by Lani Lenore
5
Sitting in the shaft, the gathered toys heard the scream ripping by them, and it sent a chill through them, every one. They sat, afraid to make any sound. The melted wax of the spent candle drowned out the flame, leaving them in darkness.
6
Traveling up the passage alone, Brooke was halted suddenly by a horrible, shrill sound that passed through the shaft like a fading spirit’s cry. The voice behind the scream was not apparent, but he knew for certain that it was Anne.
He’d been moving along swiftly through the passages to try and get to the Lady as quickly as he could, but now that this new sound had arisen, he slid on his heels and turned back, moving through the dark and toward the source of the echo.
7
Anne stared into the singular green orb that remained in Rivere’s face. There was no doubt or lenience within it. Nothing but hatred for her.
“I think we should forget about the Master,” said Rivere in a vicious whisper. “We should have her for ourselves.”
He pulled the woman off the floor with his strings, throwing her back against the wall of the shaft. The newly resurrected puppet rushed toward her as if on wheels. She felt the point of his blade–hand poking the flesh of her stomach.
“I think we should do to her what they did to Pirlipat! Let’s cut off her head. Then rip out her insides and we’ll see how they taste!” He sneered. “When we find Brooke, we’ll decorate him with her guts like garland!”
Anne closed her eyes, turning her face away, but to her fortune, Lakke stepped forward and intervened. He blocked his brother’s blade from her skin where it had made a tiny scratch, which bled off into her pale dress.
“The Master would not be pleased with us. We’re free to destroy Brooke if we want, but if we find either human female we’re supposed to bring her to him. Those are the rules. He was most generous to allow us to be repaired.”
Rivere considered this, but Anne did not open her eyes to test him. After a moment, she heard him sigh.
“Good,” said Lakke, “now let’s be on our way. If she’s here, that nutcracker cannot be far.”
Rivere nodded, and Anne felt his strings wrapping around her body tightly, squeezing her. They wrapped around her mouth, blocking out any further sound she might have made. He let her fall to the floor, hitting hard on her backside before he began to drag her away.
The quiet marionette brothers moved toward the first turn in the shaft, and inside her cocoon of strings, Anne finally began to cry.
Armand, she thought. Please. I didn’t mean what I said.
Surely he’d heard her scream, but she wasn’t sure she blamed him for not coming to her rescue this time. Even heroes get bored and fed–up.
But…he promised.
Lakke and Rivere, happy with their find and thinking of all the unpleasant things that were sure to happen to her, moved on toward the turn, but then they stopped. There were footsteps moving down the tunnel at a swift pace, and fearing that it was the nutcracker, they pulled up their blades.
The dark–haired soldier in the black coat that rounded the corner had not been expected, but he was more than welcome.
Brooke stared at his brothers–at the abominations they had become. They stared at him just the same, and smiles spread across their faces.
“Brother,” Rivere hissed gleefully.
“We’ve been looking for you,” Lakke told him.
Both blades shot from Brooke’s sleeves, and he smiled in a way that would have matched their own at one time. At this moment, he was very different from them in many ways.
“It’s good to see you, too,” he agreed.
8
Armand moved along his path–away from Anne and every way that she had burdened him. He’d heard her scream–heard the whispering laughter, he heard heard sounds of a battle behind him now, but he was moving away from that, and soon it would all be gone.
Anne did not want to be helped, and he would not be bothered any longer. She did nothing but disrupt his thoughts every moment and knock him off his course. He was supposed to kill his enemy, not be the woman’s keeper. Even now she filled his mind–her eyes and how they looked at him; her hair enveloping her; her pretty lips, her kiss. The shape of her naked body that he’d admired a while as she’d bathed.
It was only lust. Not love. Wasn’t it? How could it have been love? He’d only known her a short while. Further on, he didn’t believe in love anymore. He wanted to kill his enemy and then be killed himself. That way, he could be with Clara again–the one he’d truly loved.
That was why he needed the rat to be strong again. If he moved into battle while the Rat King was weak, Armand might actually survive. Perhaps his own curse and all the rest would be lifted once Augustus was dead, but he didn’t want to take chances. He wanted to be certain that his own death would not evade him. Letting Anne be taken was a sure way to make that happen.
She would be used for the ritual, and by which, the sorcerer would be restored. Her death would mean Armand’s death. He would apologize to her in the afterlife.
But does she deserve to die? To not have a life if she wants one?
The thought was troubling. He shoved it away roughly. Letting her be taken would suit his purposes. That was why he ignored her scream.
And because she had lied about her feelings. She didn’t care about him at all.
9
Rivere did not bother releasing Anne from his cords as he stood before his undamaged brother. He simply moved her off to the side, holding her still so that she could not escape. Lakke was at his side, and what were the chances that they would lose? Rivere could feel the rage collecting in his blades.
There were no words. Brooke attacked them, just as he had attacked them before.
Blades clanged and slid against each other, hissing and sparking. Even though there were two of the opposing, Brooke seemed to have the advantage. All their weapons matched now, but he was the one with the experience. Rivere had formerly used a chain. Lakke had used his fists and feet, which all had metal plates attached. They didn’t have the proper skill with a blade, though Brooke had to admit that they did pretty well for themselves.
