The Diabolical Miss Hyde (27 page)

My fists quiver. I want to poke their eyes out, watch them fall and wail and bleed. “You ain't so special,” I mutter.

This one lady must have heard me, because she shoots me a poisoned glare. Too high and mighty to acknowledge I exist, other than as some dirty object in her way.

“Aye, you.” I bare my teeth, a maniac's grin. “You ain't better than me, lady. If you got your legs sliced off and died bleeding in the mud? Your so-called gentleman would just get another, and she'd poke her nose in the air and pretend the whores ain't there, too.”

She gapes at me, dumb. And I tip my hat to her blustering fancy man and hustle on.

I stroll faster, chasing Lafayette through the crowd. He's in a hurry, thirty yards or so ahead, and I almost miss him as he ducks down a street and across a gardened square. Past the gloomy broken towers of Trinity Church, where fake beggars mimic frothing fits to earn a penny and revolutionary rabble-rousers yell about freedom and the vote and evolution, and he's heading into the dark expanse of Regent's Park.

Damn, he's in a rush. I hurry after, picking up my skirts. In the park, no one's around. The tree-lined avenue of Broad Walk is deserted, the sunlight nearly gone. The old, weak gaslights are few and far spread. Glimmering mist licks my boots, creeps under my skirts to lead me astray. In the dark, strange fairy fire dances and my bones zing with warning.

Jesus, the man's got a death wish. If this place ain't brimming with footpads and rampsmen and mad-arsed fey killers, I ain't Lizzie Hyde.

But Lafayette ain't slowing. He's practically running now, and every few seconds he glances up at the sky, searching, as if he's expecting it to crack open and swallow him. Ahead, the tall iron fence of the Zoological Gardens shimmers from the dark, a mist-wreathed mirage.

I pull out my stiletto and hold it in my hand—no need to look like easy game—and take off after him. If I lose him in the dark, it's all been for naught.

A black shape lurches from the fog, and
whoosh!
the cosh swings down.

I twirl aside on one heel. The weapon falls harmlessly, and I laugh wildly and stab with all my might.
Squelch!
My blade finds flesh. Compelled, I stab again.
Squick! squock!
and I twist and shove and the robber thumps into the ground, gurgling.

The stink rises, dirt and rotgut rum. Is he dead? Bad luck, idiot. You had it coming. No one threatens us. His bald ugly head glistens, his bowler hat fallen off. I jump on it, and kick him for good measure, and run on, blood spraying from my blade. There's something warm and wet on my face. I wipe it off with my forearm.

Strange, liberating power gleams in my heart, and I laugh.

Ahead, Lafayette's climbing the fence.

No joke.

He's scaling the fence into the zoo, leaping upwards like a monkey and swinging himself over the spikes. He drops on the other side into a row of green ferns and disappears into the gloom.

Shit. I run up to the fence and peer in, a vertical bar in each fist. The gap's too small for me to squeeze through, what with my bosoms the size they are. Eliza might fit. Me? Not a chance. I sheathe my blade and haul myself up. It's a good ten feet to the top, and my arms ache, the rough metal rips at my palms. My skirts hook on the spikes as I clamber over.
Zzzp!
Silk rips as I yank it free, and I drop into the damp garden.

Wet ferns brush my face. I giggle. This is fun. Ain't never been to the zoo.

Clouds scud, bruised bloody with the light of the soon-to-rise moon. I snap on Eliza's little blue-shaded lamp—her stuff comes in handy sometimes—and peer about in the mist. The foul stink of old straw and shit crawls up my nose. Good. It'll mask my smell from that uncanny nose of his, though I fancy he's too distracted tonight to notice me anyway.

Creature scuffles echo from the dark, whines and wordless chattering and the
craw-craw-craw
of a lonely bird. Something screeches, and running hooves rumble on the dirt. A lion roars. The animals are awakening.

A white antelope goggles at me from behind a fence.
Honk!
says he, and skips skittishly away.

“Honk to you, too, handsome,” I say gaily. He don't answer.

I take off up the main path after Lafayette, past a big
smelly pond thick with lily pads. A pair of darling little striped horses are charging about in their cage, black eyes rolling in fright. Their hooves kick up mud, splattering it over the walls. They don't have enough room to be what they are. Tension stings the air, a taste like thunder, and the beasts can sense it. Hair stands up on my arms. Something's about to break.

