by Rachel Xu
“And in my opinion, you should be wearing more than a loin cloth if you're going to get comfortable in my chair. I'm going to have to burn it now.”
Lily studied the dog-man's face as he spoke. His eyes were like amber marbles and his canine teeth were ivory with black tartar and plaque built up around the gum line. Fine gray hairs on his cheekbones and husky ears glistened in the lamplight of the room.
“You'd think he'd be happy to have a guest for a change,” Varkis said in an undertone, glancing her way as he cleared his throat.
She looked to Ian and back again.
“It's true, lass,” Varkis went on. “Poor bloke used to sit here day in and day out carving animals from wood and other wacko things like that. I started coming by at night to play cards and keep him company—tell him how pathetic he was.” He laughed.
Ian closed his eyes with an exaggerated look of long-suffering. “Enough already,” he said, exhaling. “Did you come here for a specific reason, or what? Why aren't you standing guard with the others?”
Varkis rubbed his furry knees. “I want to help you make some plans. We'd make a good team.”
Ian leaned one shoulder into the ladder. Lily stood across from him, next to the stack of tomes, with her hand on her hip.
“The assassin is clever,” the dog-man continued, “and it's only a matter of time before he gets past our defenses—if he hasn't already. We need to work together.”
“No. I have to kill him by myself.”
A harrumph. “You're a fool and you know it.”
“I'm not going to let him kill you and Lily just to get to me.”
“Honorable, but not true.”
Lily took a step forward. “Why do I get the impression you're both hiding something from me?”
“There's nothing to tell, Lily.” Ian shook his head and zoned in on the floor.
“Fine, I'll tell her if you won't,” Varkis cut in. “When Ian was born—”
Ian lunged forward and grabbed the dog-man by the scruff of his neck, yanking him out of the chair. “Say one more word and I'll throttle you.”
“When Ian was born,” he choked out, a fierce glint in his eye, “he had a hideous growth on his back.”
Ian let go and stepped back. “What?”
Varkis cleared his throat and rubbed his neck, turning to face Lily. He was a full foot taller than Ian, even with hunched shoulders and an inclined head. “The best surgeons in Alvernia removed it.” A drawn-out pause and a conspiratorial look. “But after it was detached, it continued to grow . . . ”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Go on,” she said to the Anubis.
He nodded solemnly and lowered his voice. “It grew into a deformed man . . . so awful in appearance that just to look at him might kill you. . . . That's why he hides in the cloak of darkness—so you'll never see his horrific face.”
She gasped and touched a hand to her throat. “A parasitic twin . . . ”
Varkis plunked back down on the wingback and roared with laughter.
A grin twitched at Ian's lips and his shoulders seemed looser than before. He ran a hand through his spiked hair.
Varkis stood up and reached for the door handle, which seemed tiny in his large furry hand. “I'll put some thought into your dilemma, Ian, but for now I'm going to check on the others.” He paused, turning to give Lily a bow from the neck, and ducked outside.
Chapter 21
Mike stood in Auguste's study watching a man wearing a hooded duster cloak pacing back and forth in front of him, muttering to himself.
“Master,” Mike heard himself say, “I thought the old man's diary would please you. It proves she's—”
“Please me?” The cloaked man turned toward him but his face was hidden in the shadows of his hood. He spat on the floor. “You dimwit—I already know who she is. Why do you think I waited in hiding for two endless weeks for that girl to arrive? I went after her twice to test the waters. The fact that her face is completely healed proves her identity without question. The only one who could heal her like that would never reveal himself to any human but Serena's heir.” He spat again, cussed. “I shouldn't have bothered to question her—I should have killed her on the spot. Now I'm stuck here playing hide and seek with her . . . and Zever. I want to tear her to pieces! Her very breath threatens my existence.” He took a step closer and lowered his voice to a growl. “That woman has the power to destroy us all.”