They thrust their weapons at him, and he blocked them, but for all his effort, he couldn’t manage to strike them. Designs of light from the nearby vent were enough to let them see one another, but the images were distorted by twists of shadow. His brothers were fast, and Brooke failed to see the blade that swung in from the side.
Brooke’s left arm was gone, falling to the floor. There was pain, and a clattering sound as the limb hit the floor. One blade left. One blade against four. He knew he wouldn’t make it.
He hadn’t destroyed them fully in the beginning, because he’d known they could be made to walk again, and as much as he’d wanted to protect Anne, he’d also wanted his brothers to come after him. Why? Simple really. He believed they should be the ones to end him. He thought it was appropriate for them to end his life, because even though he knew what he was and that his life was false, they were his brothers. He felt for them, even though it was a programmed feeling of his role.
But on the other side of things, he’d not given up. If it was possible, Brooke would have had very little problem with killing them again. With one arm gone, however, he knew his body was not going to make it. Had he survived them, he would have fallen some other way–protecting her.
“I’m sorry, Anne!” he called out, though not knowing if she could hear him. “It was wrong of me to love you!”
Rivere’s blade pierced the wood of Brooke’s chest, holding him firm. Lakke was already swinging in, but Brooke did not bother to close his eyes. The blade rushed through the wood of his neck, and his head was off. It did not bleed.
Brooke’s head fell to the floor, and Rivere smashed the glass face with his foot, smiling wickedly as he did so, taking great pleasure in his revenge.
Lakke stood back, smiling, expecting the body of his brother to fall, and even th
ough he waited while Rivere began to laugh, Brooke’s wooden body kept standing there, refusing to fall over with dead weight. The blond brother stared on in confusion, his smile fading away. He stepped forward, raising a blade to shove the body over…
The body moved. Its remaining arm rose and slashed down upon Lakke’s outstretched limb, lopping it off cleanly with the force. Lakke yelled through the pain and horror, Rivere looked up from sufficiently destroying the face, and the headless body of their brother moved again.
Brooke’s blade hit down the side of Rivere’s face, damaging the glass that still remained there. The blade struck again, hitting only air. Lakke used his free strings to subdue the one–armed soldier, and Rivere set to work tearing him apart.
He chopped off Brooke’s other arm. He thrashed his blade into Brooke’s chest, chipping the wood away piece by piece and ruining the coat. Rivere chopped off his brother’s legs and then cut them into pieces as well. Finally, completely worn, Rivere stood back and observed what he’d done. Brooke was a heap of bits and splinters, numbering hundreds. There was no way he could be fixed. It was done. But, surprisingly, neither Lakke nor Rivere felt the relief they’d expected.
Lakke collected his dismembered arm, aiming to reattach it after they’d delivered the woman to the Master.
“Let’s go,” he instructed, and wrapped his own cords around Anne to aid his wounded brother. Together, they dragged her along.
Inside her cocoon, Anne had seen everything. She’d heard what Brooke had said. She’d seen them tear him apart. Her cheeks were stained with tears, and she’d thought for a moment that she would vomit. She fainted instead. The woman was weak from exertion and lack of food. Her will to fight had passed for the time.
And Armand was not coming.
10
Behind him, the sounds of the struggle had passed. There were no more screams or battle sounds. Nothing but silence. Armand continued along his way, moving down the shafts without a destination. The quiet settled in his ears–moved to the core of him where he felt it devouring itself.
Suddenly, he stopped, and by the distant silence, he knew it was over. She was really gone. He realized now that this was not what he’d wanted at all.
What was he doing, standing there thinking that it was alright for her to be taken and eaten alive? All he was doing by that was giving up. Once again, he was losing. He’d made a mistake with Clara before. He’d not been aware enough–negligent. Perhaps if he’d never left her alone when there was danger about…
“Anne…” he said quietly, his resolve snapping. The nutcracker turned in the passage and rushed back the way he had come.
He could not let her die. He’d promised her he wouldn’t! More than that, she was right with what she’d told him before. Everything ended eventually, and he knew he was finally going to have his peace, but he wanted her with him until he did. She made him feel after he’d not felt anything for ages–even if it was only mild irritation or sympathy. In a way, she’d renewed his purpose by urging him to hate his enemy once again. She’d made him tell her his story and remember. He’d been blindly going along his path, only knowing that he would have revenge eventually, but the zeal had left him long ago. Since he could not die, he’d had no other choice but to keep going forward.
That woman had reminded him that he was still alive, and that he would not have rest until his enemy was destroyed. He needed his revenge just as he’d thirsted for it in the beginning. But he needed her, too. He owed it to Anne to make sure she got back to her old life. Her real life.
Armand swung around a corner, looking into different tunnels where the shaft split. Every tunnel looked the same with no evidence of which way she had gone. There were no sounds that could move him forward.
