The Lost Codex

by Lyons, Heather

  I tear small strips of my dress off and pass them to Grymsdyke. He quickly wads the cloth, spinning silk around them until they are sticky balls. He grumbles as he toils, “I am the assassin, Your Majesty. Allow me to assassinate these fiends for you.”

  I do not bother responding such a ridiculous statement. He knows better than to urge me to stay behind. “Attend the musician first. I cannot risk the music affecting me again.”

  I accept his offering of the silken balls. He grunts, adjusting the threads around one of his legs.

  I stuff one pair of my makeshift earplugs into my ears, shaping the pieces until they contort to my canals and I lose all sense of proper sound. I place the extra pair in a pocket.

  “It is a good day to fight,” my assassin declares.

  The door we seek is unlocked. A menagerie of instruments crafted for pain and death, illuminated by torches, line the walls of a filthy room. Excellent. I stuff the switchblade into the bodice of my dress and quietly select a pair of curved, serrated daggers, all the while eyeing the hallway on the far side of the room. Dim light spills from an open doorway at the end; a man garbed in all black lands on his arse, forcing Grymsdyke and I to press up against the weapon covered walls.

  Dare I hope?

  Once the man in black is on his feet, I waste no time making my way down the corridor. A peek into the new room presents an ugly picture. Bile and blood splatter the walls, floor, and tables; the stench from such gore is incalculably worse than anything in the dungeon. There is a fight in progress, although now dwindling, and my pulse leaps as I take it in.

  An apprentice piper hovering in a far corner continues to play, face red and sweaty, as Frau Magrek and the hooded, black-garbed man wrangle with the man I am in love with. They have him backed up against a maroon-crusted rack, a blade pressed against his neck. The Frau struggles to clamp restraints around Finn’s left wrist as he lands solid kicks on both assailants.

  The pair are wounded. A scalpel is gripped in one of his hands, its blade slick with fresh rebellion.

  The hooded man’s blade draws blood as he smashes a fist against Finn’s face. The scalpel clatters to the floor. My love sags, allowing the torturer to resume his attempts at restraint. It’s then that I am given a good look at my partner. Finn’s torso is bleeding in multiple places. Like the youth in the dungeons, skin has been stripped away. His face is battered.

  Fury, white hot and unquenchable, demands vengeance.

  Grymsdyke leaps, fangs bared. I fly, madness wrapping around me like the old friend it is. Within, blood blue and glowing surges anew. The Frau’s shriek of anger is muffled, just as the piper’s melodies nothing but the buzz of bees on a lazy spring day. A whip is claimed, and the sleek leather flashes before me. Madness ensures I do not care. I duck, hitting the floor stained with misery and torture, and roll, kicking out at her pretty, stained dress.

  She collapses at the same time the apprentice piper does.

  The tiny Frau struggles beneath me, stronger than any child ought to be, all sinew and deception beneath lace and velvet. Painted nails tear into my skin and I laugh. Is this the girl who loves pain? This is child’s play. This is nursery foolishness. This is a quarrel over a dolly.

  I bash my head against hers, until stars flutter and spark before me. And then I repeat it for good measure until the stars bloom red. We roll down an imaginary hill of grass, down, down, kicking and squabbling over our dolly, clawing and scratching and seething.

  I covet the dolly more.

  She yells, dull hums against spider webs, and I laugh all the merrier. She fumbles for her pretty whip. Perhaps it is time to be the bully in the nursery, to simply take the dolly and push her to the ground whilst doing so. A jab of elbow ceases her pathetic fumbling, and I roll off of her, toward the whip.

  I think back to a time in Wonderland, in which the White Queen and the Queen of Hearts quarreled over whose bakers made the better tarts at a monarchs’ luncheon. A battle-axe, formidable and capacious, appeared, as did a slithery whip. Honestly, if one was to put a fine point on it, the tarts from my kitchens were superior, but I enjoyed their spat immensely.

  I scramble to my feet as the piper’s pustules fester. The torturer is locked in a game of cat and mouse with Grymsdyke, although I believe he wishes to advance on the Frau and me.

