The Nutcracker Bleeds (24 page)

Armand
stared at him, and Brooke saw just what he meant to say right there in his
face.
Why do you want to know, oh nothing who realizes he’s nothing?
The
nutcracker would have been right if he’d said it aloud. Brooke could not have
hated him for it.

“Humor
me,” the toy posed. “Perhaps it will help me to better protect her.”

“The
rodents brought her here,” said the nutcracker in his oddly accented voice.
“I’ll soon find out why.”

“The
Rat King…” Brooke uttered thoughtfully. If he’d said anything with much feeling
so far, this word brought a shutter of hatred to his lips. “Have you ever seen
him yourself?”

Armand
paused. “Once or twice.”

“Is
he as hideous as they say?”

The
nutcracker lowered his head a bit and sighed out. For a moment, Brooke wondered
if he would answer. Then again, it wouldn’t have mattered much…

“I
don’t see him as others do,” Armand said finally. “There is no fear in me for
the disgusting monster that he is; only hate for the impossible demon that he
was
before.
”

Brooke
did not pry further, reminding himself that these things did not truly concern
him. To be honest with himself, he didn’t expect to exist on past the night. He
only needed a reason for his temporary existence to be worthwhile.

He
watched the nutcracker look toward the spot where the woman slept. His face was
unreadable, but Brooke detected his concern for her. Was it a simple concern
for whatever goal he had in mind? No, it was something else. A distant failure
similar to this situation that he would not allow to fall short this time?
Granted, Brooke had no notion of why this nutcracker was trailing around with
the woman, but whatever that reason might have been, Brooke knew that it was
alright.

“You
are different from me,” Brooke said, interrupting Armand’s glance toward Anne.
“I can tell.”

“How
so?” the nutcracker asked, turning back. Whether or not he was truly interested
in knowing, Brooke could not tell.

“Because
you understand what I am, and know that you’re different. You feel things that
are real and not fabricated, as is the nature of my own existence.”

“Not
much,” Armand promised. “There is very little feeling.”

“But
you do have it still. You feel hate. You feel for this woman even if you are
simply forcing yourself in order to protect her. I saw you fighting my brother.
There was pleasure in your swings–a feeling of satisfaction when you crushed
his head. Those are your passions, and you
bleed
for those things. I
felt love once, and I felt it more deeply than anyone else perhaps. But she
wasn’t real. So neither was what I felt. It’s all a fantasy.”

Armand
listened to those words, and he might have agreed, but it was not worth the
effort.

“At
times, I still do get carried away by those false feelings. I’m babbling.
Apologies.”

A
movement to the side caught their attention, and the soldiers turned to see
Anne sitting up on the sock–bed. She rubbed her eyes and swallowed heavily,
wincing through the pain of her aching throat. Eventually, her gaze found them.
She didn’t smile or speak, simply sitting there looking flushed.

“Is
something wrong?” Brooke asked when it was apparent Armand would not.

“I
was having a bad dream,” she said, looking away.

Dreams…
Brooke thought to
himself. He understood the concept, but knew nothing of them–good or bad.

5

As
soon as he saw that Anne was awake, the nutcracker rose from his seat,
unwilling to waste time, even for her.

“We’d
best go see what the Shaman has to say while we have the time.”

He’d
said this mainly to remind the woman of their goal–to tell her to pull herself
together quickly because they were very close to having answers. It seemed to
work. Anne got to her feet as Armand moved past her–

He
stopped suddenly. A sound had reached his ears–something tapping lightly
against glass.

His
gaze moved to the lantern behind him. There, casting a fluttering shadow over
the walls, was a pale moth. It bumped the glass, wanting to touch the light
more than anything else in existence. For a moment, Armand could relate,
knowing what it felt like to crave one thing over all others.
Revenge
.
But the sight of the moth reminded him of something else.

He
was hungry.

Anne
stood nearby, perhaps waiting to fall into step behind him. Without looking to her,
he spoke.

“Turn
around.”

The
woman looked up to him indignantly. The expression on her face asked him why
she should do this thing that he wanted.

“I
asked you to,” he told her before she was able to speak.

