by Adam Dreece
Nikolas felt a chill at Marcus’ statement.
Marcus continued. “I’m coming to believe people need something dramatic to motivate them. Otherwise, the many always feel threatened by granting the same rights and privileges to the few that they have long denied us.”
Everything Marcus said was a more experienced, nuanced echo of what he’d said in the earliest days Nikolas had known him.
They walked down beautiful corridors lit with clock-work lanterns of Marcus’ design until they came to a statue and the study. Marcus entered the cozy study while Nikolas stopped and stared in shock at the statue just outside.
To almost everyone, the figure would have appeared to be a remarkable statue of a horse kicking at the air, but Nikolas was certain it was an actual King’s-Horse. A wooden face and mane had been added, but he could see the shiny gears and belts through the small holes intended to allow heat to exhaust. Then his eye caught the heart-panel, and he got nervous for the first time since being in Marcus’ presence.
Nikolas scrutinized the details without touching the King’s-Horse. It was definitely an original King’s-Horse, but quick mental math accounted for all the ones that he and Christophe had built. He couldn’t understand where it had come from. He stared at the heart-panel, trying to remember if they had somehow mistakenly created any more than the four he could think of that had it. He adjusted his spectacles and leaned in, making sure that the heart-panel was indeed a door. He rubbed his chin as his eyes darted around, his memory trying to figure out how this was possible. Questions ran through his mind: If Marcus has this, what else does he have? What else has he been hiding? Does he know about the MCM engine? Or worse, does he have the plans?
He knew better than to test the polite charade that he and Marcus had going on. Nikolas knew he was a prisoner, but as long as he didn’t give Marcus any reason to make that apparent, he would be allowed to roam around and glean whatever information he could from whatever sources were available.
“Nikolas, come. The tea’s ready,” said Marcus.
Nikolas reached over the side of the high-armed, red velvet chair, and laid the book he’d been reading for the past two hours on the floor. He gathered the notes he’d been writing off and on for the past few days, and gazed at the tables and side tables. He still didn’t want to connect his work with anything associated with Marcus’ endeavor, so he placed them on the floor in a pile once again. He knew it was silly, but it was the only form of rebellion he felt he could do unnoticed. He pulled off his spectacles and rubbed between his eyes.
The tea they’d had in the study by the King’s-Horse had been cut short the other day, and ever since, Nikolas had hardly seen Marcus. Whenever he’d caught a glimpse of Marcus, he’d had an intense look.
The guards allowed Nikolas to wander around the mansion and to go into the gardens, but only if accompanied. There were areas that he was politely asked to not go, and Nikolas understood all too well.
Nikolas rested his head on the high back of the chair and put his spectacles back on. He gazed in thought at the stained glass ceiling some sixty feet above him. It was a gilded cage, and he wondered what exactly Marcus’ intentions were for him.
He stood up and stretched, then glanced at the catwalks and ladders that decorated the towering bookcases. Ever intrigued by the huge glass wall at the east end of the library, Nikolas made his way over to it.
He gazed down from its second floor height at the gardens below and the white stone towers that defined its boundaries.
Putting his hands in his pockets, Nikolas watched the servants and soldiers traveling between the white towers. He’d been unsuccessful in trying to glean much information about the towers, but he could tell they were significant somehow. He noticed food occasionally going in or coming out, and figured that meant they housed important prisoners of some kind—but who?
Nikolas leaned against the glass, resting his head against an arm. He casually gazed down at the massive garden. Its bushes and flowers formed wonderful patterns. Nikolas enjoyed the gardens and wondered about possibly taking lunch there.
Something caught Nikolas’ imagination and started to pull him back from his thoughts. There was something about the garden, the flower arrangement in particular. He frowned and sighed as he tried to grasp the fleeting idea. What was it?
Standing back, folding his arms and tugging on his beard, he studied the towers and then the garden as a whole again, and it hit him. The void between the flowers and the shrubbery made the symbol of the old Fare, facing north. Nikolas took a step back and looked at it again to be certain. A cold sweat came over him.
