by K. Z. Snow
Fanule and Will looked at each other and grinned.
Chapter Fifteen
THEY set out well before nightfall so Fan could more easily guide his horse and wagon down the largely unused and overgrown Beavertail Drag. At least the weather was clear, and sunlight filtered where it could through the trees’ dense crowns and overhanging branches.
Talk was minimal. Will asked questions. Fan answered them.
“Should we stay together or split up once we get there?”
“Stay together, I think.”
“Is there a possibility Clancy will show up?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He might even bring Simon with him.”
Between these scraps of conversation, they had nothing to listen to but the monotonous thump of hooves, the jangle of tack, the stuttering creak of the cart’s wheels. Birds chattered overhead. Small creatures rustled through the underbrush.
“Are we going to return this way?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Will’s thoughts kept circling around the road called Seagrass Lane, at the end of which their destination lay. He thought he might’ve detoured onto it last year as he was making his way to Hunzinger’s Mechanical Circus, although he couldn’t remember why. Maybe he’d been lost and in need of directions, or hungry and desirous of a meal. Maybe he’d hoped to sell the remaining tonic he carried in his wagon. In any case, it was Simon’s mention of that old fishing village that had piqued Will’s memory. He distinctly recalled being lured by the buildings he’d spied in the distance as he’d trundled along Foamwall Highway.
Seagrass Lane, yes. It was a road of packed dirt, pebbles, and clamshells overgrown with spindly weeds. Both sides were sparsely strewn with abandoned shanties and outhouses, the decrepit carcasses of boats, and the rotted remnants of nets, their strings dangling like dripping milk against the wheat-colored dunes.
Sand had swept over everything in deceptively graceful waves.
Seagrass Lane wasn’t easily navigated by a team of horses pulling a showman’s wagon. Given its desolation, there’d been no reason for Will to proceed. He’d finally turned around at a wide spot in the road where the rickety hulk of a general store leaned toward the west, its rusty tin signs clattering pitiably against decaying wood.
So he’d never made it past the stealthy shift and crawl of the dunes, never seen any newer buildings rising like arks from those dry waves. He wished now that he had.
Darkness had just begun to fall as horse and wagon came to the end of Beavertail Drag. Fan’s timing had been perfect. When the railroad tracks appeared ahead, he hugged the tree line and followed the tracks to the north. As he’d predicted, their destination was easily recognizable. Fan swung a short distance into the woods, stopped, and tethered Cloudburst to a tree. The gelding would have plenty of lush, dewy greenery to munch on while he waited.
A soft glow bloomed from the other side of the rail bed, although no buildings were visible. The light could only be coming from the compound Twigby Hartshorn had been fortunate enough to escape and Will had been unfortunate enough to miss.
Fan and Will quietly walked the quarter mile to the railroad tracks, crossed the main line, then passed behind a lone boxcar sitting on the spur. And there, at the foot of a low incline, was the compound at the end of Seagrass Lane. The sea itself lay roughly two miles to the east; the dilapidated general store, maybe half that distance.
Fan grabbed Will’s arm. They sat on the embankment to reconnoiter.
Aside from a stable, four buildings—two on the right and two on the left—were all that made up this dreadful place. Low-burning gaslights, similar to the ones on Purinton’s streets, were set at regular intervals before the two-story structures. Plank sidewalks ran around their perimeters and also connected each pair. Three of the buildings were clapboard. The fourth, built more sturdily of brick, had a chimney that sent a wide plume of smoke into the air. Will surmised it was a plant that generated electrical power via coal, since Hunzinger had a similar plant south of the Mechanical Circus.
The compound looked deserted. Wagons were parked here and there, but no people moved about and no night watchman’s lantern washed light through the rooms of the so-called warehouses. All were dark. Will felt a spring of hope that luck was with them. It didn’t matter if a man or two worked within the power plant. He and Fan didn’t need to sneak in there.
Large white numbers, 1 through 4, were painted on the buildings’ exterior walls. Will nudged Fan to get his attention. As he pointed to Building 4, he mimed tilting a bottle to his lips and drinking. It was there Dr. Bolt’s Bloodroot Elixir originated.
