“And how do I do that?”
“You find the boy with the scar and bring me back the vivalabe.”
Alastair’s eyes brightened as she reached to free him from his fetters. “And what if I kill him?”
She held his gaze. If she stared long enough, she could see him through the mask of decaying flesh. “Then we’ll both have what we want, won’t we?”
Chapter Twelve
Sickening Clarity
Immanuel’s head bobbed as his elbow slid across the papers at his side, sending them cascading to the floor. He rubbed his eyes and face, but the bags under his eyes and the heaviness in his limbs only grew worse. While sleep had seemed elusive at home as he paced the house and drew mysterious symbols on shoe soles, at work his eyes seemed to want nothing more than to close. He was fairly certain he had fallen asleep during the staff meeting. There were gaps in the day yet lines of untidy notes still appeared in his book. Scooping his papers into a loose pile, he tossed them on his desk and stared down at his notes for the new specimens. His handwriting sloped at bizarre angles and the words quickly trailed into a dragged line where he nodded off for a moment. How long would it be like this? He had hoped that after a week on the job, his body would grow accustomed to his new routine, but it only seemed to be getting worse.
A knock rattled Immanuel’s door as he quickly shuffled his papers into some semblance of order. “Come in,” he called, picking up his pen.
Peregrine strolled in, his mouth already running about disappearing curator’s assistants, but as he reached the front of Immanuel’s desk, he abruptly stopped. “Hell’s teeth, man, you look dreadful.”
“I know.” He could picture how he looked: dark circles around eyes that had lost their luster, the hollows of his cheeks casting stark shadows while his hair stuck out at odd angles.
“You all right? If the hours are too much for you, you can go home. I was only joking about staying until all the work was done.”
“I’m fine. I just haven’t been sleeping well.”
“If it’s because of the gala, don’t even worry. It doesn’t—”
Immanuel shook his head. “It isn’t that. I’m fine, really. What is it you need?”
“I was going to ask if you would do me a favor, but I don’t think I should.”
“No, it’s fine. I can do it.”
Peregrine Nichols frowned, studying Immanuel with a clinical eye. “I have a few things that need to go down to the storeroom. The dock men have gone home, and I would appreciate an extra hand while I finish something up.”
Immanuel pushed away from his desk and made for the door when a hand landed heavy on his shoulder. Turning, he found Peregrine holding his satchel.
“Go home when you’re done. Don’t even come back up here. You’re going to make yourself ill if you don’t have a rest soon.”
“What about Sir William?”
“I will take responsibility. I can tell him you’re ill. Looking at you, I think he would believe it. Anyway, it’s past closing. Any work you have can wait until tomorrow.”
Licking his dry lips, Immanuel fingered the strap of the leather satchel hanging across his chest. A favor for a favor, he thought with a broken smile. “Thanks.”
***
Immanuel descended the stone steps to the storeroom, holding the crate of specimen jars and old catalog ledgers in a white-knuckled grip. The murky jars clanked as he pushed open the door with his elbow, ready to hand off the box to the archivists, but found the desk empty. He deflated, his eyes traveling to the clock. Of course, it was after hours. Placing the crate on the table, he returned the ledgers to the shelf behind the desk and began checking the labels affixed to the tops of the specimens. Each had a row and shelf number carefully inscribed in wax pencil. His eyes trailed to the doorway. There were only five, after all; and he could easily replace them himself instead of leaving them for the archivists in the morning.
Checking to see if anyone was around, Immanuel stepped into the store room. A forest of shelves rose around him, all filled with strange creatures staring back through glass or bits and pieces of things made in clay or wood long since broken and unrecognizable. As he walked toward the far shelf where the first specimen belonged, he caught shadows moving in the corner of his eye. He turned ready to apologize to the head archivist but was relieved to see it was only his reflection staring back from a large jar housing a Portuguese man o’ war. Immanuel released a nervous laugh and continued on with his head down.