Nikolas knew his history well enough to know that the Fare had first risen to prominence in the shadows of others, and had left signs of their growing boldness everywhere. What if Marcus had not replaced the Fare, taking all of its broken pieces and using it in his new puzzle, but instead been an instrument of the Fare’s will all along? Had they been behind some of his more ambitious successes, and were they now behind his limited ones?
For a brief moment, Nikolas wondered if Marcus had done this intentionally. It didn’t seem like something Marcus would do, given how he felt about the original Fare, but he didn’t know for certain.
“Nikolas!” boomed Marcus, making him nearly jump out of his skin. Marcus was wearing his signature black long coat and vest, the gold chain of a pocket watch visible from a lower pocket. His right eye was covered in a black eye patch.
“Sorry,” said Marcus. “I didn’t realize you were deep in thought. Was it anything interesting? I could use a good distraction.”
Nikolas glanced at the garden before focusing back on Marcus. “The garden. Has it always been like this?”
Marcus frowned and walked over to look at it. “No… is there something of particular interest? Recently the head gardener proposed some changes and I was too busy to be involved. He has a disfigured woman helping him, I’ve heard.” Marcus looked at the garden, squinting. “It seems pleasant enough.”
Nikolas nodded as he absorbed the statement.
“Are you free?” asked Marcus, turning to Nikolas and gesturing for him to follow.
“Let me gather my things,” said Nikolas, picking up his papers.
Marcus smiled. “Good. I apologize for being such a bad host these past few days. Some sacrifices had to be made to stop the ambitious and the opportunistic.”
“Where are we going?” asked Nikolas as they headed out of the study.
“To my principal office, in the main building. I have a couple of things I’d like to discuss with you, a few things to show you, and then we can have lunch in the garden.”
Nikolas stopped, deciding that he could no longer hold off asking the question. “How long do you plan for me to be here?”
Marcus smiled uncomfortably. “I think—“ he paused. “I think things will be clear by this evening.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A Bargain Made
Angelic voices and music wove their way into Elly’s dreams, until finally she opened her eyes. Before her, on the ceiling, was a beautiful painting. It showed people leaping off a cliff and becoming birds as they flew towards the sun, then coming back, changing from birds into people again and getting in line for their next turn. Elly had never seen anything like it. She felt at peace gazing upon it.
Eventually, she moved her eyes around the room. Elly noticed two large, open windows with morning light pouring in. They had thick red-and-gold curtains drawn aside. She couldn’t remember what time of day it was when she’d been shot.
She was about to close her eyes and drift off to sleep again when she realized that beside the curtains was a man kneeling, dressed identically in red-and-gold robes. He was bald and had a thin, clean-shaven face. He was muttering to himself, rocking back and forth on his knees, with his eyes closed. When Elly’s eyes landed on him, he ceased moving and smiled at her, revealing his gentle eyes.
He stood, bowed, and silently left the room.
>
She returned to staring at the ceiling until she heard the hint of a familiar sound. Her excitement built, until finally Tee burst through the open doorway, sliding on the marble floor. Elly winced in pain as she thought about trying to move.
Tee’s eyes were tear-filled, her face hopeful and pained. She leapt to Elly’s low bedside, a blur of red cloth and black hair. She buried her head in the side of Elly’s pillow, her left arm wrapping around her bedridden best friend.
With a choked-up voice, Tee asked, “How… ah… how are you feeling?” Tears of relief were rolling down Tee’s face, wetting Elly’s ear.
“I’m okay,” she said weakly. “Good thing we have the no dying rule, right?”
Tee chuckled, but the river of tears continued.
Elly carefully wrapped her arms around Tee, wincing in pain as she did so. “You saved me. We’re okay now.” Tee’s tears accelerated and she hugged Elly harder.
