Down Among the Sticks and Bones

by Seanan McGuire

  “Give them to me,” said Jill.

  “Yes, miss.” Mary did not hand the vase to Jill. Rather, she walked a few steps along the length of the bed and set them on the table next to the headboard, where Jill could breathe in their fragrance and admire their beauty without pricking herself on the thorns. If she were responsible for the Master’s precious girl bleeding when he was not in the room, her head would be the one hitting the floor.

  “From the Master?” demanded Jill.

  “Yes, miss.”

  “They’re beautiful.” Jill’s expression went soft, her eyes growing wet with grateful tears. “Do you see how beautiful they are? He loves me so much. He’s so good to me.”

  “Yes, miss,” said Mary, who was well acquainted with the shape of a vampire’s love. She thought sometimes that Jill had utterly forgotten that she had been a foundling too, long ago; that Jill was not the first girl to wear a pale dress and a choker around her throat.

  “Did he tell you why?” Jill turned a hopeful face toward Mary. “Is he coming to see me today? I know it’s only been two days, but—”

  “Do you really not know, miss?” Of course she didn’t. Vampires cared about time only as it impacted other people, and Jill, while still human, was already thinking like a vampire. Mary forced herself to smile. “Today is the fifth anniversary of your arrival in the Moors.”

  Jill’s eyes widened. “I’m seventeen?”

  “Yes, miss.” Time in the Moors was not precisely like time in the world Jack and Jill had originally come from: it followed a different set of natural rules and did not map precisely to any other calendar. But a year was a year. Even if their precise birthday was impossible to mark, the date of their arrival was clear.

  Jill tumbled out of bed in an avalanche of blankets and fluffy nightgown. “I was almost twelve and a half when we arrived here,” she said excitedly, starting to shovel her covers back onto the mattress. “That makes me practically eighteen. Does he want me? Tonight? Is it finally time?”

  “Practically eighteen is not the same as actually eighteen, miss,” said Mary, fighting to keep the precise balance of kindness and deference she needed when speaking to Jill. “He knew you would ask about this. He said to tell you that because we do not know your precise birthday, he will err on the side of caution; things will continue as they are until the Drowned Abbey rings the bells for the change of seasons.”

  “But that’s forever!” protested Jill. “Why so long? I’ve done nothing wrong! I’ve been so good! Everything he’s asked me to be, I’ve become!” She dropped her armload of pillows and straightened, waving her hands to indicate the elegant lace of her nightgown, the carefully arrayed curl of her hair. She had long since mastered the art of sleeping motionlessly, so as to rise perfectly coifed and ready to face whatever the night might hold.

  “Everything except an adult,” said Mary gently. “The door could still open for you. The world of your birth could still pull you back.”

  “That’s a bedtime story to frighten children,” snapped Jill. “Doors don’t come back when they’re not wanted.”

  “You knew what a vampire was when you came here,” said Mary. “Didn’t you wonder why that was? The rules we have exist because mistakes have been made in the past. Things have gone wrong.” Newly made vampires, things of anger and appetite, stumbling through magical doors and back into worlds that had no defenses against them …

  Mary suppressed the urge to shiver. The Moors knew how to live with vampires. The Moors were equipped to survive alongside their own monsters.

  “Had you gone to the mountains and the care of the werewolf lord, he would tell you the same,” she said. “Or down to the sea. The Drowned Gods change no one young enough to go back to where they came from. We must be careful, lest we attract the attention of whatever force creates the doors. If they stopped, the Moors would be lost.”

  “The Moon makes the doors,” said Jill in a waspish tone. “Everyone knows that.”

  “There are other theories.”

  “Those theories are wrong.” Jill glared at her. “The door we used said ‘Be Sure’ on it, and I’m sure. I’m sure I want to be a vampire. I want to be strong and beautiful and forever. I want to know that no one can ever, ever take all this away from me. Why can’t I have that?”

