by Lani Lenore
“There was a little doll with me at one point,” she continued. “I was trying to help her, but during an attack, I was only able to think of myself. I probably let something terrible happen to her… But I was almost beginning to feel bad about it, you know? Now he’s gone and destroyed all that for me, and I don’t care at all. Can’t you see he’s ruining me?”
“But he’s right,” Brooke insisted without caring that she was getting angrier with him over these things. Even if he’d known, he couldn’t have blamed her. She was going through a serious ordeal.
“Oh, what do you know?” Anne growled dismissively. “You’re just a toy.”
At this, Brooke was silent. He didn’t even flinch. Anne raised her eyes to it. She wasn’t accustomed to arguing much–not since Armand–but when she’d made her comment, she’d not exactly expected Brooke to curl up and play dead. Perhaps she’d forgotten who she was talking to?
The green glow illuminated his face and she looked toward him, seeing that he was staring at the floor. His brow furrowed slightly. Could she have actually damaged his feelings?
“I am just a toy,” he said.
Anne had claimed that Armand had made her unable to care about any of them, but she realized in that moment that this was not entirely true. This one named Brooke was so tragic that she couldn’t help but feel pity for him. She wanted to apologize. Needed to. But she couldn’t make herself. Anne sat in the silence, considering her options until it was too late to say she was sorry.
Brooke wasn’t bitter. Sure, her words had given him brief feelings of resentment, but he banished them quickly. His mind turned to more constructive things, such as calming the woman of her own apprehensions.
“If it might console you about the child, there’s something a bit funny about toys,” Brooke spoke up, banishing the silence. “I don’t even know if your nutcracker has considered it much, or perhaps he simply doesn’t care; that is not for me to know. But, as toys can be broken, they can also be fixed. All it takes is a bit of care and time. They may never be as good as new, but with a bit of putty and paint, they can walk again.”
This interesting information caused her to raise her head.
“You mean, toys can be resurrected with this curse?”
His words made perfect sense, but she didn’t blame herself for not thinking of this before. There were just so many important things to consider.
“Yes, I believe resurrect would be the proper word for it. So if something happened to the child doll you spoke of, it is possible that some other toy will take the initiative to fix her.”
Anne wasn’t sure how much consolation that offered. In fact, she was quite certain that it scared her. Not about Clara really–though she wouldn’t have blamed the girl doll for being very angry with her after the fact–but for all toys in general. All those puppets that had been slain could be fixed and could come back after them once again?
Then, another notion slapped Anne so roughly that it stung.
“Your brothers and the princess?” she inquired. “Is that why you so readily killed them? You knew they could be brought back?”
“It had not been my plan to kill them. But when I saw you, I knew I didn’t need them anymore. I couldn’t let them hurt you. I admit, I should have destroyed them more fully. Pirlipat, I believe, is beyond repair. She couldn’t be made back into the same doll with the same memories. Perhaps if she is remade, she will awaken with a new life. I’m not certain. My brothers, however…”
He trailed off, not bothering to go on–or perhaps simply not willing to say. Anne took it upon herself.
“But then, if they do come back, don’t you think they will be quite angry with you?”
“Oh yes,” Brooke said, an amused sort of smile emerging on his lips. “Very.”
The expression was so uncommon to his face that it was eerie. How could he think this was funny? If they came back they would surely destroy him so fully that he could not be repaired. And yet, Brooke seemed to welcome this–as if he wanted it!
Against the wall, Anne hugged herself. These toys… She would never understand them.
3
After the bladed marionettes had done their job of ripping the clock tower from Princess Pirlipat’s castle–house, they’d not expected the entire structure to collapse. Still, the sight brought on rings of ghostly laughter. They’d done a sufficient job for their master, retrieving the tower from the building and causing every toy in the room to cower in dark corners. Their job done, they were set to leave.
The bodies of two soldiers had slid out from the rubble in the collapse. They were damaged, dead toys, but their make was much too lovely to be neglected.
A group of puppets noticed those bodies–one soldier that had half of his head missing; the other with the glass of his face cracked in a pattern like spider webs. The marionettes lifted the soldiers carefully with their cruel, wicked hands.
Within their lair of the toy maker’s room–which was now property of the Rat King–they set to work, whispering together in a tumultuous hissing noise.
They ran a coat of new polish over the blond soldier’s face, sealing his cracks. They fixed part of a featureless wooden doll head to complete the red–haired soldier’s skull. The puppets chopped off all four of their forearms and glued blades in their places. Strings were attached to their limbs and backs.
“Join us,” they coaxed in their whispers. “Join us. Wake up. Join us.”
Be our brothers.
Join us.
Let us revel in this misery together.
Lakke and Rivere awoke. All they knew was rage.
4
Armand took the length of the armoire’s top shelf at twice the stride of his first visit. The birdcage was before him and the Shaman was inside. But of course he was. He was much too large to fit through the door to get out.
Standing atop the mass of the Shaman’s bulky, putrid body, a naked rag doll was feeding him some sort of orange sauce in the candlelight. Armand didn’t care if he was intruding. He’d done a favor, after all. He belonged here.