Fan nodded in understanding, then pointed straight to the east. A small guardhouse, its interior flooded with light, stood beside what was obviously the main gate. Will could clearly make out the figure of the man within.
Fan turned his head and whispered against Will’s ear. “We can only use our lanterns in the western rooms of the buildings, and we must stay away from the windows facing the courtyard.”
The warmth of his lips and soft scratch of his whisker stubble set off a spangle of sparks in Will’s groin. He, too, turned his head and impulsively sealed his mouth to Fan’s. They gave in to the kiss for a brief, indulgent moment, their tongues darting out to meet, before the most astonishing words drifted inaudibly from Will’s throat: “I love you.”
Fan didn’t hear them, and Will was instantly relieved. He didn’t know what had possessed him.
He distracted himself by studying the guard, although it was impossible to make out the man’s age and build from this distance. He shouldn’t pose a problem, though. Will suspected he spent most of his shift either sleeping or keeping a semi-watchful eye on Seagrass Lane. It was, after all, the only approach to the compound. One would have to be riding a camel or driving a rare and costly, as well as loud, sand steamer to get there any other way.
Unless, of course, one didn’t mind jumping on and off freight trains or negotiating the neglected road through the woods on the other side of the tracks.
After Fan gave a nod to Warehouse 4, they scrambled down the embankment on their rumps and approached the door on the west side of the building—another blessing. If all four of these rectangular structures had a door on each side, Will and Fan could enter and exit with minimal risk of being spotted by the guard.
It was apparent Hunzinger had never expected uninvited visitors at this grisly extension of his Circus.
Fan had brought two skeleton keys, one of which came from Ape Chiggeree. Simon had slipped Fan the second key before they’d left Taintwell. If neither worked, they would have to climb in a window. Will checked his pockets for the camera and plates as Fan attempted to open the door lock. With a click that sent out an alarming echo and made Will’s heart leap, the lock disengaged.
A fetid odor that rivaled the tanneries’ seemed to balloon out the door. It bore an unmistakable similarity, albeit in more concentrated form, to the smell that wafted from each bottle of Dr. Bolt’s elixir. Grimacing, Fan and Will simultaneously lifted their kerchiefs over their noses, lit their lanterns, and began to prowl.
This building was indeed the brewing, bottling, and shipping center for Dr. Bolt’s. Crates on pallets took up a portion of the ground floor. The rest was given over to tables and conveyor belts that seemed set up for labeling and boxing. Hunzinger probably imported his bottles from a special manufactory.
Will took only two photographs. The more incriminating part of the operation, he figured, was upstairs.
He was right. It was on the second floor that the stuff was blended and bottled. Although Will had to fight off gagging at the putrid smell, he tried to keep his wits about him and capture a couple of good images.
Hideous, imagining what was in those vats and copper boilers, what flowed through those ducts and pipes and funnels. The cartons stacked about in groups contained empty bottles and the elixir’s more inoffensive ingredients, but there was nothing innocuous about the thick-walled vault cool
ed with blocks of ice. Will glanced at Fan and saw the skin around his eyes pucker when they pulled open the vault’s door.
Will took a photograph of the dated bottles of Mongrel blood. Fan put one in the sack he’d brought, which already contained an empty bottle and a label.
They exited the building through the same door. Rather than cross the open courtyard, they crept along the railway embankment to the other side of the compound and entered Building 3.
It was full of rooms—examining rooms and operating rooms and recovery rooms, or so Will deduced—and many of them were full of equipment. Medical and mechanical and even photographic equipment, and apparatus Will couldn’t identify. There were shelves and cabinets lined with instruments that glinted when the dim lantern light touched them. And strange metal parts that glinted, too. There were sponges and bandages and splints, bottles of alcohol and chloroform and opiates.
The rooms were all fitted with electric light bulbs, which certainly suited their terrifying purposes.
“Thank goodness nobody’s in these beds,” Fan whispered in one of the rooms.
