Creatures of Charm and Hunger

by Molly Tanzer

  “Help me with her, please,” said Nurse Franzi. She was trying to get the moaning, smoking woman onto a bench, but she seemed to be hot to the touch.

  “What have you done to her?” demanded one of the Hunter sisters. “Prudence! Can you hear me? Prue!”

  The one on the gurney—Prudence—had started to look less solid. Miriam was sure of it. Whatever yellow stuff was billowing out of her, she was changing due to its absence. Her flesh seemed to be relaxing and her clothes were becoming too tight, whereas a mere moment before they had been reasonably fitted; this phenomenon showed no signs of stopping, her body seemed to be flowing out of itself like a cracked egg. The nurse kept touching her gingerly and pulling away her hands as if she’d been burned.

  “Many comings and goings over the past few days,” said Querner sourly, as he rubbed at his neck. He seemed completely unperturbed by the disturbing situation before him. “Careful now! Don’t drop her! She may survive, and if she does, I would like to interrogate her. For now, I must simply await the results of my experiment.”

  Miriam squealed, and her lithe body seemed to curl from under her as she thrashed against the metal bars of the cage in fury. Await the results! Wait how long? She couldn’t stay forever, and every cleave cost her. The spirit-foot she had given up—who knew what state she would be in when she returned? She couldn’t keep on like this. She needed answers today.

  “Something has upset the marten,” observed Querner. Miriam quieted down when she noticed the doctor looking at her keenly. He came toward her.

  Miriam was acting on pure animal instinct when she backed away from him; this, however, seemed to satisfy him.

  “A lot of spunk in you, little one,” he said, with horrible fondness. “Good. I did not expect you to recover from that last procedure, but your vital essences seem to have recovered nicely.”

  He turned away then, but his pleasure seemed to sour as he looked at his desk. The scattered papers brought a furrow to his brow. Of course they did; Dr. Querner was clearly not the sort of man to leave his desk in such a state!

  “Something is wrong here,” he said as a great thump and then a few screams came from the room where the two nurses were attempting to manage the steaming girl. “Ach! What is it now?”

  “She—” The nurse who had held the clipboard backed out of the room, hands held high. “She woke up, and she grabbed Franzi’s arm, and wouldn’t let go, and—”

  “Let me through!” Querner gave a last glance at his desk and then headed back into the other room. But before he’d gone far—before Miriam had thought it through—she released her grasp on the marten and jumped into Querner.

  Or at least she tried to. She experienced the unsettling but distinct sensation of bouncing or sliding off him. She could find no purchase and ended up in the marten again, like a rubber band snapping back.

  It was a struggle to maintain control of the beast, so she put the experience from her mind as best she could. She could research later. Now was not the time to puzzle it out.

  “Mien Gott, give me the cattle prod!” said Querner.

  A zap and a screech—Miriam couldn’t see from whom, from her cage, but it was Franzi who emerged, clutching what looked like a badly burned arm close to her body. As another zap and a screech echoed through the subterranean chamber, Miriam decided to try again to cleave to another human.

  She had to fight for control of the clipboard-wielding nurse. The woman did not want to yield to Miriam, but Miriam’s dedication and experience won out in the end.

  Once Miriam was in control, she reached for the letter opener on Querner’s desk. With it in hand, she snuck up behind Franzi in the chaos and held it to her throat.

  “Dr. Querner!” She held the knife tighter when Franzi struggled against her; after that, the nurse was as quiet as the mice in the cages. “Stop that—or your nurse dies!” Querner did stop; he poked his head out of the room beyond, looking very surprised indeed.

  “Nurse Antje?” He blinked at Miriam from behind his glasses. “No . . . not Antje. It is you . . . the diabolist who has decided to try to be a hero. Tut, tut—are you stealing someone else’s body with your soul? That is quite rude, you know, though an ingenious way to sidestep my wards that prevent scrying. I just never expected anyone to be mad enough to try body swapping . . . the costs!” He laughed. “Desperate times for all of us, aren’t they?”

  “We’re coming, Querner,” said Miriam, trying to tough it out a little to cover up how she still didn’t have a plan. “All of us!”