The Shaman eventually caught sight of him, looking quite surprised. If his hard skin had been capable, the false oracle might have blushed for Armand seeing him licking the sauce from the doll’s fingers.
“You’re back,” the Shaman blurted, then cleared his throat.
“Not expecting me to return so swiftly?” Armand questioned, standing boldly before the cage. “Or not expecting me to return at all?”
“I had full confidence in you,” the mock–oracle assured him.
The rag doll slid down the bulk and made herself scarce for their conversation. Her cloth body was covered in orange stains.
“Now,” the Shaman began, wiggling his small fingers and then putting them to the sides of his head. “Let me see what the spirits will say about your situation.”
“I don’t have time for this. Tell me.”
The Chinese doll laughed, smiling a sly, horseshoe–shaped smile that was his official make.
“Forgive me. It was only an attempt at humor.”
Armand was not amused. Finally, the Shaman said what he’d really come there for.
“He is weak–your enemy.”
The words locked the nutcracker’s full attention.
“I know of the curse. I did not begin knowing, but when I found out, it allowed me to exploit my power over the others even more. I was further surprised by the great story behind it, like something out of a rather twisted book. It goes something like this:
“As you know, the one who is called the Rat King has not always been in this house. It has been years–centuries–of roaming the earth with his select few, looking for a suitable place to build his empire. When he finally came here a year ago, he decided that it was perfect. Numerous children and a toy maker in the house. Rooms full of toys. The house itself was also appropriate. Finally, his dreams would come true.
“For the first while, he busied himself with gathering mi
ce from within and without. He made them obedient to him, taught them to speak English, and informed them of his plans. Two months ago, he performed what is called the Ritual of Awakening. He’d had plans for it for years–mapped it out ages before its performance. It brought all toys with eyes and ears, arms and legs, with functioning bodies and moving parts to life. But the toll of the ritual was so immense that it took nearly all of his strength. Had he known you were so close behind him, he certainly would not have put himself in such a position.
“His followers were very concerned. The only way to regain his power was to perform another ritual. This–the one that has been keeping him alive all these long years. “It was planned for this night, because after two months of rest he was able once again to bless his scout with the magical infection needed to do its master’s bidding.
“When this Rat King begins to feel weak, he needs a human. Since he cannot very well take a large one, he found a way to reduce their size. From what you know of him in the past, you would only assume, of course, that his preferred tastes are to women and girls. The very pretty ones–the ones that look like dolls. He adds his own pleasure to the ritual’s performance I’m sure, but its simplest form is still quite unpleasant.
“He must devour her–alive.”
Armand took everything in, memorizing every word. He’d promised to tell Anne what he found out, but how would she handle hearing these things? He needed to keep her panic low. The nutcracker banished his own thoughts as the Shaman continued.
“This time, there was a mistake. The agent waited in the toy chest, ready for the moment the chosen woman would stick her hand inside. And I believe, in fact, that the one he chose was the woman you say you cannot part with.”
Armand was surprised to hear this. Anne was the one who this ritual was meant for? He’d been certain that it was Olivia the king had wanted. In the past, Augustus had always set his attentions toward younger girls, but that was a terrible thought. He tossed it away.
“The younger female was marked on accident, and how ironic it was that she was to become the leader of the toys! Leading them to rebel against him even more! But I digress. The agent tried to correct his mistake when the opportunity to mark the correct female arose, but it then left the King with a much bigger problem. He was quite unhappy, from what I hear, but decided that either female would suit him.
“Of course, he will have to eventually dispose of them both.”
“How long does the rat have before this ritual must be performed? Before he simply dies?”
“That is unknown,” the Shaman said, giving his head a shake. “But no one has seen him about. My informants say that he has not even left his throne in quite some time. He must be rather weak indeed.”
“Without a human, is there any possible way he might become strong again?”
“There is a rumor that he might be gaining even more strength on his own. I have heard word that he recently grew a second head.”
“Only a second?” Armand inquired, crossing his strong arms. “That is weak.”
The Shaman smiled a bit. “That is what I hear. But it is odd to me. You sound disappointed to hear this news. I would think, with as much hatred as you have for him, you would be pleased.”
“It’s discouraging to learn that this ritual is what he wants the humans for. In this case, I could never let that happen to them. They don’t deserve it.”
“Why disappointed?” the Shaman asked. Armand looked up to the pale face of the Shaman, and the enormous doll gave a grin and a shrug. “For my own curiosity.”
“It’s a pity,” Armand said, “because I want him to become strong again.”
The Shaman thought this over. “Yes, yes. That is curious indeed… But those will be your own choices to make. You have one woman to do with as you please, and I also hear that he has placed a new general in charge of his work now–a doll instead of a rodent–if it helps.”
“What are they planning to do?”
“That is another matter entirely and was not part of our arrangement,” the Shaman refused. “I have told you what you wanted to know–that he is weak, and of how he might become strong again. Also, that he is still unaware of your presence in this house. We are done. Unless, of course–”
“We’re done,” Armand interrupted swiftly. “It’s time to say goodbye, Shaman, though I do appreciate your help.”
