Shadows in the House With Twelve Rooms

by J. Price Higgins

  Grandfather's voice answering, "It means be careful, Ellery. Sometimes we want something so badly, we only hear the singer. We never see the rocks of destruction until we've run aground."

  Ellery closed her eyes. "Oh, Papa," she whispered. "I forgot. I forgot." Warnings had been there, right from the beginning, but she had ignored them, had only heard the singer, and look where it had brought her.

  Her thoughts flashed to George Kayman and the singular beast he had become. Bianca's mind worked in twisted ways. She would have to be careful that the formulas she followed did not carry another creature within them. Her mind conjured up an image of many George Kaymans buried deep within the vector probe Bianca was developing. A vaccine and a nightmare rolled into one Dakotan injection. Shaking the picture from her mind, Ellery strode into her laboratory and closed the door. One abomination on this earth was enough. She would be vigilant.

  Ellery bent to her microscope. Her body tingled with anticipation as her mind focused on the bits of life she saw there. Her face glowed with a strange and frightening light. She hummed softly as she worked.

  An old sea chantey.

  Her favorite song.

  Chapter 60

  George

  George stared at the membrane-covered mass between his legs, then glared at the laboratory's overhead lights. Too goddamn bright, he thought. Would Bianca never turn them off? Somfbitch. Why the hell don't they leave me some privacy?

  Using his foreclaws to support his upper body, he edged his buttocks crab wise, his movements awkward and sluggish. Not even in the days of the iron cage had he felt so constrained. Remembering the exhilaration of freedom he had experienced when Dane Wyland dumped him into the container, he replayed the day when he had stretched his limbs across the barred cage so that the engineer could take exact measurements, replayed the first time that his powerful muscles had spun the sand aside. Would he ever again flash and burrow?

  The stretching membrane between his legs creaked and snapped like old timbers in a settling house. He shifted one clawed foot to the side. An involuntary gargle of sound escaped his mouth as a burning sensation raced through his body and a rush of pain suffused his lower torso. He could feel his flesh pushing out, yet constricting like he was some goddamn tube of toothpaste being squeezed dry.

  His head swiveled toward the young woman who stood staring through the glass walls, her palms pressed against the container's side. He read the worry on her pale face. Inching his way across the sand, he rested his head against the spot where her hands warmed the glass. Don't fret, Sefura, he thought. It won't be much longer. Don't ask me how I know—I just know. Like he knew he had to surface, like he knew other things. His thoughts drifted back.

  It had been two weeks now since the first pangs of new flesh extruding from old had roused him from sleep. With those pangs, had come the knowledge that he must surface and remain topside until whatever was happening to his body had completed itself. Something else he knew—he must return to the palace. The overpowering desire reminded him of a documentary he had once seen in which salmon struggled against inconceivable obstacles in order to spawn in the waters of their birth. At first, he had clawed and butted against the glass walls, but just as some of the salmon did, he grew tired and moved listlessly around the container. Now he could barely accomplish even that.

  From the corner of his eye, he watched Bianca limp from her desk to a glass fronted cabinet filled with colored liquids. His snout quivered as he remembered the sour taste of her desire to push and probe when she first saw the sack-like tissue forming between his legs.

  "Genitals, Raphael," she'd said into the phone that second day. "That's the only thing it could be. Sandman is developing external sex organs."

  How he had longed for her to enter the container; had prayed she would believe his speed and power had grown weak. But she wouldn't come. She had already learned that lesson.

  By the fourth day, she knew and so did he. It wasn't genitals.

  The creaking, settling sound grew louder in his ears. His train of thought broken, he looked down at his groin. Only the sheerest of membrane kept the oblong mass attached. Topaz eyes fixed on the milky fluid bubbling within the tissue casing, George watched tapered hips seeming to pull away from his own hips. Watched strong, powerful legs slide into view.

  What the hell? The question exploded into understanding. Jeezus Christ! I'm spawning a new one. Jeezus Christ. Look at me, Sefura, his mind screamed. See what George Kayman is producing.

