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London, East End, 1874
The thing hung suspended in the fluid as it must once have floated in the womb, a tiny monstrosity whose visage rippled and bulged when viewed through the handblown glass of the specimen jar. Its bulbous eyes were mercifully closed, though one showed a slim crescent of oily darkness that seemed to shimmer with sly knowing at Will’s disgusted gaze, marking him.
“A fine male specimen of congenital malformation, William. Mark the cleft lip and clubbed foot, the paddle-like hands. More pertinent to life, you can see the heart makes a partial appearance through the thorax. A horror. Madeleine is well rid of it.”
Will stared at the creature’s deformities as Algood pointed. The snarling lip, the webbed fingers fused and overly long, the twisted foot that pointed downward like a prancing hoof. Its dead heart hung from its chest as though rejected, a bit of gristly emptiness, a clock that had stopped. He thought of its mother, with her hysteria-edged laughter and haughty expression. She had not been the meek, frightened lady he had expected. Instead, she had swept in on her brother’s arm, clinging there with possessive ferocity, her wild eyes challenging Will and Algood to judge her. She had concealed her rounding belly beneath voluminous skirts and a tightened corset.
“James,” she cried, laughing at Algood’s serious mien, “let us address the business before us. There is no need for such a long face.”
Algood looked to the man accompanying her, but the fellow would not meet his gaze. “Madeleine,” he said, “I am afraid this will be quite an unpleasant trial for you. You must remain conscious to push the child from your womb. Though it be … dead, it will still come hard. I will have to stimulate your labor contractions in an intrusive manner. It will be painful.”
At Algood’s words, Will went to the cabinet and gathered a thick pad of gauze and the bottle of chloroform. Despite his mentor’s insistence that the lady remain alert, he thought Algood might change his mind when the shrieks and thrashing began. The woman tossed her hair and turned her back to her brother.
“Undo me, Colin.”
As the buttons and laces of her garments were released, she looked up at Algood. “I am not afraid of pain, James. Only free me of this dead thing and I will leave content.”
She had screamed only once that night, a sound more fury than agony. When the misshapen little body slipped forth into Algood’s hands, he muffled a curse and turned with it to Will who stood waiting with a cloth to receive it.
“Use the chloroform,” Algood muttered before returning his attention to his patient.
Will looked down at the pathetic form, red-purple as a wine stain, its exposed heart quivering with the effort to beat. He stood frozen for an instant, his face stiff with horror, his hands shrinking from their burden. It was supposed to be dead he thought, appalled that even a dull ember of life should cling to such an abomination. Madeleine had fallen back against the table, flushed and sweaty, her face twisted into the grim smile of a death’s head. Will turned to the bottle on the sideboard and, laying the impossible creature on the marble top, splashed a sweet-scented splotch of chloroform onto the gauze pad with nerveless hands. He pressed the gauze over the thing’s face—he could not think of it as an infant—and almost immediately the mangled heart ceased its shuddering. A spear of bright, burning hatred for the woman lanced through him.
Will had once plucked a pamphlet replete with depictions of devils and souls in hellish torment from an offal bin in Big Hal’s butcher shop. Algood’s specimen struck him as a dreadful combination of these, a thing best consigned to the dark and never looked upon lest one’s courage be snuffed like a candle flame.
For once, his father’s actions made sense to him. Big Hal had snatched the proffered pamphlet extended to him by a London City Mission worker, twisted it, and tossed it in the slop bucket while roaring, “Ye can take your mincing arse right outta here before I twist your bloody neck.” His mean little eyes had swiveled toward Will, struck dumb in the corner, mop in hand. “Keep away from them fuckers, boy. They’ll put the strife and trouble on you, turn you white-livered.”
Will nodded at the memory, swallowing sour bile as Algood clapped him on the shoulder, merry as a boy at Christmas.
“Perhaps I shall dissect him at some later date. You may attend me. For now, we shall observe his many curiosities. See here, this flap or fold of skin at his back. A strange excrescence. I shall want to explore it.”
Will shivered, seeing neither a flap nor a fold. When the thing was finally stretched out, he was certain it would prove to be a devil’s wing.
Wings. The air was filled with wings, great thrumming ones that played the currents like a harp. Will started to wakefulness, and the sound resolved itself into the slowing pulse of the train. Tom stood by the window, staring into a feeble dawn.
“We’re climbing,” he said. “There’s a narrow pass up ahead, then it’ll be straight on for the station.”
Will blinked and looked around the compartment. Falke was now seated across from him, the hound beside him with its head on his knee.
“Why did you not wake me? I presume the door has been unlocked as the doctor is here.”
“Indeed,” said Falke, fondling the hound’s floppy ears. “We were equally captive in the other car through the night. That poor Romanian fellow opened the doors at the first touch of the sun on the horizon, then scurried off somewhere without a word of explanation. He looks worse than ever. I don’t believe he slept at all. There was a frightful din in the night. Cooper told me a guard had been mounted on the roof and at least one man was certainly killed. We are well into the mountains now. I suppose we have been the target of bandits.”
Will turned an incredulous gaze on the doctor. “Is that truly what you suppose, Falke?”