Brooke
moved toward Anne to take her ahead shortly, but it was Armand’s empty gaze
that eventually made her relent. The dark–haired soldier took her arm and
handed the cat’s eye to her. She rubbed it easily to give them light, walking
slowly down the line of the shaft with him.

In
her unconsciousness–and she hardly remembered what had happened that caused
it–Anne had dreamed once again. It had been the same dream she’d had before.

In
her doll dress, she peered across a long floor to see Armand locked in battle
with an adversary. This time, the enemy had been a bladed puppet. The
nutcracker bested his enemy, but he’d been injured. Once again, she rushed to
him, though she wondered more and more why she would even bother in reality.
Would he do the same for her?

The
trek seemed so long, the blood–pool growing, and eventually she’d fallen. Like
before, her legs had become porcelain and lifeless.

“Armand…I
didn’t mean what I said…”

She’d
tried to pull herself along, slipping and painting herself with the blood–but
then someone was helping her to rise. It was Brooke. He pulled her to her feet
and supported her for just a moment before he fell to the floor himself,
completely lifeless.

Anne
then found she could run again. She’d moved toward Armand with all she had,
manipulating legs that shouldn’t have been mobile. But then there was something
else in her way. A small figure stood there, directly in the path between her
and her hero. The figure was a child. It was Olivia. The girl opened her mouth.

“You
know, he always loved me most.”

Anne
awoke after that, feeling sick and confused. Why did this dream come? What did
it mean? She was beginning to think it was part of her curse.

The
sound of footsteps behind her brought her back, and to her right side, Armand
passed and took the lead without a single word or glance. He had asked her to
turn around…why?

The
woman turned to look over her shoulder, looking at the corner they’d just left
with the lantern and the sock bed. Only one thing was different.

The
moth was gone.

1

The
trek back to the Shaman’s armoire was silent. Armand was as tight–lipped as
ever, thinking his own thoughts. Anne simply didn’t feel like speaking, still
feeling the pain at her throat as she relived the images from her dream. Brooke
simply had nothing to say, and because there was nothing pertinent, he would
not make meaningless conversation.

So
the three of them moved on; Armand in the lead, Anne after that, and Brooke
following behind.

Anne
thought she began to smell the dreadful stench of the rotting doll much earlier
than the last time. Was it possible that the Shaman’s stench had grown so
greatly in just a short while? They hadn’t even reached the curtain between the
passage and the vent before it touched her nose.

Upon
reaching the edge of that cloth, Armand stopped.

“I’m
going in alone,” he said, and for a moment, Anne only stared at his back.
Surely he had not been serious…

“Like
hell you are,” she protested, her voice rising a bit more than it should have.
“You’re not leaving me.”

She
gripped his arm, moving to look at his face. His face told her, as it always
did, that he was
deathly
serious.

“What
do you mean by this?” Anne demanded. She would have searched his eyes, but that
was impossible. “You know I need to hear–”

“You’re
going to have to trust me,” he broke in without looking at her. “Can you do
that?”

She
stared back at him, and she almost said no. How could he think for one moment
that she trusted that he would tell her the truth? Likely, the truth would just
happen
not
to coincide with his own goals and she’d never know whether
or not she could have been saved. He was completely beyond her trust, and yet
she fully believed that he would never let anything happen to her. At that moment,
she realized she didn’t trust him at all–but yet she trusted him more than
anything. He was all she had.

“Tell
me you wouldn’t lie to me concerning this,” she requested, much more calmly
now. “Look in my eyes and say it.”

Armand
turned his face toward her. There was no proof that he was looking at her, but
she was certain she could feel it–like a chill running a course through her
blood.

“I’ve
told you everything that concerns you. I won’t stop now.”

That,
she supposed, would have to be good enough. Anne let go of his arm and stepped
back, resigning herself to stand against the shaft wall. Broke would wait with
her here, and if Armand actually trusted the soldier that much, she knew her
own trust in him was not misplaced. He was very different from Armand.

Very,
very different.

“I’ll
be back shortly,” the nutcracker said, and vanished beneath the curtain. A
cloud of stench rolled through from beneath it.

