The Nutcracker Bleeds (15 page)

The
glass sword leapt upward in a red flash, ripping open the face of the rabbit
that was advancing with the letter opener. The creature screamed in pain as
stuffing floated out like snow. The nutcracker ducked as toys took swipes at
him, his blade crashing through the china kneecaps of another toy near him. He
knocked a head off with the metal of his arm.

The
way he moved about through the midst of them was like a dance. Their screams
were the song to accompany the melody of his moving sword. His movements were
perfect and timed, like some sort of wicked ballet in which he destroyed all
his partners. It was faultless. It was bliss. One by one, the weapons and
bodies of his adversaries fell. It took great lengths to kill a toy once the
curse was upon them, but he was certain that these were not going to bother him
again for a very long time.

Once
he was finished, standing upright and still, he took a moment to take in the
sounds of the weak moans emitting from his former opposition. They were docile
now, and he thought he might have actually destroyed a few of them completely.

As
he stood, the weightless fluff of cotton drifted down to settle on him, he
opened his mouth to speak.

“Anyone
else?” he called into the depth of the room.

He
was met with no response, and he hadn’t expected any–if in fact the ones who’d
looked on were wise.

Making
sure that he was leaving with all that he desired, Armand dropped down to the
stool and then to the floor, where he began to walk toward the exit unopposed.

3

From
the shadows, red eyes observed.

The
fight had been amazing, and though the entire group had been bested, the
nutcracker’s performance had been exquisite! The misfit doll with the long
black hair had enjoyed it very much. There had been such violence in his every
swing! Such a thirst for the pain that came forth! It was so much of an amazing
sight that the toy was completely stirred throughout its body. Before it slunk
away into the dark, it understood something.

It
knew it was meant to be like the nutcracker. It knew it was meant to be
male
.

4

After
quite a while, Anne and the doll, Clara, finally managed to get to the top of
the stairs.

Over
and over again, Anne had climbed the next step and then leaned over to help the
child up. All of this while keeping up with the cat’s eye and the needle. The
steps had seemed to go on forever–perhaps straight on to heaven where she could
ask St. Peter if she’d been good enough to make it, but finally they’d emerged
at the top. They’d made it to the third floor.

Congratulations,
Anne
,
she thought to herself as she sat on the floor, rubbing her legs to calm their
shaking. Anne knew she wasn’t quite strong enough to handle all that. All of
her muscles ached and refused to support her now.

There
I went, struggling on for such a long time
… She got a sudden mental image of
the nutcracker dragging her and Clara both up the stairs by their hair,
knocking them against the edges of the steps without care while the jester
scrambled to keep up, trying to stare up their dresses. The image made her
release a short and abrupt giggle, and her hand didn’t make it to her mouth in
time to contain it. Beside her on the floor, Clara peered up at her with a
strange expression.

Why
am I laughing?
Anne wondered.
That’s not funny at all.

“That
was hard work,” the girl said. It seemed the child had a way with things
radically apparent.

Clara
stood and picked up the cat’s eye marble that was resting near Anne.

“We’re
almost there! Let’s do hurry. Then we can have a rest!”

Before
the woman could catch her breath enough to protest, the child doll had darted
off toward the door of the Lady’s domain.

Anne
managed to pull herself up, taking a few shaky steps before willing herself to
move on. Perhaps, even with its unpleasantness, the kingdom was the best place
to have a rest.

Clara
was stopped directly before the door of the room, and the woman joined her
there. To her surprise, a hole had been cut in the door and made into a flap
that would open like a tiny gate. Clara knocked upon it and stepped back while
Anne wondered if the miniscule sound could even be heard through the thick of
the door.

After
a moment of standing there and speculating with twisted hands, a little window
eased open and the chipped, wooden head of a soldier leaned out.

“Password,”
he said.

Anne
cringed. Once again she was helpless to this. She knew the password to get out,
but not the one to get back inside! And perhaps every gate had different
passwords.

“You
don’t know?” The girl to her side had her delicate face taken by apprehension.
No, Anne did not know any password, and for a moment, she hated the doll for
the pointed accusation.