  I feel rather than hear the crack I issue, delighting in the gleaming brilliance of this whip. She must polish it regularly. I’d always shunned whips, finding them uncouth, but I suppose I owe the White Queen an apology. The girl who enjoys pain ought to be delighted right now, because her hand must be welling with plenty of it as scarlet splatters decorate the tile.

  Another crack, and the girl herself rests next to her unintentional artwork. Alas, there is outrage facing me instead of pleasure.

  Perhaps rumors painted her character incorrectly.

  I kick her outstretched hand before slamming the pommel of the whip down upon her forehead. Her blackened eyes no longer focus on me or anything else. I waste no time whipping the man in black. As he arches his back in distress, Grymsdyke makes contact with the strip of flesh between mask and tunic.

  I drop the whip, throw off my cloak of madness, and rush to Finn. He sags against the rack, half propped up, half beaten senseless, and yet my arms go around him, careful of the wounds carved into his skin.

  “I’m here.” I remove one earplug to allow sound to return. “Finn, I’m here.” I kiss his forehead, his cheek, and his bruised mouth oh so softly. I touch his face, will his eyes to open. I press my forehead against his and breathe him in. “I am here.”

  His weak cough warns of broken or bruised ribs. When eyelids slowly flutter open, his irises are the color of cool English mornings, just before the rain rolls in. There is confusion clouding them, irritation, even. I do not allow myself any tears, or even the hair plucking clamoring for release over the knowledge that all too recently his beautiful eyes were black. Not now. Not when there are still miles to go.

  Not when I have a mountain to destroy.

  “I’ve taken care of the girl,” Grymsdyke announces. His voice is a harsh whisper with his threads still stuffing one ear.

  I press my mouth against Finn’s once more, willing the strength of my heart to be conveyed in such a gentle touch. He jerks away, a sneer tainted by disgust wrinkling his nose.

  A sharp, unfamiliar sting shoots through me.

  I clear my throat. Ask, “Can you walk?”

  The once bright pattern my love and blood created for him is now pale. His face is far too purple and black. There is too much blood everywhere. These are not Finn’s colors.

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  His focus settles over my right shoulder. “I know I need to hurry.”

  “We all do.” I stroke his face, but he does not look at me.

  He says, “The music has stopped. You can let go now.”

  The sting sharpens all the more. “Finn—”

  “Did you finally locate where she is?”

  “Who?” I tear a piece of my sleeve off with my teeth and press it against the shallow cut on his throat, whether he wishes for my hands on him or not.

  Suddenly, he convulses, eyes rolling back until all that is visible are the whites. I steady his head, terrified he will slam it against the rack. His hands clamp around my arms and we are spun around. My back slams against the crusted wood and metal as an elbow shoves against my windpipe.

  Grymsdyke leaps upon Finn’s shoulder, fangs bared. I rasp, “Do not harm him!”

  I refuse to fight back. Instead, when Finn leans in, fury darkening his dear face, I kiss him. I kiss him with intent. I suffuse all the love and adoration and respect I have for this man in the simple act of my mouth on his.

  He gasps and tears away. The fury melts like ice on a hot day, until confusion is all that remains. “Alice?”

  I heave in a trembling breath, which is not easy whilst one’s windpipe is restricted. “Yes, love.”

  He stumble
s backward, regarding at me as if I am a stranger, or worse, a ghost. Grymsdyke leaps upon my shoulder, assuming a defensive stance.

  Finn holds out his hands, still bloody and dirty from his fight with the Chosen. “I—” He swallows, shakes his head.

  I remain where I am, although desperate to touch him, to assure him of my love, of my presence.

  His attention shifts to the left, where the Frau’s body lies, but his focus hovers several feet above her. “Did I black out again?” A finger points my way, although he continues to stare at nothing. “Is this—is she real?”

  Coldness seeps into my shoulders. Who is he speaking to?

  I answer him anyway. “Yes, Finn. This is very real. I am real. We are once more together.”

  His unshed tears gut me. I close the distance between us, but it is his arms that curl around me even as he gasps in pain from the contact.

  Grymsdyke has sense enough to take refuge on the wall.

