by Lani Lenore
“Not at all,” the doll piped up in his very remarkable voice. “I have come here to show you my submission.”
Edge dropped immediately to a knee before the basin–throne, his face toward the ground with his hair teasing the floor.
“I pledge not only my own loyalty to you, but I offer you the service of my fellow misfits. That is what you truly want, isn’t it? To have our cooperation?”
“And why do you think I would want a group of toys with no identities, mein Schönling?”
“Because you’re greedy,” the doll said without a hitch.
Clara caught her breath for fear of the Master’s anger over this, putting a hand to her mouth, but her master said nothing as Edge continued, feeling free to pace around in the small area the mice had allowed him.
“As for me, I don’t want much. Sooner or later, you would come for us as well. Why fight? I personally have a love for causing damage, and I have many grand ideas. What better time to offer myself than when there are still heads to be removed?”
Everything about the toy’s voice was alluring and sensual, and Clara thought that perhaps the Master would buy their stories. That was, until he spoke.
“Speaking of heads–let’s do start with yours,” the Master hissed.
How could this pathetically undeveloped toy think it would be so easy to sway him? Did he think he could waltz in prettily and wrap the Rat King around his feminine finger?
“And do not perceive to think, Clara, that I do not know that you led him here.” He looked toward her disappointedly. “A father knows.”
The child covered her mouth, wanting to run, but there was nowhere to go. Could he forgive her insolence? Still, Edge seemed to find this all amusing. She shouldn’t have trusted him! She knew this was a dreadful idea from the start!
Before she could drop to her knees and grovel, the Master had tilted his head, and at the base of his neck, the skin with the slick, black fur began to shift.
The skin twisted and grew, roaring up like a wave. It swelled, shaping a long snout until teeth burst through the skin. The Master winced. Blood began to drip. The growth had eyes–red ones that opened and peered around the room. The second rat head that emerged beside the Master’s was just as hideous as the first, wet with blood and a clear gloss. Birth fluids. After a moment, the second head breathed; then it began to pant.
Two sets of red eyes peered down at Edge, full of loathing.
3
The mice and toys all slinked away in fear for the transformation. Some of them hid their faces and concealed their gasps. Even those that had seen it before were affected by it. They all knew that their master had been weak for quite a while now. He hardly had the power to perform such a feat as to duplicate his head. That was how they knew that this situation was serious. He was quite angry.
They took steps backward, all except Edge–the one the Master had been seeking to intimidate. Edge was surprised to see this–that was certain in his wide, red eyes–but his body remained stationary, and if anything, he almost wanted to move closer. A large, stupid grin was plastered across his face. The doll was not frightened; he was simply in complete awe.
The Master was impressed. His intention had been to show this doll what he was capable of and then rip the toy’s head from its shoulders. He would have had Clara severely punished for her crimes. Not kill her. No; not his precious. But this misfit toy was indeed as wicked as it claimed. It hadn’t flinched–not once.
The Master’s long, toothy grin rivaled Edge’s own.
“Tell me your ideas, mein Schönling.”
Edge nodded once and gasped shortly through his smile, nearly unable to get the words out for his extreme pleasure of simply standing before such power. To mutate one’s own body though being made of flesh–magnificent!
“I know of your plans to capture the toymaker,” Edge managed finally, slowly regaining his calm arrogance. “You want him to make things for you to further your kingdom. I tell you, he’s quite fickle. Just look at me! Not even finished! But I have completed myself!”
The Rat King put a large claw to his chin in consideration. The other head breathed, but was mostly irresponsive. It seemed to be struggling with life, perhaps dying.
“You are correct, in fact,” the Master said in consideration. “We have not yet decided how to make the toymaker cooperate with us. His land belongs to you I assume?”
“To you now, master,” Edge purred, bowing once again.
The Master was pleased. “We cannot bring the toymaker into this world. My agent has been killed, and I am much too weak to create another.”
“Then,” Edge started, unable to keep the great smile from his face. “Allow me to offer a different option!”
4
The woman and the nutcracker moved through the passages. From within the walls, they’d passed back into the shafts. There seemed to be no pattern to their turns, but perhaps Armand knew where he was going? Anne panted through her exertion, and when she was starting to think that she couldn’t go on like this, he allowed them to slow to a walk. He didn’t appear to be tired at all, but of course he wasn’t. He was a nutcracker–made of wood with a mock life.
“Is something still behind us?” she whispered.
Along the way, she’d attempted to watch behind her, but she’d detected nothing.
“It’s been gone a while now,” he told her, uninterested.
What? It was gone and he’d continued to rush her so? Even while she was still so very taxed from earlier feats?
“What was it then?” she growled heatedly. “Rodents?”
“Something I picked up along the way,” he said simply. “A misfit. It followed me into the attic.”
Could he not simply give her a straight answer? Ever? Why did he insist on being so vague? Was he trying to protect her by this? No; that couldn’t possibly be it. He didn’t care about protecting her at all. All was for his own benefit.
