P N Elrod - Barrett 4 - Dance of Death

by Dance Of Death(Lit)

  "What is"

  "Soothe yourself, sir. It's nothing you ever need worry about. Now say a prayer for your soul like a good chap while you yet have the time." He quickly stooped and caught hold of my ankles, dragging me toward the edge of the stairs. "Mrs. Fonteyn thought Mr. Tyne might not be up to the labor of it yet-he's still feeling pretty thin-so she asked me to see to things. I've no personal grudge against you, this is just business, y'know."

  Realizing what he had in mind, panic took over. I started to kick and struggle, putting up enough of a fight to inconvenience him. He let go, and with a deft move, gave me another bitter tap on the side of my head with his cane.

  Lights flashed between my eyes and the rest of the world. 1 heard myself pant out a last breath. My body went utterly limp.

  He got a strong grip under my arms and with a great heave hauled me upright. I was maddeningly helpless. The room lurched. Sickness clawed at my belly, threatening to turn it inside out. I couldn't even gulp to hold back the rising vomit.

  My legs were useless; my arms dangled loose. I had a hideous, dizzying view of the steep stairs and the entry hall miles below.

  "There now," said Summerhill comfortingly into my ear as he swung me into place. "At least it'll be quick, and that's more than most of us get." He planted a firm hand in the small of my back and pushed for all he was worth.

  I was flying in open space for an instant. Almost like those times when I floated.

  The room tumbled madly. Almost like my game with Richard.

  Then something struck me lethally hard all over my shoulders and back, like a hundred Summerhills attacking me not with mere canes but with clubs. I heard thuds and thumps, a pain-filled cry, cut short... then nothing at all.

  Mr. Barrett lay still as stone at the foot of the stairs, his body as beyond movement as his mind was beyond thought.

  His head was at an unnatural angle in regard to his neck; one of his arms was also bent in an abnormal manner under him. Some distant and restive portion of his brain was very aware of these and other, lesser injuries, but unable to do more than simply recognize their existence.

  His enemies were gone.

  The house around him was deadly quiet.

  A lifetime crawled by before his eyelids briefly fluttered. He got a vague glimpse of black-stained wood steps stretching upward into cold darkness. Try as he might, he could not open his eyes again. It seemed an important thing to do, though he could not recall why.

  After another lifetime the fingers of his unbroken arm shivered once. He'd not consciously initiated the faint movement, but felt its occurrence. When he attempted to repeat it, a white hot spike of lightning shot through his neck, forcing an unwelcome wakening upon his battered flesh. He tried to retreat back to the kind sanctuary of unconsciousness, but the pain followed, tenacious as a shadow, not permitting him any such mercy. He'd have whimpered a protest had there been air in his lungs His fingers twitched again instead.

  With them he felt the cold hard surface of the floor he sprawled over and slowly came to understand his circumstance.

  He was in serious trouble.

  And being quite alone now, he could expect no help.

  That terrified him, the aloneness.

  But he had family, friends, even a stranger on the road would be moved by pity to lend him aid. None of them was present, though, or likely to come.

  Internal protests against this unfairness rose, fell, and died, but not the self-reproach. That whipped at him with a sting like sleet, unrelenting.

  The aloneness worsened every ache and agony afflicting him. It made the prospect of escaping them doubtful. It drained away what little strength remained in him. Even silently praying for simple comfort seemed too great a labor to dare.

  But not weeping. That he could not control. The hurts of his body demanded tears, and they flowed over his face, burning like acid.

  Then he heard his own drawn-out moan of despair and thought what an altogether wretched fellow he'd become. He was less a mass of pain from all the injuries than a mass of self-pity from the misery of his own heart, certainly not the sort of son his father could take pride in and not the sort of father his own son could admire.

  And unless he sorted himself out, he wouldn't see either of them or anyone else ever again.

  I came fully and unhappily alert. The half dreams, half nightmares fled, leaving nothing of themselves behind except an earnest need to overcome the hopelessness they'd engendered. If the people I loved were not here, then by God I'd just have to go to them.

  Somehow.

  Any movement was a torment, especially movement associated with my head and neck. There was something appallingly wrong in that area, and I was fearful of making it worse. By comparison, my broken arm and assorted bruises were nothing. That damned Summerhill had thrown me around like a sack of grain and with about as much consideration. When I got my hands on him...

  Anger helped. I drew it to me, held it fast, fed on the strength of it until it filled me, became my strength. There was an astonishing amount of it... for them.

  Arthur Tyne. Ruthless cutthroat. Not for long. He'd wish himself dead before I was finished with him.

  Clarinda. Unrepentant murderer. Instigator of all that had happened to me. Guilty mother of my innocent son. I'd bring her back and take poor Edmond's place as her jailer and be glad of the privilege.

  The anger flared to fury, warming me, quickening bone, muscle, and nerve.

  And for a very brief moment, it displaced the devastating agony.

  I seized the chance while it lasted.

