The Nutcracker Bleeds (19 page)

The
nutcracker led her through it and into a room Anne recognized but had never
seen much of–one of the guest bedrooms on the second floor. Within the room
that was glowing faintly with wall lamps, two members of the extended Ellington
family slept soundly. Anne couldn’t see who they were, and didn’t see any
reason to care. Armand was trudging relentlessly toward the folding doors of
the armoire and she did her best to keep up.

A
foul odor–like rot–drifted into her nostrils.

The
nutcracker pulled the doors apart quietly and the smell hit with full force.
Anne covered her mouth and nose with her sleeve, nearly choking. Armand didn’t
seem to be affected. He stepped inside and she followed him, lighting up the
cat’s eye when he’d closed the doors once again. When she glanced around, she
was confused.

There
was nothing of interest here. The guests had put their bags inside, had
unpacked them with their shoes sitting out and their clothes hanging, but there
was nothing strange about it. It was just a regular armoire–save for the smell.

“Are
you sure this is the right place?” she asked, talking while she held her nose.

She
watched him take a deep breath, looking around in the armoire until his eyes
drifted upward.

“Definitely.”

He
moved off to the side and her eyes followed him. Did he actually know what he
was doing? He’d gotten nearly to the wall before she finally noticed the small,
glass bowl. Cautiously, she drifted forward. When she was closer, she noticed
that it was the same sort of contraption as with the teacups in the shafts. It
was a lift.

The
two of them got inside and Armand hoisted them upward. This lift seemed to keep
going and going, and she sunk down into the bowl to keep herself from looking
over the edge. Eventually, the lift reached as high as it would go, and the two
of them stepped off onto a long wooden shelf that ran the entire length of the
armoire. They were greeted by two candelabras with large white candles, dressed
in melted wax.

The
length of the shelf was presented as a walkway with trinkets lining the sides.
At the furthest end, Anne could see what appeared to be a birdcage.

A
light nudge on her arm startled her, but it was only Armand walking past,
telling her it was time to go forward. Curious and wary, she fell into step
behind him.

Further
examination of the ornaments along the walkway revealed them to be Christian
symbols that had been gathered from throughout the house. There were rosaries,
a crucifix, and statues of saints and the Virgin Mary that stood by
reverently–but watched her with roving eyes as she passed. Anne did her best to
keep her head down, to walk stiffly, and to hide beneath her hair. Most of all,
she tried her best to breathe through the horrible smell that was so sickly
sweet that she nearly wanted to vomit. Eventually, her companion came to a
halt.

Even
though he’d instructed her to stay behind him, Anne couldn’t help herself. She
stood close, but peered around his arm with one eye, looking to see what they
had come upon.

She’d
suspected that they were in front of the birdcage, and she was correct. There
were candles inside it, one on each side, flanking a pillow. Perched upon that
pillow past the open door of the cage was the one they’d come to see.

This
was a doll from Olivia’s room, no doubt. Anne remembered Euan giving it to her.
It was from the Orient–the white, china head of a man with a small, black
mustache and slanted eyes, set on a body of cloth. This doll had gone missing a
couple of months ago, and it had changed quite a bit since she’d last seen it.

The
girth of the toy took up nearly the entire width of the birdcage. The smell was
horrendous, reeking of spoil. The grand red robe that the doll wore was stained
and torn in places, unable to contain the width of the stretched, cloth body.

Any
food that you manage to stuff inside your body, rots.

That
was the answer to this puzzle. This doll was horribly confused in all aspects–a
Chinese doll who called himself Shaman and surrounded himself with symbols of
Christianity. But he was also a horrific glutton.

One
of the deadly sins, oh holy man. Didn’t you know?

“Ah,
a soldier and his bride,” she heard the Shaman say, looking down toward them.
“You’ve come for advice? Do you wish to know how many years you will live in
happiness?”

The
toy’s English words were clear, as if it had always been in London, painted and
sewn. Anne wondered briefly if it knew anything about its own origin. But she
kept her mouth shut.