It must have been his greatest fear to find a Mongrel hacked to pieces and stitched or wired or bolted back together, custom-made plates forming a metal carapace over parts of his body. Will wondered how Hunzinger had planned on keeping his Demimen quiet. By cutting out their tongues? Capping their mouths or gluing them shut?
Will took more photographs in Building 3 than he’d intended. He only had two plates remaining when he and Fan exited through the east door and entered the west door of Building 1.
This and the power plant were the structures closest to the main gate. Will and Fan had to keep themselves oriented so they wouldn’t carry lit lanterns into any rooms facing either the courtyard or the guardhouse. They poked about what appeared to be offices, with people’s names and positions stenciled on the doors’ frosted-glass panes, so they were likely in the administration building.
One office near the rear yielded the most incriminating evidence of all.
The entire south wall was lined with full-body photographs of naked Mongrels. Front shots and side shots and rear shots. Fan looked stricken when he saw them. “They’ve all gone missing or been arrested,” he whispered as his gaze moved over the images. Each series of four was divided in the middle by a piece of paper with typewritten notations. On the upper half were the Mongrel’s name, gender, age, ratio, height, weight, and current place of incarceration. On the lower half, the most shocking bits of information. Testing read the top line; at the opposite margin, spaces labeled “Date Scheduled” and “Done.” Then Prep, with the same corresponding spaces. Then Operation, with spaces for date, time, and room.
The final line on the page was perhaps the most dreadful: Exhibit.
Will stepped back and took his last two photographs.
He and Fan were about to leave the building—they couldn’t rifle through desks and file cabinets without considerably brighter light—when Fan swept his lantern over a desk near the door. He lifted a piece of paper and read, his brow furrowing as he did so, then motioned for Will to join him.
Need new trial subject without powers.
Superintendent contacted, 23rd
A.H. approval, 24th
EA notified, 24th
His face sternly set, Fan slipped the note into his pocket. “Let’s go,” he murmured.
AFTER placing his canvas sack in the cart, Fan drew Will into his arms and held him close. “Thank you,” he said, then kissed Will’s hair.
Will closed his eyes. Puzzling words again burbled up in his mind: I love you. I’d do most anything for you. This time, he said nothing but “You’re welcome, Fan.” He knew his emotions were running high, and he must guard against misinterpreting them.
They lumbered back the way they’d come, their lanterns hanging on iron rods that extended from the wagon on either side of Cloudburst and helped both horse and driver see their way. The journey through the dark wood seemed to take forever. By the time they got back to Fan’s house, they were exhausted. But the little wagon had to be unhitched, Cloudburst had to be put up for the night, Fan had to empty the canvas sack of the items he’d made off with, and Will had to find a safe, dark place for the camera and photographic plates. Ape Chiggeree would develop the pictures in the morning.
Fan dropped onto the sofa and briefly covered his face with his hands. Will sat beside him. When Fan lowered his hands, the left immediately found Will’s right and grasped it. He gave Will a weary smile, laden with more affection and gratitude than Will could ignore. More feelings stirred. He couldn’t seem to quash them.
Before he could move closer to his lover, Clancy Marrowbone glided into the room.
“I’m surprised you didn’t join us,” Fan said to him.
“Ah, but I did. You simply didn’t notice me.” With his usual laconic air, Marrowbone folded himself into a chair. “I was only there in the event you needed help, but you appear to have done quite well without me.”
“Where’s Simon?” Will asked.
“At our place, asleep. He’s feeling glum. You’d think the poor man had been castrated instead of having lost a rather odious job.”
“It’s all he’s done for years,” said Will. “I think he defined himself through that odious job.”
“Redefinition is a part of life, Will,” said Marrowbone.
“Where is ‘your place’, anyway?” Fan asked the vampire.
“In addition to my sleeping ground—and of course I won’t tell you where that is—I also have a room at the Graybanks’ boardinghouse. They’re quite fond of me, you know, since I spared their twins the ordeal of branding. I needed a room for entertaining guests, so I got one there.” Marrowbone cocked his head. “As it turns out, Simon has been my only guest.”
