The Nutcracker Bleeds

by Lani Lenore

  Her arms reached forward, trying to pull her along, but she couldn’t get a grip on the slick floor. Then there was a shadow over her. Brooke. He reached down and helped her up, but as soon as she was steady and standing, he fell away from her. She tried to grip him, but he was gone. When he hit the floor, he shattered, but his arm had broken away from his body, gripping her wrist still, and she could not get free of it.

  She ran toward Armand once again, but also once again, there was a small figure standing in her way. Olivia. Wait… It was not Olivia at all.

  It was a tiny doll that stood there, standing on a spot of the floor that was surprisingly clean even though it was surrounded by the blood pool. Blue eyes. Many curls. Clara.

  The doll looked up to her, smiling sweetly, but there was a sinister gleam in her eye.

  “You know, he always loved me most.”

  Anne lifted her eyes past the tiny doll, and she saw in the distance that there was another doll standing very near to Armand. The nutcracker was still on the ground, clutching his wounds, but the doll that she had never seen before–a pale, pretty doll with long, black hair–was standing over him.

  She watched, and the doll raised a large blade over its head, sending it crashing down toward Armand in order to behead him.

  “No!” Anne screamed, but it did no good. She had woken up.

  Her body flung itself upright, and the woman found herself in a strange room. Then again, when had she not awoken to a strange place?

  She was resting upon a pillow in an enclosed area filled with old tapestries, and though it was still and quiet here, she smelled the awful stench from beyond the walls. She recognized this smell.

  Mice. Dirty, filthy, mice!

  Movement to her side gripped her attention, and she turned her head to see two dolls looking over her.

  They were very old dolls; she could tell by their design. They were decayed and dirty from age, their painted faces chipped and worn. Some of their hair was missing, and Anne could already tell that it had been replaced in several spots. Their skin was dirty, but how could it not have been, living where they did. Their dresses however, were decently clean.

  Anne stared at them, and they back at her. She realized then that her hands and feet were bound with rubber bands.

  “Time to get you dressed,” said one of the dolls. Her voice was not quite like Anne had expected. The accent was very different from her own, and in fact, it was like Armand’s.

  Before she’d had much time to consider this horror, the dolls began to pull, twist, poke, and arrangement her into perfection.

  Chapter Twenty–Seven: The Reaper

  1

  Edge was patient. It was one of his better qualities, in fact, to know that if he wanted something, he would sometimes have to wait for it to come to him. In this fashion, he waited for the nutcracker.

  He stood aside, propped on his blade, peering out over the room that was soon to become his own territory, but either way, that was beyond the claiming of the nutcracker. Once Edge had the body, he would finish conquering the house in the name of the Rat King, and then he would take it all for himself.

  Like a snake with his eggs, he mused.

  How terribly wicked was he for these things? He didn’t care. He’d chopped off the head of the worm who’d created him, and did everything else he needed to do to get himself this far. Already, he was beginning to feel at ease for all that was coming together. At the same time, however, he could hardly stand still for the anticipation that tingled throughout him.

  The trap had been laid and set. It would snap very soon.

  Down below, noises alerted him. His red gaze passed across the length of the floor to the room’s open vent. A disturbing smile emerged on his face. His eyes went wild. For whom did he see coming through that opening, slicing through rodents as he went, but the very one he had waited for.

  “T’is the end of days,” Edge hissed, and moved from his spot to meet his enemy.

  2

  Armand hardly looked at what he was slashing at when he crossed into the invaded territory of the Lady. He’d fought his way through the infested vents with the blade he’d inherited from Brooke, which was now covered in blood and lumps of gut. His own sword was the same. He’d used both.

  He knew the exact location of the prison, which was actually an old hatbox with little holes cut in it to suggest barred windows. It was pushed beneath the darkness of a dresser, and as far as Armand could see from where he stood, it had gone unnoticed by the rodents.