  “Are you now? How delightful. You’ll forgive me if I carry on?” He gave her almost a chagrined look. “If all of you are coming, then needs must, for the devil is driving—”

  “I’ll kill her!”

  “Do you what you must, and so will I,” said Querner, turning away. “Franzi’s allegiance is unquestionable—she would die for the Führer, and if this is how, I am sure she will accept it with grace and dare I say it? Enthusiasm.”

  Only then did Miriam remember what Querner had told her, not Franzi—that there was a button somewhere that would release a gas that would turn the Dark Lab into more of a mortuary than it already was. She had to prevent that as surely as she had to prevent Querner from completing his diabolic weapon.

  “Now where were we,” said Querner, kneeling down beside the fallen Hunter sister. She had gone very quiet. The yellow clouds coming off her were smaller and less substantial, but her body’s slackness was horrifying to behold. She looked raw, like spilled cake batter oozing across a countertop, or a jellyfish decomposing on the sand.

  “Leave her alone!” This was one of the other sisters. Her accent was harsh and American; it sounded less like the voices Jane liked to do while imitating her favorite actresses and more like when she’d played the part of a gangster during her little reenactments.

  It seemed so long ago, when they had used to do that—but it wasn’t. Not really.

  “I shall not,” said Querner, again in that smug, reasonable tone that made Miriam want to scream. “I shall do with her as I please, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.”

  Miriam gasped, not from alarm but because Franzi elbowed her in the side, hard. She grabbed Miriam’s wrist with her other hand and twisted. It wasn’t Miriam’s body, but Miriam was the one who felt the pain, keenly, and she gasped as she dropped the letter opener. It hit the floor and spun away out of reach.

  Before Miriam could think of what to do Franzi shoved her, hard. Miriam fell onto her rear end, her tailbone shooting pain up her spine. As Miriam struggled to get her wind back, Franzi retrieved her cattle prod from Querner.

  “Pull a knife on me, will you?” cried Franzi, before jamming the rod into Miriam’s stomach.

  The pain was excruciating. Miriam writhed as the electricity surged through her borrowed body. She convulsed, unable to control any part of herself; her arms and legs were no longer under her hard-wrought control. Every nerve felt struck by lightning—until Miriam remembered she need not endure any of this.

  The jump from Nurse Antje to Franzi wasn’t as difficult as the jump from the marten to Antje; she cleaved to the nurse like a foot sliding into a familiar boot. The pain ceased immediately, and once Miriam got her wits back, she realized the prod was in her hands now.

  She jammed it into her former host, right at her neck. Nurse Antje screamed the same scream Miriam had just uttered . . . and then she stopped. When Miriam withdrew the prod, the woman did not move except to twitch a few times.

  “Good work, Franzi,” said Querner. “A pity about Antje though.”

  Miriam smiled to herself for only a moment before turning to jam the cattle prod into the meat of Querner’s torso.

  The doctor yowled like a cat. Staggering backward, he tripped over where the puddle of Prudence lay still on the floor; a second yelp followed as Querner’s exposed skin gave off a somewhat pleasant smell, like cooked pork, unfortunately followed by the aroma of burning hair. Apparently what had been
Prudence was still hot to the touch. He rolled off her. Prudence’s poor flesh bounced back like a jelly as Miriam followed after the doctor, jamming the cattle prod into his groin for a second strike.

  The smell of urine covered up the others; Miriam left him to moan and clutch himself in agony.

  Prudence wasn’t moving at all. With time being of the essence, she turned to the other two women.

  “This is a rescue,” she said, as they looked on in amazement. “I’m rescuing you.”

  A moment passed before the elder of the two—Martha, the one who had admonished Querner—spoke.

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend. Querner was right, I am body-hopping, for lack of an easier term for it. The cost is immense. But worth it, I think, if I stop him and get you out of here.”

  “Why should we believe you?”

  Miriam hadn’t anticipated being asked this, not with it still up in the air whether their sister was even still alive. “Because . . .” Miriam looked from the nurse on the floor to the prostrate form of Dr. Querner. “Why would I do that to them if I wasn’t trying to help you?”