Mike had a sudden sense of claustrophobia and the room seemed to fade all around him until the only thing he could see was the cloaked man before him, the man his voice had called, “Master.” Was he some kind of grim reaper?
Nothing made sense.
After finding the diary in Lily's room, the puppeteer had run him down to Auguste's study where he had discovered this man in the corridor, feeling the locked study doors all over as though searching for a soft spot. The puppeteer had approached the stranger waving the diary in his hand in triumph, calling him Master; but the cloaked man had given him a quick once over and said nothing, returning to his examination of the doors as Mike stood nearby watching.
At first Mike figured the man was some kind of burglar. But then the stranger raised his fist and smashed it against the door with such force that it actually buckled inward as though made of rubber.
If Mike had had any control of his body, he would have hightailed it out of there, but the puppeteer didn't even flinch. He might as well have had cement legs.
The madman backed away from the door with a growl and lunged forward, ramming his shoulder into it and buckling it further this time. This he repeated over and over until the doors finally caved in.
The study was empty. Ian and Lily must have left the study before this hooded man arrived. If only the puppeteer would have the same sense.
“No, no, no—” the madman threw his head back in rage, raising fisted, black-gloved hands. “Not again! She can't have escaped from me again—” He ran to the nearest wall of shelves and tore the books down like Dominoes, one row at a time. What was he searching for? Mike had never been able to find access to the tunnels through the study, though he wouldn't be surprised if there was one.
The hooded man gave up on the books only a third of the way through, and yanked up the Persian rug, dropping to his knees and searching the floor for something—a trap door likely. There were none. He jumped to his feet and kicked over a standing Globe. It broke loose from the stand and rolled away.
Rounding the desk, he plunked down into the high-back leather chair and gripped the arms with rigid gloved fingers. Metal vambraces girded his arms and he wore leather pants with strider boots. “What are you still doing here?” he growled at Mike.
Beneath his duster cloak was a leather vest with braided ties. Who on earth was this man?
“Master,” Mike heard himself say, “I may have more information that could be useful to you.”
“Something other than that redundant journal?”
“Yes. Far better.” Mike tried to halt his talking lips but the words continued to flow unabated. “I have both keys . . . to the trunk in the attic.”
The madman stiffened in his seat. Though Mike couldn't see the man's eyes, he felt them boring into his face like fire; scrutinizing him from head to toe, sizing him up.
“You had better not be lying,” he said slowly. Standing, he rubbed his hands together like a miser and approached. “Show me.”
The puppeteer reached into Mike's pant pocket and dug out the keys he'd stolen from Lily. He held them out in the palm of his hand.
The madman snatched them with a shout of victory. “Excellent. Excellent! I can finally get some reinforcements from Alvernia.”
“I'm glad I could be of service,” Mike heard himself say proudly, bowing at the waist.
The madman inclined his head, face still obscured in shadow by the heavy hood. “Just who are you, anyway?”
“A gorslich.
I have no physical body: without a host brain, I'm like a transparent mist, with no audible voice or powers.”
“A gorslich . . . ” His tone was thoughtful. “Yes, I've heard Morack speak of your kind on occasion. This could prove interesting. Tell me—how did you get here?”
“Through the trunk. But I was locked in a vat in Auguste's dungeon for nearly ten years until this here moron set me free.”
The vat! Mike wanted to cry out in despair. The empty vat . . . Not so empty after all. Oh, he was such a fool . . .
“Auguste's dungeon?” The cloaked figure stepped forward and gripped Mike by the shoulders; his black eyes becoming visible at close range. His chin was stubbled with a day's worth of beard and a grisly scar covered the length of his jaw on one side; from cheekbone to chin. “You must take me there immediately,” he said, his teeth yellow with decay.
In the dank tunnel running parallel to the pool room, Mike lifted the stone slab out of the way and aimed his flashlight over the opening. He climbed in and descended the ladder through the darkness to the vat room, with the cloaked man following close behind. When he reached the dirt floor, he felt for the fuse box and flipped the breakers, flooding the room with industrial light.