“I
thought perhaps
you
might,” she said, but Clara just lowered her head.
Had she caught on to Anne’s irritation? Needles of guilt stabbed at her.

“We
have some suspicious persons here,” the woman heard the soldier at the window
shout back behind him.

No,
no. Not any of this again.

She
nearly opened her mouth to proclaim that she’d been accepted by the Lady and forgiven
for her earlier intrusion, but Clara’s freezing touch on her hand stopped her.

“Over
there,” she whispered, and Anne followed her pointing finger to a hole on the
edge of the door on the other side of the hallway.

That
was the attic door. It was dark inside there and Anne could see dust flying
around in the still air within. That was not exactly where they wanted to
be–not where she wanted to go–but there were only two options. They could wait
here for the guards to apprehend them and take them to Olivia, where she would
surely be imprisoned this time for making so much trouble, or she could give
into Clara’s tugging hand and head into the unknown of the dark attic space.

She
felt her feet release their resistance to keep her rooted, felt herself falling
into step behind the child doll in the deep blue dress with the cuffs of white
rabbit fur. Anne was moving toward the attic before she’d truly given herself
time to consider the option.

Because,
of course I’m going into the attic. Deeper into this madness. Spoon–feed it to
me until I’ve tasted it all.

Ducking
beneath the jagged opening, she came out into that deep space. She tugged Clara
so that she would be still a moment to listen. Listening was important here;
she’d learned that quickly. And a better thing was that she was
good
at
it.

There
was nothing here. Piles of junk, sure, but there was nothing moving around.
Every toy that had been cast off here had undoubtedly found its way into
Olivia’s room. And though this place might have served as a lovely post for the
rodents to spy on the toys nearby, they might have been much too afraid to set
up so near to their enemy’s troops.

The
neglected room was dusty, but it was the most pleasant place Anne had seen.
There was even an ounce of light seeping through the cracks where the moonlight
outside was reflecting off the snow. It was cold in this enormous and unkempt
room, but she felt safe in it.

When
she was fairly certain that nothing was moving about, she released Clara and
gave the cat’s eye a little scratch. Green light illuminated the way for her
and despite all the junk, there was a nice walkway cleared, large enough for a
human to get through. This would be a decent place to stop and rest her weary
body.

Anne
grasped for the child’s hand once again, but collected nothing but air.
Confusion set in. Looking around, she saw that Clara was no longer beside her.

“Clara?”
she called out lowly, a bit of her certainty falling away. This was exactly
like when she’d searched for Olivia earlier. High and low and she’d not found
the girl…

“Over
here, Anne!”

A
cheery voice. A child’s voice. Somehow, the sound of it made her feel alright
again. Clara moved toward it slowly, passing beneath an old chair and finally
she saw the girl. She had seated herself on a pillow that was old and had
collected much dust, but it looked like the best thing in the world to Anne.

“I’m
very tired,” the girl said, her porcelain face looking drained. Anne thought
that was very odd. “Let’s sit down.”

Anne
did not argue, putting the needle and the cat’s eye on the floor and sitting
gingerly into the pillow that she immediately sank down into. It was much more
comfortable than any bed, and for a moment she only stared up at the ceiling,
feeling the blood circulating to her extremities as it tried to console her
aches.

“Yes,
this is a very nice place.” She heard the child comment from nearby. The doll
was leaning in next to her, and Anne’s mind, though it was shutting down for
sleep, thought to make an inquiry.

“Clara?”

The
girl answered her with a short “Hm?”

“I
don’t remember ever seeing you in Olivia’s…I mean,
the Lady’s
room
before,” Anne said. “I’m sure she would have adored such a–”

“I
was on the shelf behind the bigger dolls,” the child said, cutting her off
quickly. “I stayed there for a long time. Missed much of what was going on.
Actually, I think she’d forgotten about me.”

Anne’s
mind started to work. To be forgotten–horrible! It reminded her of her own life
somewhat. Pretty, forgotten girl, tossed into a completely different world.
Truly, how much different was it now than it had always been?