“You’re fond of him, aren’t you,” Fan said gently.
Marrowbone blushed. Incredulous, Will stared at him. For whatever reason, Will didn’t think any vampire, but Marrowbone in particular, could blush.
Clancy sighed. “I can’t, for the long life of me, begin to explain why.”
Fan gave Will an amused glance and took his hand. “Now it’s time for us to retire to our place.”
“You mean…?” Will pointed over his shoulder at the bedroom. He’d expected to sleep in his caravan, for he hadn’t been invited here. In fact, he’d been told to stay away.
Fan chuckled softly. “I swear, your humility can be as maddening as other people’s vanity.”
THE following ten days were, for Fanule, a time of revelations and realizations. Being the Eminence of Taintwell meant more than having an honorary title and a position that came with little responsibility. Being the lover of Will Marchman meant more than having an appealing young man at hand for the sake of physical pleasure. And being a Mongrel or a Pure meant nothing.
Old definitions disintegrated and new ones took shape as Fanule plotted a course toward Taintwell’s, and his own, future.
Redefinition is a part of life.
He organized evidence: recorded on paper his own experiences and observations; took statements from William and Simon to supplement the stack of statements he already had from Taintwell’s residents, including Twigby Hartshorn; gathered together the physical proof of abuse, either actual or planned—the photographs and bottles, diagrams and notes. William helped him with everything, including the conduct of his own life.
“You must stop now and eat,” he would say in his mild but firm way, or “It’s time to take your tonic,” or “A short nap won’t set us back.” They exchanged touches whenever they were near each other—gave fingers a quick squeeze, delivered an appreciative rub to a rear end, lightly caressed back or arm or thigh. Each touch was a connective charge, and their lovemaking, whether impromptu or expected, revitalized Fanule.
He drew up a list of demands based on his recent discoveries as well as Taintwellians’ longstanding and ongoing complaints. He contacted Mr. and Mrs. Stitch, proprietors of a larg
e hotel at the southern end of Whitesbain Plank Road, to arrange for use of their meadow. He “fed the grapevine” in Taintwell by asking Ape Chiggeree and several other prominent citizens to spread the word about an event he was planning. It wouldn’t have been prudent to put a notice in the newspaper. Anybody could read The Well, but not anybody could become privy to news that was murmured from neighbor to neighbor. Taintwellians kept the fruits of their grapevine within their community.
Finally, Fanule sent letters to the Lord High Mayor of Purinton and Mr. Alphonse Hunzinger, inviting them to a meeting “on neutral ground.”
Our small conference will take place outdoors, he wrote, just after nightfall in the meadow across from the highly reputable White Inn on Whitesbain Plank Road. Here, beneath the shelter of an open-air tent at a location that is neither in Purinton nor in Taintwell, none of us will feel at a disadvantage. Our ease should allow us to engage in civilized discourse. I have proposals you might find of interest. Feel free to draw up and present your own.
I urge you both to attend. Our accommodations will be simple but sufficient. Be aware, however, that any show of strength or implication thereof, either on the ground or in the air, will result in the abortion of this meeting and leave me with no choice but to resolve certain matters as I see fit. Your refusal to appear will yield the same consequence.
You have nothing to fear from me. It is not my intent to harm anyone. I seek only to foster a happy coexistence between the city of Purinton and the village of Taintwell. Be assured I speak for all my constituents, who wish for nothing more than peaceable and respectful intercourse with their Purintonian neighbors.
Yours in trust,
Fanule Perfidor
Eminence of Taintwell
Will helped Fanule with the letter’s composition.
Of course, the Eminence hadn’t been completely forthright about the purpose or circumstances of this meeting. Honesty would’ve been self-defeating. What’s more, neither Pushbin nor Hunzinger deserved honorable treatment. It was true Fanule had no intention of harming anybody, but he fully intended to come with his own show of force. He just wouldn’t reveal it unless he had no other choice.
