The Lost Codex

by Lyons, Heather

  “I will do anything I can to aid Victor. You know this.” My squeeze assures him that I am with him, that no matter what we find within, I will always be with him.

  Our new surroundings is a showcase in dichotomies abound: rough, stone walls but gleaming tile floors; wooden tables whose better days are now ghosts, littered with a mixture of both modern and Victorian medical equipment; bottles and jars filled with liquids and specimens crowd shelf after shelf; lightbulbs smashed upon metal carts but no signs of lamps.

  “Have you been in here before?” I ask quietly.

  He shakes his head, wincing afterward. Both hands grip his forehead as his breath quickens.

  “You need to rest.” I continue to gently stroke his hair as I take in our environs. “I’ll have a look around while you do so.”

  An argument touches his lips, but dies before it goes anywhere.

  As I have heard no screams or sounds of struggling, I assume our companions have not unearthed any surprises. I place a blade in Finn’s hand before shoving a table against the wall where the door once was. Then I cautiously make my way through the shrouded chamber.

  When I have located a simple cot, Grymsdyke and Sara materialize out of the gloom. “The room is clear, Your Majesty.”

  I flip through the stack of books propped on a chair next to the bed. Medical texts mix with poetry. “Anything of note?”

  The Spider coughs, fluttering Sara’s glossy black strands. “The reek of death haunts this space.”

  That it does. The faint undertones of decomposing flesh, of alcohol and blood and bleach, sting with each breath drawn.

  He continues, as Sara continues to survey, “There is a door at the end of a hallway, hidden behind a curtain. A solid, proper door. As it is closed, and there are no visible cracks, let alone light shining through, I was unable to look within.”

  “Any sounds of note?”

  “Yes,” Sara says, “but they are more mechanical than anything else.”

  “Show me.”

  I follow the pair down a narrow hallway, also obstructed by a dark curtain. My grip on the stolen dagger is tight as I push aside the second bit of dusty cloth. Grymsdyke’s description of the door is apt.

  Oh, what I would do for a proper Wonderlandian doorknob right now.

  I press my ear against the cool wood and listen. Vivid memories surface, of the time I rode within an ambulance, of when I was attended to by medical professionals after the Piper destroyed a catalyst within the Institute’s walls. Quiet hisses of whoosh-thump, whoosh-thump, alongside a steady yet faint blipping, accompanied me during the drive to a local hospital. I focused on the audible patterns, willing them up and down, in a meaningless effort to hold back the madness and grief born from Finn’s supposed demise that threatened to swallow me whole.

  Whoosh-thump. Whoosh-thump.

  Might there be modern medical equipment behind the door, in a hellish place such as Koppenberg Mountain? Something that could aid Finn?

  I grip the curved metal handle of the door, and slowly depress the latch. The door, unfortunately, is locked.

  “I also tried it,” Sara whispers. “I listened for sounds of active life, but there were none to be found.”

  We retreat back into the main chamber. “Do you know of this place?”

  “Not really. Before he was dragged away to the dungeons, one of the others said there is nothing but death beneath the mountain.”

  We find Finn standing, albeit unsteadily. The sight of him wicks my breath clean away, but not in the way it normally does.

  The blood upon his shirt has tripled.

  “Gotta find him, Alice.” His voice is raspy, once more painted with twang. “I promised.”

  I pass the lantern to Sara. Bearing both torch and lantern, she is both past and present personified. I loop an arm into Finn’s, steadying him. “And we will. But before we go further, I need to tend your injuries.”

  “I—I’m fine.”

  “Of course you are,” I lie, I pray. I lead him across the room, with Sara trailing all too closely. “Applying fresh bandages cannot hurt the cause.”

  “A lantern—there, on that table.” Sara waves the torch in its direction. “And another, nearby.”

  “Light them, please. And look for anything that can help.”

  She nods and immediately sets to task.

  I ease Finn onto the bed. “Rest a moment while we find something that can be used for your wrappings.”

  He is wise enough to not argue, especially as his body agrees with me. The moment his head comes to rest upon the thin pillow, sleep beckons. “Just a few minutes,” he mumbles. “Victor. . .”

