The Nutcracker Bleeds (45 page)

So,
perhaps there was only one option left.

He
wasn’t quite ready for this yet, but he had been preparing it for quite some
time. It was truer than he cared to admit; he had been more than a
little
jealous of Armand. Augustus was so much more powerful, and yet the one who
would be king was a spoiled, arrogant man who hardly cared for the honored
nature of his position. Perhaps this jealousy was why he loved Clara so much?
No; Augustus refused to believe it, but he always knew that one day he would
have a kingdom of his own. He would have his own world where he made every
rule–and it would consist fully of toys and rodents. Yes. He would be
all–powerful and they all would look to him for guidance. What bliss! What a
perfect dream! Only, he’d not wanted it to happen this way.

Still,
much better an early transformation than the noose or the flame.

He
gathered all of his remaining strength and power, remembering the words that
would make his dream a reality. He spoke nervously, clenching his eyes tight,
silently hoping that he was not damning himself completely. He knew that the
spell was not enough to make him invincible as a rodent, but it would allow him
to keep a portion of his humanity so that he could speak and use his sorcery.
Immortality–that was key. Hopefully, that would all be good enough, because,
once done, it could not be reversed.

He
felt himself shrinking; felt his bones cracking and shifting, but he ignored
the pain. Augustus finished the curse upon himself. He clenched his teeth.

The
man vanished into the folds of his dark robe which swallowed him completely.

9

The door
of the toymaker’s house caved in, and three patrolmen burst inside. They had
seen their prince tear off into the night without his horse, running into the
woods like a madman. They had taken the initiative to pull their gear back on
and follow him. His tracks had led them here. From outside, they’d heard the
screams of pain and horror, but now all was silent and empty.

The
men moved further into the house, stepping past caged rodents and into a room
full of toys. The place had an odd feel to it, as if something wicked had
transpired here. Every one of them could feel it.

Amongst
the clutter, there were three very distinguishable clumps of clothing on the
floor. One was a child’s dress; one, a dark–colored robe; and the other was
what Armand had been wearing when he’d burst out of the castle. There were also
a few blankets lying beside the fire. A great deal of blood stained the floor
near one of the walls. It was warm,
fresh
.

Something
had happened here, and the event was undoubtedly as evil as it looked.

“Keep
searching the house,” one of the guards ordered. “We’re bound to turn up
something.”

They
searched. They found what they considered to be evidence of sorcery, but
nothing more.

10

Armand
awoke in the dark. His whole body ached as if he’d just put himself through a
strenuous exercise. His eyes struggled through the darkness, but the thick
nothing would not give. Wincing, he forced his arms to move upward into the
dark, for he knew at least that he was lying down.

What
had happened? A dream? Clara had been missing. He’d followed her trail through
the woods and wound up inside the home of Augustus Fuchs. Then,
agony
.
It had been such torture that he knew he could not have dreamed it.

Remembering
this, his hands retracted from the darkness and touched his face. Something was
not right with his skin. Instead of feeling the flesh of his cheeks, he felt
something harder. His face was smooth and solid. Like wood…

Armand’s
hand shot into the air along with the rest of him, stopping when they, as well
as his head, collided with a wall just a short distance above him. He rested
his head back and let his hands run over the lid that covered him. His hands
found walls of a box surrounding him on all sides. A coffin? But he was not
dead!

He
was only made of wood.

He
remembered things more clearly then, remembering seeing Clara as a tiny,
lifeless doll. She’d rested in the hands of the man who had done this to them.
Armand remembered his face. He remembered his name.

Augustus…

Rage
took over Armand’s half–living body. He punched the lid that contained him and
pried against it with his legs. It took a great deal of effort, but he was
oblivious to his discomfort and pain. He had to get out! He had to fix things!
How could he have let this happen? To be so naïve as to think that Clara would
be safe when all those other girls had not been? How could he have been so
negligent?

He
could hear the wood begin to crack above him, and for a moment he wasn’t quite
sure whether it was the lid over him or the breaking sound of his own arms and
legs. Eventually, he began to see a ghost of light, and finally he was able to
free himself.

Armand
pulled himself from the wooden box, filling his lungs with air that was tainted
with the smell of rat and mouse waste. The room he looked out on appeared
considerably different to him now. The distorted size made him feel dizzy to
look at it, but there were more important things than mourning over his
shrunken state.

Where
was that man he was going to kill?

A
movement down below caught his attention, and his eyes led him to view a dark
robe that was gathered on the floor. He recognized it easily as the one
Augustus had just been wearing.

It
was
moving
.

A
head emerged from that cloth, rising up into the air and peering out over the
room. The hairy face was
hideous
; quite unlike any normal rat that had
been placed upon the earth. After it had looked around suitably, the beast rose
up and walked away on two legs. Its upper body was broad and powerful with long
arms that presented hand–like claws. Armand knew instantly that the rat was the
new form of his enemy.

The
enormous rodent crept through the house, bypassing the men who were inside
searching. Armand, now a mere nutcracker, made his way down from the workbench that
the box had been on and followed the rat out into the snow.

