“No longer your concern,” said Svenson.
“Put down your blade or die,” Tackham said coldly.
“Well, one of us will die,” said the Doctor. “I heard your comment about spoils, you see—and if other men lack the courage to stop you, I do not.”
“How excellent!” Tackham hefted his blade with a wolfish smile. “You know how to use a cavalry saber, then?”
“As much as any surgeon of the Macklenburg Navy,” answered Svenson.
Tackham laughed aloud.
“Doctor—no, no—you must not—”
“Tush, my dear. What the Captain does not understand is that, like any German university man, I have done my share of dueling…”
The Doctor snapped, to Miss Temple's eyes, into an extremely dubious en garde stance, at his full height with his legs together like a dancer, and his sword arm straight out above him, the blade upside down with its tip floating directly at the level of Captain Tackham's eyes. Tackham snorted and settled into a low crouch, his left hand tucked behind his back and his right hand bouncing with anticipation, as if debating just where to land his blow.
“Not the most flexible of stances,” Tackham observed.
“It does not need to be. The mistake you have made, young man, is in thinking that I give one brass farthing for my life.” Svenson's voice was both icy and forlorn. “It is all well to fight a man whose intention is not to be killed. Fear makes defense his priority—it is the bedrock of every sane strategy. But since I do not care for my life at all, I tell you quite clearly that you are doomed. Strike me anywhere you can. My counter-stroke will land. From this inflexible stance it takes but one turn of my wrist to open your skull like a melon.”
“You're a liar,” sneered Tackham.
“You will find out, won't you?” said the Doctor. “Attack me anywhere … and die.”
“Doctor—”
“Hush now. I must concentrate.”
THE TWO men edged slowly into the center of the clearing, eyes locked on each other. Miss Temple trembled to see, up close, how vicious the saber blades truly were—the wide bright steel, the indented curve of the blood gutter, the hatchetlike chop at the tip, wide and sharp as a cleaver. It seemed the Doctor had no chance at all, yet Tackham moved with extreme care, as if the Doctor's words were at least possibly serious.
“Advancement by assassination?”
The Doctor nodded at the Colonel's corpse, childlike and bereft, on the ground. From the factory behind them came a spattering of gunshots. Tackham frowned and glanced over his shoulder.
“It barely matters,” said Svenson. “You will not live to see your new rank. They will arrive in minutes to kill us all.”
“I beg to differ,” said Tackham.
“Celeste,” said Svenson carefully, “please be ready to flee.”
At this Tackham feinted a cut at Svenson's head, but the Doctor either saw through the move or was simply too slow to respond and did not counterattack as he'd promised. Tackham chuckled. Was the Doctor's threat just bluster after all? Tackham feinted again. Svenson slipped in the dirt and Tackham swept a vicious cut at the Doctor's side that Svenson stopped—quite barely—with a parry that rang through the trees like a ship's bell.
“Counter-stroke indeed,” sneered Tackham. “You're a lying coward.”
Behind came more gunshots, closer, within the woods.
“Your men have been killed,” gasped Svenson, the tip of his blade once more floating in front of Tackham's eyes. “You are next. Throw down your sword.”
“To hell with you,” snarled Tackham, and he lunged.
His saber slapped Svenson's blade to the side and shot forward unopposed, slicing a bloody dark trough across the Doctor's chest. The Doctor reeled back. Tackham snapped upright, all his training at the fore, ready to launch a second blow.
But then Tackham wavered. A jet of blood spat from the side of his throat, and then, the gash primed, sprayed out like a fountain, for the Doctor had indeed taken his own desperate cut while opening himself to death.
Tackham toppled into the dirt. Svenson dropped the saber and slipped to his knees. Miss Temple screamed and ran to him, easing his body to the ground. The Doctor's voice was already a shuddering whisper.
“No, no! Run! Escape!”
Miss Temple was shoved aside by Mr. Phelps, who had taken off his coat and balled it up to staunch Svenson's seething wound. More gunfire rang through the trees.
“Go! He has given his life for yours! Don't be a fool!”
Doctor Svenson arched in agony as Phelps tried to peel free his tunic. Miss Temple held her hand to her mouth, sobbing, and wheeled away half-blind with tears.
SHE KNEW she was a coward, but she could not stop. She tripped headlong more than once, scuffing her hands, scratching her face and her arms, each time hauling herself up and running on. She cried for Chang, for the Doctor, and for herself—for every instant when she had failed—so very many of them—for how she had misplaced every part of her life that mattered.
When she fell the last time she lay in the dirt, overtaken with sobs. She did not know how far she had run—a hundred yards or a mile— nor did she care. The sky blazed with stars. She lay in an open space ringed with ivy-covered stones… more ruins.