In
the limbo between asleep and awake, Anne felt arms wrap around her. A small
head rested against her chest.

“You’re
warm,” Clara said quietly, snuggling in tighter against her. But it was not
warm to Anne. The cold of the child’s skin was bleeding through her doll dress.

“Why
are you here, Anne?” the doll questioned. “I mean, why are you in this house
and not in a house of your own?”

The
question shocked the woman to silence, but she lay as stiff as a corpse.
Why?
Because her parents had possessed nothing and she’d always wanted
something
.
Because she’d gone to live with an aunt who’d pinned her to the church like
being nailed to a cross. Because the man who’d proposed to her was a bigot and
she’d wanted none of that. Because she’d chosen to do the wrong thing with her
life. Because William Ellington had seen her and thought she was just what he
needed in his house. Because she wanted more than all those simple things.

Well,
now you have a lot more, don’t you?

A
smile touched the corner of her lips. Irony.

‘
Having
always been something, I understand it must be difficult to imagine what it’s
like to be nothing
.’ Armand’s words to her. But that was not entirely true,
was it. No; she had
always
been nothing.

“I
just…want this life,” she said simply, and left it at that.

Anne
didn’t want to talk, she didn’t want to sleep, or be bothered by memories. She
wanted to think about how to get out of here. But she leaned her cheek against
the feathered pillow, and within a few moments, she was fast asleep.

 1

 The
mouse squirmed as it was pinned against the wall, supported only at its throat
and muzzle by two wooden hands. The attacker leaned in close, staring into the rodent’s
eyes with the only thing he had to stare with: hollow, oval slits.

“Now,”
the voice said with an accent that was quite like the Master’s. The sound of it
made the creature quiver in fear. “I want you to tell me everything about
what’s going on in this house.”

2

A
stir of dust and a sudden need to cough awoke Anne from her slumber. She rolled
against the attic pillow, wondering how long she’d been asleep. It couldn’t
have been very long. It was still dark outside and her muscles remained sore.

Clara
was no longer lying with her.

Did
I make the girl up?
she considered in her grogginess. But no; it was impossible. She could still
feel the doll’s cold lingering on her skin.

Despite
her body’s objection, she pulled herself from the pillow. The needle and marble
were still where she’d left them, untouched by the doll. Anne peered around,
feeling as though the darkness was tightening around her. The child doll was
nowhere to be seen.

This
time, the woman did not call out for her. The child was like a stray dog. If it
stood by, looking up at you with its big, helpless eyes, it was harder to
abandon it. But if you woke up the next morning and it was gone, would you go
look for it? Especially if you knew you couldn’t take care of it anyway?

Yes,
it’s very much like that
, Anne decided.
Out of sight, out of mind.

She
collected her things and moved forward, but something felt wrong. She wasn’t
alone in this attic at all.

The
darkness was closing in.
Claustrophobic…

A
bump. A scratch. Anne jumped in her skin. From somewhere, she heard a little
scream. Something fell off a pile and crashed to the floor. Where was the exit?
Where?
She turned around so many times that it seemed the room was
moving. Frightened gasps took over her throat.

Should
she hide? Run? Move back to the pillow and sleep her troubles away? She pulled
the marble in tighter.

I’ve
got to get out of here…

“S–S–Sllevk
has finally found you. Mas–s–ster will be pleased.”

The
voice was a hiss of air, a burden to her ears. Anne looked to her left and right,
searching for the source of the sound until, behind her, she found it. Black
beads of eyes stared at her, casting red in the light. Grey–brown fur, a dirty
muzzle, one ear… The mouse was wearing a torn and dirty piece of cloth that had
once been white. It had addressed her while standing on its hind legs, and she
was almost as frightened to see it as she was to hear it speak.

“Looking
for me?” she questioned, wondering about the strength of her legs. “Then
forgive me for prolonging your search!”

Her
sentence wasn’t even finished before she was running away, but the mouse was
fast. Much too fast. She hadn’t gotten far before it was standing directly in
front of her once again. The woman backed away, losing hope by the moment when
she’d only had a handful to start.