  Fingers twine into my hair. Anguished words warm my cheek. “I couldn’t find you. I have never been so scared in my whole damn life.” His voice breaks, and I break in return. “Thank God you’re alive.”

  I cling to him, and my own emotions breach the dam I’ve tried to hide them behind. I press my forehead against his neck, soaking his skin with the unstoppable escape of relief and terror.

  It is Grymsdyke’s cough that rouses us. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, Your Highness, but it would be wise for us to leave this place of death before these miscreants’ fates are discovered.”

  I first dry my face with a sleeve. Again, I ask, “Can you walk?”

  “Yeah.” Finn straightens, stretching his neck. He fails to hide his wince quickly enough, and it only adds fuel to the raging fire stoked within my belly.

  I find a tattered, bloodied shirt nearby, one they must have torn away from him in order to carve away pieces of his beautiful skin. I pass it over, lamenting I have nothing better to offer.

  I am lamenting more than that.

  Grymsdyke and I inform Finn of what we know. It’s not enough, though. Not for him, not when it comes to his brother. And it is not enough for me, knowing the Piper is no longer within Koppenberg Mountain.

  The others will pay for his sins, and the cost will be heavy, indeed. But when the time comes, I will extract payment from the Piper, too. Of that I have no doubt.

  “LET HER HELP YOU, darling. There’s no shame in needing help.”

  As Alice grabs a pair of daggers off the floor, I glance at my mother. Katrina is standing guard at the door leading to the hallway, her bright eyes flicking back and forth.

  On the floor between us lay the bodies of dead Chosen.

  Every inch of me aches and burns. I might as well be underwater, my head is swimming so badly. My breaths are shallow, my moves minimal. My ears ring. I honestly worry if I will be able to walk out of the room on my own two feet.

  As if she could hear my internal doubts, my mother continues, “You aren’t safe here. You know they rotate in and out like clockwork.”

  I do know this. Everyone in this damn mountain wants their piece of flesh.

  “I don’t know if you can survive another go around.” Color has leeched from her face. “I also don’t know how much longer we can keep the effects of these monsters’ ministrations at bay. The mind and body can only take so much, Finn. Even yours. Let Alice and the spider help you. Don’t keep her in the dark.”

  I can’t tell Alice. She has enough to worry about.

  Worse, I fear I don’t have the strength to finish the mission. Another trip to the Lady of the Mountain and I am positive I won’t make it out—or at least, make it out as myself.

  How I’ve survived as long as I have, I have no idea.

  Before I can ask, Katrina adds, “He still hasn’t located your pen, let alone your gun. You’ll have to make do with something from in here. But, darling, only fight if necessary. You must conserve your strength.”

  “Forget the gun.” Even talking hurts like a sonofabitch, but I won’t admit that out loud, either. “He needs to focus on finding Victor.”

  Alice passes me a wicked-looking knife she’s pried off the wall. There’s a hesitation to her that I haven’t seen in months, not since her early days in the Society. I’m not entirely easy with the way she’s looking at me. “Of course we’ll find him. But I truly believe it is best that Grymsdyke stays with us, though.” She pauses, wincing as she once more scans my body. “At least for the time being.”

  Huh? Oh. Of course. She can’t see Katrina, either. And because of the promise I made my mother and Jim, I can’t tell her about them. No one can know, not until I’m home.

  If I ever make it home.

  “I meant—”

  Katrina steps between us, cutting off my words. “Promise me you’ll take your brother home, darling. Don’t leave him to rot in this hellhole.”

  She doesn’t have to ask this of me. I give her it anyway. “I promise. You can trust me.”

  “I always have, and always will.” She steps to the side, her focus shifting to Alice.

  “Always.” I try to refocus on Alice, now standing before me, but she’s still far too blurry. “Just as you can trust in me.”

  “I’ll go ahead and see if Jim has found anything. Stay with Alice and the spider. Do not die, do you hear me? It’s not your time. Listen to your mother for once, will you? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Hell, even swallowing is painful. I wish we had more time for introductions. “Be careful.”

  Katrina nods before ducking down the dark corridor and disappearing around the corner.