Miss Temple pushed herself to her knees, brushing the hair from her face and the tears from her eyes. Something lay on the ground, catching the light… a ring of orange metal. She felt the weight in her bodice and knew Chang had placed the rings there to protect her.
“Celeste,” came a hesitant whisper. “What has happened?”
In the shadows crouched Elöise Dujong and, clasping her hand tightly, Francesca Trapping. Miss Temple spat in the dirt, weeping again, all of her bitterness and regret suddenly finding their vent.
“They are dead, Elöise! They are both dead!”
Elöise gasped, her hand over her mouth, and began to sob as well. Miss Temple rose to her feet and staggered toward the woman. As soon as she was in reach she struck her across the face with all her waning strength, knocking Elöise to the ground. Francesca leapt away with a whimper of fear.
“Get up!” Miss Temple snarled at Elöise. “They are both dead, and you killed them as much as anyone—your foolish, prideful, reckless, selfish—”
Elöise lay on her side sobbing. Miss Temple kicked her as hard as she could and nearly fell over. She kicked Elöise again and dropped awkwardly to her knees.
“He would not come with us!” Elöise whimpered. “He would not come!”
Tears streamed down Miss Temple's face.
“I have tried to protect him, Celeste,” Elöise cried to her, “to protect everyone—and not one thing has been saved! I am a fool—not one thing!”
Elöise's words stopped in her throat, her shoulders rocking.
MISS TEMPLE slumped onto her back, her ragged breath fogging in the midnight chill. Chang shoving her to safety with his last strength. The Doctor exposing his heart to a sword. Of course he had returned at her cry. Of course Chang had protected her to the end. Despair swallowed up her rage and she felt unbearably alone.
Miss Temple heard Elöise move and knew the woman was watching her, miserable, desperate for any crumb of forgiveness or care.
“It is not your fault,” Miss Temple said finally, her voice a stricken whisper. “It is only mine, and always has been. I am extremely sorry. I am… I am… nothing at all.”
Elöise shook her head. “We could go back.”
“If we go back we will die as well, and their sacrifice is made meaningless.” The words were hollow and false in Miss Temple's mouth. She felt the black coating of the Comte's book in her throat—felt the truth of it—and could find no other answer.
“I do not care,” shuddered Elöise.
Miss Temple turned her head and found herself staring into the face of the silent girl. Francesca Trapping's lower lip was trembling, her blue eyes frightened and remote. What nightmare had the poor girl lived? Miss Temple struggl
ed to sit.
“You must take her,” she said, swallowing, kicking at Elöise's nearest leg. “She has to be saved, Elöise. You must take her away from this.”
“I cannot,” said Elöise, shaking her head at her own helplessness. “I cannot go. I have been waiting—”
“You cannot wait—the Doctor is gone!”
“But—I tried to say, so many times—”
“It has to have stood for something!” Miss Temple cried. She surged unsteadily to her feet, shouting at the other woman. “Get up, Elöise! Save this much! Save her!”
THE WHISTLE of Lydia's case as it swung in the air caused Miss Temple to turn just enough that the sharp metal corner did not punch through her skull, but the impact jarred her teeth and dropped her to the earth like a hammer. She lay without understanding, as if her head had been severed. There was blood in her mouth. She could not move.
A hissing whisper penetrated her ear like a poisonous smoke. She felt the soft lips pressed against her skin, and the warmth of each vicious word as it came.
“This is not the way, Celeste Temple—you're half dead and cannot feel a thing, cannot think a thing. For all your presumptions, I require that you taste your despair completely—that you choke on it. I want you to know to your bones when I have killed you.”
The mouth went away and Miss Temple lay for the longest time in the cold air, stunned and drifting, though she remembered somewhere that to truly sleep was to die. She lifted an impossibly heavy head and blinked gummed and crusted eyes.
Francesca Trapping was gone. Elöise was a shapeless huddle in the dirt, the dark wet stripe across her lolling throat reflecting the star light.
MISS TEMPLE retched, but nothing came. She finally stood, eyes tight against what she could not bear, and stumbled away. The gunshots had ceased—she must have outrun the search; it did not matter—she barely noticed. She was impossibly alone, and even the swirling visions that had for so long battered her mind could find no entrance to her shattered heart.
SHE WOULD reach the canal. Beyond the canal was the train. She had money in her boot. Beyond the train was the city, her certain death… and her revenge.
Table of Contents
The Dark Volume
Contents
Acknowledgments
Preface
Prologue
One. Wolves
Two. Exile
Three. Apparition
Four. Corruption
Five. Carapace
Six. Canal
Seven. Cinders
Eight. Reticence
Nine. Incision
Ten. Factory
Gordon Dahlquist, The Dark Volume
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends