticed that it was the same sort of contraption as with the teacups in the shafts. It was a lift.
The two of them got i
nside and Armand hoisted them upward. This lift seemed to keep going and going, and she sunk down into the bowl to keep herself from looking over the edge. Eventually, the lift reached as high as it would go, and the two of them stepped off onto a long wooden shelf that ran the entire length of the armoire. They were greeted by two candelabras with large white candles, dressed in melted wax.
The length of the shelf was presented as a walkway with trinkets lining the sides. At the furthest end, Anne could see what appeared to be a birdcage.
A light nudge on her arm startled her, but it was only Armand walking past, telling her it was time to go forward. Curious and wary, she fell into step behind him.
Further examination of the ornaments along the walkway revealed them to be Christian symbols that had been gathered from throughout the house. There were rosaries, a crucifix, and statues of saints and the Virgin Mary that stood by reverently–but watched her with roving eyes as she passed. Anne did her best to keep her head down, to walk stiffly, and to hide beneath her hair. Most of all, she tried her best to breathe through the horrible smell that was so sickly sweet that she nearly wanted to vomit. Eventually, her companion came to a halt.
Even though he’d instructed her to stay behind him, Anne couldn’t help herself. She stood close, but peered around his arm with one eye, looking to see what they had come upon.
She’d suspected that they were in front of the birdcage, and she was correct. There were candles inside it, one on each side, flanking a pillow. Perched upon that pillow past the open door of the cage was the one they’d come to see.
This was a doll from Olivia’s room, no doubt. Anne remembered Euan giving it to her. It was from the Orient–the white, china head of a man with a small, black mustache and slanted eyes, set on a body of cloth. This doll had gone missing a couple of months ago, and it had changed quite a bit since she’d last seen it.
The girth of the toy took up nearly the entire width of the birdcage. The smell was horrendous, reeking of spoil. The grand red robe that the doll wore was stained and torn in places, unable to contain the width of the stretched, cloth body.
Any food that you manage to stuff inside your body, rots.
That was the answer to this puzzle. This doll was horribly confused in all aspects–a Chinese doll who called himself Shaman and surrounded himself with symbols of Christianity. But he was also a horrific glutton.
One of the deadly sins, oh holy man. Didn’t you know?
“Ah, a soldier and his bride,” she heard the Shaman say, looking down toward them. “You’ve come for advice? Do you wish to know how many years you will live in happiness?”
The toy’s English words were clear, as if it had always been in London, painted and sewn. Anne wondered briefly if it knew anything about its own origin. But she kept her mouth shut.
“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid,” Armand said, stepping a little closer.
The Shaman shifted his eyes over the soldier, observing the strange make of his body. His tiny eyes lit with recognition.
“Oh I see,” the Shaman said, leaning forward a bit but unable to move much. “Yes, I know who you are.”
“Then you also know what I want,” the infamous nutcracker said, refusing to waste time. “Do you have it?”
The Shaman put his small, bone–white hands together–contrasting greatly with the rest of his enormous form.
“Perhaps,” he said, a sly smile on his pale face. “You, of course, know there is a price…”
“Ja. Do name that price.”
The Shaman could have asked for any number of things of which Armand was obviously capable, but instead, he craned his head to peer at the owner of the grey eye that watched him from behind the nutcracker.
“I’ll have that.”
Anne lost her bravery, sinking back behind Armand as if it would do any good to hide now. There was a sudden fear of being chained to this stinking lout, being forced to feed him crumbs of stale bread and let him drink wine from her hand. She pressed her forehead against Armand’s back to shield herself from the unpleasantness–and the stench that seemed to be growing.
The nutcracker tilted his head to glance at the woman behind him as the Shaman spoke on.
“A woman of the flesh. A rare find indeed. I’d be a collector if I had the means.”
“You’re a clever one,” Armand mused with a short smirk. “But I’m sorry. I’m not willing to part with this one.”
The Shaman shifted his weight and the entirety of the birdcage shook. His face twisted in a scowl as if he’d never been refused, but the nutcracker stood his ground.
“Then I guess we have no deal,” the Shaman growled.
“I guess not.”
He turned and twisted Anne around easily to walk in front of him as they left, but on second thought, he turned toward the Shaman once more.