As he replaced the first specimen, the door leading to the loading bay opened and clicked shut. Immanuel looked over his shoulder toward the door, but no one was there. Glancing at the next label, he quickened his pace, returning the jars and mounted specimens as fast as he could find their shelves. He wanted nothing more than to get out before they found him. After so many sleepless nights, explaining why he was running Peregrine Nichols’ errands at night was the last thing he wanted to do. Bending to place the penultimate specimen on the bottom shelf, Immanuel’s eyes widened at a pair of legs on the other side. His heart quickened at the sight of the man’s grubby trousers, which were far too muddied to be a dockhand or curator. Immanuel slowly rose, locking eyes with the man staring him down from the other side. Something wasn’t right about him. It was as if there was a hazy outline around him, collecting in his glassy eyes, which all at once seemed dead and wild. His stubble-lined face appeared grey and mottled with faint patches of purple. Despite his unkempt appearance, he stood with his shoulders squared and his brows furrowed in a predatory stare. Immanuel swallowed hard, unable to move.
“Remember me, boy?”
Immanuel dropped the box and ran. By the time he heard the shatter of glass, he was sprinting through the rows of shelves. The brass globe tucked into his satchel slapped against his thigh in time with the pounding of his footsteps. The voice, the body, everything was different, but it had to be him. There could be no mistaking the intonation or the roll of his shoulders the second before he chased after him. Lord Rose.
His eyes scanned the storage room as it blurred by. There was nowhere to hide and nowhere to run but out to the archivists’ office and up the steps. No one would hear him down there. His lungs tightened against his poorly healed ribs, and before he could draw in a deep breath, the man’s body collided with his. Immanuel fell hard into a wooden case, sending tiny jars of insects and stones crashing to the ground around them. The burn of formaldehyde filled his nose as he hit the floor and struggled out from under the man’s weight. His massive hands pressed down on Immanuel’s back, forcing the shards into his chest. Tears flooded his eyes as he futilely flailed beneath him. Glass glittered under the electric lamps only inches from him. The moment Immanuel’s hand closed around a piece as big as his palm the man wrenched his body until they were eye to dead eye. Immanuel turned the point of glass over in his hand and struck. The ragged edge ripped across the man’s skin, leaving a streak of congealed blood along the man’s filthy neck. Immanuel’s heart sank. The creature barely budged.
With a snarl, the man seized Immanuel by the arms and easily forced them over his head, the bloodied glass skidding under the shelf.
“Did you really think you would get away so easily? Did you really think I would forget what you and that girl did to me, you stupid boy?”
Immanuel stared into his face, his heart pounding in his ears. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. The smell of cigarette ash had been replaced with the sweet, pungent odor of rot, but the voice— the voice!
“But you’re dead. You killed yourself. I saw it. I saw it,” Immanuel whimpered.
Ignoring him, he pulled Immanuel’s jacket aside and ran his hand up and down his ribs and along his hips. Immanuel froze at his probing touch. Satisfied he had nothing, Alastair reached over and patted Immanuel’s satchel. A wicked smile cut his features as he found the orb.
“For this and your head, she promised me a new body. Not a bad bargain, really.”
His mind sc
rambled for something that would save him. “But I— I can’t die. Remember?”
“Oh, I don’t want to kill you. I want you to suffer.”
Immanuel squirmed and threw his meager weight as a switchblade appeared in the creature’s free hand. He pushed up with his legs, hoping to throw him off, but the monster held him firm. His filthy nails bruised Immanuel’s wrists, and the cold edge of the knife pressed into his side. A sob leapt in Immanuel’s throat as he shut his eyes and turned away. It couldn’t end like this.
Lord Rose paused at the whine of the store room door opening behind them. Locking eyes with Immanuel, he put the blade of the knife to his lips to silence him. Immanuel turned in time to see Peregrine’s striped legs appear through the open-backed shelves. His heart writhed against his ribs as if it would stop at any moment as Peregrine Nichols’ chipper voice rang through the empty room.
“Winter, you forgot the other box. I was going to leave it in your office, but I thought I would help you put them away.”