“It’s
not that simple, I’m afraid,” Armand said, stepping a little closer.

The
Shaman shifted his eyes over the soldier, observing the strange make of his
body. His tiny eyes lit with recognition.

“Oh
I see,” the Shaman said, leaning forward a bit but unable to move much. “Yes, I
know who
you
are.”

“Then
you also know what I want,” the infamous nutcracker said, refusing to waste
time. “Do you have it?”

The
Shaman put his small, bone–white hands together–contrasting greatly with the rest
of his enormous form.

“Perhaps,”
he said, a sly smile on his pale face. “You, of course, know there is a price…”

“Ja.
Do
name
that price.”

The
Shaman could have asked for any number of things of which Armand was obviously capable,
but instead, he craned his head to peer at the owner of the grey eye that
watched him from behind the nutcracker.

“I’ll
have
that
.”

Anne
lost her bravery, sinking back behind Armand as if it would do any good to hide
now. There was a sudden fear of being chained to this stinking lout, being
forced to feed him crumbs of stale bread and let him drink wine from her hand.
She pressed her forehead against Armand’s back to shield herself from the
unpleasantness–and the stench that seemed to be growing.

The
nutcracker tilted his head to glance at the woman behind him as the Shaman
spoke on.

“A
woman of the flesh. A rare find indeed. I’d be a collector if I had the means.”

“You’re
a clever one,” Armand mused with a short smirk. “But I’m sorry. I’m not willing
to part with this one.”

The
Shaman shifted his weight and the entirety of the birdcage shook. His face
twisted in a scowl as if he’d never been refused, but the nutcracker stood his
ground.

“Then
I guess we have no deal,” the Shaman growled.

“I
guess not.”

He
turned and twisted Anne around easily to walk in front of him as they left, but
on second thought, he turned toward the Shaman once more.

“Don’t
believe that he’ll get away from me. Even if you don’t tell me, he won’t be
around to take you into his good graces. I’ll just have to find some other way
of knowing.”

They
moved again, and Anne was happy to be getting away. She wanted to run straight
to the lift, but she restrained herself. She could almost feel the fresher air
in her lungs…

“You
misunderstand me, nutcracker named Armand.”

The
voice made him stop, and with that, Anne reluctantly stopped as well.

“Do
expound,” Armand insisted, not even bothering to turn fully toward the glutton.

“I’m
neutral. Fully neutral. The toys have no problem with me, and the Rat King
receives valuable information from me. I help
myself
.”

Armand
turned back. Anne was disappointed. The Shaman released a great sigh.

“From
what I know of you, you are not one to be trifled with. And you are willing to
do a task for me?”

“Only
because I need you alive.”

The
Shaman gave a short nod of understanding and acceptance.

“Good
enough. Perhaps there is something else that you and your pretty friend can do
for me.”

“Go
on.”

“It
seems a trite matter, but it has value to me. There is a kingdom aside from the
Lady’s. It’s in disarray now. Many of the inhabitants have begun to migrate
into the Lady Sovereign’s territory. Some, however, are insisting upon staying.
A certain soldier’s lover refuses to leave as long as their princess, Pirlipat,
reigns. I need you to assassinate this princess.”

Anne
was surprised to hear the request, but this princess was nothing but a doll.
Murder among the toys sounded one thousand times better than her having to stay
here with this hideous, stinking beast. She hoped Armand would say yes.

You’re
a terrible girl, Anne
,
her self told her. She ignored it.

“I
have promised this soldier that his lover will leave with him, but the only way
I am certain to make this happen is if the princess is eliminated. She lives in
a tower with a large clock mounted on the top. I’d send one of my own agents,
but they are busy with other things, and the price is too great to ignore. So,
it seems this is now the perfect job for you.”

