Curio (45 page)
His pale face went still. Then he moved, so quickly Grey was still processing the motion after Benedict straightened. He stood by the bed now, his hand clenched. Something warm seeped down Grey's wrist.
The skin on the heel of her left hand gaped and blood trickled from the wound. Grey waited for the pain. As she'd known would happen, Benedict dipped his head toward the little river of blood. She braced herself for the burn of his breath, the tug of lips on her slashed skin, the torment of teeth locked around her wrist. No sensation registered.
He leaned away, blood on his lips and frenzy in his eyes. As if from a great distance, Grey watched his dark head bend over her hand once again. The scene belonged in a nightmare. Someone should do something for the girl tied to the bed. Someone should pull the monster off of her. Someone should smash his face into the bedpost.
A hard knot formed behind Grey's navel. It pushed outward, forcing her body to uncurl. Her Defender state spread, so much stronger than fear-rigid muscles, so much stronger than porcelain skin. Granite crawled from her mark, skimming beneath her skin to encase her legs, her feet, her arms, her hands.
Yes, someone should do something for the girl tied to the bed.
A whispered word escaped Grey's lips. “Unbreakable.”
Grey wrenched her arm away from the post. The crack of wood echoed through the room. Benedict made a wet, startled sound, but Grey palmed his face and thrust with all the inescapable force of a mountain. He flew backward.
Snapping the rope around her other hand, she vaulted from the bed.
Benedict was on his feet already, his face as inhuman as the Dulaig's. He approached, hands poised to grab her.
“Don't make me call Drakon.”
The threat bounced off Grey. He didn't want the tock butler in here any more than she did. Her eyes slid toward the door.
“You'll never get out of my house even if you manage to get by me.”
The tall windows she'd glimpsed in the room outside appeared in her mind's eye. She stepped sideways, angling herself toward the door. “Maybe I can fly.”
Benedict matched her steps, placing himself between her and the way out. “Your friends went down, Grey. They fell out of the sky. There's no one there to catch you.”
She faltered at the thought of Blaise, broken amongst the wreckage of the Clang. Benedict used her moment of distraction to move closer. She shrank back, eyes darting between the door and the porcie ruler. Her hip connected with a narrow table pushed against the wall, and she stretched her right hand the length of the marble surface, pulling her body along as though the table offered some hope of security.
Blood still stained Benedict's lower lip and teeth. His eyes traveled from her dripping left hand to the broken bedpost.
“You tricked me. The moment your blood flowed, you grew stronger.”
It was true even if it made no sense. Chin raised, Grey inched toward the door.
Benedict's eyes glowed in the darkness. “It seems you shared that strength with me.”
He lunged for her. Grey shifted but he slammed into her side, his arms locking around her like the limbs of a statue.
No pain radiated from the contact, but the force of his grip held her prisoner. She pushed, flexing her muscles against his power. She would not go back to that bed. She would not go back to that terror.
A cloud of red steam billowed before her eyes. The heat took a moment to register. Droplets of moisture clung to her face and hair. Her blood. He breathed out steam laced with her blood.
Grey's stomach turned, her senses lost in a wave of revulsion even as Benedict shoved her up and backward onto the marble top of the table. Her spine and head collided with the wall, the crash reverberating through the room. Noises sounded from the hallway outside. Drakon? Guards?
She braced her arms against Benedict's shoulders and pushed. Slick with her own leaking blood, her left hand slid across the material of his shirt. The haze of bloody steam hung between their faces, tinting the black shadows red. It smelled of rust and wet clay. He wedged himself between her knees, but she dug into his porcelain midsection with her granite-lined legs.
The sound of a scuffle penetrated the heavy door on Grey's right. A scream carried through.
Benedict's head turned and he uttered an oath. His grip on her lessened a fraction as the door of the room burst open. Dark figures, outlined in the light from outside, tumbled into the room. Slipping her right hand inside Benedict's shirt, Grey closed her fingers around the glass key. Then she pulled her leg up and planted her foot in his stomach.
She kicked with all her might, and the pressure of his body caging hers vanished. He stumbled backward, eyes wide and mouth agape before he connected with the bedpost and went down.
A crack rent the air, underscored by screams and the whirring of mechanical voices and limbs.
Key in hand, Grey slipped off the table and ran toward the door and the muddle of silhouettes. She'd crash through them if she had to.
The red mist cleared and Fantine's face materialized in her vision. Behind the porcie woman, Nettie struggled in the iron grip of Drakon. Grey hurtled into the tock butler, scrabbling at his face and hands.
They'd come for her. Fantine and Nettie had come for her. A measure of her Defender strength faded as tears pulsed behind her eyeballs. She thrust the emotion to the back of her mind and kicked at Drakon's shin. The butler held fast to Nettie.
Fantine shrieked, her voice shrill as a boiling kettle in Grey's ears.
“Come on,” Grey yelled to the porcie woman.
But Fantine's hysterical screams still echoed through Benedict's lair. Grey tugged on her arm, dodging Nettie's form to land kicks to the butler. The porcelain woman refused to move.
Nettie went limp in Drakon's arms. Grey searched the tock maid's frame. What had he done to her? But Drakon stood with mouth slack, his arms supporting Nettie but no longer imprisoning her. Fantine's screams fell into sobs as all three of the newcomers stared into the room behind Grey.
She wanted to push past the little group and run for one of the escape routes she'd spotted earlier, but a scraping sound, punctuated by low moans and Fantine's whimpers, drew her attention. She inched her head around until she faced the room.