  Inside, I felt a shuddering swoop, as though falling again. Something harsh blasted through my vitals like a frost-charged wind. It scoured me from end to end. The sharp edges of the world swiftly twisted, suddenly faded. I'd have cried out, but suddenly had no voice for my fear and pain.

  Then it was over.

  I was sightless, weightless, formless.

  Without a solid body to cling to, to torture, the pain lifted and floated away, even as I floated above the floor.

  I was free.

  And tired. The effort to let go of the physical world had cost me and would surely cost more when I came back to it, but for now I reveled in the blessed liberty of this discarnate form. Whatever bones had been broken, whatever flesh had been torn, it didn't matter now. All would be whole again when it was time to return.

  Sweet it was, and great was my desire to stay like this, but I had things to do or at least to attempt. Giving the alarm about Clarinda's escape was the most important but only after I'd fed myself. Even in this state every portion of my being cried out for the nourishment of fresh blood and plenty of it. I'd have to find the stables.

  Tentatively I made myself stretch forth.

  Using the stairs as a landmark, I pushed away from them in the general direction of the front door. Soon I bumped against the opposite wall and felt for openings with whatever it was that now served me as hands. I could have tried materializing just enough to allow me some vision, but was uncertain of my ability to maintain the careful balance needed to hold to that partial condition. Instinct told me not to take that chance, lest I grow abruptly solid and be too feeble to vanish again. Bad luck for me if I did and found the door locked.

  An opening, long and very thin, presented itself to my questing senses-the slender crack between the door and the threshold. I dived for it, pouring through like a river mist. It seemed to take forever.

  Outside.

  I felt the familiar gentle tug of the wind and rode it, letting it carry me along the front of the house. Keeping the building's fixed contours on my left, I turned one corner, then another, trying to remember what I'd seen of the place when I'd initially approached it. One wing, two? The track of carriage wheels in the gravel drive had been to the left, but how far? Easy as this form of travel was, I'd have to give it up before getting lost.

  1 found a clear space and tried a partial reformation, but alas, my instinct had been rig
ht. Once begun, the process continued unstoppable until I was standing fully solid again.

  Standing, but that changed quickly and with no warning; I dropped to my hands and knees, weak as a babe. Normally I hardly noticed the cold; now its talons gouged deep and held fast. I was hatless and with no cloak, having lost both in the house. The wind wasn't high, but more than enough to inspire me to movement again.

  I'd come fully around to the back of the house and was not far from the drive. Its gravel path broadened until it covered most of the yard, but some places were thin, allowing muddy patches churned up by wheels and hooves to show through. The tracks could have come from whatever conveyance they'd used. My guess was-since the doors to an empty carriage house gaped wide-they'd taken Edmond's for their escape.

  Where was he?

  No one was immediately in sight; I saw only the various outbuildings and yard clutter one would expect to find for such a household. Summerhill had said the body was hidden in some way and that the death might look like an accident. Perhaps in the barn or the stables... but I had no time or desire to look. With the return to solidity came also the unimpaired resumption of physical need.

  My corner teeth were well out and ready. I was ravenous.

  Driven by the hunger, I got to my feet and reeled toward the stables. I could hear and smell the horses remaining there, then I was at the nearest door and saw a half dozen of them in their stalls. A few were curious, heads turned, ears twitched; others dozed on their feet. I went to the closest, a bay gelding with a drowsy eye. He hardly reacted when I slipped into his stall, and barely noticed when I knelt and cut into the vein of his near leg.

  The stuff fair streamed into my mouth. I gulped and guzzled, swilling it down like a drunkard with his day's first bottle of gin. Its glad warmth, its taste, its strength flooded through my hollow form, easing the last aches, healing the lingering bruises. The chill air around me retreated before this pulsing onslaught of hot, red life.

  I drank deeply, vanished, and drank again until I was quite filled to the brim.

  Then I had to lean on the horse, fold my arms over his back, and bury my head in them. The heavy beat of his heart coming up through his solid frame was a welcome comfort to my battered senses and soul. After all the abuse, I needed to touch something that bore no ill will against me, something to remind me that not all the world was evil, The big animal snuffled once and shoved his nose into the hay manger, supremely indifferent to my little concerns. I liked him for that.

  It could not and did not last long, but I needed only a moment or two.

  Encroaching upon my respite was the need for haste.

  Even as I reluctantly straightened, I felt the fresh blood had revived more than just my body. Plans for what to do were popping into my head, demanding attention. I'd have to find Roily-heavens, I'd have to find the servants here, if any were left. Surely not all of them had been bribed into betrayal....

  Dear God, I'd have to find Edmond. What had they done to him?

  The anger for Clarinda and the others that had saved me before flared up once again. It burned bright and hot, closer than my own skin. In time, I'd hunt down and deal with the lot of them, this I promised myself.

  I'd start with a search of the house and gather allies and information.