  I press a kiss against his forehead and promptly search the newly lit room for something, anything, that might aid him. I estimate nearly a hundred bottles and jars present in the large room, but many are unlabeled. Body parts, both human and animal, float suspended in pinkish liquids, curling my toes and stomach. Glazed, unseeing eyes stare through the glass, unable to recount any horrors they might have faced.

  Those bottles which are labeled are done in a neat, elegant script—and in English, not German. Scraps of crumpled sheets of papers litter the floor, all bearing the same handwriting. Many recount poems, or Shakespearean quotes, rather than medical notes, leaving me wondering exactly who the mysterious doctor or scientist who works within these walls might be.

  “Do many of the Chosen speak English?” I ask Sara.

  She considers this as she sorts through the papers. “Not many. There is a woman with purple-pink hair who does.” Her lips tug between her teeth. “Sometimes, when it gets unbearably lonely, I talk to her. She likes books, and is from modern-day New York. Her name is Jenn.”

  I let out a small laugh. “We are acquainted. When Mary and I attempted to question her about the Piper’s association with the New York Public Library, she took offense and shot at us for our troubles. I must admit, it did not go well for Ms. Ammer.” I pause. “Much like you, she was confined before journeying here. Last I was updated, she was in prison, awaiting trial for both attempted murder and destruction of public property.”

  Sara does not laugh, too, though. Instead, unnecessary guilt cloaks her, as if she is not allowed to find comfort and companionship in a hellhole, even with a murderous woman like Jenn Ammer.

  Sara rolls a corner of one of the papers into a mini scroll. “You and Mary seem to get along well.”

  I sort through several bottles on a shelf. “I suppose we do.”

  “Over the years, I tried so hard to get along with Mary. It never happened, though. And it wasn’t so much that she didn’t like me—she despised me, true, but she never respected me. And it cut so deeply.” Sara’s eyes glitter like emeralds in the lantern light as she gazes, unfocused, at the words curling and uncurling beneath her fingers. “I can see why she would like you, though. You’re so stubborn. You don’t care if anyone likes you or not. You probably argue with her all the time, and tell her when she’s wrong. I never did that. I tried to make myself as agreeable as possible.”

  I place a bottle back on the shelf. “There’s nothing wrong with being agreeable.”

  My assessment draws pained lines on Sara’s forehead. We continue our search in silence. Several minutes later, she whisper-calls my name. I hurry over to her side.

  “It is not much,” she says, handing me a squat jar marked Comfry Salve, “but it is better than nothing.”

  Praise Wonderland.

  She rips off the bottom half of her skirt. It is cleaner than mine, and thus more sanitary. As she tears the fabric into strips, I once more undress Finn.

  Never have I wished to sob more over the sight of a damaged body.

  The majority of his wounds are festering; some are puffy, both white and red in anger, some weep more than blood. Infection has set in. A hand to his forehead informs me his fever rages.

  Our escape has become all the more time sensitive.

  I gently spread the salve across his ski
n, and he is stronger than most, for he shows us nothing more than mere winces as he awakens from the pain. Sara passes me the strips, and as I wrap them around his abused torso, I tell her both of Harry, and of my pitiful plan.

  “Do you know any exits?” Grymsdyke asks from his perch on Sara’s head.

  “They are all well-guarded now.” She is once more chewing on her bottom lip. “Gabe . . . the Piper.” Her eyes hollow. “Whatever his damn name is . . . He knew you were coming. He let you in. I wanted to stop it, to warn you, but . . . the music was too strong.”

  I refuse to allow her to go down a path the Piper would delight in. “How did you get here?”

  “I don’t know.” She drags a chair closer and drops into it. “I was in a bathroom, chained to the sink, when the music in my head turned deafening. I blacked out. I was strapped to the bed within the room you found me when I awoke.” Shame dampens her lashes. “I am so sorry for all of the havoc I wreaked upon the Society. More sorry than you will ever know.”

