The Nutcracker Bleeds (42 page)

Armand
stared at him expressionlessly, but the puppet knew that there was something
behind those eyes.

“What
did you do to her?” he asked–
demanded.

The
jester froze. He panicked. He had already been found out once and locked in
prison–away from the woman he loved. He’d not be put there again!

Without
nearly enough consideration, the puppet let out a cry of rage and rushed
forward at Armand. Animated strings wrapped around the nutcracker’s arms. They
were not strong enough to hold him. Not much more than a simple jerk snapped
them.

The
jester came on again and again like a resilient beast, and each time, he was
propelled back without grasping the lesson. Armand pushed at the puppet’s arms,
broke its cords, shoved its face…and eventually, he noticed something else.

The
jester fell back into the wall, taxed, and Armand stepped toward him to test
his theory. He reached down toward the puppet, digging into the folds of the
black costume to find what he’d seen. The frantic jester tried to fight him
away, but to no avail. Armand’s hand had found what it had been searching for,
and he swiftly broke it off.

Even
though the attachment had been put on by the puppet himself, by that, it had
become part of him. At its removal, he yelled out horribly in intense pain.
When he’d been thrown in prison, the Lady’s soldiers had not searched him
enough to take the handmade accessory away from him–the very same he had tried
to use on Anne once before.

Armand
held up the sharp wooden post to examine it, but it only took a moment for him
to understand exactly what it was supposed to be. A very personal thing. A
violating, probing,
pleasurable
thing. A thing he too had once known. He
clenched it in his fist, staring at it, knowing what must have happened to
cause Anne to react to the puppet as she had. He didn’t know details, but he
didn’t have to.

A
puppet told me he loved me earlier tonight.
These were words that she’d told
him at some point. She hadn’t mentioned that the puppet had tried to rape her
with a stake.

Without
a word, Armand moved toward the marionette.

There
was a snarl at the jester’s lip when the nutcracker lifted him up by his throat
and shoved him against the wall. The puppet stared back at him with contempt,
and if the Armand hadn’t been so furious, he might have been amused.

He
wasted no time on mercy. He drew back the crude, wooden phallus in his fist and
forced it into the puppet’s cloth gut. The jester cringed in pain, but Armand
did not relent. He withdrew once again, thrusting the post once again into
different sections of the cloth, violating the toy’s body again and again with
its own creation.

The
jester was stabbed until he thought he couldn’t breathe, and just as he opened
his mouth to cry out in pain and terror, the nutcracker crammed the engorgement
into the yawning orifice of his face.

The
puppet began to choke on it, and there was a degree of sadistic pleasure in the
dark eye–slits of the nutcracker.

“Does
it feel as good as you thought?” he asked in a cruel whisper. Then he let the
puppet fall.

The
black mess of cloth with the cracked face hardly had enough strength to raise
its hands and grip the thing that was stuck deeply in its throat, but it did
the jester no good either way, for the puppet had not only made the
white–haired soldier angry, but another with him.

Armand
had his own attachment, in the form of a third arm that was clinging to his
own. Though the toy it had belonged to was no longer whole, there was still a
consciousness left–an awareness. That arm was just as aware as Armand was of
what this puppet must have attempted with Anne. That arm was just as angry.

The
pointed end of a letter–opener shot forth from the cloth sleeve of the third
arm.

“Tschüss,”
Armand bid, and he let his arm be guided by Brooke’s.

The
jester’s head was ruined swiftly, chopped through the pale glass and broken
through the middle. The body was then completely shredded, destroying every
discernable piece until there was nothing but cloth scraps and splinters.

Armand
was satisfied with this, and Brooke’s blade withdrew back into the sleeve,
proving he was satisfied as well.

Anne.

The
word seemed to come from nowhere in the back of his mind, but of course Armand
had not forgotten. He turned to search for her, hoping that she’d not tried to
run away in her frantic state.

He
saw her against the wall to the side, her chin resting against her chest. Her
eyes were closed. Her breathing was steady. She’d simply fallen unconscious.

Armand
could help it; he sighed with relief.

He
went to her to gather her up, holding her close, perhaps more tightly than he
should have, but there was no chance he was letting her get far from him again.
Not until death tore them apart.

With
his work still far from done, he carried her out of the forsaken place and back
to safety. They both could use a bit of rest.

1

Years
ago, in a very distant place, snow fell heavily on the whitened banks outside,,
but it was warm by the fire…

How
could he have forgotten–even though it had been so long; even though his mind
had moved onto different things over the time that had passed by? Was it so bad
to remember, even if he would never have that life back again? Or was it just
the shame in it? The thought made him want to be dead even more than he already
did.

Armand
had gone after his enemy with resilience, fallen into depression along the way
and tried to end his miserable existence. When he could not even accomplish
that–because of the living failure that he was–he’d resigned himself to chasing
his enemy once again. Now, he’d come so close, and yet he was still so far away.

It
was a difficult and disheartening state, but even through those trials, how
could Armand have forgotten sitting by the fire?

