Tenfold More Wicked (38 page)

The bullet drilled a tiny hole. Right between Her Majesty's painted eyes.

Eliza yelled. Remy made a strangled gulp, and his pistol dropped from nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor.

Outside, in a
wumph!
of exploding aether, the skyship burst into flame.

B
OOM!
RADIANT HEAT BLEW ELIZA'S HAIR BACK.
Burning aether stung, the rich, stormy scent of thunder. The skyship was burning, and the Empire's new model navy along with it. And on the royal dais, blood trickling from a hole in her forehead, the Queen lay dead.

Along his shining blade, François shot her a crooked smile. A sword stick, like Lizzie's. She should have recognized it. His aim was unwavering, fanatical.

Warily, she raised her hands. With a flick of wrist, he edged her backwards, towards the window. Her ringing ears subsided, and in filtered the chaos of a riot. Yells, commotion,
crack!
and
zzaapp!,
as Enforcers and soldiers fired their guns, hoarse shouts of “Incorruptible!” Dignitaries scrambled on the dais, ladies shrieked, and in the common crowd, people trampled each other in their haste to escape.

“You sabotaged the skyship,” whispered Eliza. “Right under our noses. While we
watched
.”

François winked. “Knew you were too clever for my baby brother. Back against the sill, that's it. No, Remy, stay back. I should hate to have to kill you. Drop the saber, too,” he added.
“Don't try anything. You either, Mr. Finch. Not if you'd rather keep your witty doctor's blood in her body.”

Speechless, Remy let his blade fall, and François kicked it and the pistol away.

Remy's face had drained, a sick green. His voice, too, because barely a sound emerged. “Why, François? Why would you . . . ?”

“Because we can't fight sorcery,” snapped François. “I met some people in Paris, soon saw the error of my ways. Besides”—he twitched his blade under Eliza's chin and watched her flinch—“what's
science
done for me lately? I'm done playing the hero. Best to join the winning side.”

“But . . .” Remy was stunned. Lost for words. Gutted.

“I'm dying, baby brother. Stop pretending I'm not. Do you think I've stayed alive this long from bed rest and brandy?” That vintage Lafayette smile, stained strawberry red. “Don't you remember the war? To hell with surrender, eh? I'm merely adjusting my strategy.”

Eliza darted her gaze, seeking options. No weapons within reach. Nothing. “But . . .”

“Come, you're an articulate woman. Say it after me:
the Queen is dead
. The flagship's history, and so is the war effort. The Skyborne Corps was our last hope, and now no one will have faith in it. When the new regime comes, I'll be part of it.” François laughed, and spat at the upturned painting, landing a crimson blob on the Queen's face. “Why should
that
be immortal, while I rot? Die pretty, or live as a monster? I'll take the monster any day.”

His eyes glittered, maniacal, the last throes of his sickness. She'd seen it before. Not a peaceful death. She had to
talk him down, or they'd all perish. “So you used Quick's paints? A portrait . . .”

Another bloodstained laugh. “Foolishness doesn't suit you, Doctor. The paint only freezes the subject in time. What good's that, for a dying man? Immortalized with my lungs rotting? No. I want
life
. And that's where you come in! The day Remy told me you existed, I recognized your name from your father's infamous experiments. Think I'd let that opportunity slip?”

“My elixir,” she breathed. “You want . . . No, it won't work. All it does is drive you mad.”

“I'm aware.” A satisfied smile. “Why do you think I've had Quick experimenting on you?”

Her jaw dropped.

“Come, did you imagine it a coincidence he should appear now? You've been a most obliging subject. Your little brass pet, too. Did he survive my infiltrator? Tell him it was nothing personal. I only wanted to monitor your responses to Quick's potion.”

Her blood boiled. She'd nearly
died
. Claw his mad eyes out, pin his fragile body to the floor, yell
I'm not some weak female, hear me? I was engaged to a wolf-man and courted by a razor murderer. Think you scare me?

But he
did
scare her. She didn't want to die pointlessly, unmourned. And her fear only stoked her anger higher.

“You horrid man,” she snarled. “You can't experiment on people without their consent. It's unethical!”

He jabbed his sword point harder, bending her awkwardly so the window sash dug into her spine. “Easy to moralize when you're young and healthy. Show me your principles when you're dying by inches.”