  “You are not to blame, Sara. You must understand that. The Piper and the thirteenth Wise Woman possess powerful magic.” I rub my forehead, as a nasty headache has found a new home. “Let us focus, instead, on finding Victor and then a way out before the mountain’s servants set off their explosions, lest we all perish.”

  “She won’t let that happen.” Sara’s warning is little more than a whisper as she glances furtively around. “She knows everything.”

  “Which she do you refer to?”

  “The Lady of the Mountain.” Fear seizes her to her chair. “The one you call the thirteen Wise Woman.”

  “Let her dare and try to stop me.”

  “My money’s on Alice.” I glance down, surprised that Finn has yet to fall back asleep. But no, his eyes, although glazed with fever, are wide open. “Hell, she can take down giants and batshit-crazy people alike without a needing a second wind.”

  A genuine smile fights its way onto my face. “I may have been out of breath after my interactions with the giant.”

  “Interactions? Is that what you’re calling them?” His cocky grin weakens my knees. “Alice Reeve: modest to a fault.”

  He is rallying, and I fear my heart may burst over it. “You believe me to have faults?”

  My hand is claimed and kissed. “I love them anyway.”

  Amused, Sara smacks her forehead. “I never thought I would see this day. Finn Van Brunt actually allowed someone into his heart.”

  Finn weakly reaches up and swats at her, but it done with great affection. “There are lots of people in my heart. You, for example.”

  Her grin reaches me. “Not like this.”

  “I’m a prince now, you know,” he mumbles, and I want to laugh at the stodginess he attempts to feign. “You ought to assume a more respective tone when talking to me now.”

  When she giggles, I almost forget our circumstances.

  Almost.

  MY FINGERS DIG INTO the tightened muscles of the back of my neck, but it does little to alleviate the tension threatening to snap my spine apart in multiple locations. The Piper is no longer within the mountain, and thereby out of our reach. Even if he were here, current events have shown he holds the advantage. With Sara paranoid she is on the brink of rapture at any moment, Finn assuredly injured, all but Grymsdyke vulnerable toward the Piper and his minions’ infernal music, and the possibility of the thirteenth Wise Woman’s magic a very valid threat, the odds of our success are minimal at best.

  And yet try we will.

  Finn is on his feet, stubborn as always as he wanders the room. Despite the fever, he is miraculously steadier than when we entered. Could this be the result of the goose’s gifts? Or the twelfth Wise Woman’s? Nevertheless, threads of worry tug at the anxiety stitching me together. “You ought to rest and let Sara and I figure out our next steps.”

  “There isn’t time for that.” He taps the wall, which once held a door.

  His point is valid, and in normal circumstances, loafing would not be tolerated. These are not normal circumstances, though. Since meeting this man, I have nearly lost him too many times for my comfort and sanity. His bravery, so alluring and admirable, can also be more than a bit discomforting.

  I chose him. I choose him. He is my heart, my north star.

  I move in front of him, in front of the hallway leading to the curtained door, now guarded by Sara and Grymsdyke. “I will pick the lock.”

  Irritation flashes across his handsome yet battered face. “I’m completely capable of picking a lock.”

  Fair or not, I shove a stolen blade his way. “You are also capable of standing watch and holding a lantern.”

  The irritation marring his features grows more defined. He stares at me so intently that the weight of his displeasure presses against the tender walls of my ribcage.

  I dig four sticky, silk-covered balls out of a pocket and offer him a pair. “These dull any music we might encounter.”

  He does not accept the makeshift earplugs, nor does he even acknowledge them. “What’s going on right now? Why are you acting like this?”

  “Like what?” I ask coolly.

  “Like I’m fragile, or that I’ll break.” When I refuse to validate or refute, he continues, “I haven’t broken yet, Alice.”

  Yet. It’s a word I fear all too much lately. “They tortured you.” I loathe that my syllables crack, thin ice splintering beneath heavy boots. “Even the strongest need time to heal.”

  “There isn’t time—”

  “Finn.” He ceases arguing at the raw voicing of his name, the same one I scratched into my arm in my dreams, in order to break free. “Please.”

  The angry lines on his forehead soften.