11

Augustus
would admit, the transformation had gone over better than he’d expected. Though
he didn’t look much like a normal rat, he thought that perhaps the way he’d turned
out was better. his appearance certainly set him apart and made him look more
like a master of rodents. He didn’t quite feel as tired as he thought he would
either, but he was still going to rest. He would find himself a nice haven in
the trees and rest until the King’s men had left his house. They would surely
be back to burn it later, but that would at least give him enough time to get
back in and set his destined followers free from their cages–and in the toys’
cases: free them from lifeless slumber.

He
would finally have the kingdom that he wanted, and he would have his darling
Clara by his side. She wouldn’t be the same girl anymore–would awaken with a
new consciousness–but with a bit of nurturing, she could become like his
precious dear. Even though things had transpired a bit earlier than he’d
planned, everything would turn out fine.

“
Put
us back
!” The sound of a shout behind him pulled him out of his thoughts.

Augustus
turned his fur–covered head to see a wooden toy rushing at him with the speed
of a wild mustang. It hardly had trouble moving through the snow, and it was
completely full of rage. Augustus saw the emptiness in the nutcracker’s hollow
eye sockets. The rat felt a chill run through his body that was even colder
than the wind.

Armand…
Such brilliant circumstances
…

The
newly–formed, living nutcracker was upon Augustus before he even had time to
hiss through his rat teeth. Wooden fists were beating away at his face of flesh
and bone, each blow jarring him closer and closer to unconsciousness.

The
rat did the only thing he knew to do in order to preserve himself. He grew
another head.

The
second head emerged from his neck, damp with blood and pus. Armand battered the
first head into oblivion and then began straight away on the second, hardly
seeming to noticing the unnatural way it had appeared.

Augustus’s
rat hands, no matter how strong they were, did little to get a hold on Armand.
The rat was larger, but was weak. Armand was angry and nigh indestructible.
Perhaps Augustus had miscalculated everything…

In
the ears of his second head, he heard the nutcracker speak.

“Reverse
what you’ve done!” he commanded with a tinge of desperation in his voice.

“It
can’t be reversed, fool!” the rat’s third head spoke as it emerged. Armand
broke the second head’s jaw. “That was one of the conditions!”

“
Lies
!”

The
iron ridges cracked down on the third head, crushing its brains even as a
fourth head emerged.

“Not
lies,” the rat said, choking on his own blood, “but I do believe you’ve
forgotten something.”

12

Armand’s
fist halted in midair, lingering on the rat’s words. Forgotten? What could he
have possibly forgotten?

Something
hard struck the side of his face, and while he was distracted, the rat threw
him off and sent him smashing into a tree. Augustus took that opportunity to
raise himself off the ground, shaking off blood and freezing snow. Armand shook
his head after the impact, peering in the direction of whatever the small
object was that had struck his face, only to see the frills of a small dress and
a bunch of curls dart away.

Clara…
She was alive?

Armand
had completely forgotten about the rat. The nutcracker pulled himself from the
snow, running after the child who was trying to escape the scene. Perhaps
Augustus’ words were truth. Perhaps this curse could not be removed, but if
Armand could simply catch up with the doll that Clara was now–if he could be
with her like this–perhaps it would make this body tolerable.

He
pounded through the snow, chasing the girl who stayed in his sight in flashes
through the trees.

“
Clara
!”
he tried, but she did not stop.

The
snow became deeper and he worked harder to fight it, finally coming to a stop
when he saw that she had halted before a fallen tree , blocking her path.

“Clara…”
he gasped, his lungs not seeming to hold as much air as they had once–or
perhaps the air was freezing them.

Slowly,
the child turned to look at him, but when her glass eyes met his so emotionlessly,
he knew she was not his Clara any longer. There was distaste in her eyes, and
it was as if she didn’t know him at all.

“He
tells me he wants to give you a message,” the doll said in a mockery of his
daughter’s voice, speaking the message of the Master. “He wants me to tell you
‘
goodbye
’.”

The
words shocked him. Goodbye? This was simply a diversion?

Armand
turned away from the false Clara and ran all the way back to where he had been
beating the rat to a bloody pulp, only to find splotches of blood on the pure,
white blanket–and three large, disgusting heads that had been left behind. Had
they been shed because they had died? Whatever the case was, the rat was long
gone into the woods without a trace.

I
let him go. No. My enemy…

The
nutcracker clenched his fists at his sides, grinding the wood together. He was
too angry to scream; too hurt to cry. Silently, he vowed his revenge on the one
who had done this to him, and he would not rest until it was had.

Picking
up his wooden foot, Armand took the first step in a search that would last
centuries–and finally end on a freezing night just like the one it had started
on.

13

Shaken
by the dream–the memory that had resurfaced–the nutcracker jolted in his sleep,
hitting his head against the wall he was leaning back on. He was awake then. A
few gentle notes rose into the air from the music box he was resting in. The
high–pitched sounds were slow and lazy, and after four tones, all was silent
once again.

A
dream? How long had it been since he’d relived those things so vividly? Too
long, and yet not long enough. Armand remembered where he was then. He was no
longer in that former place.

He
was warm.

Anne
was resting against him, sitting on his lap with her head on his shoulder. She
was there with him. She was safe, and he was swiftly overcome with relief. He
hugged her, feeling her heat, but did not squeeze her so tightly that he woke
her.

In
the quiet, Armand thought about his story the way it had really happened as
opposed to the way he had told it to her. Why had he lied? No, he didn’t have
to question that. He knew why. There were many reasons, in fact.