“But we're all dying by inches, François.” If she'd learned one thing—from the Chopper case, Edward Hyde's madness, Sheridan and Penny and their rotted souls—it was that you couldn't cheat death . . . or hell.

“Only because we've no option.” He licked bloodied lips. “Down to business. Mr. Finch, my compliments. On the bench you'll find a bottle of Professor Quick's silver-colored potion. Be so good as to fetch it.”

Eliza's mind stumbled.
Lizzie's
potion? What good would that do?

Finch cleared his throat. “My dear fellow, I must warn you. Unless you've already undergone the transcendental process, the effects could be fatal.”

François coughed, spattering bloody flesh, and his sword hand quivered. “On the double, Mr. Finch, if you please. A pity if this blade should slip and kill her. I do get so very weary.”

“Steady on, eh? No need for violence.” Grumbling, Finch retrieved the bottle. The silvery liquid writhed, possessed. “Welcome to it, you foolish boy.”

But François just grinned. “Oh, it's not for me. Mr. Finch, you're accustomed to administering medication. Do the honors, if you please.”

Eliza's knees shook. She'd be gone. Eaten away by greedy Lizzie, just an unwanted memory. Trapped forever in that glassy nightmare of hell. “No. I can't go back there.” Her pleading tone—a child begging not to be punished—sickened her. But she couldn't help it. “Can't we come to an arrangement?”

“Not you.” François jerked his chin towards Remy. “Him.”

Remy blinked, shocked from speechlessness. “What?”

“The wolf,” said François, and laughed at Remy's reaction. “You never could lie to me, brother. I've known since you returned from Calcutta with that preposterous fiction about your wife. Jungle brigands didn't kill her.
You
did. And who knows how many others?”

All Remy's color had drained, his eyes just gray ghosts. “You've no idea what you're asking.”

“Oh, I do. You know, I watched what you did the other night, in the moonlight. All that blood, Remy. But it's a risk I'm willing to take. And you're always so sickeningly well. Can you even recall when last you were ill? That creature makes you strong, and I want it.” He smiled in half-remembered affection. “You never could deny me, brother.”

“Listen.” Desperation, born of grief. “The curse is a crippling disease. Contracting it nearly killed me.”

A familiar arch of eyebrow. “Hardly seems a worry.”

Remy stuttered. “But . . . I can't change here. I'll kill you all—”

“I've no time to argue.” François's ruined voice trembled. “Understand?
I've no time.
Anything's better than a useless death.”

“Is it? How about living every day in terror that you'll hurt the ones you love?”

“Good God, you're insufferable. I'd
kill
to have your perfect life. For years I've longed to swap places. Well, now I can.” François coughed, his eyes unpleasantly red-rimmed. “Drink it,” he whispered hoarsely, “or I cut your lady's throat.”

Eliza's heart broke. Not Remy, trapped in that hateful, screaming emptiness. She'd die first. “Remy, you don't know what it's like there. You can't.”

Remy just smiled, strangely gleeful, and grabbed the bottle from Finch's hand. “Don't waste your concern on me, Eliza. Forgive me.”

He thumbed off the cork, and drank.

Eliza yelled in anguish. Finch gaped. François grinned.

Remy shuddered, muscles twitching. His fist spasmed, crushing the bottle to bloody shards. And he
changed
.

He screamed in ragged agony, and it deepened to a growl. His limbs contorted, clothes stretching and tearing over swelling muscles. Fibers snapping, sinews quivering impossibly tight. His knee joints broke and popped backwards. Golden fur sprouted, rippling down his lean frame and bristling at his hackles. Claws erupted from his bleeding fingertips. His jaws stretched and elongated, and wicked saber teeth knifed from his gums, soaking his wolfen chin scarlet.

“Marvelous,” breathed François, transfixed.

The wolf snarled on all fours, claws raking ruts in the floorboards, a quivering bundle of rage. His fur sparked with static. His bristling tail twitched. But still his eyes drilled into François's. Chilling, famished, yet bright with sorrow. Not flat and golden like a beast's, but uncanny sky-blue.

Eliza froze, not daring to glance away. She'd no expectation that he'd recognize her. “Marcellus, run.”

Finch jigged, fisting his hair. “But—”

“Now. You don't want to see him lose his temper.”