  Those cries I'd heard must have been from two of the maids. Locked up somewhere, no doubt quite miserable over it by now. There had to be others as well, but before looking for them I'd have to clean myself, having not been particularly neat in my feeding this time. Appearance would have to take precedence over all else for the moment. The drying crusts of blood around my mouth might alarm the servants here far more than their imprisonment.

  I quit the stables and went straight to the low rectangular structure in the yard that marked the well. The shape of the thing was disturbingly like a grave, being two yards long and over a yard wide. Its brick sides rose about a foot past the ground, the opening neatly covered by six-inch-thick oak timbers. A square cut into their middle was covered by a stout plank lid fitted with a lifting knob and simple latch lock. Fixed above was a sturdy winch and rope mechanism and the cranking handle, all polished by frequent use.

  The lid was pushed up and open, with the bucket already at the bottom, which struck me as odd, not to mention dangerous, but that would save me from having to do the work. I put a hand to the crank and tried to give it a turn. It moved only a little way, then mysteriously stopped. The crank was free of obstructions; perhaps the rope or bucket had gotten entangled on something. I caught at the rope and tugged. It gave but a little. I pulled hard, and it reluctantly came up a few inches then sank again when the weight at the other end became too much. Far below I heard a soft splash... and a voice... a faint, faint voice?

  Someone's bound to sniff him out after the spring thaw. We'd put you in the same spot, but that would look just a little too suspicious. Once is an accident, but twice...

  Unbidden, Summerhill's words ripped through my brain; gooseflesh erupted over all my body. Oh, my God, what had those monsters done?

  Bending dangerously over the edge of the opening I bawled Edmond's name into the blackness. I could see nothing inside. The natural light from the sky was blocked by my own form and hindered by the depth of the shaft. I thought I heard a reply to my calls, but it could have been my own echoes. Hope and horror seized me. I stood and stared wildly about the yard and toward the house. Help might be there, but I couldn't take the time to go looking for it. Could I do something myself? Possibly. But-and I shrank from the thought-could I even bring myself to fry?

  The inky square of the opening looked like a gaping mouth, seeming to eat all the ambient light. My acquired fear of little dark places came roaring up in my mind like a storm, paralyzing me with its thunderous force. Waking in a buried coffin seemed but a triviality compared to descent into this hellhole. Here was a place where darkness was conceived, born, lived, and thrived, devouring everything that came near it. Though fully aware that very little could ever really hurt me, imagination was the great enemy here, striking hard at my weakness. The reproachful awareness of my own vast abilities made the weakness even worse. I was a hopeless coward, dooming my poor cousin to a hideous death because I was too white-livered to Enough, Johnny Boy. Stop whining and just get on with it.

  I allowed myself one uncurbed sob of pure shuddering terror, then brutally pushed it away. It rolled up into a ball of ice somewhere between my throat and belly and held in place, trembling, but out of the way.

  My mind was clear. Now, what to do?

  The winch mechanism presented an obvious solution. Quickly I made some slack by letting out the rope to the end of its length, praying this would work. Making myself go nearly transparent, I floated up over the short wall, and drifted inside the black mouth.

  The wind ceased after a few feet. My sight, ever limited in this form, perceived nothing but darkness unless I looked up. The square opening above grew uncomfortably small. Every foot I went down was worse than the last, but I forced myself on. If Edmond was here and alive, his need far outweighed my childish dreads.

  I moved blindly now. My ghostly hands could just sense the impression of the bricks lining the walls and the rope in front of me. Then I was aware of the water immediately below. I reached down toward it, trying to find him. Heart in my mouth, I had the sudden hope that he wasn't here at all, that I'd made a hasty conclusion based on an error, that I could leave this awful place and...

  An object. Large. Bobbing heavily in the water.

  And, unmistakably now, someone's faint moan.

  I caught at the rope without thinking. My hand passed through it. Damnation. There was no way around it; I'd have to go in, too, to get to him. Making myself more solid, 1 sank ever lower. First my feet touched the water, then did it creep up my legs and waist like grim death. Free-flowing streams were always a problem for me, but this tamer stuff was still perversely malignant. With cold. With excruciating, mind-numbing, body-killing cold.
/>
  Completely solid, my weight bore me right into it-and briefly under. Black on black, freezing, smothering, it closed right over me, shutting out everything. Disoriented, I lashed out wildly to find the surface, cracking a hand against a slimed wall. It hurt, but the pain jarred me out of the impending hysteria. I forced myself to hold still until natural buoyancy made me sure of my direction. A push, then my head broke free of the water. I spat and blew the stuff from my nose and mouth, sucking in cold, dank air I did not need, but instinct was trying to drive me here, not intellect. Indeed, I was very hard-pressed to maintain a solid form under these adverse conditions and had to fight an impulsive reaction to vanish again and escape.

  Kicking to keep afloat, I cast frantically about for the rope, blessed link to the world above. My hands slapped instead against sodden material. My fingers closed on 1 know not what.

  "Edmond?"