“I
want a vow of secrecy,” Armand insisted without hesitation, “and don’t even
think of going back on it. No matter what sort of trouble you send my way, I
will
be coming back here. If I see that you’re responsible, whatever lies inside
that great mass of cloth will be spilled. I need you alive, but I won’t
tolerate deceit. Mark my words on that.”

“Oh,
I do believe you,” the Shaman assured him. “I may be a master of truth as well
as lies, but in the end, my greatest concern is self preservation.”

Anne
nodded to herself. Perhaps she was not so different from this toy after all.

“One
more thing,” the nutcracker said, bringing her out of her thoughts. “How do I
know you have what I want?”

The
Shaman paused a moment, a smile spreading across his face. Then he opened his
mouth, twisting his lips in preparation for what he would say.

“
Augustus
,”
he hissed.

A
simple word, but if Armand’s eye have been visible, flames would have risen in
them at the sound of it.

“Now,”
the Shaman said, rocking back a little, quite pleased. “
You
tell
me
how much I know.”

Anne
glanced back and forth between the two of them, not having understood this
exchange. Augustus? Whatever did that mean? Of course, if she had to rely on
Armand to tell her, she would likely never find out.

Without
words, the nutcracker turned and walked back toward the lift, his white hair
trailing behind him. Once again, Anne followed.

1

Downstairs
on the first floor of the house, in the hall with the grand Christmas tree,
presents were piled high. Boxes were dressed in lovely ribbons and paper with
tiny nametags attached. Stockings were stuffed sufficiently. Everything was set
perfectly for another fine Christmas.

This
house’s Father Christmas had returned to bed, and because of new orders, the
dozens of mice that had watched him place every single gift had simply let him
go. They’d been watching for quite a long while by their standard of time, anticipating
the moment they would be able to take their rather large hostage. But things
had changed. In fact, it seemed that their job had been given to someone else.

But
it was not finished yet. There was more work to be done.

The
leaders moved forward and out onto the open, polished floor. The others
followed, moving rapidly and without noise. They approached the glorious tree.

One
by one, the boxes were defiled.

Paper
scraps drifted through the air as the mice scratched them away, quickly binding
any moving toys inside that had been waiting to be saved. They took every doll,
every solider. They took things that might be useful to them and their master.
Everything else was disregarded.

They
understood they were interfering with the world of the humans, but that didn’t
seem to matter to them. What would be done later was to be far worse than this.
The Master’s new pet was to see that the grand deed was done. The mice might
have been bitter over their master’s unexpected shift of favor, but they
hastened with his devious work nonetheless.

The
war had escalated. There were no more rules separating this world from the
human world. Order in the name of the Rat King would be had, and it would be
had
tonight.

2

Augustus…
Augustus…

The
swell of the word in his head brought his anger to new heights. How long had it
been since he’d heard that name? As long since he’d heard his own? Armand had
no idea. After all these years, he knew his anger still existed–it was what
drove him–but he didn’t think he’d feel it so strongly renewed until he stood
directly before his enemy.

How
many ages had passed since he’d stood, looking into the eyes of the one who had
taken everything from him? And did it matter? It had been more than decades of searching
and finally he’d found him again. When he’d prepared himself, he would go to
meet his enemy. There would be no need for words. Both of them must have known
what was to happen. In the end, there would be nothing but death.

Armand
paced away from the Shaman’s territory heatedly, out of the room and back into
the shafts, trailing along the way they’d come but not paying much attention to
where he was going. He moved unknowingly into the area where the sleeping,
nomad marionettes had been hanging earlier. It had been a serious chore to
carry Anne through their midst in the darkness–as the misfit, bladed toys had
peered about for what had disturbed them. He’d finally made it through without
a scratch on her. He, however…

She
hadn’t even asked. Of all the things she had questioned, she hadn’t bothered to
wonder how he’d saved her life. The woman was simply ungrateful. But she was
his burden now.

“Running
off without me is sort of going against what you’re trying to do here, isn’t
it?”

