Curio (43 page)
Moving on, he discovered intricate tock designs, from internal mechanisms to tiny, lifelike creatures that skittered around the countertop when Blaise wound them. He touched the back of a round creation with six little legs and a beady head. When it didn't move, he picked it up, turned it over, and wound it. The legs wiggled, and the thing flipped itself over on his palm. Machinery mimicking sentience. That's all it was.
He tapped the creature's back again. A current zinged from his fingertip into the beast's shell. He dropped it on the counter and crammed his hand in his pocket.
He didn't want that power. He squashed the surge of energy so different from his Defender state. He'd never needed it to fix porcies or tocks. Once he replaced their broken parts with working substitutes, the new devices integrated with the magic already in place. Callis could see out of his mechanical eye and feel with his metal hand just as any other tock absorbed sensation with their strange metal skin. That was enough for Blaise.
“I still don't know how it all works.”
Blaise whirled at the sound of Weatherton's voice.
The tall porcie strode through the lab, running gloved fingers over counters and tapping devices as though greeting friends in a crowded room.
“I don't either,” Blaise said. But the power flickered inside him, like a flame waiting for him to fan it into a fire.
Weatherton came to a stop near Blaise and tugged at the fingers of his gloves. “That wasn't the answer I'd hoped for.”
A chill crawled down Blaise's spine. He planted his feet and searched for a weapon, but the porcie man merely drew off his gloves and set them on a table. He stood eyeing Blaise for a moment then stepped closer, hands extended, palms downward.
As the cuffs of Weatherton's riding coat slipped up, fine lines appeared on the pale skin of his right wrist and left forearm. Blaise leaned in. They weren't ordinary porcelain cracks repaired by a glueman. They were seams.
“Two separate accidents.” Weatherton lifted his right hand and turned it. The seam ran around his entire wrist. “This was the first. Carriage accident. When I was able to repair myself, I thought there was hope.” His voice grew husky, and he dropped his gaze to his hands, studying them as though he'd never seen them.
“Come.”
The command startled Blaise, but he followed his host to the back of the lab. Another door led into a midsized chamber decorated in rich yellow and gold. It was as if he'd stepped into one of the bedrooms in a grand house. Blaise took in the paintings, flowers, and even a sipping cabinet in the corner, but Weatherton crossed the room to stand by the bed.
When Blaise turned, a knot formed in his stomach. Beyond Weatherton's figure, a shape lay on the bed. He forced his feet to take a few steps closer, but his eyes darted, landing anywhere but on the form Weatherton studied.
The porcie twisted to nail Blaise with his dark gaze. “I'd like you to meet my wife.”
Sheer will propelled Blaise to Weatherton's side. He slid his eyes to the shape on the bed and clamped his lips shut. A de-animated porcelain face stared up at the ceiling.
“Clara was shattered,” Weatherton said. He traced a finger over the lifeless cheek. “I remade her just as I remade my hand, but she won't re-animate.”
Silence gathered in the room. Goosebumps pinched Blaise's arms and he backed away.
“I know of your work, Mad Tock. I've seen modifications you've made. If you know the secret to life, please share it with me.”
Somewhere deep inside Blaise the magic sparked, but he doused the flame and turned to leave the room.
Grey yanked at the cords around her wrists until the skin beneath them burned. She fell back, choking on panic. Being tied up was not in the plan. She'd counted on tricking Benedict into believing she was willing to come to a civilized arrangement. She'd counted on having the awl from her cane concealed in her clothing in case negotiations grew heated. She could've done some damage with the little weapon.
As she tugged at her bonds again, sweat ran from her temples and tears stung her eyes. Her heartbeat dashed and blood pounded in her ears. She had to get calm. If she passed out, she didn't have a chance. She needed to talk her way out of this.
Grey forced her eyes closed, though it went against every instinct. She hauled in one breath after another until her breathing stabilized. Maybe she could access her Defender
state. Though to this point the granite sensation seemed to come and go of its own free will, she focused on the memory of strength gliding beneath her skin, willing her core to harden to no effect.
She recalled the night she first felt the Defender state, the night Whit was taken, but the memory of his face and the faces of her family hitched her breath. A sob threatened. She worked her way back to a tenuous calm.
Without prompting, her heart reached for Blaise, pulling the memory of him close. She felt his arms circle her. Smelled his scent, sawdust and machinery and sweat. Experienced the touch of another human, but not just any human, a Defender like her. Strong, built for justice, built to resist tyranny. She held the moment close, willing her mark to leap to life and dance with their connection.
A scraping sound banished the phantom Blaise. Grey went cold. Her extremities numbed as sensation curled inward, forming a tight ball in her lower torso. She struggled for shallow breaths.
“Ah, this is not how I wanted it.”
Grey turned her head toward the door. Night had fallen, and the shadows swallowed all but Benedict's pale face and hands. He glided forward, pausing to slip out of his jacket and toss it over a chair. The dark material of his shirt gaped and a twinkle of glass glimmered against his chest.
Grey concentrated on her mission and willed her voice to sound composed. “It's not how I wanted it either.”
He stepped to the bed and gazed down, his sapphire eyes fixed on hers. “Then let's try it another way, shall we?”