  “You will,” said Mary. “When the bells of the Drowned Abbey ring, you will. The Master will take you to the highest tower, and he’ll make you ruthless, and he’ll make you swift, and most of all, he’ll make you his. But you must wait for the bells to ring, miss, you must. I know it’s difficult. I know you don’t want to wait. But—”

  “What do you know, Mary?” snapped Jill. “You were a foundling. This could have been yours. You refused him. Why?”

  “Because I didn’t want to be ruthless, miss.” It had all seemed like a game at first, her and the vampire in the high castle, him offering her whatever she wanted, while she laughed and refused everything but what she needed. It had seemed like a game.

  And then he had asked to be her new father, and asked her to be his child, to rule alongside him forever in fury and in blood.

  And then he had raged at her refusal. Her friends from the village kept disappearing, and at first that had seemed like a game too, a vast conspiracy of hide-and-seek … until the day he’d dragged little Bela in front of her and said “This is what becomes of those who oppose me,” and ripped the boy’s throat out with his teeth. Sometimes Mary thought she could still feel the blood on her face.

  But Jill had never seen that side of him. Jill had been his precious little princess from the start. Jill walked on clouds and dreamt of vampirism like it was a wonderful game, still a wonderful game, and there was no way Mary could convince her otherwise.

  Jill’s face hardened. “I can be ruthless,” she said. “I’ll show him that I can be ruthless, and then he’ll see that we don’t have to wait. I can be his daughter right now.”

  “Yes, miss,” said Mary. “Do you want breakfast?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Jill, which meant “yes.” In that regard, at least, the girl was already a vampire: she was always hungry.

  “Thank you, miss,” said Mary, and made her exit as quickly and gracefully as possible.

  Jill watched her go, face still hard. Once she was sure the other woman would not be coming back she turned and walked to her wardrobe, pulling it open to reveal a rainbow of pastel dresses. She selected the palest of them, a cream silk gown that brought out the gold in her hair and the ivory in her skin. It was the next best thing to white, to a wedding gown. She would show him that she didn’t need to wait.

  She would show him that she already understood what it was to be ruthless.

  * * *

  TODAY WAS THE ANNIVERSARY of their arrival. The Master would no doubt host a party in her honor when the sun went down, something decadent and grand. He might even invite the other vampires to come and coo over his protégée, how far she’d come, how beautiful she was. Yes: it would be a lovely affair, and the only way it could be better was if it ended with her glorious demise and even more glorious rebirth.

  Waiting was pointless. Even if a door opened, she wouldn’t go through it. She would never leave her beloved Master like that. All she needed to do was prove to him that she was serious, that she was ruthless enough to be his child, and everything would be perfect.

  If there was to be a party in her honor, something glorious and befitting a vampire’s child, that dreadful Dr. Bleak would be doing something for Jack as well. He had to. Everyone knew that being a mad scientist’s apprentice wasn’t as good as being the Master’s daughter, and that meant that Dr. Bleak couldn’t afford to miss any opportunity to bind Jack’s loyalty more tightly to him. There would be a party.

  And if there was a party, Alexis would be attending.

  Jack’s unnatural fondness for the innkeeper’s daughter had not faded with time; if anything, it had grown more intense. Jill had seen them together many times.
Jack laughed when she was with Alexis. Laughed, like she wasn’t making them both look bad by wandering around the Moors in ugly vests and cravats, acting like a lady had any place in a nasty old mad scientist’s lab. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t proper.

  Jill could fix everything. She could set her sister on the right path and show the Master that she was ruthless enough to be his child in truth, not just in name. One single act would make it all better.

  She wrinkled her nose in distaste before taking a heavy brown cloak down from its peg inside the wardrobe and fastening it over her beautiful gown. She hated dull, ordinary colors, but it was necessary. She knew how much she stood out when she didn’t take steps to hide herself.

  Mary was still downstairs, seeing to breakfast. Jill slipped through the secret door on the landing—every good castle had secret doors—and started down the stairs. She had made this walk so many times that she could do it with her eyes closed, and so she let her mind drift, thinking about how wonderful it would be when the Master took her in his arms and showed her all the mysteries that death had to offer.