Benedict hunched by the bed, shoulders bent and dark head drooping. Grey's eyes followed the curve of his body inward to where he supported his left wrist with his right hand. Her gut jolted.
Red-tainted water trickled from the jagged edge of Benedict's arm. A white hand lay on the floor just beyond the spiked bedpost.
The porcie ruler lifted his head. The frost-blue eyes landed not on Grey's face but on Fantine.
“You.”
Fantine trembled and took a step backward.
Holding his shattered arm up so that the gush of fluid slowed, Benedict pushed out of his crouch and straightened into a stand.
“I'll see you sent to Dulaig for this, Fantine. But not before I make some changes to your appearance myself.”
Fantine clamped her hand over the fabric of her high collar. Holding her throat, she tried to retreat through the doorway. Her shoulder knocked into Grey's as she backed into Nettie and Drakon, but the stunned butler wouldn't budge. He blocked her path.
Benedict's face twisted, his eyes stabbing at Fantine. When he launched across the room, instinct moved Grey's body. No thought fired in her brain other than the image of Fantine behind a shield. She slid in front of the porcie woman and raised her arms, crossed at the wrists, before her own body.
The sharp edge of Benedict's smashed arm drove into Grey's left wrist. A snap jarred her body. The sensation of stone beneath her skin retreated, crawling upward from her wrist. Agony enveloped her, licking like flames, like searing steam.
Grey fell backward, tumbling into hard, jutting limbs, porcelain and tock body parts. The haze was back, but this time depthless black rimmed her vision.
Metal fingers closed around her upper arm and yanked her into the light of the hall. Grey stumbled, pain and
darkness pulling her toward the ground. She put her arms out to catch herself.
Her right hand curled around the key. Her left hand dangled in her field of vision, blood and bone and tendons exposed, attached to her wrist only by a thin strip of skin.
Then the black swallowed her whole.
W
hit eased his upper body off the floor. His muscles cramped and a couple of his scars twinged, but he kept his lips sealed.
Marina lay curled up in a ball on the couch a foot away. With her face to the back of the sofa and her hair almost taking up more space than the rest of her body, she looked younger than her sixteen years. But if those eyes opened and turned on him, he'd see far too much misery for such a short lifetime.
He scooted away and rose. When his vision adjusted, he picked his way around counters and machines. He paused at the stairs and looked back at Marina's form. Her voice had broken whenever she'd said Maverick's name, but then her face would fall back into a mask.
Whit had talked to her for hours, seated on the floor with his back against the lumpy sofa cushion and his knees drawn up. He'd made promises, planned rescue attempts, said the stupidest things to her in an effort to shrink her loss. Maybe she'd faked sleep to get him to shut up. Who could blame her?
But as he rambled, one thing became clear to him. He needed an edge. Something that just might make his plans possible. Something that drowned out the pain long enough for him to act.
Whit jammed his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face. He dragged his eyes from Marina's huddled figure and made his way up the staircase toward the trapdoor. All was silent above, but Haimon guarded the empty store. No doubt he expected Whit and Marina to emerge in time for the morning ration run.
An internal clock told Whit the hour was early. As he unlocked the latch and lifted the trapdoor with its attached disguise of rug and table, only the faint glow of a streetlight cut through the darkness.
He climbed out of the opening in the floor and lowered the trapdoor, waiting until the last minute to let go of the planks. The section of wood drifted into place with an almost imperceptible sucking sound. Whit crouched and waited. Chills and surges of heat traversed his spine.
When the rush of blood in his eardrums quieted, he detected the sound of even breathing. Haimon must be sleeping in the front of the store. He hoped the man's slumber was deep.
Whit straightened but didn't take a step, caught between slipping out the back door to disappear into the early morning, darting back to the safety of the underground lab, and carrying out the plan he'd hatched while staring at the bones of Marina's spinal column beneath her shirt.
There wasn't a choice. Not really.
He'd rather live on the fringes than spend another day following Council rules.
Whit crept toward the main section of Haward's Mercantile. Grey's face, Olan's face, Steinar's face, even his mother's face, rose before him, their expressions grim. He pushed them all aside and located the sleeping Haimon. The man lay on the floor, head cushioned on his arm and one hand pressed to the enchanted glass case.
Goosebumps tugged at Whit's skin, and he turned away from the awful thing, picturing Gray trapped in the bizarrely expanding cabinet like a magician's assistant in a gruesome sideshow act. No matter what Haimon said about the inside, it looked too much like a glass coffin to make Whit think of anything other than a death sentence.
He edged his way behind the display case on the opposite side of the room from where Haimon slumbered. The place had been wrecked, objects overturned, scattered, the contents of cabinets and shelves dumped, but whoever did the damage had a goal other than theft. Valuable equipment and antique pieces remained strewn over the floor and countertops.
With one more look at the immobile shape of Haimon, Whit went to work. He shoved a few pieces of jewelry into one pocket and a few smaller Chemist devices in the other. His hand lingered on the cash register, but he passed on. He didn't know how to open the drawer, and if he did, the ringing sound it made would wake Haimon.
When his pockets were full, he turned toward the little back room. He wasn't really stealing from the Hawards. The Council had closed this shop when Steinar was arrested and Olan turned to stone. The merchandise would sit, gathering dust, for who knew how long. He might as well put it to good use.
As he skulked by the prone form of Haimon and into the back room, a shadow moved near the door, raising the hair on Whit's neck. He froze.
An outline separated from the wall and stepped into the jagged segment of light falling through the broken window.
Marina.
Whit crossed the floor and leaned down, keeping his voice a whisper. “What are you doing?”
“What are
you
doing?”