  “I cannot—” Attempts at swallowing the large jubjub egg that has found its way into my throat fail. I pull my wrist out of his grasp only to claim his hand in the tightest of grips. “Please.”

  I simply cannot articulate the fear and concern threatening to consume me. It clutches my tongue, my reasoning too tightly.

  Finn’s exhalation is quiet, resigned. “All right. I’ll hold the damn lantern.”

  There is no relief to be had, though. No savoring of victory. I simply place the earplugs Grymsdyke crafted into his hand before inserting my own and then make my way to the curtained door. Sara once more rejects any weapons or earplugs, as she claims she constantly hears the music, anyway. It takes very little time to pick the lock.

  A shroud of gray and black looms before us. Shadows crawl about stealthily, desperate for the light from the lantern in Finn’s hand. The stench of decomposition is strongest here, so much so that the contents of my stomach reach my throat.

  Slabs filled with near a half-dozen hacked-up corpses in various stages of decomposition resting in vats of ice line the walls.

  Finn stills as he stares at the shells of what once were.

  I wish there were words of assurance I could offer, but as I trace each face, each hand, each scrap of remaining clothing, none come. Together, we search for the one face we undoubtedly both pray will not appear.

  When Finn removes the earplugs, I follow his lead.

  Whoosh-thump, whoosh-thump.

  My prayers turn feverish when I spot a small table at the end of the slabs that holds a pen, an open copy of the Institute’s book, and a familiar bag.

  Finn angles the lantern toward the darkest corner of the room. Cold radiates from it, but when I shiver, I am certain it has nothing to do with temperature.

  Grymsdyke whispers in just the way spiders can, a Diamonds military prayer. “Allow us to go forth into the unknown and know that our day, our lives, change, and that we have made our peace with our fates.”

  Finn pushes forward into the veil. Sara, Grymsdyke, and I follow, my blades at the ready.

  Another slab appears, titled at a forty-five degree angle. Upon it rests a rectangular metal box packed with ice and another mangled body attached to dozens of tubes.

  I close my eyes. Order myse
lf to steady my breath, to cling to strength and reason.

  Sara whispers, “Sweet, merciful God in heaven, no.” And Finn . . . His voice shatters into a thousand shards when he says his brother’s name.

  The person before us is not entirely Victor Frankenstein Van Brunt, though. His face, yes—hair shaved haphazardly, some strands long, some missing entirely; stitches unevenly lining his forehead and neck. I cannot be certain that it is his torso we see, but I know one of the arms is not. Victor bears tattoos on both biceps; the body before us has one arm completely bare of any adornments. One leg is dark-skinned. Thick, black thread embroiders jagged lines across the body, and I am reminded of the White Queen’s dolls.

  I catch Finn’s lantern just before it smashes into the ground. He has two fingers pressed against Victor’s neck, just below the ear. I hold my breath. Sara openly weeps.

  Whoosh-thump, whoosh-thump.

  There are machines next to where Victor rests, their parts beeping and moving up and down. Green lines blip across a screen that should not belong in this Timeline.

  “Victor?” Finn shakes the patchwork man. “Victor, wake up.”

  The elder Van Brunt sibling remains still, his face pale blue.

  Finn snaps, “Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

  I set the lantern on a nearby table. “No—”

  He hushes me. Sara attempts to answer, but he does the same to her while focusing on a spot across where Victor lies.

  There is nothing there, but when he nods, it’s as if he is responding to someone . . . or something.

  An uneasy glance passes between Sara and myself.

  I join him next to the icebox. “Finn—”

  My love leans his head down against his brother’s chest, over where the heart lays. “Don’t do this, you sonofabitch. Don’t give up. Don’t you go and think death is the easy way out. I’m here now, and we’re going to take you home.”

  Helplessness replaces the blood in my veins. I send Sara to fetch the other lanterns.

  Nothing Finn does rouses his brother. He continues to carry on a discussion that I am apparently not part of, nor Sara after she returns. Minutes tick by, and eventually, his administrations cease. I circle my arms gingerly around his waist, and in the safety of my embrace, he struggles to maintain his composure.