  “Any number of reasons,” said Mary, the youngest Hunter sister, chiming in at last. “This could be another trick of Querner’s.”

  “All I can do is promise you it’s not,” said Miriam. “I didn’t intend to rescue you, not when I started all this. I came here to find out what happened to my father. Querner held him here . . . for experiments, I suppose . . . and now he’s, he’s . . .” Martha nodded. “But there’s no reason I shouldn’t help you now that I’m here.”

  The two Hunter sisters exchanged a look, and nodded at once. It was a bit disturbing, actually; their similarity of face, build, and affect was not that of siblings, with the natural variations found even in identical sets of twins or triplets. They were copies of one another—or, if Querner’s notes were to be believed, copies of their mother.

  “Get his pistol,” said Martha, and Miriam felt pretty stupid for not thinking of that herself. Querner was recovering; she ought to have done that first thing. But once she had his weapon in her hand, the only thing she could think of was getting rid of it.

  Miriam had fired guns before; Nancy owned a rifle, and Edith—poor Edith—had once brought out her fashionable Astra 300 to let the girls try firing it. Jane had enjoyed it; Miriam had not, and currently she found the weight of the Luger in her hand overwhelming in its terrible responsibility.

  “Wha . . .” Querner stirred. Miriam pointed the pistol at him, training it on his chest. “Franzi? No . . . of course it is not.”

  He got himself up on his elbows as Miriam trembled. She contemplated just shooting him, but she had questions for him, like where he kept the keys to the Hunter sisters’ manacles.

  And in any case, she really didn’t want to. The death of the man she’d slain while in the owl’s body always hovered at the edges of her thoughts. The idea of being haunted by a second ghost was undesirable to her, even if it was the ghost of the man who killed her father.

  “Where are the keys?” asked Miriam. “The keys to their manacles! Tell me!”

  “In my pocket,” said Querner calmly, as if she were a small child being told the answer to an often-asked question. “I won’t stop you from taking them. Do so any time. Much more interesting to me is how you’ve managed to body-hop so . . . potently? What an astonishing price must you be paying! And all to stop me. Why, it leaves me quite breathless. I’m flattered, I really am.”

  “Take them out and toss them over to Mary and Martha.”

  “What if I don’t? And don’t worry, I know your answer will be academic in nature. You won’t shoot me.”

  He was probably right, but his confidence was irritating. Not willing to concede the point, Miriam cocked the Luger.

  “Suit yourself,” she said. “I can get them off of your dead body easily enough.”

  Querner stood and dusted himself off, but there was nothing he could do about the piss stain on the front of his trousers. It didn’t seem to bother him much; he grinned at her. “You’re quite the gangster, aren’t you? I suppose I’d better comply with your demands . . . or else! Isn’t that right?” But he did chuck the keys over to the sisters.

  Mary took them and began to fumble with them. Miriam wished Mary would figure out how to free herself faster, but she was working one-handed. Martha was chained too far away from her to help, and the lock on her manacle seemed to be sticky.

  “I thought I had made this lab impenetrable,” said Querner, as he watched Mary struggle. “And yet, you have bypassed my defenses utterly. I anticipated that some forms of astral projection might be a risk, but not what you’re doing. Dying for a cause is one thing, but to live for who knows for how long as some hollowed-out thing, risking the intrusion of every enterprising spirit . . . not many would do that, even for such a cause as this.”

  Miriam said nothing. The grinding of the lock as Mary impotently labored over it was maddening.

  “I wonder who you are,” said Querner, as if he had not a care in the world. “A diabolist, that is for certain. But beyond that . . . is this personal? Is it for a cause?”

  “Both,” said Miriam, before she could stop herself. “My father—you killed him . . .” she trailed off.

  “I can’t say that narrows it down,” said Querner. “Recent?”

  “I don’t know,” said Miriam. “All I know is that he’s lying dead outside in the forest.”

  “Tell me his name, and I’ll tell you how he died.”

  Miriam laughed at him. Did he think she was so stupid? “I honestly don’t care what you did to him.” This was true—she didn’t. It didn’t matter. “I just want to destroy you.”