  He moved forward, hardly seeing those that moved out of his way as he passed–until he heard a voice that sounded oddly familiar. In fact, it was a voice that could never be forgotten.

  “What’s the hurry?” asked the sly tones of a temptress, then giving way to an aggressive snarl. “Not going to stop and chat with an old friend?”

  Armand turned out of pure curiosity, looking back to see the very misfit he’d expected. They’d met before, only once, but such an abomination was not easily forgettable.

  The doll stared at him, grinning maliciously and holding the large razor in its hand. Armand was already turning back around before he spoke.

  “I don’t have time for you,” he said simply, going along his way.

  Black and purple lightning shot past to cut him off, and in an instant, the razorblade crashed into the floor in front of Armand with the misfit standing there with it. Beneath the angry thrust of the blade, a piece of the wooden floor burst into splinters.

  “You will fight me!” screeched the dark doll, much like a child in a tantrum.

  Without giving Armand time to deny this order once again, Edge swung the razor toward the nutcracker. Armand moved out of the way, dodging every rage–filled attempt. The black–haired doll moved toward him, unrelenting and untiring, but Armand moved himself swiftly out of the way each time.

  Edge didn’t like the way this was going, his anger growing more and more after each attack missed. He’d expected the nutcracker to be a difficult and worthy opponent, but to dodge every attack? Didn’t even the evil deserve a break now and again? Besides, how much fun was it to not even have his blade deflected?

  “I said to fight me!” Edge commanded, manipulating his blade. “Is that all that’s in you? Perhaps I was wrong in thinking that you were what I needed in order to be whole!”

  The nutcracker said nothing in response to these taunts, moving and evading until finally the blade swung true to its attempt. It moved straight in toward Armand’s chest. The nutcracker raised his right arm–

  And the blade wedged itself into the wood, stopping as it hit the embedded metal on the other side. Armand winced at the pain from his wounded arm, and Edge only smiled with mad glee.

  Until he saw the blood.

  The red liquid oozed out from the nutcracker’s arm, running down the edge of the razor. At this sight, Edge withdrew a bit with his weapon, staggering back. It was not as if he’d never seen blood before–he had, after all, beheaded Euan and cut through a few rodents in his time–but never had he seen a toy bleed. He did not understand this at all. His red eyes lifted in confusion.

  “What…are you?”

  Armand did not answer, but at the sight of this doll’s hesitation, he saw the opportunity to end this swiftly. Brooke’s arm summoned its blade forward, anxious to be helpful, and Armand forced it toward the opposing toy. This time, it was Edge’s turn to block.

  3

  Edge parried every hit, but was moved backward across the floor, unable to get a firm hold on this battle. All he could do was block, and all the nutcracker could do was slash down to meet the awaiting blade. It was impressive, and there were eyes watching, but none dared to interfere.

  The smaller, dark–haired doll stepped into a shadow, noticing immediately and knowing he was within the outline of the large dresser that stood by the room’s door. This nutcracker was relentless! Edge might have enjoyed the fight more if he didn’t feel as though he was losing more contr
ol with every meeting of the blades. And that odd thing on the nutcracker’s arm…what was it? It looked almost like a third arm, though Edge could not focus on it enough to tell. He only saw it coming for him in flashes.

  The nutcracker reached through with his blade arm, but this time, Edge did not block. He moved to the side, and the attack caught nothing but air. Edge moved swiftly, knowing this might be his only chance. He swung the razor toward Armand, but the nutcracker had accounted for such an attempt, ducking beyond it. Edge’s blade lodged itself deeply into the leg of the tall dresser with force that would have taken off the nutcracker’s head. The doll had no time to retrieve it before the smaller blade was rushing at him. It was all he could do to forget about his weapon and move.

  This new situation was quite unfortunate. Edge was without anything but his swift movements, and the nutcracker had several weapons with which to end him. Before the doll began to deliberate it much, his problem solved itself.

