The Count of the Living Death (The Chronicles of Hildigrim Blackbeard) (23 page)

“No, you don’t understand, he’s—”

“My dear, we understand everything about men. And if your gentleman is here, you should probably look elsewhere. In the meantime, why not spring us free? We’ve been rotting in here for days when we could bebou having so much fun.”

“I really don’t think I can—”

“But we didn’t do nothing, miss!” another shouted. “So what if I picked a gentleman’s pocket? In my grandmother’s day it was a respectable trade, passed down from mother to daughter. How else are we to make a living?”

“Please, keep your voice down. The guards—”

“I know where your gentlemen are,” another woman said, coming forward. “They’ve been put in the
executive suite
. You won’t find them too easily. I’ll show you the way…but I can’t do it in here.”

Mary hesitated. She was probably lying. Yet she had searched every cell and found no sign of them. And truly, what would it hurt to free a few women who were simply pickpockets and—well, that other thing?

“I have your word?”

The woman nodded, slipping her hand through the bars. They shook on it.

“You’ll find the key in that cup across the room. Pathetic, I know. We’ve been trying to fish it out for days,” she said, revealing a makeshift pole.

Mary ran over to the cup and dumped out the key.

I’m going to regret this
, she thought and unlocked the door.

The women poured out of the cell, pushing Mary aside in their haste to make as much noise—and do as much damage—as possible. Mary tried in vain to quiet them, but by now the guards were already coming. However, they no sooner entered the room than they beat a hasty retreat, as the women were hurling everything they could get their hands on, including a most unsavory bedpan.

“Let’s set it ablaze!” a woman shouted, and was quickly joined by a chorus of hellish assent.

“Come, this way,” the woman said, taking Mary’s arm.

They snuck down a hidden corridor which passed a few empty cells and ended abruptly. Mary’s heart sank. So this was a trick; there was no sign of Leopold here! Seeing her dismay, the woman gave a little smile and smacked the wall. Upon hitting a certain stone, the wall shuddered horribly. Then the stones parted to reveal—another hallway! She took Mary’s hand and led her down the pitch-black corridor, moving nimbly in the darkness.

“How can you—”

“I’ve done my time here,” she said. “I memorized every detail, in case I ever had to break out again. Or in this case, break
in
. Ah, we’re getting close now…yes, here it is.”

Mary reached out and felt the bars of a cell. For some reason she felt hesitant to speak, as if breaking the silence would reveal a dozen pairs of eyes in the darkness. The woman nudged her gently, and she called out “Leopold?”

“Mary!” he responded.

“Mary?” Ivan said.

“How did you find us?” he asked, reaching through the bars.

“I had some help,” she said, taking his hand. “Though I’m not sure how to get you out.”

“You’ll laugh when I tell you…but the secret is in your hand,” the woman said, guiding her hand to the lock.

“The secrete pi’ll layou mean this key? Surely they wouldn’t...”

The woman laughed. “Yes, the same key, it opens all the locks. Trust me, I’ve tried every one.”

Mary eagerly slipped the key in the lock, relieved to hear the familiar click as she turned it. The door swung open and Leopold rushed into her arms, nearly suffocating her with kisses (which she hasted to return in kind).

“The Death—where is it?” Ivan asked.

“We left it on the road; the coach overturned,” she said. “But I thought it had come here.”

“No, it’s not here,” Leopold said, distantly. “I can see it…it’s still there, on the road. For some reason it’s not moving.”

“Is it dead?” she asked.

“No…it’s just standing there. I can’t explain it.”

“How can you see it?”

“Our connection, I assume. I saw you both in the coach. I can see, hazily, everything it sees. Everything it thinks as well.”

“What is it thinking now?”

“About you. It wants you most of all.”

“We should go. It would be easy for them to trap us in here,” the woman said, urging them forward.

“Wait, I don’t even know your name. Who are you?”

“Better you don’t know,” she said. “My name has an unfortunate history. If you knew it, you might not welcome my help.”

“I welcome everything you’ve done for us. You didn’t need to help me.”

“Remember me for that, then. Let’s go.”

They followed her out of the blackness and wormed their way through the prison, a relatively easy task since the guards were occupied with the prison break. One final window remained, a slender portal that overlooked the river. The water would break their fall and provide cover in case they were spotted. Mary studied the woman as she pried open the window, looking for clues. She didn’t look ‘bad,’ as far as that went. So what had she done to make her identity and history a secret?

“Stop!” someone shouted just behind them.

Mary spun around and saw the child waving a pistol at them, apparently on the verge of hysterics.

“Which one are you?” Philip shrieked. “Are you
that
one?”

Leopold hesitated only a split second before responding, “yes, I’m that one.”

“Prove it,” he said, and fired.

The bullet caught Leopold right in the chest, knocking him off his feet into the wall. Mary screamed and fell to her knees at his side. Ivan leapt at the child, knocking him over and taking the pistol. Philip flailed at Ivan only to get a swift smack in the jaw. He collapsed in a heap, howling. Mary felt Leopold’s chest, horrified to see so much blood. He was dying! Whatever Blackbeard had told her, the wound was fatal—he would be dead in minutes.

“Ivan! He’s dying!”

“Impossible! Blackbeard said—”

“I know! But look!”

Ivan ran over to them, inspecting the wound (it was ghastly) and trying to speak to his brother. No response. Could the sorcerer have been mistaken in this, too?

Philip coughed and saias ghd, with evident delight, “good, it wasn’t him.”

Leopold looked at Mary hovering over him until she blurred into an impression of light. The sounds faded, became softer, stretching out into a single, radiant note. And then he died. Or if not died, something that felt, for the briefest of seconds, like a swirl of blackness overwhelming his thoughts. Then he woke up and felt quite extraordinary. Even his senses were sharper; so sharp, in fact, that he could hear the fluctuation in Mary’s heartbeat as she watched him stand up and the simultaneous hesitation in the child’s.