“Don’t believe that he’ll get away from me. Even if you don’t tell me, he won’t be around to take you into his good graces. I’ll just have to find some other way of knowing.”
They moved again, and Anne was happy to be getting away. She wanted to run straight to the lift, but she restrained herself. She could almost feel the fresher air in her lungs…
“You misunderstand me, nutcracker named Armand.”
The voice made him stop, and with that, Anne reluctantly stopped as well.
“Do expound,” Armand insisted, not even bothering to turn fully toward the glutton.
“I’m neutral. Fully neutral. The toys have no problem with me, and the Rat King receives valuable information from me. I help myself.”
Armand turned back. Anne was disappointed. The Shaman released a great sigh.
“From what I know of you, you are not one to be trifled with. And you are willing to do a task for me?”
“Only because I need you alive.”
The Shaman gave a short nod of understanding and acceptance.
“Good enough. Perhaps there is something else that you and your pretty friend can do for me.”
“Go on.”
“It seems a trite matter, but it has value to me. There is a kingdom aside from the Lady’s. It’s in disarray now. Many of the inhabitants have begun to migrate into the Lady Sovereign’s territory. Some, however, are insisting upon staying. A certain soldier’s lover refuses to leave as long as their princess, Pirlipat, reigns. I need you to assassinate this princess.”
Anne was surprised to hear the request, but this princess was nothing but a doll. Murder among the toys sounded one thousand times better than her having to stay here with this hideous, stinking beast. She hoped Armand would say yes.
You’re a terrible girl, Anne, her self told her. She ignored it.
“I have promised this soldier that his lover will leave with him, but the only way I am certain to make this happen is if the princess is eliminated. She lives in a tower with a large clock mounted on the top. I’d send one of my own agents, but they are busy with other things, and the price is too great to ignore. So, it seems this is now the perfect job for you.”
“I want a vow of secrecy,” Armand insisted without hesitation, “and don’t even think of going back on it. No matter what sort of trouble you send my way, I will be coming back here. If I see that you’re responsible, whatever lies inside that great mass of cloth will be spilled. I need you alive, but I won’t tolerate deceit. Mark my words on that.”
“Oh, I do believe you,” the Shaman assured him. “I may be a master of truth as well as lies, but in the end, my greatest concern is self preservation.”
Anne nodded to herself. Perhaps she was not so different from this toy after all.
“One more thing,” the nutcracker said, bringing her out of her thoughts. “How do I know you have what I want?”
The Shaman paused a moment, a smile spreading across his face. Then he opened his mouth, twisting his lips in preparation for what he would say.
“Augustus,” he hissed.
A simple word, but if Armand’s ey
e have been visible, flames would have risen in them at the sound of it.
“Now,” the Shaman said, rocking back a little, quite pleased. “You tell me how much I know.”
Anne glanced back and forth between the two of them, not having understood this exchange. Augustus? Whatever did that mean? Of course, if she had to rely on Armand to tell her, she would likely never find out.
Without words, the nutcracker turned and walked back toward the lift, his white hair trailing behind him. Once again, Anne followed.
Chapter Fifteen: To Spite the Father
1
Downstairs on the first floor of the house, in the hall with the grand Christmas tree, presents were piled high. Boxes were dressed in lovely ribbons and paper with tiny nametags attached. Stockings were stuffed sufficiently. Everything was set perfectly for another fine Christmas.
This house’s Father Christmas had returned to bed, and because of new orders, the dozens of mice that had watched him place every single gift had simply let him go. They’d been watching for quite a long while by their standard of time, anticipating the moment they would be able to take their rather large hostage. But things had changed. In fact, it seemed that their job had been given to someone else.
But it was not finished yet. There was more work to be done.
The leaders moved forward and out onto the open, polished floor. The others followed, moving rapidly and without noise. They approached the glorious tree.
One by one, the boxes were defiled.
Paper scraps drifted through the air as the mice scratched them away, quickly binding any moving toys inside that had been waiting to be saved. They took every doll, every solider. They took things that might be useful to them and their master. Everything else was disregarded.
They understood they were interfering with the world of the humans, but that didn’t seem to matter to them. What would be done later was to be far worse than this. The Master’s new pet was to see that the grand deed was done. The mice might have been bitter over their master’s unexpected shift of favor, but they hastened with his devious work nonetheless.