2

During
the wait–period, Anne attempted to busy herself following Armand’s footsteps throughout
his trek. She had guessed how many steps it would take him to get to the
armoire. Imagined him opening and closing the doors, getting to the lift. He
went up and up and up until finally he reached the top shelf. She guessed him
walking down the long walkway of the shelf to get to the birdcage where the
Shaman awaited him. The Chinese doll told him what he needed to know–or perhaps
he even gave it to Armand in a letter that she could read. And then Armand was
on his way back…

Still,
she was waiting. She’d likely miscalculated–as one might try to count for the
clock and manage to slip two seconds into the space of one.

Brooke
had said nothing for a long while, leaned against the wall, alert yet restful.
She decided that it would hurt nothing to speak with him. Perhaps he even had
something he could share. The only problem was deciding what to say. If she
tried to talk
about
him, he wouldn’t allow it. He’d tell her that
everything about himself was false. So, what was there to say?

“Do
you know anything about the rodents?”

He
raised his brown glass eyes to her.

“I
haven’t had much experience with them myself,” he admitted. “I’ve run into a
few, but they left us alone mostly. I assume because of all the human traffic
in the room during the day. Doesn’t leave room for violent conquest when
everything has to appear exactly as it was the next morning.”

“Why
have all the rules changed tonight then? They’re causing havoc everywhere.”

“I
can only suppose that tonight is the night,” Brooke said. “This is when they
will make their plans reality.”

What
a coincidence. Tonight was the night she was getting out of this.

Before
she could redirect herself, she’d begun talking about the only other thing they
had in common.

“What’s
your theory about him?” she asked, jerking her head back toward the curtain
that Armand had passed through earlier on.

“I’m
not trying to figure him out,” Brooke told her quickly. “His business is his
own. I just know that his rage is toward the King of Mice. And it’s not some sort
of programmed hate just because he’s a soldier. It’s very personal.”

“It’s
definitely that,” she agreed, though quite begrudgingly.

Personal.
His own person. Those were the things Armand cared about. The only things. Anne
refused to admit her constant desire to be close to him despite all the awful
qualities she saw in him. More than that, she’d erased the earlier incident
from her mind. No, she hadn’t wanted to kiss him. That was silly. Yes, yes,
yes, it was gone fully. Armand was completely impossible; bottom line.

“You
don’t have to dodge,” Brooke said suddenly, feeling no shame for keeping his
gaze locked on her. “It’s alright for you to love him.”

Anne
gaped back at him. No words would come forth from her mouth, but neither did a
nervous laugh of denial. Then she became angry.

“Oh
I certainly do not love him,” she protested adamantly. “I don’t even know him!”

Brooke
noticed her hostility and understood that it was best not to press matters at a
time like this. He let her win this conflict, and she accepted herself as
victor. Still, the soldier could tell that something was still on her mind. It
wasn’t very long before she spoke again.

“Besides,
how do you love someone who keeps so many secrets? How would you ever know them
for who they really are?”

She
was venting now, relieving that pent–up frustration. The soldier let her go on.

“But
it doesn’t matter,” she sighed. “He’s a toy.”

“Oh
no,” Brooke interrupted with a shake of his head. “He’s real.”

The
woman raised her eyes, and Brooke was certain that he saw a royal look there.
How
dare you impede me?
it asked.

“He’s
still part of this world,” Anne insisted to him heatedly, “and if I did feel
something for him–which I don’t, mind you–I don’t want to have
anything
to do with this world. Somehow or another I’m going to get out of this. And
only with him is it possible. That, I’m sure of.”

Brooke
didn’t pry, but he was seeing this woman’s pattern already. She said things
that she
wanted
to believe, and not things she actually did. Anne,
however, was much too busy in her anger to realize this truth now.

“There
was a little doll with me at one point,” she continued. “I was trying to help
her, but during an attack, I was only able to think of myself. I probably let
something terrible happen to her… But I was almost beginning to feel bad about
it, you know? Now he’s gone and destroyed all that for me, and I don’t care at
all. Can’t you see he’s ruining me?”

“But
he’s right,” Brooke insisted without caring that she was getting angrier with
him over these things. Even if he’d known, he couldn’t have blamed her. She was
going through a serious ordeal.

“Oh,
what do you know?” Anne growled dismissively. “You’re just a toy.”

