Something mysterious was going on here. I needed to see inside the cottage, if only for an instant. Finally, a warm glow came from a nearby window. I crept nearer until I could peer inside, doing my best to stay out of his line of sight.
John was in a kitchen, a small room with a table and a hearth and a few chairs. He stood with his back to me, sorting through the wolf remains, until he selected a pair of hind legs and set them on the table. I pressed one hand to my mouth, fighting repulsion as he continued to dig through the carnage, selecting first one piece of wild dog, then another, and gently placing them, side by side, on the table.
Once he had everything he wanted—though the cart was still full—he leaned over the table, examining each limb and organ in great detail. That was when I realized that the kitchen was filled with strange equipment. Saws, knives, sponges, and a number of things I’d never seen before.
He paused to slip an apron over his clothes. It was the sort of thing a butcher wore to protect his shirt from the spatter of blood and gristle. Then he turned and lifted his head in my direction. Transfixed by his odd behavior, I had forgotten to stay hidden. Our eyes met through the glass and I startled, for the expression on his face had changed so drastically that I almost didn’t recognize him.
This was no longer the impassive face of a doctor.
It was the face of a murderer, caught in the act.
Gripped by fear, I tried to run.
But my feet had gone numb and the muscles in my legs refused to listen, even though I silently screamed, run, run! I only got a few feet before the cottage door flew open, light spilling out. I could see the path I needed to take to escape. Round the side of the house, back the way I had come. Or I could head for the stable, saddle a horse and flee—although that would take much too long.
All of it would take too long, for he was already upon me, strong hand latching onto my shoulder. I spun about, remembering the fireplace poker that I still carried from the house. I raised it in my defense.
With a single blow, he knocked it from my hand.
I was facing him now and I could see the clear expression of surprise in his eyes—the madness I had seen before had vanished.
Or perhaps I had imagined it. I was still uncertain why I had followed him, especially when the nearby wood held such danger.
Perhaps I was the one who had gone mad.
“Let me go!” I cried, beating at his chest with my free hand.
“Mary!” he said, keeping his voice hushed and low.
“Let me go! You’re mad—”
“Mary, stop, be quiet, now!”
“What were you doing in there?”
“What do you think I was doing? I’m a doctor. I was trying to figure out what sort of beast did this, I was examining the wounds—”
He wrapped his arms about me, though I fought and struggled, and he dragged me inside the cottage, closing the door behind us and leaning against it. We both stood in a small, sparsely furnished parlor. John didn’t speak for a long time, but just stared at me as if he didn’t know where to begin or as if he was trying to control a great anger. When he finally did speak, his words were measured, each one coming with much thought and care.
“What were you doing outside, Mary? Didn’t you see what happened to the wolves tonight? And that beast watching you in the woods, do you think it’s gone?” His brow lowered as he stared at me and, for the first time, I saw a flicker of emotion—concern, perhaps, or maybe something even stronger. “Don’t you remember how Byron warned you not to go outdoors at night?”
I stammered, words coming out that didn’t make sense. “But you—I saw you out there—picking up those bits of dead wolf—”
“And that was worth your own life?” he asked. “I thought you were more intelligent than that.”
His last words stung, for I could not bear anyone, man or woman, to doubt my intelligence. “But your drawings,” I said. “You’re some sort of mad person, surely—”
There was a gentle smile on his face when he spoke next, or else I would have grown more frightened. Instead, I began to calm, for he made me laugh at my own foolishness. “And if I am a madman, one who would kill helpless women, should you be following me about at midnight?”
I fought the smile that teased my lips.
“I thought you believed me when I explained my drawings earlier,” he said, sadness in his eyes now. “My curiosity is that of a scientist, someone who would like to end pain and suffering. Not inflict it.”
“Then this is all an experiment?” I asked at last, although he had never said those exact words.
He paused, frowning.
I gestured toward the kitchen, covered with bits of dismembered wolves, blood dripping from the edges of the table. “A medical experiment. You were trying to determine the cause of death?”
He sighed, and then nodded. “Yes, you could say that.”
Stillness came over me, almost like a peace. It hovered over me for a long moment, during which time I remembered my sketches and how similar they had been to the ones I discovered in his anatomy journals. The two of us were alike in some way. Me, haunted by my night visions, and him, tormented by the mysterious deaths of the wolves.
Either we were both being driven insane or we were both seeking some hidden well of knowledge.
I spoke without thinking, not wondering what other dangers might lay ahead or what secrets we might uncover. A serious tone in my voice, my words came out in a puff of frost.
“May I watch?” I asked.
A long moment passed, a myriad of expressions crossed his face, from fear to concern and settling on relief. Finally, he released me, gave a short dramatic bow and then he held one arm outstretched toward the kitchen door.
“After you,” he replied.
Nine
The room was brighter than any I’d been in before, with four oil lamps burning and a full fire crackling in the hearth. A welcoming heat rolled over me and I removed my cloak, watching John as he stared down at the furry limbs spread across the table. They were from different animals, one hind leg was longer than the others and had silver fur, while the other legs were a dark grey; the torso was barrel-chested and wide and covered with black fur. I glanced in the nearby wheelbarrow and noticed that, in the leftover pieces, all of the heads save one had been crushed.