It
was while sitting before those lapping flames, hypnotized by them, that he had
his most profound thoughts. Fire was good. For him, it fended the cold from
both the body and the heart. What was it about the flame that was so alluring?
He didn’t know, but he’d sit for hours in a chair before the wide, decorative
hearth with his beast–head trophies mounted over the top of it, staring in,
thinking
.

On
this cold day, back in a time when he was still a man, Armand thought about the
night before.

He’d
insisted on being personally involved in investigating the disappearances of
the girls from the village–four over the past month. Armand did not know any of
the girls personally, but he didn’t take kindly to anything that disrupted the
people so much as these disappearances. However, even with him leading the
search, there had been no trace.

The
first girl had vanished nearly a month ago to the day. Thirteen years old and
from a noble family. Trouble had stirred, and a search had ensued, but it was
seen that nothing could be done to find the girl. It was assumed that she must
have simply run away.

Two weeks
later, another disappearance. Five years old this time, and from a rather poor
family with four other daughters. Such a small child could not be dismissed as
a simple run–away, but again, a search had turned up nothing.

Four
days after that, another girl. This one had been ten, a baker’s daughter, and
then the people had started to panic. They kept close watch on their girls,
keeping them locked up, spewing superstitious rumors of draugrs and wights.
Fathers sat awake at night with their backs against the doors of their
daughters’ rooms, but even a father’s love was not enough to guard against the
appeal of magic and a young girl’s curiosity, and from straight beneath such a
father’s protective nose, the forth girl was taken from her room only two nights
ago. This one, eleven years old and from a farming family with a father and
three strong brothers keeping watch.

Armand
and several men of the Guard had taken up searching and patrolling after the
third girl had been taken, every night taking shifts of riding through the town
and woods, looking for anything suspicious. From beneath their alert noses as
well, the forth girl had been taken. They’d moved on it while the disappearance
was still fresh, supposedly only a few hours after the fact. They’d searched
for two days, and there had been nothing. There had not even been a clothing
scrap or even a pack of wolves in the area to push the blame onto.

There
was talk in the town of a ‘spiriting away’, as if the girls had simply
vanished. Everyone was growing highly superstitious, suspecting one another of
the dreadful deeds. Armand knew he had to put a stop to this before this
ridiculous talk became too much. That still did not erase the fact that
something had happened to those girls.

He
sighed deeply as he sat there, staring at the flames and beginning to doze. The
fire was wise. It would share its wisdom with him…

“
Du
bist also doch gekommen
! ...I thought you would fall asleep and forget to
meet me here.”

Hm?
Armand opened his
eyes and tilted his head to the side, looking over to the one who had addressed
him. She stood there with a little smile, looking back at him expectantly. Her
mass of curls was secured with ribbon and she was dressed in her pale furs and
gloves.

Clara…
The sight of her
always lifted his spirits despite the nature of his mood. He smiled sheepishly
back at her.

“Of
course I remembered,” he said. Now, what was it that he hadn’t forgotten?
Obviously, by the way she was dressed, they were going out…

The
girl saw the loss in his eyes and let out a short sigh.

“You
forgot,” she acknowledged with a nod of her eight–year–old head. She didn’t
look disappointed, covering it up with the air of a princess. He didn’t like to
let her down, but he couldn’t help that he’d forgotten. There were so many
things on his mind just now.

“Remind
me?”

“Herr
Fuchs is coming to deliver my gift. The one father commissioned for my
birthday. You’re supposed to come see it.”

Armand
might have remembered that the girl’s birthday had been three days ago and the
gift had not been finished then, but his tired mind had gotten stuck on
something else in that sentence. Father…
his
father. Yes. How much pain
did that one thought alone bring him? To look into her blue eyes and see his
own eyes looking back at him? The color of their skin was the same. Their hair
was the same color blond–though hers was considerably more full and curly than
his. That was a place they’d differed; she must have gotten that from her
mother.

Did
Clara not deserve to know the truth? Did he not deserve to have her for a
daughter and not a sister? But would she hate him if he told her? He forced
those thoughts away.

Herr
Fuchs. Augustus Fuchs, the toymaker. Yes, he remembered now. Clara had always
thought the man was fascinating, and Armand would have to admit that he was
quite skilled in his craft, but there was something about him that the prince
couldn’t force himself to like. Then again, how many people did Armand
genuinely like? He could count them on his hand.

The
girl moved closer to him, peering into his face. She wore a concerned look.

“Were
you out all night again?”

The
question took him off guard, but he still managed to answer. “Not all night,
no.”

“Did
you find anything?”

Clara
was not like most children. Perhaps it was her royal upbringing, but she was a
sensitive child, not the sort that could hear bad news and simply go on about
her business. She’d heard talk of the missing girls, though Armand and his
father had tried to keep it from her so that the poor girl would not be
frightened. But someone had told her, and she asked Armand about it quite
often, very concerned for those missing ones. Still, he hated to see this
keeping her vexed. She was not going to share in whatever fate had befallen the
others.