Before Falke could reply, the door of the compartment was thrown open. A gust of cold air sparkling with snowflakes swirled into the room. Marcu stood swaying in the doorway, his eyes bloodshot and bleary.
“Christ, man,” Tom shouted. “Close the bloody door.”
Marcu shuffled in and shut the door behind him. “My apologies, Lord Dovedale,” he croaked, ignoring Tom’s indignant stare. “We will arrive soon in Calatoresti. I thought to speak privately with you before we find ourselves underway for Stanca Corbului.”
“An excellent suggestion. I have several burning questions. I hope you find yourself ready with frank answers.” Will threw aside his furs and stood, rolling his shoulders. In a pleasant voice, he said, “Tom, Falke, get out.”
“Now, Billy …” Tom began, taking a cautious step toward Will.
“I said, get out.” Will did not remove his gaze from Marcu.
“Come, Cooper. I’ve brandy in my compartment. I daresay we can roust out some bread and coffee.” Falke laid a hand on Tom’s shoulder.
Tom hesitated but gave a curt nod and turned to follow the doctor. “Yeah. Right, then. You know where I’ll be, Billy.”
Calatoresti emerged from a shining cloak of fog. The sun could not pierce it and contented itself with igniting the suspended damp into dim pearlescence. The train had rolled panting to a stop beside the sheds of the little station, and Will had descended to the worn planks of the platform to await the rest of his party. Marcu tipped him a significant nod as he limped past on his way to the coach house and stables of the imposing inn.
“I feel I’ve a ghost wrapped around me head,” Tom said as he sauntered toward Will. “Rain, snow, fog … this jaunt’s been naught but cold and wet.” He peered at Will through sharp, assessing eyes. “You feelin’ all right?”
“Of course. The Romanians will take our baggage to the coach. In the meantime, I suggest we have a good meal.”
He greeted Falke and Elke with a sweep of his arm toward the heavy doors and stag’s head sign of the coaching inn. “Let us feed and warm ourselves. It will be a long day of travel to Corbinescu’s castle. I’ve been told it sits above the village of Targu Umbrei where we will leave the coach and continue a short way on horseback.”
Tom scowled at the thought of sitting a horse. “Better and better,” he muttered, then drew close to Will as they followed Elke and the doctor to the inn. “What did that Marcu want to talk with you about? I thought you was gonna give him a taste of Big Hal’s tricks. You didn’t, did you?”
Will smirked. “You worry worse than an old nanny. Marcu is convinced none of us can hope to survive this venture, and as a man with nothing more to lose he looks to his soul. He has pledged himself to me for as long as I am allayed with his prince.”
“Well, blimey, what do you think, Billy?’
“There is great danger, to be sure.” Will’s expression turned serious. “I have not given up the will to live, however. Or the will to win.”
He pulled open the massive inn door and waved Tom ahead of him. “Let’s eat. As my father might have said, there isn’t much a bloody steak won’t fix, be it hunger or a purple eye.”
The inn was a dim, smoky place, but the rough tables had been covered in clean linen and a fire crackled on the immense hearth, gnawing a blackened log that must have required two strong men to set. Elke stood waiting as Falke warmed his hands before the blaze. Will nudged Tom.
“Sit with the doctor. I wish to speak with Elke.”
He touched her elbow, guiding her to a table near a window that looked out onto the inn’s courtyard. A large, rusty black coach stood on the cobbles, its top loaded with trunks and bags. Hostlers brought four muscular bays from the stables and began the meticulous work of hitching the team.
A stout woman in an apron and kerchief brought steaming bowls of thick stew and a loaf of warm bread to the table. A young girl in the same costume followed and set down a white round of butter and a plate of pears and grapes.
As the silent girl returned to the kitchen, the woman spoke to Will. “There is coffee or ale.”
“Ale. And tea for the lady.”
When she had gone, Will tore a hunk from the loaf and spread it thickly with the good butter. “I have not had an opportunity to speak with you about what happened that night in your compartment. It was not as you had led me to believe.” He leaned forward, searching for some glimpse of Elke’s eyes behind the dark glasses. “You understand who it is I seek, do you not? I have heard her voice from your lips. Why was I shown that other one?”
Elke pushed aside her bowl of stew and reached to pluck a grape from the platter of fruit. Her expression was tranquil and thoughtful, as though she studied some distant vista.
“She will come to you when she is ready, Willsome. Until then, you must hear those who choose to visit. You will be presented with a choice, but it will be a choice of their offering, and I fear you will find it repugnant.” She slipped the shaded glasses from her face and looked into his chilly eyes with the wintry power of her own. “You have lived a black existence. The circle is closing.”
The woman in the apron and kerchief returned with a mug of tea and a tankard of ale, and Elke replaced her glasses and looked out at the powerful horses in their belled harnesses. When their hostess had gone, Will took up his spoon in one hand and the hunk of buttered bread in the other and began to eat with relish.
“I had best make the right choice, then, hadn’t I?”
“Oh, yes. For one door leads only to Hell.”
Love this. "She slipped the shaded glasses from her face and looked into his chilly eyes with the wintry power of her own. “You have lived a black existence. The circle is closing.”
Will is an interesting contradiction. Such an intriguing character.
As always, I love your words, warp and weft weaving a their way to an epic encounter.