The
mouse said nothing else to her, lifting its head to release a loud, whistling
chatter through its teeth. That was the sound a mouse should have made. They
were not supposed to have voices.

Anne
stood still, uncertain, but the shortest twist of her foot sent the rodent into
motion. She hadn’t remembered the needle in her hand. It was only on instinct
that she brought it forward.

Quickly,
she jerked the needle up, swinging out with it. The mouse dodged her desperate attempts
easily with his agile body.

No,
no, Anne. What are you thinking? Jab! Don’t slice!

Her
hand thrust forward with the gleaming rod, and in one of the luckiest instances
that had happened to her all night, the point of the weapon found flesh. It dug
into the rodent’s shoulder. A squirt of blood leapt out at her as the mouse
hissed in pain. Without enough thought to pull the needle out, she simply
turned and ran, leaving it embedded in her enemy.

Anne
had no idea if she was headed for the exit or not. Likely, she was heading
farther into the depth of the mess. Soon it would be impossible to navigate. A
few turns in the dark, and…

Blocked
in…

A
barrel, a large trunk, and a long mirror covered with a dirty sheet were
conveniently arranged to hinder her. It was as if all this had been
planned–though she couldn’t tell that anything had been moved. The dust on the
floor was still thick. One thing was certain, and that was there was no way out
of this except the way she’d come.

She
turned, her breathing labored with panic. The mouse called Sllevk was upon her
again, dripping a trail of blood onto the wood. Anne was having a hard time
steadying her breath. She was cornered and without a weapon. The marble was in
her grasp, but she didn’t think she could do much except throw it. That
wouldn’t have done much good; she knew her aim was terrible.

Something
on the floor caught her eye. Letting her vision wander, she focused on the
object. A chess piece–a red pawn. According to her size, she wasn’t certain if
the object would be light or heavy, but it was small enough to swing. It could
make a nice club.

The
mouse hissed, drool dropping from its fangs. It had seen her spy the game
piece. There wasn’t much time.

Anne
dropped the marble and ran toward it. The mouse ran toward
her
.

3

There
were great sounds of disturbance when the nutcracker reached the attic. He’d
gone there just as a mouse had instructed him–just before he’d crushed the
creature’s muzzle and left it to die, but he’d found out a few important
things, so his efforts hadn’t been for naught.

Now,
Armand made his way out of the clutter, seeing a large cockroach skitter out of
his path as he moved forward. He smelled a familiar stench.
Mice.

He
took hold of a needle and the long screw at his side. Any rodent he could
manage to kill was well worth his effort.

Shadows
moved through the dark, scurrying elsewhere. He wouldn’t let them reach their
destination. The nutcracker moved in quietly and swiftly, skewering the first
mouse upon the screw before it knew he was there. Three other rodents spotted
him and turned, withdrawing bottles of a strange clear liquid from beneath
their torn shrouds. They uncapped them, and he smelled a familiar smell.

Turpentine
. It was like acid
to toys, but that didn’t worry him much. he would not be stopped by the ruining
of his paint.

He
threw a needle straight through the throat of one. Immediately following, he
pulled the glass sword from his back and chopped off the arm of the next mouse
who’d nearly splashed the liquid all over him. That limb gone, he chopped off
the rodent’s head.

He’d
never had much trouble with mice. Only an entire battalion of them could stand
a chance against him. The next mouse rushed in, and Armand promptly chopped it
in half down the middle, spreading open its insides like the pages of a book.

The
nutcracker was splashed in blood, but it didn’t bother him. He would clean up
later if he had the time.

Back
to business
,
he decided, starting off again to steer through the dark.

He
moved on slowly, following scratching sounds in the distance until he passed
beneath an old handkerchief that was hanging loose from a box. When he emerged
again, he saw her.

She
was simply standing there, dressed exactly the way he’d seen her last. That
little dress with the fur cuffs. A fur hat on her head in the middle of her
mass of curls. Light blond hair that had never been snared or pulled a day of
her life. She was a vision, and yet, a horrible sight.

The
tiny doll looked up at him. Her blue eyes were empty. A firm scowl was on her
pretty face. Armand raised a finger toward her, and in a scolding manner,
flicked it at her face twice.