“You
don’t need to worry yourself over that,” he told her, speaking the truth, but
also ashamed to admit his attempts were nothing but failures so far.

The
girl did not pry further, understanding that she shouldn’t.

“Well,
you should at least try to remember your promises,” she scolded lightly,
ignoring her own concerns by switching her attention to another matter–but
those other things still pressed on the back of her mind.

Armand
smiled. It amused him at times how, in her tiny sister role, she was often the
one who acted like the parent.

“Of
course, miss; you do know what’s best.”

The
child gave a nod of appreciation and took his hand. “We should go. He’ll be
here any moment.”

Before
she’d even finished or managed to urge Armand from his chair, the door of the chamber
creaked open and a servant stuck his head inside.

“Princess
Clara,” he addressed, smiling kindly. “You have a visitor.”

2

With
Augustus Fuchs, everything was grand and stylish. Everything was
magic
, but
very few counted it as more than well–performed illusions. He was an
entertainer as much as a craftsman, and he’d won many over with his fantastic
creations and interesting presentation. He was a mysterious individual, never
revealing the secrets of his craft.

Most
people would never have suspected the toymaker of being anything less than
reputable, for he’d always been associated with finer families. Even if it was
taken seriously that he was a genuine user of magic, no one would have claimed
that his spectacles were anything more than a simple parlor trick or two.
Harmless. He was not suspected of his misdeeds, neither was he blamed for the
girls he had taken. There was hardly anyone that had ever met him who thought
he was evil.

But
Armand noticed something, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what that
something was.

The
king, the prince, the young princess, and several servants were gathered in the
hall when Augustus was admitted inside. This was not the first time he’d been
in the keep, but he knew it might be the last. Still, he entered as if he might
have been royalty himself.

He’d
made an appearance at the child’s birthday celebration, pleasing everyone with
several interesting creations, such as a pair of life–size dolls that danced on
their own. Still, the commissioned toy he’d intended for her had not been
finished–or so he had said. It only gave him an excuse to come back when there
were less people in attendance.

The
man strode into the hall wearing a smile, listening to the sound that his wet
boots made against the stone floor.

He
was a man of small stature, admittedly unattractive, with large eyes and a wide
mouth. His face was very round and small ears sat on each side of his head.
Augustus had a mousy appearance, but that did not stop people from smiling at
him when they saw him.

The
atmosphere was the same within the palace on this day. Everyone within the room
smiled to see him approach, no doubt wondering what sort of exciting new
creation he was bringing. They were all happy–except one.

Augustus’s
calm blue eyes focused on the one who did not seem pleased to see him,
continuing to smile himself despite his inner distaste. Armand; the king’s son
and heir to the throne. The toymaker would have lied in saying that he was not
somewhat jealous to look on Armand–but any man would be a liar to say he didn’t
feel the same. The spoilt, arrogant wastrel had everything.
Was
everything.
The prince was tall and strong. He was skilled with a sword, a hero of the
people. He was attractive, with female admirers everywhere. He once took
advantage of but now hardly even glanced at anymore. He had become more
reserved over the past few years, smarter and not quite as reckless.

Still,
not even Armand had been able to uncover the secret of the vanishing girls.
This made Augustus able to hold his smile beneath the prince’s frowning face.
Clara’s adorable visage had lit up at the sight of him, and he focused on that
instead.

There
was a dark cape draped over his arm, and just before he stopped several feet
before the throne near where the princess was standing, he pulled the cape away
and twisted it in the air. He threw the material back, and it seemed to vanish
into nothing. There, magically left in his hand, was a box.

Clara
clapped her hands at his display, and he knelt down in a bow, holding out the
box to her with one hand. Despite the way she knew she should act, her
excitement led her to move forward and take the box straight from his hand. She
did, however, open it with dignity.

Within
the walls of the box rested a folded doll. The girl looked at it with interest,
pulling it forth from the box so that she could get a better look. She set it
down on the floor and stared at it a moment, seeing that the doll was curled up
in a ball with its arms wrapped tightly around its legs. For a moment, she
seemed unsure about trying to pry it apart, but then she saw that she didn’t
have to. The doll pulled itself up on its own.

The
doll stood up, took a bow, and began to dance to music that was somehow
emitting from its body. It was a beautiful harlequin doll, dressed in an
elaborate suit of red and purple silk with feathers around the collar and
sleeves. The face beneath the jester hat was painted white with black
designs–the face of a pretty young girl. The toy, two hands high, awed everyone
who saw it. It was as impressive as the larger versions–the sword dancer and
the ballerina–that had danced at the party.

The
doll performed its dance in a small area across the floor until the music ended.
Then it folded back down around itself and went back to rest.

“I’ve
never made such a toy for anyone else,” the toymaker told her. “I usually only
use such a curiosity in my entertaining, but this one is for you.”

The
man was proud of himself for the gift, and felt that it was well worth the wait
even if it was presented after the girl’s birthday.