A shard of hope pricked inside. She held perfectly still as Benedict sat on the edge of the bed.
He drew one long finger over the tender skin of her bruised jawbone. “Drakon will answer for the mark he left
on my prize.” He secured her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning her head left and right.
Grey suppressed a shudder. His skin was warm, almost hot. No chance of him cooling before he got what he wanted from her.
“I still find you beautiful, Grey.” He released her chin and traced her lips with a searing fingertip. “Do you understand? You are more fascinating than any painting I've ever seen, more exquisite than any porcie I've ever known.”
Grey strained to follow his movements as his fingers glided over her neck and dipped into the hollows of her collarbone. The panic welled inside her again and a whimper escaped.
She jumped when he sat back, her whole body rigid in dread. But he didn't attack her. Instead he flattened one hand on the bedspread and leaned away, scanning the darkened room. The languid pose gave an air of intimacy, almost friendship.
“Let's try another approach.” Benedict sounded thoughtful. He looked at her again, perfect features arranged in a mask of cool benevolence. “You answer my questions and I'll untie you.”
Grey nodded. Fear and hope stabbed her heart.
His full mouth pulled into a smirk. “I beg you not to run. Surely you understand my position. If you were to make a second attempt at escape, even my consuming fascination with your design wouldn't keep me from exacting a complete punishment.
“Now.” He pushed out of his casual pose and moved his hand to her knee. His fingers slid the length of her leg and stopped at the rope around her ankles. “I know the mangled porcie in my scullery isn't the Mad Tock. I've had reports of
an attack on the Weatherton estate. The Mad Tock was seen there before his flying contrivance crashed.”
Grey gasped. The smoke on the horizon had written the rebels' fate across the sky. Was Blaise trapped? Burning? Dead?
“Ah, this news affects you. Good. Then tell me, who is the Mad Tock?”
“I don't know, really.”
Benedict's hand shifted from the ropes to her calf. His fingers pressed into her skin, harder and harder, digging toward her bone.
Grey winced and her words tumbled out. “I met him for the first time the day of the flood.”
The vise grip on her leg eased.
“What does he hope to accomplish with these attacks?”
Scenes from Cog Valley flashed in Grey's head. “They want access to purified water. That's all. The porcies and tocks in the valley, they're all sick.”
Benedict's dark brows scrunched. “What good would pure water do them? They're disfigured, broken. They're never going to rejoin society.”
“They're people,” Grey said.
Benedict's handsome features twisted in confusion. “People? What does that mean?”
“It means they matter, even if they're not
Beauty's Best.
” She spat the words at him.
Blue jewel eyes snapped to her face. “That's Valor Society rhetoric. Who told you that?”
“No one.”
Quicker than she'd ever seen a porcie move, Benedict straddled her, pinning her to the bed with stone-hard legs. His mouth stiffened, losing all semblance of civility.
“Who told you that, Grey?”
Pain lanced up her sides. “No one had to tell me that. I can see it with my own eyes.”
“Is the Mad Tock behind the valor talk? Did he start the movement?”
“I don't think so.”
“Why does he steal Curio's citizens?”
“I don't . . . He doesn't . . .” Grey struggled beneath Benedict's body.
He shifted, bringing his face close to hers. His knees and arms formed bars around her torso. “What does he want with the tocks' keys?”
Grey's eyes instinctively darted to Benedict's chest. His shirt hung from his shoulders, allowing the chain he wore to swing freely between them. A glass key about the size of Grey's pinky dangled inches from her face.
She averted her gaze, though a moment too late.
A slow smile tugged his molded lips. “Ah, it's
my
key he's after. Then his object is to overthrow me.”
Grey's thoughts swam. “But you're a porcie. You don't need a key.”
He made a disgusted sound. “No, I don't need it to operate like a common tock. This key is mine to guard. It was given to me by the gray one. The one like you.”
Haimon had given Benedict the key. Then Haimon must've known the way out all along. Why didn't he tell her to take Benedict's key? Why were his final words to her, “Find him and bring him back”? He had to have meant Blaise, a Defender strong enough to free her father. But Blaise was probably dead, and though the key dangled in front of her face, she could no more wrap her fingers around it than she could send Benedict flying across the room with the power of her mind.
A shift in the atmosphere drew the tiny hairs on Grey's neck and arms to attention. Benedict still hung above her, but his expression had changed. Hooded eyes followed the curve of her neck. His lips parted a moment before he lowered his head.
G
rey held in a scream when Benedict's mouth touched her neck. Pain seared her as boiling steam escaped his lips, leaving raw patches on the delicate skin over her jugular. She squeezed her eyes shut, but tears leaked out and trailed into her hair.
Heat and horror locked her in a cage worse than Harrowstone's cells.
His exploration traveled along the neckline of her gown. Hands bracing her back, he pressed his ear to her chest. Grey choked on raw terror. Shadows edged her vision and violent tremors wracked through her locked muscles.
“Such a different sound, this
thump-thump
,
thump-thump
.” He shifted, looking up at her with questions in his vivid blue eyes. “And this is what makes you strong, warm, unbreakable?”