He could take a chance, winding down into the belly of the house and losing himself, but that didn’t seem like the best idea. She could be dead before he got on the right track. Her captors might not have gotten far, or they might have already been lost in the tangles of the shafts. If he’d known where the rodent’s lair was, he could have gone any way he knew how in order to get there…but he did not know the way. That had been his trouble from the beginning!
Desperation set in.
Anne had been taken down into the lair of his enemy. He had no idea where to go to save her.
Chapter Twenty–Six: Loved Most; Most Loved
1
Armand stared into the dark, listening. His breathing had quickened, angry and desperate. Still, no sound came to him to give any indication where Anne had been taken. How was he to deal with this? That woman, the one that he–Admit it to yourself, Armand–loved was likely to have her head ripped off by the incisors of his enemy. With her head, everything he cared about would be gone once again.
Could he bear to let this happen a second time?
What’s that?
He noticed then that one of those shafts before him was not completely dark. From within one of them, there was a faint, green glow.
The cat’s eye.
This must have been the right way–which he would have known if he hadn’t been forcing his brain to work so hard. That passage was leading down the side of the house’s hallway, which was along the path Anne had been following those men. That was where she had gone.
He rushed toward that light, moving along until he saw the enchanted marble in the distance. He reached the marble just as it went out, but from the specs of light through the vent, he saw the scene.
The floor was littered with pieces of wood. Armand saw the crushed face, the dismembered limbs…
Brooke, he realized. Much too careless.
Armand had not understood him. He could hardly fathom the soldier’s thoughts at all. How could a toy under the same curse as all the rest completely understand that it was not truly alive–even enough to have priorities and feelings that might have been made real by that very denial?
But none of that mattered now, did it? Brooke was gone. There would be no more help from him, and that was what mattered. Armand had to let it go. Now concerning Anne…
Before him, the tunnel split in three directions. No clues. His growing sense of urgency nearly made him impatient, but something had suddenly emerged from within his mind. It was something Anne had said to him when he’d first met her–when he’d bullied her into showing him the way into his enemy’s lair.
“Isn’t there someone else? Anyone else? In fact, I know the perfect fellow. All you have to do is get him out of prison.”
Armand remembered this. There was some toy in the Lady’s prison that could show him the way to Anne. Even if the toy only took him to the wall of dirt that had obstructed the path before, he would break through it! The Lady’s kingdom wasn’t far, and even though it was reported to be in chaos, he could not avoid this visit.
The nutcracker turned on his heels to hurry away, but a heavy resistance against his ankle urged him to stop and clutch his sword.
He looked down to it, knowing that one of Brooke’s remains hadn’t simply fallen against him. This was a grip–fingers wrapped around his ankle there–and it was unrelenting. He peered at it in confusion, and what he saw there might have been the only thing to surprise him all night.
There were indeed fingers wrapped around his wooden ankle. Those fingers were attached to an arm–but that was all.
It was Brooke’s arm–perhaps the only piece of him that was still fully intact, and it was moving. More than that even, it was aware. It had reached out on its own and gripped the nutcracker’s leg, and Armand could feel the fingers moving within that hold. It was fascinating, actually. Brooke understood that he was never alive, therefore he understood that he could not possibly be dead? No other toy had the will!
But Armand had no time for this.
He reached down to pry the arm from him, but as soon as his own hand came close, Brooke’s released his ankle and gripped Armand’s hand firmly. The arm set itself against Armand’s left arm, aligning against the point wh
ere it had been split at the elbow. The fingers interlocked with Armand’s, the palm resting on the top of the nutcracker’s hand, refusing to let go. Beyond Armand’s control, the blade shot out of what remained of Brooke’s sleeve. Then it withdrew. Their two arms together had become a great and impressive weapon–a retracting blade and a metal ridge for blocking and crushing.
Armand stared down at it. He still had the use of his own fingers, though they were hindered somewhat by Brooke’s, but the extra arm was not letting go. Locked with his, it only gripped and moved not at all.
Something came back to Armand then; the last words he’d heard Brooke speak.
“I want a hand in this.”
This was brilliant–an absolute riot! The toy could not have known this… But how insane!
For the first time in many years, even in this moment of despair, Armand laughed. The sound was blood–curdling–tortured–and it rang out through the darkness as the nutcracker rushed back toward Olivia’s room faster than he’d moved all night.
2
Within Anne’s dream, thick with images she’d seen many times before, she had been completely taken into this world.
She had been dressed up like a doll. Someone had curled her long hair into ringlets. Her dress was large and full, but tight. Too tight. She couldn’t breathe. She was running. There were sounds behind her that she was fleeing from.
Then there was Armand in front of her.
He was across the span of a pale floor, fighting once again. This time, it was against Brooke’s very warped brothers. He cut them down as she watched, but once again, Armand was wounded and bleeding all over the floor.
The blood became a pool that splashed up onto her dress as she ran through it and toward the nutcracker. She moved forward until she fell, but not because she had slipped. Her legs were glass. They wouldn’t go any further.
“Armand…I didn’t mean what I said.” She heard the words, but she wasn’t sure she’d actually said them.