At
this, Brooke was silent. He didn’t even flinch. Anne raised her eyes to it. She
wasn’t accustomed to arguing much–not since Armand–but when she’d made her
comment, she’d not exactly expected Brooke to curl up and play dead. Perhaps
she’d forgotten who she was talking to?

The
green glow illuminated his face and she looked toward him, seeing that he was
staring at the floor. His brow furrowed slightly. Could she have actually
damaged his feelings?

“I
am
just a toy,” he said.

Anne
had claimed that Armand had made her unable to care about any of them, but she
realized in that moment that this was not entirely true. This one named Brooke
was so tragic that she couldn’t help but feel pity for him. She wanted to
apologize.
Needed
to. But she couldn’t make herself. Anne sat in the
silence, considering her options until it was too late to say she was sorry.

Brooke
wasn’t bitter. Sure, her words had given him brief feelings of resentment, but
he banished them quickly. His mind turned to more constructive things, such as
calming the woman of her own apprehensions.

“If
it might console you about the child, there’s something a bit funny about
toys,” Brooke spoke up, banishing the silence. “I don’t even know if your
nutcracker has considered it much, or perhaps he simply doesn’t care; that is
not for me to know. But, as toys can be broken, they can also be fixed. All it
takes is a bit of care and time. They may never be as good as new, but with a
bit of putty and paint, they can walk again.”

This
interesting information caused her to raise her head.

“You
mean, toys can be resurrected with this curse?”

His words
made perfect sense, but she didn’t blame herself for not thinking of this
before. There were just so many important things to consider.

“Yes,
I believe
resurrect
would be the proper word for it. So if something
happened to the child doll you spoke of, it is possible that some other toy
will take the initiative to fix her.”

Anne
wasn’t sure how much consolation that offered. In fact, she was quite certain
that it scared her. Not about Clara really–though she wouldn’t have blamed the
girl doll for being very angry with her after the fact–but for all toys in
general. All those puppets that had been slain could be fixed and could come
back after them once again?

Then,
another notion slapped Anne so roughly that it stung.

“Your
brothers and the princess?” she inquired. “Is that why you so readily killed
them? You knew they could be brought back?”

“It
had not been my plan to kill them. But when I saw you, I knew I didn’t need
them anymore. I couldn’t let them hurt you. I admit, I should have destroyed
them more fully. Pirlipat, I believe, is beyond repair. She couldn’t be made
back into the same doll with the same memories. Perhaps if she is remade, she
will awaken with a new life. I’m not certain. My brothers, however…”

He
trailed off, not bothering to go on–or perhaps simply not willing to say. Anne
took it upon herself.

“But
then, if they do come back, don’t you think they will be quite angry with you?”

“Oh
yes,” Brooke said, an amused sort of smile emerging on his lips. “
Very
.”

The
expression was so uncommon to his face that it was eerie. How could he think
this was funny? If they came back they would surely destroy him so fully that
he could not be repaired. And yet, Brooke seemed to welcome this–as if he
wanted it!

Against
the wall, Anne hugged herself. These toys… She would never understand them.

3

After
the bladed marionettes had done their job of ripping the clock tower from
Princess Pirlipat’s castle–house, they’d not expected the entire structure to
collapse. Still, the sight brought on rings of ghostly laughter. They’d done a
sufficient job for their master, retrieving the tower from the building and
causing every toy in the room to cower in dark corners. Their job done, they
were set to leave.

The
bodies of two soldiers had slid out from the rubble in the collapse. They were
damaged, dead toys, but their make was much too lovely to be neglected.

A
group of puppets noticed those bodies–one soldier that had half of his head
missing; the other with the glass of his face cracked in a pattern like spider
webs. The marionettes lifted the soldiers carefully with their cruel, wicked
hands.

Within
their lair of the toy maker’s room–which was now property of the Rat King–they
set to work, whispering together in a tumultuous hissing noise.

They
ran a coat of new polish over the blond soldier’s face, sealing his cracks.
They fixed part of a featureless wooden doll head to complete the red–haired
soldier’s skull. The puppets chopped off all four of their forearms and glued
blades in their places. Strings were attached to their limbs and backs.

“
Join
us
,” they coaxed in their whispers. “
Join us. Wake up. Join us
.”