At
the sound of her voice, Armand stopped and turned to see her jogging up to him.
She’d twisted her hair back up, but several strands hung loose. There was a
smudge of dirt on her attractive face. The mouse blood on her dress was
beginning to smell worse, and it seemed that some of the Shaman’s stench had
collected on her. Even so, her eyes told him that she wasn’t ready to crawl
into a corner and cry yet. That pleased him.

“You
should learn to keep up,” he said, refusing to take any blame.

“So,
we’re going to do as the Shaman wants?” she asked, ignoring his pointed remark.
“To assassinate the princess he spoke of?”

“It
should be simple. Quick. And I can then get back to the matter at hand.”

“You
trust him then?”

“Nein.
Not a chance. We’ll have to be cautious.”

She
nodded shortly, and he couldn’t believe she wasn’t lecturing him about how
wrong it would be to commit this deed. Was she not the one who’d told him how
absolutely disgusting it was to not help protect his own kind? Then again,
perhaps she understood things better now than she had before. Either way, he
was helping her to stay alive and so she would keep following him and obeying
his instructions.

She
looked up into his empty sockets, seeming to await his word, but after a moment
she offered her own.

“Is
there anything else you want to tell me?”

This
was not an inquisition over his plans. She was prying into his story. He wasn’t
falling for it.
Keep your secrets.
Sure, right.

“Not
especially,” he replied.

Anne
became sullen at this. The twist of her mouth made him want to smile. He
didn’t.

“Do
you know where we’re going?”

This
caught him off guard. Actually, he’d been too caught up in his anger to think
much about it. He was still new here, only having explored a small portion of
the passages in comparison to the size of the house. Now, apparently there was
another ‘kingdom’ of toys that he’d had no idea even existed. When would it
end? This was a ridiculous mess.

“No,”
he admitted finally. “I haven’t the slightest clue.”

“I
do.”

This
sounded pleasant to his ears. She knew where they were to go? Wonderful. She
was useful after all.

But,
something about the look on her face made him unsure of her intentions. He
crossed his arms and looked down at her sternly.

“And
you
will
be taking me there?”

“I’ll
tell you, if you tell me.”

His
anger rose up like a wave of heat. He knew she was still pressing him about his
past. Why did she insist on this? Could she not leave it alone? He wanted to
strike her, but he controlled himself, even managing to keep his voice down
when he spoke.

“It
is not wise to toy with me concerning this,” he growled. “If you had any idea–”

“Well
I guess I
don’t
.”

The
last shred of his tolerance fell. His hand shot to her throat, gripping the
rough material of her collar and jerking her forward, pulling her off the
ground. He leaned down to be face to face with her, the slits of his eyes
narrowing. He felt huffs of warm breath against his face as she breathed
angrily through her nose.

“If I
had any mind to tell you–which I don’t–we both know what would happen. You
would ask questions. It would go on and on, back and forth until you’d heard it
all. And after that, you’d realize that my business doesn’t concern you or
matter to you at all. So what would be the point of wasting my breath?”

He
let her consider this, but she didn’t dwell on it for long.

“That’s
not why you don’t want to tell me,” she accused.

“Well
I guess that if it’s not adequate for your satisfaction, I’ll just have to kill
you.”

That
shut her up well enough. There was uncertainty in her eyes for a moment, and
then disbelief. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her. Without words, she was calling
his bluff. He’d chosen to protect her, but why? Why this meddlesome woman and
not Olivia instead? One who chided him instead of one who offered nothing but
affection? Simply to keep his enemy from getting to her, of course. If Armand
had killed her and chopped her into tiny pieces and devoured her, then no one
would have her, would they?

What’s
wrong with you?
his self asked.
It’s your anger making you act this way.

His
self was right. Those were not serious thoughts of destroying her. She was
irritating, but she didn’t deserve to die–as Olivia did not. They were innocent
in all this; the only lives that mattered here. More than his own. They had
real
lives.