Anne’s mind drifted along, trying to remove those angry thoughts from her head to find something else to settle on, and when she drifted, she found Clara.
Had she done so terribly wrong to fear for her own life enough that she left the girl all alone? Granted, it was much too late to reverse things now, but perhaps she could have been braver? The girl had screamed. Should she not have tried to find her? Was this not what she had done to Olivia? Simply given up?
Let’s be realistic with our self, Anne, her self told her. The child was a doll, and it was no more of a person than this nutcracker leading you. You’re the only life here that has any value.
She listened to herself, to those words. They sounded proper, but she wondered if she really felt that way. Was this who she was? Was her heart so terribly cold?
“There was a girl with me before,” she spoke up finally, unable to put it from her mind so easily. “Did you see her?”
“It’s best to forget about her,” Armand said.
Again with the meaningless answers. Perhaps he could just see more than she could–that her questions were only worth those indistinct answers he gave.
She kept quiet now, drifting behind him slightly, but not too far. She still needed to be near him; she knew that. He was a magnet. He pulled her close with one side before turning and pushing her away. With him, she felt insignificant, but safe.
Anne looked down to notice a sock lying to the side of the passage. An odd place for a sock…but she didn’t think much of it. Armand didn’t seem to notice it at all. They moved on a few steps. A spool of blue thread that was caked with dust was propped upright nearby. They moved on. A thimble, a rubber ball, a handkerchief, a paper fan, a fork…all until it escalated into a huge pile of mess in the shafts that nearly touched the top. There was a path through the center of it, but the way was quite narrow.
There didn’t seem to be anything living amongst the junk, but something had to have put it here. She moved closer to Armand, and they continued on through the rubbish that was illuminated by the gr
een glow of the cat’s eye.
“Pack rats?” she wondered aloud, saying the first notion that came to mind.
The nutcracker spoke, and she could almost hear a smile in his voice.
“Very good.”
Walking on, something in the mess caught her eye. It seemed to be set apart from the piles, sitting on the ground in front as if she’d been meant to see it. It was a golden pocket watch, open and ticking away steadily, and she recognized it. The timepiece belonged to William.
William…what a burden.
She had long ago acknowledged her need for a man, though she sometimes hated herself for that. She had not been born wealthy enough to stand on her own feet, and her only other choice had been to marry up. In that way, she had been forced to submit herself and her body, but it was not all intolerable. She guessed that most women felt the same way, needing someone to help warm their sheets now and again. William was not unattractive, but did she love him? No, not at all. If his wife had suddenly died and he’d wanted to marry her next, would she say yes? In half a heartbeat.
This pocket watch had been lost one night. He’d nearly torn the house apart looking for it. He feared he’d left it in her room, and that it would later serve as evidence of their affair. When they’d not found it, she’d consoled him. He was a commanding man, harsh at times. Armand was like that as well, always pulling her around. Perhaps that was simply what she needed–what she was attracted to.
Perhaps that was her curse.
Anne almost lost herself completely in those thoughts, but her eyes focused on the hands of the watch, and a registration of the time furrowed her brow.
12:05
“Is this right?” she inquired, tilting her head. “No, it couldn’t be right.”
“Why wouldn’t it be right?” Armand asked, stepping up beside her. Had he been standing by the whole time as she’d stood there?
“Because,” she said. “I remember waking up in this world when the clock struck midnight. The chimes woke me up. If that’s true, and it’s also true that this clock is correct, then that means I’ve been through everything this night in only five minutes. That’s impossible.”
The nutcracker was silent as he considered, and then finally spoke. “Oh yes…I forgot…”
There was something different about his face. It was hard to read without seeing his, but his brow seemed to furrow like her own. Something was bothering him?
“It’s part of the curse,” he explained. “I’ve lived it so long that I didn’t think about it being abnormal to you.”
Her confusion deepened, but she remained quiet to await the rest.
“I told you that the toys are only allowed to walk in the night when the humans cannot see? After midnight, the time slows in this world. Minutes become hours.”
Her mouth fell open, but she could not speak.
“Somehow, it still corresponds with the flow of time as you know it. I know that because, watching the people, they don’t seem to be moving at a slower rate, they simply take longer to do things.”
She was about to ask him ‘how?’ but then she remembered.
He wouldn’t know. He doesn’t know how the curse works, after all.
Judging by the clock, an equivalent of five hours had passed so far–from the book castle to the jester, to the termites and back again with the nutcracker, to Clara and the attic. Now here. If that were so–
The nutcracker finished her thought as if reading her mind.
“If it makes you feel any better, you still have plenty of time to fix things before that world wakes up and they find Olivia gone.”
His assertion offended her. He had her completely figured out so quickly?
“Why would you think that would be my only concern?” she asked, her voice severe.
Armand did not hesitate with his reply. If she believed he could laugh, she thought he might have done so then.
“You’re selfish.”