  Soon. So soon.

  She emerged from a small door at the base of the castle wall, secluded and mostly concealed by a fold in the architecture. Pulling her hood up over her head, she walked into the village, keeping her cloak closed, attracting no attention to herself. Mysterious cloaked figures were a common enough occurrence in the Moors that no one gave her a second look. It was best not to interfere with people who might be carrying secret messages for the Master, or looking for sacrifices to carry back to the Drowned Gods.

  The village looked different by day. Smaller, meaner, filthier. Jill walked through the streets, imagining the way people would shy away if they knew who she was. It almost made up for the dirt that stained her hem, turning it from cream to muddy brown. She didn’t mind mess the way Jack did, but it wasn’t elegant. Hard to strike a terrifying figure when it looked as if she’d forgotten to do the laundry.

  The villagers were surprisingly noisy when not watching their tongues in the presence of the Master’s daughter. People laughed and shouted to one another, bargaining, talking about the harvest. Jill frowned under the safety of her hood. They sounded happy. But they lived short, brutish lives, protected only by the grace of the Master. They wallowed in dirt and worked their fingers to the bone just to keep a roof over their heads. How could they be happy?

  It was a train of thought that might have led her to some unpleasant conclusions had it been allowed to continue; this story might have ended differently. A single revelation does not change a life. It is a start. But alas, the inn door opened; the innkeeper’s daughter emerged, dressed in what passed among the villagers for finery. Her dress was green, her bodice was blue, and her skirts were hiked daringly high enough to show her ankles. There was a basket over one arm, laden with bread and wine and fresh-picked apples.

  Her mother, coming to the threshold, said something. The girl laughed, and leaned in to kiss her mother’s cheek. Then she turned and started for the gate, walking like she hadn’t a care in the world.

  On silent feet, Jill followed.

  Jill rarely left the safety of the castle and village, where the Master’s word was absolute law and no one would dare to raise a hand against her. The moor outside the walls was his as well, of course, but the territories could get murky out in the open. Those who walked too carelessly were always at risk of werewolf attack, or being selected as a sacrifice for the Drowned Gods. The walk into the bracken was thus tainted with a giddy wickedness, like she was getting away with something. Surely this would prove how serious she was!

  The innkeeper’s daughter walked surprisingly fast. Jill stayed just far enough behind her to go unnoticed.

  Alexis had grown up in the shadow of the castle, hearing the werewolves howl at night and the ringing of the bells in the Drowned Abbey. She was a survivor. But she knew that her status as one of the resurrected made her unappealing to many of the monsters she had grown up fearing, and she knew that neither gargoyles nor phantom hounds prowled during the day, and besides, she was going to see the woman she loved. She was relaxed. She was daydreaming. She was careless.

  A hand touched her shoulder. Alexis stiffened and turned, preparing for the worst. She relaxed when she saw the face peeping at her from beneath the concealing hood.

  “Jack,” she said warmly. “I thought you had chores all morning.”

  Jill frowned. Alexis, finally realizing that the woman behind her wasn’t wearing glasses, took a stumbling step backward.

  “You’re not Jack,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Being sure,” said Jill. She unfastened her cloak, letting it fall into the bracken as she drew the knife from inside her bodice, and leapt.

  We will leave them there. There are some things that do not need to be seen to be understood; things that can be encompassed by a single sharp scream, and by a spray of blood painting the heather, red as roses, red as apples, red as the lips of the vampire’s only child.

  There is nothing here for us now.

  11

  … AND FROM HIS GRAVE, A BRIAR

  “SHE SHOULD BE HERE by now,” said Jack, putting aside the bone saw she had been carefully sharpening. Her eyes went to the open door, and to the moor beyond. Alexis did not appear. “I told her we were going to have supper at nightfall.”

  Alexis had been granted permission to stay the night at the windmill. It would have been considered improper, but with Dr. Bleak to serve as a chaperone, there was no question of her virtue being imperiled. (Not that her parents had any illusions about her virtue, or about Jack’s intentions toward their daughter. Despite Alexis’s status as one of the resurrected, they were both relieved to know that she had found someone who would care for her when they were gone.)