Anne
stared at him boldly as he held her there. She did not attempt to get away. She
was afraid of him, oh yes, but she had swallowed that fear. He managed to have
a small ounce of respect for her at that.

How
long had it been since he’d been so close to such a pretty Frau? A real one,
not counting any child that had ever held him? Any one of the other wooden
abominations could only dream of being so close. He could feel the warmth of
her skin on his fingers through the cloth where he gripped her collar. Did he
really have that self–control that he thought he did? If he’d desired–truly
desired–a firm jerk would have ripped the dress to pieces. He would be as those
other abominations that wanted her.

But
he couldn’t do that to himself. His existence was torture. He didn’t need to be
reminded. Still, perhaps not all was for naught.

He
leaned in and stole a kiss off her flesh lips. Just one, starting at the bottom
lip, moving upward to taste the top. And then it was over, but it lingered
across his mouth as he released her and walked away. He hadn’t cared to observe
the look on her face, or how it was too quick for her to resist. It had been
simple and meaningless, but for now, he was satisfied.

3

Behind
him, Anne touched her lips. There was dampness there. Not hers; he’d left it.
His lips had been firm but not completely solid. She should have expected that
from watching him speak so fluidly. But that was all beside the point. How much
more insanity was there in this nutcracker? To threaten to kill her and then
decide he wanted to kiss her instead? But perhaps the kiss was simply for spite
because she’d not welcomed it. Another way of exerting power over her?

She
tried to get angry. She tried to convince herself that she’d been wronged–tried
to make herself understand that she was sane enough not to have liked it.

4

Within
his room, Euan the toymaker awoke on his bed in the cold, quiet of the night.

His
one eye that was not glazed with blindness peered around the dark room. What
had awoken him? He hadn’t been in bed for long, and everything seemed silent
and still. Had it been a noise he’d heard from one of the other rooms? An
anxious youngster moving to get a peek downstairs? He pressed his head deeper
into the pillow…

But
immediately shot awake again. He’d failed to realize it in his grogginess, but
now he did. There was something soft and cloth–like in his mouth.

He
tried to raise a hand to relieve himself of it, but his hand would not move. Neither
of them would. Euan twisted a bit, but found that he couldn’t efficiently move
any
part of his body.

On
the workbench nearby, a lamp lit up, and from the light of it, Euan could see
that he was tied with an intricate webbing of threads–puppet strings–that
traced from his body and off to various places in the room. The threads were
tied to his fingers and toes and cocooned around him, wrapping him so that he
couldn’t manage to move at all.

Panic
settled in, but he could not yell or break free. He wrestled a few moments
until all his strength wore down. He’d accomplished nothing, and from somewhere
in the room, he was certain he heard the sound of giggling.

Olivia?
He would have
asked if he’d not been gagged.

Was
this a joke? The girl’s handiwork? No. This could only be the work of the
devil.

In
that moment, he felt something moving across his body.

He
couldn’t tilt his head to see, but something walked weightily up his leg,
disturbing the hairs there with its feet. He couldn’t see whatever it was, but
it moved upward, not neglecting to tread heavily across his genitals like
stairs before stepping up his thin stomach and onto his chest. The thread moved
and the toymaker felt his head being tilted upward, only by the allowance of
the strings.

When
his chin touched his chest, Euan found himself peering into a pair of tiny, red
eyes.

A
perfectly smooth porcelain face looked down at him, pretty lips, unpainted. But
someone had drawn in the eyes? The hair of ebony that was attached to the head
was very high–end–o the very latest and most realistic kind available.
Too
long…
It wore a dress of deep purple that had been cut through at the
middle to reveal the china stomach. The body was quite plain, but he’d been
meaning to work on that.

Euan
remembered this doll. He’d stopped work on it just before he’d left for his
trip to France. He hadn’t returned in quite enough to time to finish it as a
present for–

“Hello,
father,” the doll said in a voice that flowed soothingly into his ears. Still,
something about it was very menacing.