John reached into the barrow and drew out the one head that was still intact, jaws swinging open as he carried it to the table. I recognized it immediately. This head had landed at my feet when I opened the front door.
I stepped back in horror, afraid its jaws were moving of its own accord.
“Don’t worry, Mary,” John said. “It’s only a reflex. Before long, the joints will stiffen, but for now they move easily. The beast is dead. But watch this.”
He took a stick and prodded one of the wolf’s legs. It flinched, as if trying to get away from the stick.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“I’ve never seen this before, except when applying an electrical current to dead frogs—like the work done by Dr. James Lind—but this is why I came here. For years, I’ve been looking for the right place, the right circumstances. I thought if I got to a crime scene in time, I might discover it, but I never did. Then I heard about how every year, there were mysterious violent deaths here, in the mountains surrounding Lake Geneva, and I heard that sometimes the dead bodies that were left behind weren’t fully dead.”
He lifted his head to look at me, his dark eyes so deep that I worried I could get lost in them.
“I don’t understand. How can something be dead, but not fully dead?” I asked.
“I don’t know. But the tales sounded so close to what Luigi Galvani calls animal electricity, that I had to explore them. I convinced Byron to come here, when he decided to leave England. He knew some of the local folklore, so he thought this might be an intriguing intellectual adventure.” John watched me, his gaze moving from my eyes to my mouth, then back. “But I didn�
�t know he was going to invite you or Claire. I would never have willingly brought either of you to a place that might be dangerous.”
“I’m not afraid,” I told him, realizing it was true. “I don’t fully understand these theories, but I’d like to know more.”
He smiled and, for an instant, the room seemed even brighter. There was a childlike innocence in his expression that I’d never noticed before. Perhaps he’d been hiding it from me, just like I had tried to hide my bouts of melancholy from others.
“You were right when you said I was about to perform an experiment,” he said as he drew several items from the bag he always carried with him. He began by threading a long, curved needle with pale, flaxen thread. “I’m going to try stitching the animal back together. I don’t know what will happen, especially since I have pieces from different wolves here, but if there really is life left in this flesh, it’s possible I may be able to—”
He paused, as if he didn’t dare finish his sentence. So I finished it for him.
“Bring it back to life.”
He nodded. Then he began to sew.
* * *
The moon sailed through the night sky, checking in on us from time to time, peeking first through black forest and finally across the frosty lake. At first, John sewed long careful stitches that linked legs to torso. Then, he let me sew the beast back together too. I worked on the long hind leg, fastening silver fur to black torso, my stitches pale against matted fur. We didn’t talk while we worked, but seemed to take on a simpatico relationship; me, knowing what he needed before he asked, handing him the scissors or bringing the lamp closer; him, pointing toward an area that I missed or blotting blood that seeped from the wolf flesh before it stained my dress. Hours passed, though they seemed like minutes, and I felt like our hearts were beating as one, our breath coming in and out at the same time.
He coiled a length of rope about the wolf’s muzzle and knotted it tight, keeping the jaws locked together. He didn’t say why he did it, but I knew it was in case the beast sprang to life while we were still working.
I expected the wolf to start breathing at any moment.
Sweat dripped down my brow while I watched John finish the last stitches that fastened the head in place. We both stood back, weary, expectant. Minutes passed, silence reigned.
But the beast did not stir.
John removed his apron and I did mine, as well. He began to put his tools away, wiping them all with a clean cloth first, disappointment on his face. When he spoke, his words were heavy and unexpected.
“Why do you stay with Percy?” he asked.
I was unprepared for his question and didn’t answer.
He stared down at his instruments, placing each one gently back inside his bag. “He treats you poorly, Mary. Drinking wine, eating opium, sleeping with the scullery maid—”
I frowned, unaware until now that Percy had been sleeping with another woman. The thing I’d feared most was coming true. He was treating me the same way he’d treated his wife.
“You deserve someone better.”
I opened my mouth to speak, to say I didn’t, I deserved much worse, but didn’t have a chance.
In a heartbeat, he moved closer, sliding one arm around my waist and pulling me against him.
“John!” I said, but then his mouth was covering mine. Heat flowed between us, followed by sparks that felt like lightning; it was if I’d been thrown into a raging fire and there was no way of escape. Every place that his flesh touched mine burned with a desire I thought I’d forgotten. His hands ran over my back, his chest against mine, his lips first pressing against mine, then parting only long enough to kiss my throat and my cheek, and as if that couldn’t abate his hunger or mine, his lips were on mine again and his breath was flowing into my lungs.
He was breathing life into me, a woman who had died of sorrow and forgotten what passion was. His lips were on my neck, a kiss so long and deep that it made me want to surrender.
“John, we can’t. Please stop.” I pushed him away, my hands on his chest.
He released me then, gently, the fire subsiding, only smoke and ashes between us now.