Elly couldn’t remember ever seeing such a display from Tee. She took a deep breath and rubbed Tee’s back gently. “I’m okay, you saved me,” she repeated, failing to console her. As the seconds passed, Elly’s anxiety crept up. “Tee? Are we okay?” she asked nervously.
Inexplicably, Elly felt her gaze drawn to the doorway. She could sense a presence there, just out of view.
“Tee? What happened?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Gingerbread Man
Gretel sat on the grass, gently stroking the white petals of the wild Black-eyed Susans she’d picked off the fence’s vines. The afternoon light made the hearts of the flowers look bruised to Gretel. She stared at them until a rush of emotion made her crumple them and drop them to the ground.
She pulled in her legs and rocked herself back and forth as she tried to expel the images that had started invading her waking hours, no longer happy to simply be nightmares. Each day, she wanted more and more to get out of her skin and away from the increasing flood of emotions. She wondered if somehow Mother had cursed her. Had she heard the relief in Gretel’s voice at her passing? Was this her revenge?
“Hi, Gretel,” said Hans.
Gretel’s gaze jumped from the ground to her brother. He was smiling and appeared peaceful, dressed in a new brown jerkin and darker brown pantaloons. He had a new white shirt with puffy sleeves and black, shiny boots.
“How many people did you kill to pay for all that?” asked Gretel hostilely.
Hans frowned and put his hands up, keeping a small box tucked under his arm. “I actually paid for this out of my share of our little treasure pile. A treasure pile, I will point out, that you raided quite unfairly to pay for food and other stuff to tend to your… hobby.”
“And our brother,” said Gretel.
Hans gnashed his teeth, his eyes narrowed. “You know,” he said, “I came to try and make things how they used to be.”
“I’m sorry,” said Gretel, letting out an uneasy breath.
“I didn’t want to talk about him. To be honest, I’d prefer if we never talked about him or that pet of yours again,” said Hans.
Gretel glared at him.
“Allow me to start again?” asked Hans, sitting down a few feet away. “I have just spoken with Saul. We have squared away our differences. He will take care of the Hound, and you and I are free to go wherever we will.”
“But Saul’s—”
Hans grimaced as he interrupted. “Nothing to us. You know it’s a lie as much as I do. Mother must have told you, and if she didn’t, then you must have figured it out,” said Hans. “I gave him what he deserved of the treasure as well.” He gazed down at the simple wooden box in his lap.
Gretel released her legs so she could sit more comfortably. “You shouldn’t have hurt Saul.”
Hans wobbled his head back and forth in thought. “Maybe… maybe not. Maybe he deserved it for getting between us. Things have been… very different since Mother left.”
“Like the nightmares,” said Gretel, staring at the grass, wanting the ground to swallow her up.
“Yes,” said Hans, sounding sympathetic, “the nightmares. What ones are you having?”
Gretel’s eyes welled up as she tried to talk.
Hans moved beside her and rubbed her back. “It’s okay, shh, never mind. Look, I made you something,” he said, opening the box.
“Gingerbread?” said Gretel in happy astonishment.
“I will admit,” said Hans coyly, “that I didn’t make any for the Hound or Saul. This is just for you. Though in fairness, I did give them another type of treat.”
Gretel smiled at him as she reached for the large cookie. After a few small bites, Gretel felt a small wave of calm hit her.
Hans closed the lid. “I just want things to be how they were, but better,” he said. “You and me and the world. I want all of it.” He stood and offered Gretel his hand.
Gretel stopped and sniffed the air for a moment. “Do you smell something?”
Hans sniffed. “It’s probably some wood smoke from the campers I saw nearby. I was going to rob them, but I thought the last thing you needed to see were signs of a fight on my new clothes. I wanted to look nice for you, to make this reunion special.”
Gretel munched on her cookie as they walked and chatted about old times.
“We should go back,” said Gretel, glancing around, trying to figure out which way it was to the cabin. “I need to make sure that Saul is really okay with everything. That the Hound—”
“No,” said Hans, grabbing her hand.