“Leopold! But I thought—” she gasped.

“I know—me, too,” he said. “But it’s like the time Ivan tried to kill me. I can’t die. Makes me wonder why I’m trying to tip-toe around the prison…”

“It’s
him
!” Philip said, horrified. “Or are you both…?”

“Yes, we’re both the same; you can’t hurt, torture, or kill us. But we could think of many ways to terrorize you,” he said, standing over Philip. “Now give us back the sword and kindly escort us to the prison gates.”

Philip trembled in the deepest part of his being. For all his knowledge of death he was still a child—even an infant, compared to these monsters. In a daze, he retrieved the sword and led them to the prison gates, not thinking about how he would explain this to the guards, the king, or even to himself when he came to his senses. He unlocked the gates and thrust them open, glad to see the last of them…though they would haunt him for years to come.

“Are you coming with us?” Mary asked the woman.

“No…I’ll find my way alone. But thank you. And good luck.”

Mary shook her hand and watched her go, wondering what crimes or guilt pursued her. Perhaps they would meet again?

“Where’s Blackbeard?” the Count asked. “Shouldn’t he be here?”

“I haven’t seen him since we were captured,” she said. “But no matter—is it still there? Can you see it?”

“Yes…it’s still there. Not moving at all. Waiting for us, I suppose.”

“It must be a trap,” Ivan cautioned. “Let me go first.”

“And have it kill you? No, remember what happened last time? It wants to see us divided. We’ll go together.”

Ivan agreed, however reluctantly. It took them little time to find the coach, which remained exactly as Mary had left it on a remote side street. The Death was there, too, standing with a quizzical expression before the body of some poor passerby—perhaps someone injured from the accident. Yet as they approached Mary noticed something familiar: the cloak was the exact cut of Blackbeard’s, and the hair, though glimpsed from behind, bore a striking resemblance—

“Blackbeard!” Leopold shouted.

“Ah, you’ve come at last,” the Death said. “Yes, he beat you to me. This is his reward,” it gestured.

Leopold knelt down to inspect him; Ivan stood some feet behind, face white, unable to move. The Count nodded grimly, holding the sorcerer’s wrist. Dead.

“How could he—?” Mary began.

“The same way I could kill all of you,” the Death said, flatly. “With a thought. I see all your Deaths, quivering in fear, but hungry for life. I could give it to them. Yours, especially,” it said, with a look at Mary.

“There’s only one death we’re interested in,” Leopold said, brandishing the sword. “No tricks this time.”

“No tricks? And what do you call this?” it laughed, gesturing at the circle around him. “Would you strike me down defenseless?”

“You did the same to me. And to Blackbeard, I imagine. My conscience is clear.”

 The Death glared at him, as if judging his next move. Instead it just waved his hand dismissively.

“Very well, Leopold; do your worst.”

With that it ripped open his shirt and bared its breast for the blade. Its eyes were challenging, yet behind it—or so Leopold thought—was a flicker of doubt. It knew the power of the sword. So why submit so readily? What would stop him from ending it all right here?

“Yes, do it,” Mary whispered behind him.

“If you don’t I will,” Ivan rasped.

Leopold gripped the handle tightly, judging the blow. To cut off its head or strike it dead in the heart? The heart seemed best. That is, if it had a heart…

The Death watched him with interest. Leopold began to sweat, taking a step closer, then contemplating the strike all over again. A simple stroke would do it. And yet something failed him. He hated it and wanted it dead, gone forever. He thought of Mary walking to the altar with it; he remembered being buried up to his neck in the box; and he saw Blackbeard, crumpled and lifeless a few feet away. Revenge was motive enough, it not self-preservation.
Strike the blow
!

He made ready to strike. Their eyes locked and he felt an overwhelming panic stifle his heart.
If I kill it I kill myself. We’ll both die
. Was this true? The sorcerer had never said anything about that; no, he wanted him to kill it. But no one knew what it meant to kill one’s Death. He would be the first. So was it murder? Revenge? Or suicide?

“I can’t…” he said, lowering the sword.

“Are you mad?” Mary said, almost shaking him. “You have to! You’ve seen what it’s done—what it wants to do! Kill it!”

“Mary, it’s
me
. It’s not something else. We’re the same…that’s why you believed it. Blackbeard split us apart, but it’s no different than twins sharing the same body. I can’t kill myself.”

“No, that’s just fear, or doubt, or whatever else you’re feeling. It’s not the truth! Blackbeard said—”

“Blackbeard didn’t know! He didn’t know any of this! Or else why did he cast the spell in the first place? He was brilliant, a genius, but this is beyond the mind of man. Death isn’t something you read in a book.”

“Give me the sword,” she said, ripping it from his arms. “I almost killed you once; at least this time it’ll be the right person.”

She approached the circle and met its stare, confident yet curious. The eyes, it was true, were Leopold’s. But beneath that? No, it wasn’t the same. She
felt
that before. Something was cold, alien, a figment of what Leopold should be. That’s why she could kill it. It was no different than killing a mannequin or burning a portrait. The image would die but the person, the idea, would live on. Or so sd you onhe continued to tell herself as her palms sweated and she lifted and dropped the sword. But what if Leopold was right? What if they
were
linked? What if she killed him simply to prove a point? Whatever her mind said, her heart contradicted. Her very nerves screamed out in protest.

“Forgive me, am I distracting you?” it asked her, mischievously. “Can I assume a different position? Go down on all fours? Anything?”

“Devil…you know I can’t do it,” she said.

“And you know he’s telling the truth. Kill me, if you must. But say good-bye to him before you do it.”