Shamefaced, Finch scuttled out. Now they were only three.

Remy arched his furred spine, sparks crackling. François lowered his sword and beckoned with a triumphant smile. “Here, boy.”

Eliza didn't dare move. She'd never felt so helpless.

Remy crouched to spring . . . But he didn't attack. He curled his neck and howled, raw and anguished, and the floorboards shook with his torment. The beast had already eaten its fill under the full moon. Now it was bewildered, out of kilter, its instincts befuddled.

He didn't
want
to kill his brother, any more than he wanted to kill
her
. But the hunger was mighty.

François sighed. “Very well. Let's do it the hard way.” Swift as a serpent, he grabbed Eliza and hurled her out the window.

Eliza screamed, lurching into empty space. Wolf-Remy roared, and leapt.

But François's fingers clamped on her bodice, arresting her fall . . . and Remy skidded to a halt, claws digging up splinters. “Not so fast,” warned François coolly. “Kill me, and she'll fall. Even if she survives, that bloodthirsty mob will tear her apart.”

Furious, Eliza flailed for a grip, missing the sill by a whisker. Suspended, inches from death in the quivering grip of a madman.

Pop!
Stitches in her bodice began to break. Blood lurched in her skull, pounding. Below swam the rioting crowd, bristling with rage and brandishing weapons. François had it right. The fall mightn't kill her . . .

“Remy, don't.” She scrabbled for her stinger, but it was lost.
Lizzie, help me!

“Gently, baby brother. A simple wound is all I require.” François's voice was hypnotic, soothing, as if he calmed a frightened horse. “You're the expert on inflicting pain. You know how much a human body can hurt. Must I torture her to make you obey me?”

Her flailing wrist banged a hard lump in her skirts. Something in her pocket . . . Her groping fingers closed on ivory.

In the madness, she'd forgotten Mr. Todd's gift.

She unfolded it,
ping!
Such a sweet melody. Steel flashed, a beacon in the sun.

Her courage quailed. She'd shot Lady Lovelace. But this was François. Could she, even for Remy's sake? Slaughter his brother without due process, bathe in warm living blood? And then fall to her own grisly death?

Remy would give his life for her. Almost had, in that rusted dungeon.
I've already failed to save one woman I cared for,
he'd said
. Just hold me, and don't look down.

He'd never agree to this. Never acknowledge her debt to him. For keeping her secret. For Todd. For everything.

Forgive me, Remy,
she whispered silently.
But I need to make this right.

Her fingers tightened on the razor. She inhaled one last breath . . . and Lizzie howled, and exploded into life.

The change takes us fast. A breathless scream, aching flesh stretching, eyes boggling fit to burst. My hair springs wild, my chest inflates, invigorated with the lightning scent of that exploded skyship. Alive. As if I'd never gone away.

I struggle, hanging in mid-air by a fistful of corset above this rampaging mob, and I realize I'm seeing through
her
eyes. The world's livelier, somehow, bathed in different shades. Wondrous, more beautiful . . . but also more frightening.

I can't let her do this alone.

I ain't just the unwanted stepchild. She needs me, to do the things she can't—and to swallow the guilt, too, like sweet fairy absinthe. Because without me, it'd kill her.

But I need her, too. To keep me from sliding into endless darkness.

I'm the shadow in her heart, the rotting portrait of her soul. But I'm more than that. I ain't just half a person. We're two people knotted into one. And for good or ill, we can't be undone.

This
is what I'm for.

“Let me up,” I growl, “or I'll open your throat.”

François shows bloodied teeth. Mad, star-glitter eyes. As utterly off his rocker as Mr. Shadow. “Why, hello, Miss Hyde. Would you really slaughter a sick man? You and I aren't so different. I just want to live. Is that so wrong?”

“You bet it is,” I snarl, and slash. Right to left, a glittering razor arc.

With a curse, François springs away. But I clamp my fist on his coat, and like it or not he drags me with him, and I thump to the dusty floor, out of danger.

He staggers. A thin crimson thread paints his throat. It brightens. Widens. Gushes bright blood.

He chokes, incredulous. Blood runs faster, soaking his shirt. The coppery stink of it—fresh, arterial, Mr. Todd's precious crimson—is flowers on the air, delicious predator's perfume.

And Remy's control shatters. He roars, muscles coiling, and leaps.