He turned and walked away, just when she’d gotten the mind to tell him a thing or two about being selfish. But what would be the point? He’d argue with her and force her down until she had nothing else to say.
Yes, you’re learning, she told herself. Somehow, the thought didn’t comfort her.
Chapter Fourteen: The Smell of Greed
1
The Shaman was rumored to have eyes everywhere–in every room; in every crevice of this house. Armand seemed to hope this was true, while the very same thought made Anne uncomfortable. To think that one could know everything by simply watching was unfathomable, but that was the Shaman’s game.
As the nutcracker understood it, when a toy–or rodent–came to the Shaman asking for his infinite knowledge, he would tell them what he required in exchange for what he knew. When the client provided the Shaman with what he asked, he would be happy to share his wisdom.
Armand knew that he shouldn’t be seen with Anne by anyone, but he also wasn’t willing to let her out of his sight now. It was for this reason he had insisted that she take down her hair and keep her distance from any onlookers within the Shaman’s realm.
It hadn’t been long since the mice had been after her in the attic, and the nutcracker hoped that it was still too soon for the mock–oracle of a toy to know that the two of them were together. His intention was for the Shaman not to recognize Anne as anything but a doll, for if he did, there was no way to know who the information would be shared with.
Armand knew he was already taking a huge risk by going to the Shaman himself and being seen openly by one who–if the rumors were correct–most assuredly knew who he was, but he had plans to protect himself and imagined it was worth the risk. He had to know about his enemy.
Anne trailed near him now, and he examined her as she walked along with the marble. He noted her slight unease. With her long hair hanging around her, it was almost hard to tell that she wasn’t simply a doll. Almost. Still, if the Shaman was a sharp as he’d been told, that toy would know the difference. That toy would also most assuredly try to find out anything that he could about Anne and Armand himself while they were there, in case he might need it later in another instance.
Armand couldn’t let that happen. It was best that Anne stayed quiet no matter what.
At a sight in the shaft above, the nutcracker’s thoughts halted and his reflexes took over. His mind triggered his arms to act. One hand reached out and clamped around Anne’s arm, drawing her in with an iron grip. When she was against him, the other hand shot to her mouth. She’d managed to make a little sound of surprise, but it didn’t seem enough to wake them.
He’d probably jerked her too roughly; he knew that. But there was no time to shower the woman with concern. The silence settled around them a moment before he lowered his mouth close to her ear.
“Stay close to me and keep quiet. They’re asleep.”
The nutcracker did not expect her to know what he meant. He simply expected her to obey. She would. This one was getting smarter. He took the cat’s eye from her until it nearly went out, and then placed it back in her hands.
Armand took her arm again–much more gently this time–and the two of them started off through the dark slowly.
2
Anne heard the nutcracker’s instructions easily, but they confused her. What was asleep? She saw nothing but darkness now that he’d all but extinguished the light. Still, she knew better than to open her mouth and argue with him.
I need him. Yes, without him she’d likely be dead.
Anne looked around herself cautiously, somehow feeling safer–hidden–beneath her own hair. Leaning against the metal ridges of Armand’s side also made her feel protected, though she wasn’t sure why. He could have easily crushed her there if he’d gotten the notion. She didn’t think he would. Trust? She wasn’t sure she’d go that far.
The pace that the nutcracker had chosen was scaring her even more. Moving this slow meant that whatever was there was very dangerous indeed. He said they’d been sleeping.
She turned in further toward Armand, careful not to step on his feet. It was like some sort of odd dance. He put his arm around her, holding her in. Yes, this was much better. If she walked along the same path as he did, she surely wouldn’t make any mistakes.
She leaned her head against his wooden chest, her eyes darting around before her in what looked like a clear stretch. The fact that she couldn’t see what she was being cautious of made her teeth clench harder together. Her eyes squinted, not wanting to see anything that might jump out at her. She couldn’t close her eyes completely, for she truly would lose her balance. Just doing the only thing she could do–letting him support her–she moved on.
And then a strange sound from within the nutcracker pulled her attention from her invisible fears.
Anne pressed her ear harder against him, making sure the sound was not simply her imagination. She understood then that she hadn’t imagined the sound, just as she had not imagined this world.
Th–thump. Th–thump.
He has a heartbeat, she realized, her mind racing off on a different track. But that’s impossible!
Abruptly, Armand swung her backward, pulling her off her feet to force her behind him. She gasped a little, but managed to control her voice. For the time, she completely forgot about the sound of a heart beating inside his wooden chest. What had happened?
He guided her a different way and started forward again, and as they passed the spot he’d pulled her from, Anne saw it.
Feet.
A pair of wooden feet dangled from the ceiling of the shaft, her face passing only a short distance from them. They swayed gently, giving the impression of a person hanged, drifting with a rope that she didn’t see. Her eyes trailed up the legs and into the darkness as she passed. Those legs led to a body, and from the body, branched arms. Above all that was a head, tilted down against the toy’s chest, limp and lifeless. Attached strings supported the weight of the toy–the puppet.