  From the shelf above the door, some of the bladed marionettes had seen Edge’s plight, and recognizing who their master truly was–for they had come from the toy maker’s realm–they lent their strings down to Edge, wrapping him at his limbs and pulling him into the air. The cords were not rescuing him, however; they were aiding him. Edge was happy once again, shooting up into the air with ease, only to smash back down with his foot against Armand’s face.

  Armand was rocked by the blow. Edge came back again, moving through the air as if there was no law of gravity. Armand caught another foot to his face as the puppet–aided doll moved in and flipped back in an aerial somersault.

  Anne… I have to get to her, Armand reminded himself, but some enemies just had to be taken care of. This misfit was unrelenting. It would trouble him again if he did not end this. The doll thought it was brilliant, no doubt. Armand would prove that false.

  Edge came in again, flying down toward his enemy, but this time, things did not go as he’d hoped. The nutcracker reached out and gripped the oncoming foot firmly, and giving it an accurate twist, the glass foot and ankle collapsed in shards.

  Edge roared in pain, hanging by the strings as he gripped the cloth boot that had collected the broken pieces. Armand quickly cut the cords that held him. Armand turned, so overtaken by his rage, moving back toward the leg of the dresser that the razorblade had been buried into. The leg was damaged and unsteady. The nutcracker stretched out his arm, and with as much force as he had, smashed his fist through the weakened wood, breaking the leg off completely.

  The heavy dresser groaned, and with its leg missing, it would no longer support itself. It began to fall over. Once again, Edge was covered in shadow, and he looked up to see that wooden tower crashing down toward him.

  Was this the end? The end of his glorious and sinister existence? But he was not finished! No! There was so much left to be done! Using his last amount of strength, Edge pulled his weight off the floor, and though he only had one foot, he ran. The darkness widened over him. He wasn’t going to make it!

  Screams rang out from toys that had made their homes within the drawers, but whether they all broke when the dresser hit the floor, Armand did not know. He braced himself, and the collision shook the entire room like a private earthquake.

  4

  When the dust had settled, Armand moved toward the end of the dresser to see if his intended fate had actually befallen the deranged misfit doll. Nearby, unbroken dolls climbed out of the dresser’s dislodged drawers, but he ignored them. When he passed around the corner of the dresser to the furthest length of it, he saw something he’d not quite expected to see.

  There was the misfit he’d been fighting, laying there unmoving–with naught but a broken foot. Somehow, it had managed to clear the danger zone, but Armand was not regretful to inform the misfit doll that it was not out of trouble yet.

  He pulled the glass sword from his back, moving forward to have this finished, but as swiftly as he advanced, he stopped.

  A small doll with curly locks had rushed onto the scene, throwing herself down over the black–haired abomination. When she saw Armand, she hissed at him–hissed; like a rat. It was what she had done when he had first seen here tonight in the attic.

  She is not that little girl…

  But even though he knew this, she was so familiar! All her looks were still so accurate! His heart began to ache like it hadn’t in a very long time.

  When the child saw that the nutcracker was not retreating, she opened her mouth.

  “Leave him alone!” she screamed.

  Her voice was a very different voice from his dear Clara’s. This doll spoke English with an English tongue. The sound of that voice made him snap back to the moment and remember where he was–what he’d aimed to do by coming here.

  Though the girl was just a doll–that had once been a human–Armand could not bear to damage his darling’s likeness. He turned away from her and the damaged misfit beneath her, going along his way.

  He was headed to the prison to get his guide, and then it would be off swiftly to save Anne. No more interruptions.

  5

  Within the quiet dark of the prison, the jester puppet had watched everything that had happened, but watching was all he had done, for there was no sense in drawing attention to himself. Sure, let those others be killed. If there was one thing he had already learned from being shut away from the Lady and her good graces, it was that he needed to be more careful and sly in the things he chose to do.

  Life was all about self–preservation.