Gretel tried to pull her hand away, and stumbled. Hans caught her by the elbows.
“Hans, I don’t… I don’t feel right,” said Gretel, worried.
He stroked the back of Gretel’s hands with his thumbs. “Everything is going to be wonderfully fine,” he said with a deeply sinister smile. “It’s going to be like it used to be.”
Gretel’s eyes went wide with horror. “That’s what the man says in my nightmares.”
“Oh, you remember that, do you? I wasn’t sure how quickly the Ginger would affect your mind; apparently not as quickly as I expected,” said Hans. A giggle quickly grew into a maniacal laugh as he let go of Gretel and enjoyed the terror in her eyes. “I was so disappointed at how you changed as your steady diet of Ginger wore off. Saul lost focus, but you… you changed into this crying mess. I had no idea that your mind would remember all those wonderful times we spent together, and bring them back as nightmares. You know, it actually pains me to know that you have replaced my sweet, cruel Gretel.”
Gretel stumbled. “That’s… that’s why you never ate the cookies,” she stammered, recoiling and nearly falling over.
“The cookies were always my way of preparing you for our special moments together.” Hans sprang forward and pushed Gretel back as she tried to regain her footing. “It’s nasty stuff, that Ginger. When I was sixteen, I made a batch so strong I was able to knock out a horse for three days. I felt so… powerful that day,” said Hans, his hands out.
He twitched as he saw the anger and disgust in Gretel’s eyes, and turned his gaze to the sky. “Mother loved me, you know. Through everything she did to me, or had done to me, I believe she was always trying to make me stronger. And as long as I was a good boy, she’d let me do anything.” Hans’ eyes pierced Gretel. “Anything.”
Gretel got up and took a clumsy swing at Hans. He easily stepped out of the way and pushed her to the ground again. As she landed, the world started to spin.
Hans chewed on his lip for a moment, his eyes dancing with malevolent joy. “Sorry about the nightmares, but I have to tell you, it honestly delights me. It means I wasn’t alone in those moments. I sometimes felt like I could have set fire to the house and no one would have noticed, no one would have moved a muscle. I’m getting quite good at that, by the way.”
Gretel forced herself up and started running, staggering back and forth.
Hans laughed hard. “Running back to your Beast, or just running away? Come on then, run!” Hans mocked her a
s she ran like a drunk in the dark. “Go on! Run, Gretel, run!” He yelled at her, his tone twisting. “Run, run, as fast as you can, you can’t outrun me… I’m the Gingerbread Man.”
Gretel’s soul-splitting scream traveled down the forest path, into the burning cabin, and snapped the Hound’s eyes open. He felt an intensity of purpose fill his veins like never before. Suddenly there was no pain, no self-pity. There was only one thought: Gretel.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Armed and Dangerous
Mounira awoke to a knock at her door in the middle of the night. A hunched-over old man stepped out of view just as she opened the door. For a few minutes, she followed him through the stone corridors of the ruined castle, wondering who he was and if he had indeed awoken her.
“Who are you?” she asked, not wanting to take another step until she had some sense of where she was being taken. She didn’t recognize this part of the castle.
“Ah,” said the old man, turning and allowing Mounira her first real look at him. He had a long white beard and crazy, bushy white hair. His brilliant blue eyes twinkled in the white light emanating from the top of his cane.
“That light… that’s like Anciano Klaus’ light in his study,” said Mounira. “Do you know him?”
The old man seemed disoriented for a moment, almost surprised to see Mounira standing there a few yards away. “There are lots of things,” he said, glancing around at the walls, “lots of things I know, lots of people I’ve met, and some of them were even real.” He scratched his head. “Are you real?”
Mounira narrowed her eyes, wondering what the stranger was talking about. “I am. Are you?”
“I hope so, otherwise I’m a ghost who forgot to shed his mortal coil,” he said. He tapped his forehead with his fingers while shushing, almost as if trying to quiet voices inside.