  “Finn.” Alice sucks in a long, quivering breath. “I am—” She gently touches my shoulder, her eyes glassy. “When it comes to you, I will never be careful. I will not fail you again.”

  The room suddenly spins so viciously, I fall to my knees and retch before I can take another breath. Alice drops next to me, her grip tender yet insistent, but the moment I look at her, I’m on a roller coaster, going a hundred-and-fifty miles per hour on a series of loops.

  I vomit until I’m dry heaving, until I fear my stomach is ripping pieces of itself off its walls just to throw up. Until I’m positive the thirteenth Wise Woman is finally getting her way. My muscles cramp and spasm before the room darkens.

  “Don’t fight them,” Sara begged just last night. She snuck me water after the worst visit. “And don’t fight her. It’ll only makes it worse.”

  But I did fight. I kept resisting, and will continue to do so until she, Alice, and Victor are out of this mountain. And in my fighting, I took down my fair share of the Chosen, even if they repaid me tenfold for every ounce of blood spilled.

  Even when they dragged me in front of that bitch.

  Even when she momentarily broke me.

  “You’re burning up,” Alice is saying. “We need to—” Her voice wavers, and it scares the shit out of me. Alice doesn’t waver. Alice is the strongest person I know. “Grymsdyke, were you able to ascertain the location of either of our sets of pens and books?”

  I continue to dry heave as the Spider tells her no. A discussion arises as Alice lights a nearby lantern, but it’s too hard to focus on what they’re saying. Eventually, when my gag reflexes calms to a mere quivering, Alice slings my arm around her shoulder to haul me to my feet. “You must try to walk, Finn. We need a safer location to regroup in.”

  There is nowhere safe in the mountain, I want to tell her. And there is no one who can be trusted. But I will my feet to move, and, somehow, they actually do.

  UNFAMILIAR TENDRILS OF INDECISIVENESS and helplessness claw their way through me until my stomach and nerves are nothing but shreds. Finn is in no shape to fight, let alone hunt down the Piper. Red lines bloom across the back of his tattered shirt, ones too easy to surmise came from the end of a whip.

  He does not complain, though. Since departing the torture chamber through a hidden door Finn noted the man in black moved in and out of, he has been silent,
as if each step requires the sum of all his thoughts and focus. The heat of his fever soaking into my clothes and skin demands my immediate attention, consuming my thoughts and focus.

  While I lay slumbering, dreaming of a peaceful Wonderland, what horrors did Finn face? Why didn’t he, too, retreat to the shelter of his mind, somewhere the damned inhabitants of this mountain could not touch him? The twelfth Wise Woman and goose’s gifts came to my aid—why not his? I cannot bear to imagine what he has gone through, and yet I also cannot stop myself from doing so. Finn was alone, fighting against these villainous fiends, and the knowledge breaks both my heart and sanity.

  Perhaps the goose’s strength did aid him after all.

  He requires medical attention. To do so, I must locate Victor, and it must happen before dawn.

  I fervently pray Finn’s brother is in one piece. He, too, must be in torment, as days have passed without any doses of the medicines required to stem the tide of his madness. Once he is recovered, and if we are lucky enough that my plan is enacted, a retreat will be mandatory. I loathe the thought of licking wounds rather than reveling in victory, but I am not foolish enough to doggedly insist we continue to hold advantage when we do not.

  That does not mean I still do not have a hand to deal, though.

  Grymsdyke has scouted the twisting, unfamiliar hallway we find ourselves within. Without warning, though, a door opens, and a woman close to my age emerges. Most of her blackened teeth are long gone, replaced by sharpened silver monstrosities. She bites me several times as we tussle, and I want to tear the fangs from her mouth. I have just slammed her head against the floor when Grymsdyke sails in with his own fangs.

  In order to mask her screams, I quickly drag her body back within the room she exited from. As I clap a hand across her gnashing, foaming mouth, Finn struggles to shut and lock the door.

  We are in a bedroom. Small, unadorned, and possessing two beds, a singular armoire, and a washstand and a pitcher, the space still lit by a sole candle will do nicely for the time being.