  "Bianca!" Sefura's voice rose with alarm. "That growth—it's tearing away. Oh, dear Lord. It isn't tearing. Bianca, it's separating."

  The bitch hurried across the room and placed her hands beside Sefura's as she, too, stared through the glass. George yanked his head away from the sidewall.

  In that instant, a rippling began near the base of his tail and strengthened into powerful rhythms of contraction flowing up and over his hips. With a frenzied lashing action, he slammed his body against the sand until the last thread of tissue snapped.

  Freed of the growth, he whipped backward and with a brief glance at the piece of himself that he had shed, he disappeared beneath the sand.

  Safely buried, he listened to the vibrating sounds of their voices.

  "My, God. Binary fission. Asexual reproduction, Sefura. Self cloning. Do you know what that means?"

  "I don't care what it means. We have to get George back to the surface. He's sick and needs our help."

  Bianca's pealing laughter hurt his ears. "Help? George doesn't need help. Didn't you see how fast he disappeared?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "After two weeks of lethargy, he's back to his old self again. He wasn't—isn't sick. He's been going through a budding process. That growth you were so worried about was part of it. The tissue sack protected the developing cells until they reached maturity. Don't you understand? He divided himself. George thrashed around like he did because he was into the final phase of separation, not because he was in pain. My sandman has reproduced. I have created a new species, Sefura."

  George could hear the pride in Bianca's voice.

  So now we are two. He was not displeased at his thought.

  "Why isn't it moving?"

  Sefura's voice sounded strained. He flashed upward. For a moment, he stared at the young creature lying so still upon the surface, stared at the ruptured sack that had so recently been a part of himself. It was easy to see that no life existed in that new body, no flashing speed, no burrowing strength.

  His gaze rested on the young woman who pressed her face to the glass, tears in her eyes. It's no loss, Sefura, he thought. I will give you more.

  As he slipped back beneath the surface, he chuckled to himself. That one was weak, but the next one won't be. His thoughts turned to Bianca. She held him prisoner now, but that would soon change. Prepare yourself, bitch. There's no container strong enough to hold what I will produce.

  Once more he burst upward in a spray of sand. His snout drew back as he gazed into Bianca's startled eyes. With one powerful thrust of his tail, he slammed the body of the young sandman against the side of the container. As she jumped back, the hatred raged from his throat in a deafening howl. He watched her black eyes narrow to slits of understanding and heard her mind accept his challenge.

  His lips drew back into a hideous grin. With a great sweeping motion, he tossed his head high and light bounced off the razor-edged jawbone. He could taste the power rushing through his veins as muscles tightened. The whore would see what he could do. She would see.

  From somewhere, far away it seemed, he could hear a pounding sound. It assailed his ears and severed the rhythm of power. He saw fists beating against the container's side. Sefura's fists. On her face was pleading.

  He turned and stared deep into her eyes. His gaze flicked to Bianca's smiling face, then back to Sefura's imploring.

  With a great, shuddering sigh, he vanished beneath the sand.

  Chapter 61

  Bianca


  Munoz deftly whirled Sefura around the polished floor of the palace ballroom, evading other dancers with smooth grace. Bianca sat nearby and watched, her back rigid, her handsome face drawn into a scowl. Bastard, she thought. Does he think I don't know what's going on? Her gaze switched from Munoz to the tall young man who stood a short distance away. He was smiling and his foot kept time with the music as he watched the whirling couples on the crowded floor.

  Dane Wyland's strong profile and elegant assurance roused a sleeping thought and brought it to the forefront of her mind. There was something about the look, the stance. She was more certain now than she'd ever been in the past that she'd seen or met him before. She searched her memory, but could find no clue to guide her. It'll come, she thought. From the look on his face when he's with her, he'll be around a while. Another tomcat, just like Raphael, where she's concerned.

  Bianca's scowl deepened and she shook her head as if to shoo away an irritating hum. Lately, when she thought of Sefura, little sister always seemed to disappear .

  "May I get you something cold to drink, Bianca?"