The large doll opened his mouth to accept that graciously, but when he saw the nutcracker draw the sword of red glass from his back, the Shaman’s small eyes grew wide in certain fear. Armand approached, and the toy who called himself the Shaman was much too large to move out of the way.
“We had a deal!” he cried, shaking the birdcage when he tried to move.
“Yes,” Armand acknowledged, “and I see you’ve stayed true to it so far. But I simply can’t take the chance that you might go back on it and reveal my presence in the house.”
With speed like a falling guillotine, the nutcracker moved in for his execution. He slipped into the birdcage easily. A few of the Shaman’s subordinates rushed from behind the cage, but there was no time for them to save their leader. The glass blade found a place in the cloth girth of the Shaman, and it made a very easy cut.
Rotten food spilled onto the floor, ground by the porcelain teeth of the Shaman, but undigested. Once the cloth was opened, the smell rolled out with it, and it was so strong that it nearly made Armand sick and dizzy. After the avalanche had poured out, he knew there must have been at least a gallon of old food–anything that could possibly decay, scraps from the kitchen and rubbish bins.
The nutcracker chopped off the Shaman’s head as the doll mourned for its spilt belly. Armand then crushed the head beneath his foot, breaking it to fragile bits. The subordinates had tried to escape, but he overwhelmed them as well. There was nothing left atop the armoire shelf but a pile of sour mess.
Maggots squirmed at Armand’s feet as he waded from the heap, and if it had not been for the moth he’d devoured earlier, he might have been forced to eat the disgusting things.
There were several reasons why he’d not allowed Anne come with him on this subsequent visit, and this reason was the second. He’d not wanted her to see or smell this.
He was sensitive after all.
He headed back now, hoping he’d not misjudged by his decision to leave Anne with the dark–haired soldier. He didn’t think he had. That soldier was as loyal as a dog.
5
Footsteps in the passage brought Brooke and Anne both to attention. They assumed it was Armand, but just to be cautious, Brooke was prepared to withdraw his blades. Anne stayed behind him.
The curtain raised, and the nutcracker stepped through. The woman came forward to meet him.
She couldn’t tell the nature of what he’d heard from the expression on his face, but he had something to tell her. That, she knew.
“Well?” she asked anxiously.
On his way back, Armand had tried to decide what to tell her. How would she handle the bluntness of the truth? When he’d first met her, she’d seemed so resolute in what she was trying to accomplish, dealing with all this the best way she knew how. He’d shown her the reality of the night, and because she had finally accepted that the curse was real, she was looking at everything from a different angle.
“Do you want the sweet version?” he asked her. “Or the real one?”
“I’m not a child,” Anne replied, crossing her arms indignantly. “No sheep’s clothes.”
“Very well then,” he said. Ungrateful woman. “I didn’t find out anything that would help you return to your own world. All I have is an assumption, and that assumption is that once the Mausekönig is dead, his magic will fall from this house. Still, I can’t know that for certain. Not yet.”
He watched her face fall a bit, and somehow that made him feel better.
“But I now know that you’re the one they wanted to begin with. Not Olivia.”
“Me?”
She indicated herself by touching a hand to her chest. Her eyes showed displeasure and confusion.
“I was surprised to hear it as well. You are the one he chose in the beginning, but they are after both of you now. He needs a human to perform a ritual in order to make himself strong again. Either one of you will do.”
“Ritual?”
She’d hardly gotten the word out before he replied.
“He is to eat one of you alive.”
That was it, straight and relentless. The woman’s face paled a shade. It bothered her to hear, as he knew it would, but he didn’t stop.
“I’m sure that if he caught you, there would be many more undesirable things to happen first. I’m certain he could think of a few other tortures for a human girl.”
Anne lost all her color.
“He has an obsession with dolls,” Armand went on. “Always has. But dolls cannot bring much satisfaction when you’re made of meat and bone.”
He watched her face, and he’d indeed scared her as adequately as he thought he could–save for sounding out every gruesome detail for her. She put a hand to her face, not only disturbed by what he’d said, but knowing that he’d said it all just to be cruel. Why was he so malicious? He wondered. More importantly, why did he feel guilty about it?
He pulled Anne’s hand away from her face to gain her attention, lowering it to her side. To his surprise, she continued to hold his fingers within her own.
“I’m not going to let any of that happen to you,” he said, sounding as serious and sincere as he could. “I know that I keep you in the dark about these matters, but this is one promise I intend to keep.”
Anne took a deep breath and gazed up at him. Her fingers clenched his hand tighter.
“I believe that,” she said. He knew she meant it. “Thank you.”
A short, shuffling sound gripped Armand’s attention, and his eyes traced behind Anne to see Brooke, leaning against the wall and trying not to pay much attention to them. Their conversation had likely seemed private, but Armand had not meant for it to be. If that soldier wanted to continue on with them, he needed to know the situation as well.