“I don't know the codes for the vats,” Mike heard himself say, “but I'm positive Morack isn't in any of these.”
“How do you know? You were locked up for ten years—anything could have happened in that time.”
“Kline used most of the vats to lock up the beasts that kept slipping through the trunk in the attic—because he didn't know how to deal with them. They go into stasis. When I came through the trunk possessing the body of one of Morack's followers, I underestimated that boy, Ian Hawke. He captured me and brought me down here.”
The madman's face remained hidden beneath the shadow of his hood. He splayed his gloved hands on his hips revealing the hilt of a sword. “There must be another entrance to this room then,” he said. “There's no way Auguste was carrying beasts down this ladder.”
Mike nodded. “Yes—there was once a large tunnel leading in from the side yard. It's sealed behind that stainless steel wall.” He pointed to the opposite end of the room. “I have no idea how to access it though.” He heard, rather than felt, himself exhale. “I thought of fleeing the body when Hawke captured me, but as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat. After he sealed me in a vat, Kline came down and gassed it, put the beast to sleep. I passed out with the body I was in and when I awoke, I was strapped to that table over there.”
“Torture?” the man asked with a tone of eagerness as he headed over to the giant coroner's table to examine it thoroughly.
Mike cleared his throat. “Presumably. He said if I—well, the beast—didn't answer his questions, he'd kill me. That's how I learned Morack wasn't in any of these vats. Kline said so himself.”
Mike was aghast by this information. He would never have thought Auguste to be capable of such an atrocity as torture. Had Ian known about it? Was he a willing accomplice? Sure sounded like it.
“What information could you have possibly possessed?”
“Who knows. The old man was desperate. He wanted to find out how to kill Morack. He said Morack was locked in a special, high-security vat somewhere else in the mansion, and that though he'd tried gases and poisons of various sorts, nothing had succeeded in killing him.”
“If I'd known that earlier, I would have made sure the old man died a much more painful death,” the cloaked man snarled. “What answer did you give him?”
“I said only Serena's heir was capable of killing Morack.”
“And why didn't he kill you after that?”
“He did. The body I was in, that is. Lethal injection. I passed out and when I awoke later, I was locked in the vat again. It filled with some kind of vapor and the body completely disintegrated around me. But I was trapped. In my mist state, I went into hibernation—the years felt like mere minutes.” The puppeteer paused, as though contemplating something. “Think about it,” Mike's voice went on. “There's no reason why Kline would later risk transporting Morack down here when he was already safely secured elsewhere.”
The cloaked man paced back and forth, halted. “We've got to find that vat,” he said in a low growl. “Did Kline indicate where in the mansion it was?”
“No, why would he?”
Mike had no clue who this Morack character was but he sounded dangerous. Still, if he'd been locked in a vat for ten years, how could he possibly have survived without food and such? Was he in stasis like the others, or had Auguste and Ian secretly been feeding a prisoner all these years?
“If you don't mind my asking, Master,” he heard himself say, “how was Morack captured by Kline in the first place?”
“He wasn't.”
“But—”
“It was Zever.”
“Zever?”
“You know him as Hawke, idiot. Zever caught him.”
“But how—”
“I don't know. Morack was so enraged by Zever's betrayal that he hunted him down to seek bloody revenge. That's when he was captured.”
What had Ian—or Zever, rather—done to this Morack fellow that would make him a target for revenge?
“Why didn't he just send out a minion?” the puppeteer asked. “Why risk coming himself?”
“Enough with the questions already—slave-ling. I'm the one who asks questions. One more and I'll kill you on the spot. Now . . . ” He splayed his gloved fingers over his hips again and tilted his chin up, revealing the edge of a scarred face. “Let's go find that hidden vat.”