“Naughty,”
he said without any emotion.

The
child did not respond with words. She hissed at him through her teeth, and then
turned abruptly and trotted away as quickly as a little girl could. Armand
could have caught her if he’d chosen to, but he let her go. He could have cut
her down, but he let her be. He watched Clara hurry away until she was gone,
thinking to himself that he was surely making a mistake. But what was that pain
inside his heart? Guilt? No. Things of that nature did not exist to him
anymore.

He
turned his foot to step, feeling his heel slide a bit on the floor. Looking
down, he saw the red liquid.
Blood
. It hadn’t dripped off him. Further
examination revealed that the blood was leading a trail across the room that
finally disappeared into the junk. Hastily, he followed it.

He trekked
around, closing the area and beginning to hear grunts of exertion from around a
corner. It was female. It was
Anne
. The nutcracker picked up his step,
remembering what he’d come here for to begin with and forcing himself to stay
true to that.

Passing
into a blocked area, he found what he was seeking.

The
woman was on the floor, ferociously beating away at something with a bloody
chess piece. The fluid was splattering with every swing, and he wondered if she
was aware that it was all over her dress. He would stop it eventually, but for
a moment, he watched her.

The
mouse that she pounded with her club was dead–and
had
been dead for a
short time already. Still, she continued to exact her fury on it. For a moment,
he saw himself there–several years before. So much rage built up inside for
confusion and loss.

It’s
still there.

He
understood her need, but she would have to control herself now. There were
other things to be done. Armand sheathed his weapons.

He
walked up behind her. She didn’t notice, too busy with her work. The next time
she raised the chess piece in the air, he caught it firmly in his hand.

“That’s
enough.”

Before
her mind could even register who he was, the woman threw herself off the mouse
and away from him, gasping through her calming rage. She was visibly shaken,
but she did not scream. Armand was impressed.

4

Anne
was only aware when her weapon was snatched out of her hand. She jerked her
head back to see the nutcracker standing over her, holding the bloody pawn.

“You’re
very thorough,” he said, watching her as recognition dawned in her eyes, and
then she peered down toward the rodent she’d slain.

Anne
looked at the bloody mess with a snarl of disgust. Had she done that? She
noticed the nutcracker standing over her. He tossed the game piece away and it
rolled onto the dark. What had happened? She felt something wet soaking her
dress, and she looked down to see that it was mouse blood.

“Gross,”
she muttered.

The
nutcracker offered a hand down to her, but when he saw that it was coated with
blood, he withdrew and offered her the other.

The
woman was sure she wasn’t thinking properly, but she accepted it.

“What
are you doing here?” Anne asked, feeling herself calming down–thinking that she
was actually getting used to all this.

“Actually,
I was looking for
you
.”

The
notion shocked her. At the same time, it made her cautious and fearful.

“For
me?” she questioned. “Whatever for? I thought I was just a burden to you.”

“I
found out some things,” he said, ignoring the rest of what she’d said. “Though
still very vague. They concern you.”

Her
heart leapt. Something concerning her? Her state? How to get her out of this?
Anything would do.

“Concerning
me?” she asked, her mouth going so dry that she hardly got the words out.

“I
still don’t know the reasoning,” he said, standing still and expressionless.
“The rodents are loyal, even through torture. Unless, of course, they simply do
not know the answers themselves.”

She
listened intently as he continued.

“You
are somehow important to them. They’re seeking you–you and the child Sovereign
both. She’s well protected. You, however, are not. And since it is my only
business to foil my enemy, I think that whether you like it or not, you’re
stuck with me.”

Anne
was surprised. He was going to stay by her side? To act as her protector so
that the mice couldn’t get to her and no deranged toys would harm her?

The
woman looked down toward the dead mouse once again, smelling the stench that
had begun to rise from it. She acknowledged that it was only luck that had
allowed her to get to the chess piece first. Luck had guided her swing that
happened to connect with the rodent’s head. She was no good alone; she knew
that. This was no choice for her, but out of all the non–choices she’d had,
this one suited her.