I glance around quickly. The curtains are open slightly on either side, letting in a sliver of light and air. I see the corner of a carpet. The leg of a chair.
In one smooth motion I slide out through the curtains. My bare feet hit the floor. I spin, staring around the room. 1) I need to find something to use as a weapon. 2) Someone to use it on. There’s plenty of the first. None of the second. That’s good.
I grab a candlestick from the mantel and pull the gnarled stump of wax off it. There’s a long, mean spike where the candle was skewered. I heft the candlestick and pad across the carpet to the other side of the bed. I see a big old armoire, a double door in the far wall, a mirror.
I move toward the mirror, staring at myself. My hair’s been pushed up under a white cap. My eyes are huge and ghostly in my face. I feel like I can see every vein in my irises, every strand of dark blue and light blue and gray––
“Aurélie?”
Something behind me moves.
I whirl, raise the candlestick. A man is standing in the corner of the room, as if he’s been there all along. He’s huge, face painted chalk white, wearing a red brocade coat and poppy-red shoes.
I run at him like a freaking psycho. Slash out with the candlestick. The spike snips at his waistcoat. He jerks back, fast for someone so large.
“Who are you?” It hurts to talk. My lungs heave, and a sharp pain like nothing I’ve ever felt before spreads across my chest. I might have cracked a rib.
The man stares at me. His eyes are weird. Quivering, watery, but under it a sharpness. A watchfulness. “Aurélie?” he says softly. “Aurélie, retourné de l’autre coté de la mer?”
“Uh, no.” I slash out again and this time the spike catches him and rips a ragged gash down his waistcoat. “I’m not Aurélie. I’m Anouk van Roijer-Peerenboom, and—”
He shrinks, cowering against the wall. He’s crazy. Everyone here is crazy.
“Stay back,” I say in French, moving. I keep the spike pointed at his chest. “There’s another girl down here. Lilly Watts. And three boys. Have you caught them?”
The man’s eyes are tiny in his powdered face. It’s like they don’t even belong to him, like there’s a small animal looking out from behind the folds of human flesh. He’s breathing hard.
“Answer me!” I yell. “Why are you doing this? Is this some kind of sick game? Throw a bunch of kids in with some bionic men and deformed monsters and enjoy the spectacle?”
His breathing slows. His eyes fix on mine. And now the quivering is gone, replaced by the tiniest slither of derision. “Game?” he says. “My dear, this is not a game.”
His hand comes up. There’s a bottle in it, a tiny vial. It snaps between his fingers and a rich, sharp tang hits my nose. Hits my brain. I’m tipping, falling. The candlestick is ripped from my grasp.
The man is leaning over me, screaming: “Havriel? Havriel, quickly!”
I’m on the floor. This can’t be happening. My hand finds a chair leg and I pull myself up. Who are these people?
I hear running footsteps. I heave myself onto the chair, my head lolling, my muscles suddenly useless. The doors to the bedroom fly open.
The man who enters is dressed in black. Black velvet knee breeches, black stockings, a long black frock coat. I recognize his calm gray eyes. The way he drifts along, great as a giant, but elegant. Like a dancer.
“Anouk,” Dorf says. He bows slightly. “Lovely to see you in such good health.”
The accent I couldn’t place before comes into sharp focus. French. Oddly curled and old-fashioned, but definitely French.
I feel sick. I feel like I need to crawl back into the bed and pull the covers over my head and sleep until it’s all over and done. “Dorf,” I whisper. “Dorf, why are you doing this? Why are we here?” I stand, wobbly. Why do you want to kill us? Why did Hayden come back from the dead? Why-why-why-
He’s watching me, his gaze hooded, like I’m some exotic display behind glass. Now he turns to the other man and murmurs something. I catch the words “fille” and “parcourt.”
He wheels around again. “Anouk. Where are your friends?”
They don’t know where the others are. They think I do. That’s why I’m still alive.
“Dorf—” I start.
“I am not Dorf,” he says, disdainful. “Dorf does not exist. I am Havriel du Bessancourt.”
“Who?”
“And this . . .” he says, motioning to the other man, “is the Marquis Frédéric du Bessancourt. My brother.”
I stare at them. At their centuries-old clothing, their weird hair and stockings.
“There are no Bessancourts anymore,” I mumble. “It’s an obsolete title, and Frédéric du Bessancourt is dead. Friedrich Besserschein, a cottage in Yorkshire? He’s been dead for centuries.”
“Has he? Did you hear that, brother? You are dead. Anouk has spoken, and she knows all.”
What is going on? I see the shattered displays in Rabbit Gallery again, the white chunks of glass covering the floor. The brass plaques, gleaming.
H.B.
Death by H.B.
Bombs by H.B.