  “And yet I still live.” Querner shrugged. “Though I can’t say the same for you for much longer,” he stage-whispered, as Mary shook out her red and bruised fingers. She still had not gotten herself free.

  “Stop!” cried Miriam, but Querner had called her bluff. He lunged for her, grabbing for his pistol. Miriam froze but Martha was a quick thinker—she stuck her leg out, tripping the doctor before he could get his pale hands around the gun.

  Querner came down hard on his face, but quickly rolled over, squirming and clutching at a bloody nose. In the confusion, Miriam tucked the cattle prod under her arm and set the pistol on the bench to unlock Mary’s manacle.

  “Now me!” said Martha, but Querner had gained his feet. Slipping in the blood that gushed from his nose, he again lunged for the Luger.

  Miriam was elbowed aside as Mary went for it, too. She got there first. The report was deafening. When Miriam’s watering eyes let her see again, she perceived Querner through the smoke. He was clutching at his arm; great gouts of blood pumped from it, but he was still moving, heading for something with great intention.

  Miriam gave up on Martha’s manacle. “He’s going to burn us,” she cried, rolling to her feet to chase after the doctor.

  “What?” asked Mary, but there was no time. Querner was running for a metal box affixed to the wall. Miriam willed her borrowed legs to move faster as Querner fumbled with the latch.

  Then Mary screamed, “Get down!” and Miriam dropped to her knees right there on the stone floor of the lab. Pain shot up her bones and into her hips and from her hands into her wrists as she caught herself. She was glad she’d acted so quickly, however, when the pistol fired not once more, but thrice in a row, bam bam bam.

  Querner slumped lifelessly against the wall. The metal door of the box swung open, creaking in the sudden shocking silence of the room. Within, a solitary red button gleamed.

  They were safe from the threat of the lamps and the gas, but Miriam knew the gunshots would draw swift attention. She turned to share this revelation with Mary and was surprised to find Querner’s Luger pointed right at her face.

  “Now let’s talk about you,” she said.

  “Your sisters . . .”

  “Can wait. Yes, even poor Prue. I have to secure this situation.
So, who are you?”

  Miriam decided honesty would be best. “My name is Miriam Cantor. I’m . . . I’m Jewish—Jewish enough that I had to leave, at least. But my parents stayed—they were diabolists, do you know the Société des—” Mary was nodding. “They were captured. I traced my father here. I was too late for him, but I still wanted to help.”

  Something in Miriam’s words had convinced Mary. She still seemed suspicious, but she lowered the Luger and turned her attention to her restrained sister.

  Martha, once freed, immediately slid down to see to Prudence.

  “She’s dead,” she said after a moment. Miriam wasn’t surprised. Prudence barely had human shape anymore.

  “I’m sorry,” said Miriam.

  Mary glanced through the door at where Querner lay. “At least he won’t ever find out if he was successful. I can’t imagine there’s someone else waiting to step into his shoes and win the war for them. They were trying to make a weapon, you know,” said Mary. “Some sort of bomb, powered by diabolic essence. That’s why we were investigating, but they caught us, and of course Querner realized we’d been . . . altered. Once he found out how, we were done for. It became a different project. He became obsessed with the idea of producing a bomb with a diabolic fallout that would win over the survivors to the Nazi cause.” She shook her head. “That’s all I know.”

  “Do you mind if I look through his notes? Go through his desk?” Miriam did her best to sound innocent as she dangled the keys at them.

  “Let her,” said Martha, as Mary started to protest. “We need to get out of here.”

  Mary nodded, and Miriam did indeed amble to Querner’s desk. She gazed down at the papers that lay there, rustling them about for a few moments to allay any suspicion from the other room. Then, taking the keys in her hand, she crept to the other door.

  A bomb, powered by diabolic essence . . . that had to be the purpose of the marble-like item in the other room. A massively concentrated diabolical power source for a bomb . . .

  If the remaining Hunter sisters knew what lay beyond the other door, they would want it. Maybe they’d have more of an idea of what to do with it, but Miriam had a way to instantly get it much, much farther away from the Nazis.