Iron clangs, a gate slamming. I run, the purple light swinging crazy from my belt, making the world sway. Gravel crunches under my boots. I can't lose him now.

The painted sign on this enclosure reads C
ARNIVORA
. I duck inside, panting, along a narrow brick corridor that smells of blood. It's lined on one side with barred cages, and pairs of gold-lit eyes shine at me from the dark.

The cages are small, only a couple of yards across, floors covered in straw. The beasts prowl to and fro, growling and stretching their shaggy jaws, and something's groaning, an animal in pain. Memories of Bethlem madhouse break like glass, and I shudder and try to forget. Don't know how she puts up with that hell. I'll take lions over lunatics any day.

A shadow lurches at the corridor's end. I scrabble for my blade, but it ain't no escaped lion.

It's Lafayette. Ignoring me, if he's seen me at all. He's wrestling like a madman with a cage, rattling at the lock,
bang-bong-twang!
and at last he yanks the iron-barred door open and jumps inside.

What in bleeding hell is he up to?

I run, torn skirts swishing, past the watchful eyes of prowling monsters, but it's too late. The cage door clangs shut, and locks, and I skid to a halt with a death grip on the bars and brace myself for ragged screams.

But only Lafayette's inside.

He huddles in the dirty straw, knees to his chest, shivering like the creeping death. His hands shake, fingers curled white. His face shines bright with fever. Sweat drips from his hair. He's already hurled his coat aside, and his shirt's slicked to his body like a wet second skin.

Ain't that hot in here. Eliza's the doctor, not me, but Jesus. Whatever powder Finch gave him? It ain't working.

I tear at the gate, but it's locked. He's tossed the key into the corridor, where it glimmers alone on the bricks. What's his plan for getting that back? I don't know. But he ain't inventing this as he goes. He knew he was coming here.

He's been before.

“What the hell are you at?” I blurt out. I don't go for the key. Something's weird's going on.

Now he sees me. “You shouldn't be here,” he hisses. “Go away.” Fresh moonlight pours down, dragging sweet sensation from my blood and setting his gaze afire.

“Not until you tell me what's . . . holy Jesus.” I stare, and the silver-edged night sucks my breath asunder.

Because Captain Lafayette is
changing
.

His pupils slam wide. A groan forces between his teeth, pure agony. He's shuddering fit to explode, and muscles bulge and ripple under his wet shirt, more than they've any right to. Like rats in a sack, fighting to escape.

“For God's sake, get away.” No rage in his voice. No hatred.

He's pleading with me. Begging. He don't want me to see.

In the next cage, the lions are going nuts, slavering and growling and poising to spring. Likely they got the right of it.

But I can't leave. I have to see. I
need
to.

Sinews strain in his neck. His spine arches backwards, an impossible curve. Bones pop and crackle, and he flings his bulging arms outwards and howls for blood and something's happening to his
face
. His beard sprouts thick and golden in a matter of seconds. His nose flattens and widens. Wicked teeth split his gums, spearing long and sharp, and blood spills over his chin.

His hands contort, stretching, long fingers with knobbly knuckles. His nails curl three inches long. His knee joints pop backwards with a horrible
crack!
He tears at his shirt, shredding it, and his body was always lean but now it's stretching, changing, muscles roping tight over a rib cage that narrows and elongates as I watch. His furred ears twitch, and his hair springs long like a lion's mane, tarnished with silver and gold.

He howls again, and there's a flurry of straw and torn fabric and then he's hurling himself against the cage bars, rattling them fit to snap. Silken fur ripples along his back, over his chest, down his legs and arms . . . or, should I say,
front legs
.

Naked. Inhuman. Magnificent.

I stare open-mouthed like an idiot. Captain Lafayette of the magic-hating Royal is a monster. He's cursed. At the mercy of this greedy moon, just like us.

Just like me.

It all fits. His sense of smell. The powder from Finch, a prophylactic against a curse. The odd way Lafayette acted last night, when clouds scudded away from the moon . . .

“Well,” says I, after a moment. “This is awkward.”

Laughter tickles me. This is fucking fantastic. I want to flee, scream for help like a girl. I want to stroke that rich golden pelt, howl beside him to the moon.

I want to strike that lock away and set him free.