“I’m sorry, Mary,” he said as his hands fell away from me and I was cold for their absence. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
His passion had surprised me, but hadn’t I seen it all along? That smoky look when he watched me across a room, that silence between us that seemed filled with unspoken words. Still, this was wrong. Just as wrong as Percy and I had been.
“I am betrothed,” I reminded him in a hoarse whisper, as if even I didn’t believe it anymore.
“I know,” he answered. “But you shouldn’t be. Not to him.”
I grabbed my cloak and rushed toward the front door of the cottage, throwing it open and not caring if some beast was outside, waiting to attack me on my way back to the villa. Once outside, I stooped to pick up the iron fireplace poker I had dropped earlier. I knew it was a foolish weapon, but it was the only one I had. Then I ran back to the villa, the poker clutched at my side like a sword.
My heart thundering in my ears and our words repeating over and over in my mind.
I am betrothed.
And his defiant echo.
But you shouldn’t be.
Ten
The next morning I woke with a sense of dread, knowing immediately that something was wrong. Then I remembered what had happened last night—John had passionately kissed me. And I had learned that Percy had been unfaithful. Guilt and confusion flooded my heart. My head ached and the house felt unusually cold, as if all the doors and windows had been left open, and Winter herself had been invited inside. I rose, my limbs stiff, and threw a shawl over my nightdress. My feet bare, I stepped out of my room. A door down the hall slammed shut and one of the upstairs housemaids, that tall blonde girl—Arjeta—came thundering toward the stairs, head down, carrying a satchel over one shoulder. She didn’t meet my eyes until she was beside me and then only for a second.
“You should get out of here while you still can, miss,” she said, her voice trembling and hushed. “This place is cursed.”
I latched onto her arm.
“Where are you going?” I asked. Normally I’m not fully awake until I’ve had my second cup of tea, but this morning was different. I rubbed my brow, wishing the pain in my head would go away.
“Home. To the village.” She tried to pull away from me and since she was much stronger than I, she dragged me several steps closer to the stairway.
“What do you mean this house is cursed?”
Her eyes widened with fear and she glanced about us, as if someone was listening. Finally, she answered, “The Beast came last night. It’s never hunted this close to the village before. Not in my lifetime.”
“What Beast?” I asked, but as soon as I spoke I remembered that man-beast in the forest with the glowing eyes. A shudder raced through me as I realized how foolish I had been to follow John outdoors last night. I could still feel his kiss, bruising my lips, and the fact that I had liked it brought a blush of shame to my cheeks. What sort of madness was coming over me?
“You saw the Beast, miss. I know you did. I was in the drawing room when you threw the door open. I saw how the two of you locked eyes.” She paused, an expression like sorrow on her face. “He will come for you next. Unless you leave. Go home. Don’t even pack your bags. Take one of the lord’s horses and get as far away as you can before nightfall.”
I wanted to ask more but her greater strength proved too much for me. She broke away and hurried toward the stairs before I could even speak. I returned to my room and dressed as quickly as I could, putting on thick woolen socks and my riding boots, for they were the warmest shoes I had. I also put on the pair of riding britches that I had worn when we went hunting a few days ago. They were still stained with blood and dirt, but I didn’t care. They had belonged to my father and I always wore them when I went horseback riding, much to my stepmother’s dismay. Byron was the only o
ne who understood that I had to dress like this from time to time. It helped me think clearer.
And it freed me to run faster, if necessary.
My heart was ready to flee. I could feel myself racing across fields of snow, my cloak flowing behind me, my hair undone. I didn’t bother with pins today. Instead I braided my long brown hair and let it fall loose down my back.
I didn’t know what I was going to find downstairs, but I sensed an urgency to be ready for anything.
The main staircase creaked beneath me as I descended, something I never noticed before because the house had never been this quiet. An unnatural chill bled up toward me and a moment later I discovered that the front door had been left open, just as I thought. I quickly closed it, realizing that none of the morning fires had been lit. I had been carrying my cloak over one arm, but now I put it on, heading toward the kitchen.
“Percy!” I called out. “John! Claire, where are you?”
I glanced through the dining room windows and saw the sun, peeking out from behind heavy grey clouds. Golden rays stretched toward the heavens, though none came down toward earth. Still, it cheered me momentarily. I hadn’t seen the sun in weeks.
Then I turned a corner and nearly ran into Claire, her face ashen. She still wore her nightclothes and she was shivering uncontrollably.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“The servants are gone,” she answered.
“All of them?”
She nodded.
“Then one of us must light the fires,” I said.
“There’s no wood left. Percy took it all.”
I frowned. Just the other day I had seen stacks of it in the stable. “No, there must be some left. I’ll go get it. Where’s Percy? He and John should be cutting more wood if we’re running low—” I started to head toward the side door, but she grabbed me by the hand.
“No! Don’t go outside,” she said.
“What’s wrong, Claire? And where are the men?”
Shade: A Re-Imagining of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (The Frankenstein Saga Book 1) Page 4