  Her head jerked up and she stared into dark brown eyes. "No thank you, Dane. Birthday or not, one glass of champagne is about all I can handle."

  He chuckled. "I understand—enough for me, too."

  "Did you sleep well last night?" She heard the music stop and from the corner of her eye, she watched Munoz and Sefura stroll across the floor toward where she sat.

  "I did. It's good to be home again."

  "The island blockade doesn't bother you then?"

  He shrugged. "The Aristocrats are everywhere, Bianca. It's worse in Brasilia. They didn't take much interest in the construction project, though, which is amazing to me."

  Her mouth pulled to the side. "Amazing? Not at all. The Latin arm of the group depends heavily on the money supply the Tartarus Foundation brings to Brasilia—as they do in every nation they've infested. If they destroy our projects, they gain nothing and lose everything. Why do you suppose they continue to allow Tartarus to operate on that god forsaken island?"

  Walking up beside them, Sefura leaned over to kiss the olive cheek. "You're making such a face, Bianca. Don't you like your surprise party?" Her head tilted up to Munoz who stood smiling and relaxed. "Raphael planned for weeks to make it special for you."

  "I'm sure he did. However, as usual, you're the one he's waltzing with, not me." She shoved her right leg forward.

  Sefura flushed and lowered her head.

  "Why don't you and Dane get a cold drink, Sef," Munoz said. As the two walked away, Munoz turned his glittering black gaze on his consort. "This is going to stop, Bianca. Right now. I'm not going to tolerate any more of your jealous innuendoes or your hateful behavior, especially to Sefura. She loves you and you're hurting her," Munoz said.

  "If that were true, Raphael, she'd tell you to go to Hell instead of waltzing around the floor with that mealy smile on her face. Do you think I don't know what's going on behind my back?"

  "The only thing going on behind your back is what a mind filled with hate has created." He began to tilt back and forth, slow and measured. "Sefura played no part in what the sandman did to your leg. I tried to tell you that the creature was out of your control, but you refused to listen. I'm not going to let you place the blame for that limp on your sister."

  "Always her isn't it, Raphael? What she thinks, what she feels. Well, what about me?"

  "What about you, Bianca?" he threw the question back at her. The rocking motion stopped and he squatted beside her. "I'm going to tell you one more time, but it will be the last time. What you do with it is your choice." His warm hand grasped her cold fingers and massaged gently. "We play our games, you and I, because we are who we are." His shoulders raised into a shrug. "Yes, Sefura is an exquisite young woman. Her body is lithe and hard and a pleasure to hold while dancing, or to touch while deciphering, but she doesn't belong to me. You belong to me."

  "Maybe you should be telling this to her instead of to me Raphael," Bianca said.

  Rising, Munoz stepped back. "If I wanted to bed Sefura, the deed would be a fait accompli by now."

  Her head snapped up. She had never heard his voice so cold, nor seen his face so unreadable.

  He said, "You think about that." Turning away from her, he strode to an elegant, bejeweled woman with pale blond hair.

  "Bastard," Bianca said beneath her breath as she watched the coquettish tilt of one head match the roguish tilt of the other. Smiles flashed as he cupped the elbow and led the woman to the dance floor. "If it isn't one, it's another." She yanked her injured leg back until it rested beneath her chair.

  The harsh sound of breaking glass brought the music to an abrupt halt. A brightly flagged arrow, guidance beam still glowing, quivered in the wall. A note fluttered from its shaft. Stunned silence gripped the room as heads turned toward the window—waiting for anger that didn't come. Then, a sound came, faint at first as if traveling from a distance. Gradually, it increased in volume, finally erupting into the long, mournful baying of hounds on the hunt; a sound more terrifying than any human wrath for those who listened.

  In slow motion, shock turned to fear to frenzied cries to aimless rushing. Munoz charged through the melee to the arrow and the note bound to its shaft. Dane shoved Sefura to the floor then dashed through shattered glass toward the Pope. Bianca leaped from her chair and moved across the room, barely conscious of her faltering step. She reached Munoz's side just as he wadded the note and tossed it into a nearby trash container. He turned to the man standing beside him.