As he came into the main aisle, Peregrine staggered back upon seeing Immanuel pinned beneath the intruder. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing? Get off him or I’ll—”
“Stay back!” the man yelled, angling the knife toward Peregrine. “Leave now or he dies.”
Peregrine’s eyes widened, running from the man’s mottled face to Immanuel’s pleading features. He took a step closer to the next shelf. “Just let him go.”
“I said, leave or he dies,” he said putting the knife to Immanuel’s ribs.
“I can’t do that.”
Immanuel tensed, expecting to feel the thrust of the knife deep into his side or across his neck, but instead, pounding footsteps reverberated through his skull. The man jerked above him, his grip tightening on Immanuel’s wrists before suddenly letting go. Keeping his eyes on the planks of wood ahead of him, Immanuel scrambled out from under him and ran on all fours. His legs wobbled and slipped out from under him. Immanuel turned in time to see the man raise the knife only to meet the end of Peregrine’s crowbar.
“Help! We need a watchman! Come quickly!” Immanuel screamed, blindly searching for anything he could use to help.
The man turned toward Immanuel as Peregrine landed another senseless blow on the creature’s head. “Winter, take cover. Now!”
His vision clouded. Where could he go? Through his good eye, Immanuel could make out a shadowed space, barely visible from the aisle. Pain radiated through his ribs and chest as he crawled over and squeezed his body into the narrow space between the shelf and wall. In the stacks, glass shattered and the thwack of skin and bone smashing echoed with sickening clarity. A voice rose through the wet gurgles and the rip of flesh. Shadows fell over the room as the lights blinked. His glass-coated hands trembled as he covered his ears against the crackling thuds and stammered chant.
Immanuel’s head swam, the storeroom teetered around him, darkening into a dirt and brick catacomb. The acidic smell of alcohol fought against the sweet offal freed from the jars. His nose and throat burned as he swallowed against the lump in his throat. Blood frantically pulsed through his body, setting it aflame while turning his hands to ice. He rested his head against his knees. Time seemed to move in spirts. One moment he was crammed into the nook, nearly invisible as the night watchman burst past him, and the next Peregrine Nichols stood in front of him with a tissue-soaked crowbar hanging at his side. For a long moment, Peregrine merely stared at him, watching tears streak down Immanuel’s now bloodied face while his eyes and body replayed a scene from months ago. It felt as if Immanuel stood at Peregrine’s side, watching his own body twitch at unseen blows.
“He’s dead now,” Peregrine finally said when Immanuel quieted and stared blankly ahead. “Scotland Yard will be here soon. You need to pull yourself together, Winter, before they start asking you questions.”
Grabbing Immanuel’s trembling hand, Peregrine yanked him to his feet.
“Fass mich nicht an!” Immanuel cried, ripping his arm away only to stumble back into the cabinet clutching his ribs.
As Peregrine released him, he spotted a ragged, bloodied rip across Immanuel’s side. “Hell’s teeth, you’re hurt. You need a doctor.”
“No!” Immanuel cried. The thought of someone touching him sent bile up his throat. He wanted to go home. He wanted to lock all the doors and windows and scrub away the monster’s fingerprints on his wrists. He wanted Adam. “No, I’m fine. It’s— it’s from the glass.”
Peregrine’s wide, round eyes skimmed over his form as he shook his head. “No, it’s not. He cut you and you need a doctor.”
Carefully lifting up his soaked shirt and vest, Immanuel revealed a two inch long cut that traced the edge of his old scar. His eyes watered with the searing ache of each movement. How could this happen again?
“Tell me who I can get for you. Surely you have someone who can help you home.”
Immanuel blinked. No matter what it might look like, there was only one answer. “Adam Fenice.”
ACT TWO
“There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.”
-Mark Twain
Chapter Thirteen
Home
Immanuel hung his head as he held his bloodied shirt up for the doctor. On the other side of the door, Sir William Henry Flower’s stern voice rose and fell as he chased away unwanted reporters and interrogated anyone who had been on the premises during the incident.
“Of course something like this has to happen right before the gala! We cannot have a scandal, do you understand me? We will tell the reporters it was an attempted break-in and nothing more.”