He hurls himself against the bars again, fur bristling. His hand—paw?—swipes at me through the bars. I jerk back, and those magnificent claws miss my nose by a whisker.

He tumbles into the straw and howls with frustration and blind need.

My fingers itch. What if I did? What if I opened the door?

Would he hurt me? Kill me? Claw me aside without a thought? Or is some shred of human thing still lurking inside, the man who had all the chance he wanted t'other night to kill me—yes, or have me—and walked away?

He—still a “he,” somehow, never “it”—he's at bay now, crouching, lean muscles a-quiver. Breath rasping, tongue lolling between cruel saber teeth that glisten wet in the moonlight. Golden-lashed eyes, fixed on me . . . and still improbably sky blue.

There's a look in 'em, rage and hunger for sure, but something else, and with a jolt of ice in my blood, I realize the person inside him is ashamed.

My nails slice into my palms. What does he think, that I'll turn him in? Call men with guns to shoot him dead?

Or is he afraid I'll let him out?

Fuck it. Why should such a magnificent creature be caged?
We're all killers, when it comes down to
them
or
us
. Let him be what he is.

But he don't want that. He's shackled his shadow in iron, the way Eliza shackles me. And my heart burns with his pain.

What damage has he done, this shadow beast? How many people has he hurt, alone and hungry, the way only a beast can be hungry, that mindless, insatiable need?

I grip a bar in each hand. “Don't be scared. Can you underst—”

Crash!
He slams into the bars, spraying spit and blood.

I back off, palms outwards. “Remy, calm down. I won't hurt you.” I've never said his name aloud before. It tingles my tongue like gin. Remy. Secret, somehow, just for us. Just another thing Eliza won't dare.

He just whiplashes from the floor and charges me again.
Clang!
The iron rattles, and I sigh, frustrated. What did I think, that he'd curl up like a lapdog at my feet? That I'd bring out the man inside the beast? That he'd find new strength and overcome his curse, because he
likes
me?

I snort. Ridiculous. What is this, a children's tale? But something cold aches in my chest. What if
she
was standing here?

Around us in the moonlit dark, the zoo's going wild. Animals screech and squawk, fighting in their cages. I fold my arms and watch as Captain Wolf Thing bounces his furry frame off the walls, tries to climb the bars—no thumbs, good luck with that—claws at the floor howling, and snarls at the lions, who snarl back. Crimson flows down his snout, between his claws, through his beautiful golden pelt. He's hungry. His blood's up. He's desperate to get out.

But I can't set him free. I owe him—the human him—that much. And when the moon slinks away, and Lafayette the man emerges?

I sit, crossing my legs beneath my skirts. “I ain't leaving,” I announce. “Roar at me all you want. You won't get rid of me that easy.”

And I wriggle myself comfortable and wait.

For hours, his shadow rages. My heart beats. My eyes grow sandy. Inside me, Eliza stirs, wakeful, and I rub my aching stomach and grit my teeth and hold on. Just a while longer, Eliza. Let me be.

Eventually, the wolf-man sleeps, his drooling chin on his paws. His bristly tail twitches. His breath is rough, tense, just a wink from springing awake. I wish I could stroke him, feel those delicate furred ears, catch his breath on my fingertips. I want to lie down beside him, curl my body around his, and share his fitful slumber.

But I can't.

And eventually, when sick yellow pre-dawn grazes the sky and the swollen moon has ebbed away, he stretches, baring his belly, and gives an enormous wolfish yawn. The golden fur ripples and dissolves. His limbs shrink and straighten. His face reshapes.

And Lafayette huddles shivering in the straw, naked and streaked in his own blood.

I don't speak. I just rise and unlock the door.

Hinges squeak. He don't move. I kneel beside him, straw crackling against my silken skirts. His hair is warm and wet under my fingertips. He swallows, a tortured sound. I can smell him, blood and exhaustion and dark male sweat.

I trail my fingers to his shoulder. His bare skin is smooth fever. He jerks away, and I grab his chin and make him look at me.

Blue eyes, brimming with shame and self-loathing. My stomach flushes, sick. It ain't right. It ain't fair. I want to yell, shake him, smack his head into the wall that's already splashed with his blood and make him understand, make him feel all the years I've spent fighting for my
life,
for my
existence
in a world that don't want me.