  "A little souvenir from my fan club, Dane," he said sardonically as he snapped the arrow shaft from the deeply embedded head. "There's always a group demanding something for nothing and the Aristocrats are no different. They say they want representation, but what they really want is the power of dominion. The problem is, they aren't willing to do anything but howl at the moon to get it." His shoulders squared. "Timothy," he called to the steward cowering beside the table, "You and Adrie and the rest of the staff clean up this mess before the floor is scratched beyond repair." Facing the guests, he held his arms high. "It's over. There won't be any more arrows. They've delivered their message, now they'll . . . bay awhile, then it will be back to normal. Still, I would suggest you gather your wraps." The guests rushed to the stairs to reclaim their belongings from the rooms above. He faced Bianca. "You and Sefura must return to the island immediately. Mr. Wyland will accompany you. I have things to do here."

  While Munoz chatted and smiled his frightened guests into a semblance of calm, Bianca retrieved the wadded paper and read the message: Listen. Do you hear the hounds? They follow the spoor of the Pope and his whore. Beware. The note was signed V for Victory. She dropped the paper as if it had suddenly burst into flames.

  Stepping out of the shadows cast by a potted palm, Adrie reached down. Without a glance, she tore the note to shreds and dropped it into the trash. She grabbed a bowl filled with golden caviar.

  Bianca stared at the woman's hands moving with deliberate slowness as she scraped the delicacy into the refuse container and watched it obliterate the arrow's message. Unlike the others in the room, this woman exhibited no fear, no nervousness. Not natural, Bianca thought. Unless . . .

  "You knew didn't you, Adrie? You knew this was going to happen."

  The housekeeper looked up, her eyes cold and unblinking. With the same deliberate slowness, she untied her apron and removed the white hat from her head.

  "Goodnight, Doctor Raborman."

  Stunned, Bianca watched the maid disappear through the kitchen doorway. The pulse at her temple pounded. My, God. She's an Aristocrat. Everything Raphael did, everything he said while behind these walls was funneled to The Party. The Vatican, too? She shook her head with the enormity of the thought. No, not the Vatican. Cardinal Morandi kept that bastion of the Church free of intruders. Despite her feelings of animosity when it came to the Cardinal, she knew that he was loyal to his church,
that he seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to the Aristocrats. Over the years, he had personally removed more than one party member from the Vatican environs—quietly and efficiently. Bodies were never found. They simply ceased to exist. Still, with Adrie's betrayal, he should now be doubly vigilant.

  She limped across the ballroom, her eyes searching for Munoz. As she approached the library door, she saw Sefura shrugging into a soft evening wrap, her eyes bright and glistening as she chatted with Dane. Watching her sister, Bianca's nostrils flared as if she sucked the scent of blood into their orifices. Dane stepped in front of her, blotting Sefura's face from view.

  "Bianca, I want to marry your sister," he blurted out.

  "That isn't possible right now, Dane. She is too involved in an undertaking for His Holiness—and for me. Marriage will distract her."

  "Whatever you have her doing, I won't interfere." His jaw set with stubborn intensity.

  "This really isn't the time or the place to talk about marriage, Dane," Sefura said, coming up beside him.

  "Oh?"

  She chuckled and hugged his arm tighter. "Bianca is my sister and this is her birthday. Stop pressing and let her enjoy it. When she says yes, I want it to be a wholehearted yes."

  Reaching over, Bianca rubbed a spot on Sefura's cheek. "Is caviar the new fad for beauty marks, Little Sister?" The huntress had disappeared.

  "I want to keep her safe," Dane interrupted.

  "Safe? Why would she be unsafe at Tartarus?"

  "That man, creature, whatever he is, for one thing. He's bigger, stronger, faster than he's ever been. The young one is every bit as dangerous. What if they broke loose?"

  "It's your container, Dane. Are you saying we should thank God that Sandman's first duplicate died?" While building the container, the engineer had referred to George by that name and now she used it often. She liked the roll of the word on her tongue.