  He saw the many things that the rodents did to the dolls. He saw them ripped apart, chased, tied up and tortured. All the jester did was sit back and snicker to himself, thinking of how smart and clever he was for not being found–for being bad enough to be put into prison so as not to be torn to pieces of wood and cloth.

  Standing there in the darkness now, he watched the destruction and he thought of Anne.

  Ahhh, lovely, beautiful, Anne. Ohhh, wretched harlot.

  It was her fault that he was here. But he’d not forgotten about her. Oh no. When he got out, he would show her just how much he had not forgotten. Perhaps she would even be pleased to see him and now he had reformed. Wouldn’t that be something? Sure, he didn’t look as debonair as he had before, but that was Anne’s own fault, now wasn’t it? She’d been the one to smash the marble into his face. One of the Lady’s doctors had spread clear glue over the now concave portion of his face, but he would never be quite the same again.

  His private thoughts were shattered when an enormous sound and jolt shook the area, including the box he was sealed within. If he’d had a bladder, it surely would have emptied all over him. He jumped and let out a shrill cry, and then waited in the quiet for the ground to settle before rising to investigate.

  His strange eyes peered through the slit openings in the box, and he looked across the room to see that a chest of drawers had fallen over beside the door. There were likely many injured in the incident. The jester didn’t care what had caused it. He was in a world all his own now, very separate from those other toys. Happily, he danced around a bit, leaping and twirling and wishing he had Anne there to dance with him.

  When he spun out of a triple pirouette, there was a face before those bars, staring in at him.

  “Aaahhh! Hideous!” the jester screamed, lurching back from the wooden face surrounded with long, white hair.

  The eyeless nutcracker seemed to take offense to the remark. The hollow openings narrowed to slits.

  “Do you know Anne?” inquired an accented voice.

  The jester was not sure how to respond. The wooden toy looking in on him was large and terrifying! Had Anne sent him for purposes of retribution?

  “I–! Well, I might have met her once…”

  “You’re coming with me,” the nutcracker said darkly.

  With very little effort, he reached into the prison window, gripping the jester by his black, cloth collar. Armand jerked the marionette forward and straight thro
ugh the box.

  6

  Todd had said he would speak with Anne later, but now that he’d come, the woman was nowhere to be found. Her room was empty, the bed hardly disturbed, and he was terribly confused–in no mood for games. He had a proposition for her, and it needed to be delivered immediately.

  He stood in the quiet of the room, considering things that needed to be considered and wondering why in the bloody hell Anne was out of bed at this hour, when a great noise above rattled his calm nerves.

  Todd looked up toward the ceiling immediately, hearing the noise much better through the small grate in the ceiling. It was only that one, loud crash, but what had that sound been? His concern shot immediately to Olivia. Could Anne have been up there with her? Was something terrible happening? His brow furrowed. If the nurse was doing something dreadful to Olivia, he would certainly be sure to ruin her. Forget the proposition; she would be lucky to keep her life, let alone her job.

  Thinking many outrageous thoughts, Todd left Anne’s lonely room and headed quietly upstairs to investigate.

  Chapter Twenty–Eight: Ruined Plans

  1

  The jester felt terribly uneasy, moving along in the shafts with a blade pointed near his back. The nutcracker was forcing him down into the rodent’s lair, instructing him specifically not to take him along the same path that he’d taken Anne earlier. The jester had been much too terrified to protest, but his mind was squirming still, trying to cultivate a plan to escape this.

  The nutcracker was unnervingly silent behind him. The jester glanced back over his shoulder periodically to see if the strange, white–haired toy was still there. Yes; still there. So was the blade. Hadn’t the jester seen him before? Wasn’t he the Lady’s?

  The jester had considered leading the soldier off along the wrong path, but that would undoubtedly be a bad idea. The toy behind him was not going to tolerate mistakes. The jester cared too much for his own life to try anything. Perhaps just better to do what he asked? He knew several ways into the rodent’s lair, and the soldier did not care which one.