Lily awoke with a start. She'd fallen asleep on Ian's cot while he kept guard down below.
She sat up and listened to the sounds of the night. It was black outside, save for the half-moon; likely pre-dawn hours. If it weren't for the Victorian oil lamp burning on the floor next to the ladder leading downstairs, the room would have been dark as well.
A faint groan sounded below.
Without making any noise, she slipped to the floor and crawled toward the round opening, straining to hear. She peeked over the edge.
A single lantern burned below as well, illuming a dark figure in the wingback chair, legs spread out in front. Ian, of course. Had he fallen asleep while on watch or was he just reclining? He let out a long, throaty moan as though in great pain.
She climbed down the ladder and touched his shoulder. “Ian—” she whispered, “you okay?”
“No,” he muttered, “don't touch her.”
“Ian?”
His eyes were closed, face in a grimace, brow damp with sweat.
“Ian—” she said again, “you're having a bad dream—wake up.”
“Don't hurt her.”
“Wake up.” She shook his shoulders.
“I said, leave her alone—” He sat bolt upright, knocking her to the floor. She landed on her bottom.
He glared down at her in a fierce rage, eyes black pools in his head; not a speck of white to be seen. So she hadn't imagined those eyes before. They were real. In fact, she was beginning to believe this whole thing was real . . . and not merely the dream she'd at first supposed.
She backed away across the floor, bumping into the stack of tomes. They toppled over. Ian blinked and his eyes returned to normal, the savage look draining from his face; replaced with surprise.
“Are you all right?” He reached out his hand to help her up. “Did I hurt you—!”
She hesitated, not knowing if she could trust him enough to take his hand.
“I'm so sorry,” he said, evidently distraught. “I didn't mean to hurt you—”
“It's okay, I'm fine,” she said, taking his sweaty hand and letting him pull her to her feet. “I thought you were in pain.”
“No, just a nightmare,” he said, shaking his head. “I get them most nights. That's why I always told my staff not to wake me when I'm sleeping. I don't want anyone to get hurt.”
“Your face
is white.”
He rubbed his eyes and sat back down on the chair, shoulders hunched. “Varkis is out front—he told me to get some shut-eye. As soon as the sun rises, we need to get to the mansion.” He let out a ragged exhale. “I hope Hannah and the others left long ago, though Mike will still be around—I haven't talked to him yet. I highly doubt the assassin will bother them, he's no reason to, but I hate to think of them accidentally getting into trouble. I can't leave you alone right now, Lily.” He met her gaze intensely. “I have to protect you.”
She straightened the books and used them as a stool. “You're the one I'm worried about, Ian. What are these nightmares about?”
He stared at her for a long time before answering.
Outside the forest was deathly still. In the far distance a barn owl let out its screeching call, which echoed through the trees.
“I dream about my mother.”
She waited for him to continue.
“My father was a barbarian.” He broke eye contact and stared at his clasped hands, forearms draped over his knees. “From the moment I could walk, he taught me to hate. He said love spoiled a child. Every night he locked me in a cellar—said it would make me tough.” A pause. “One night my mother came to visit me and gave me a bundled cloth she had hidden under her robe. It was unicorn carved out of wood. I hid it in the cellar and examined it every night. It was my only connection to my mother—I almost never got to see her.”
Lily's eyes watered but she blinked back the tears.
“For her birthday that year, I decided to make a similar sculpture, so we could both have one—a bond between us. I worked on it for three months knowing my father would allow me to see her that day.”
He flicked Lily a glance, as though to see if she were still listening. She kept her expression neutral, not wanting to distract him. “Go on,” she said softly.
“Well, she was thrilled. And when father took off for a few minutes, she told me she'd found a portal that we could escape through. She tucked a rolled up map into my hands and said she was going to fetch me later that night.” He dropped his voice to an undertone. “When father returned, he snatched the sculpture from her hand, accused her of turning me into a sissy. He was enraged by it.”