  Dr. Bleak looked up from his own workbench. “Perhaps she stopped to pick flowers.”

  “On the moor?” Jack stood, grabbing her jacket from the back of the chair. “I’m going to go find her.”

  “Patience, Jack—”

  “Is an essential tool of the scientific mind; raise no corpse before its time. I know, sir. But I also know that this isn’t like Alexis. She’s never late.” Jack looked at her mentor, expression pleading.

  Dr. Bleak sighed. “Ah, for the energy of the young,” he said. “Yes, you may go and find her. But be quick about it. The festivities will not begin until you finish your chores.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jack. She yanked on her gloves, and then she was off, running for the door and down the garden path. Dr. Bleak watched her until she had dwindled to almost nothing in the distance. Only then did he close his eyes. He had lived in the Moors for a very long time. He knew, even better than Jack did, that lateness was rarely, if ever, as innocent as it seemed.

  “Let her be alive,” he whispered, and recognized his words for the useless things they were as soon as he heard them. He sat still, waiting. The truth would come clear soon enough.

  * * *

  IT WAS THE RED that caught Jack’s attention first.

  The Moors were far more complex than they had seemed to her on that first night, when she had been young and innocent and unaware of her own future. They were brown, yes, riddled with dead and dying vegetation. Every shade of brown that there was could be found on the Moors. They were also bright with growing green and mellow gold, and with the rainbow pops of flowers—yellow marigold and blue heather and purple wolf’s bane. Hemlock bloomed white as clouds. Foxglove spanned the spectrum of sunset. The Moors were beautiful in their own way, and if their beauty was the quiet sort that required time and introspection to be seen, well, there was nothing wrong with that. The best beauty was the sort that took some seeking.

  But nothing red grew on the Moors. Not even strawberries, or poisonous mushrooms. Those were found only on the outskirts of the forest held by the werewolves, or in private gardens, like Dr. Bleak’s. The Moors were neutral territory, of a sort, divided between so many monst
ers that they could not bear to bleed. Red was an anomaly. Red was aftermath.

  Jack began to walk faster.

  The closer she got, the clearer the red became. It was like it had exploded outward from a single source, shed with wanton delight by whoever held the knife. There was a body at the center of it, a softly curving body, lush of breast and generous of hip. A body … a body …

  Jack stopped dead, eyes fixed not on the body but on the basket that had fallen at the very edge of the carnage. It had landed on its side. Some of the bread was splattered with blood, but the apples had already been red; there was no way of telling whether they were clean. No way in the world.

  Slowly, Jack sank to her knees in the bracken, for once utterly heedless of the possibility of mud or grass stains. Her eyes bulged as she stared at the basket, never looking any further than that; never looking at the things she didn’t want to see.

  Red. So much red.

  When she began to howl, it was the senseless keen of someone who has been pushed past their breaking point and taken refuge in the comforting caverns of their own mind. In the village, people gathered their children close, shivering, and closed the windows. In the castle, the Master stirred in his sleep, troubled for reasons he could not name.

  In the windmill, Dr. Bleak rose, sorrow etched into his features, and reached for his bag. Things from here would continue as they would. It was too late to control or prevent them. All he could do was hope that they’d survive.

  * * *

  JACK WAS STILL ON her knees in the bracken when Dr. Bleak walked up behind her, his boots crunching dry stalks underfoot. He made no effort to soften the sound of his footsteps; he wanted her to hear him coming.

  She didn’t react. Her eyes were fixed on the apples. So red. So red.

  “The blood should get darker as it dries,” she said, voice dull. “I’ll be able to tell which ones are dirty, then. I’ll be able to tell which ones can be saved.”

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” said Dr. Bleak softly. He didn’t share her squeamishness—understandable, given her youth, and how much she had cared for Alexis. He allowed his eyes to travel the length of the dead girl’s body, noting the deep cuts, the blood loss, the places where it looked as if the flesh had been roughly hacked away.