And nothing more. Immanuel couldn’t get the image of the man’s—the creature’s—broken body. The skull had been smashed beyond recognition and dark matter leaked onto the floorboards, mingling with the preserved specimens and formaldehyde until it was impossible to tell them apart. He eyed Peregrine warily. Had it really taken that many blows to stop him or was there something savage hidden within his petite frame?
“Got any other wounds?” the doctor asked, clipping the end of the thread.
Immanuel stared down at the multitude of tiny cuts in his palms still crunchy with glass and the shallow slice where he had grabbed the shard. “No. Thank you, sir.”
“You were lucky it wasn’t too deep.”
Hesitantly, Immanuel tried to tuck in his torn shirt, but when bits of glass dug into his palms, he let it be despite what others might say. Opening the office door, he met the director’s steely gaze. Thus far, he had been saved from Sir William’s probing questions and reproachful stare by the doctor’s intervention, but with his wound tidied, he was at his mercy.
“Mr. Winter, I would like to hear your account of what happened in the store room.”
“Is that really necessary, sir?” Peregrine said, putting himself between Immanuel and the director even though they could still see one another over his head. “Mr. Winter has been through a lot today, and I’m sure he would like to return home. He gave his statement to Scotland Yard already. Wouldn’t it be easier to read that?”
“If I wanted to read it, I would have read it. Now, step aside, Nichols.”
As the director edged Peregrine out of the way, the impish man caught Immanuel’s eye. He silently commanded him to hold his tongue. What shouldn’t Immanuel say? That Lord Rose, the man who had tortured him, was alive in a new body and had come back to kill him? Or was it merely that Peregrine didn’t want him to mention that he had sent him down the storage room on a favor that rewarded him with an early night?
Sir William crossed his arms, probing Immanuel’s bloodied but unscathed features for the truth. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”
Turning his face from him, Immanuel kept the director in the clouded side of his vision. His voice sounded alien as he spoke. It seemed too level—too normal—to be his own. “Like I said before, sir, when I was returning specimens, he snuck up on me and attacked me. Mr. Nicho
ls walked in and fought him off with a crowbar. That’s it.”
“How did the man end up with his skull bashed in?” he asked, dropping his voice.
“Overzealousness on my part,” Peregrine replied. “The man was dangerous. He stabbed Winter and threatened his life. I had to do something, or he could have killed us both.”
“You didn’t have to do that. Now we have murder allegations right before the gala. You’re lucky we need you in the botany department because you might be looking for a new employer if it weren’t for the gala.”
“Sir.” Immanuel swallowed hard and shook his head. “Sir, please don’t take this out on Nichols. The man would have killed me if it hadn’t been for his intervention. If he hadn’t stepped in, there still would have been a murder.”
Sir William released a huffed breath and turned his attention to the band of policemen milling in the doorway. The man in charge spoke to the retired bobby who served as the dock’s watchman. “What I want to know is how he got past the night watchman. How in the world did he—”
A figure cut through the great hall, pushing past the police. “I was summoned by Detective Inspector Green’s men. Now, let me through!
Immanuel turned at the sound of the familiar voice and found Adam storming toward them. His red hair and bright blue eyes blazed against the museum’s subdued granite. Adam’s face was set in stony impassivity as he reached Immanuel’s side. He tried not to look at him. Immanuel knew if he did, Adam’s façade would crumble and that glint of horror in his eyes would spread, revealing all he couldn’t say in front of others.
“Thank you for coming, Adam. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you,” Immanuel said as flatly as he could muster.
After all that had happened that night, pretending they were nothing to each other was the final twist of the knife. If they had been friends and nothing more, perhaps Adam would have put his arm around his shoulders to stop the trembling, perhaps he wouldn’t have stood out of reach, perhaps he would have looked afraid upon seeing his flat-mate holding his ribs and appearing as if he had put his fist through a window. Perhaps in a different time or place, they would have feared what had transpired more than what others would think or do if they dared to show a hint of their true feelings.
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