The Nutcracker Bleeds (50 page)

1

Todd’s
luggage was beside his bed. Clothes were spilling out from within as if he–or someone
else–had been digging through the bag hastily. The bed was untouched, obvious
that he’d not laid his head down at all this night.

Walking
over the clothes within the suitcase was like moving across shifting sand, but
the nutcracker and the woman managed it, eventually finding a suitable side
pocket to store the vial of poison in.

When
it was done and the vial was out of sight, they stood silently outside the
suitcase. Neither of them looked at the other. Anne looked at her feet while
Armand focused on something off to the side in the dark of the room that his
mind wasn’t registering.

Finally,
it was Anne who broke the silence between them.

“So,
we’re holding with the idea that your misfit is going to have our answers?”

She
was already afraid to ask, or to even say a word at all, and when he hesitated
with his reply, her feeling of dread deepened.

“I
was thinking it over,” he said, looking out at the room and not at her, “but
I’m not sure how probable it is that the misfit will know the secret–neither do
I know the odds of that toy telling us even if it
did
know. I believe it
was just wishful thinking that led me to suggest this.”

Armand
held his head up as if he was proudly commanding an army based on his opinions.
He wore a scowl. She did not like that look for him. There was too much
resolution in it.

“The
girl?” Anne inquired. “Clara. What about her?”

Armand
shook his head slightly.

“She’s
just a child in her role,” he said. “Not very assuring. Even if Augustus had
told her about the intricacies of the curse–which now I can’t think of a reason
why he would–I’m not sure that she could explain it properly to us.”

Anne
stared up at him, once again searching for something in his eyes that quite
simply was not there. There was absence, but this time it was not her own
absence of self as she had seen when she’d first looked into those empty
sockets. This time, it was his absence from her.

“You’ve
changed your mind about helping me?” she asked, her voice cracking like a sheet
of ice as the words spilled out. Armand looked at her then. His firm wooden
face was twisted in an unexplained look of sorrow. Shameful admittance?

“I
want to help you. I promised you this with every intention of following
through.” He paused–seemed to want to reach out and embrace her, but his arms
remained hanging at his sides as if they were stuck on their joints. “I just
don’t know
how
to help you.”

Anne
examined him, wondering what had led him to feel this way. He was sorrowful, perhaps
because of the past, but there was something else there as well–something that
he was trying very hard to hide.

“You’re
angry with me aren’t you?” she implored, crossing her arms defensively and
beginning to feel completely worthless. “I knew it.”

“No,
that’s not true,” he insisted, but she was hearing nothing of those lies. Was
this why he did not hold her, because he was afraid that if he came too close
his fury would overtake him and he would crush her?

“Bollocks!”
she cried, ignoring the flecks of spit that burst from her mouth. “Look, I know
this is no time to argue over something so ridiculous. It’s as you said; it’s
all
irrelevant
. We can’t be together and we both know that, but quite
honestly, I can’t let the last time I ever see you be one like this! So you may
as well tell me what you’re feeling.”

Armand
did not sigh. He looked straight down at her boldly. She was right. There was
no sense in hiding from her.

“I’m
angry, you’re right,” he admitted. “I made you a promise, but I think we both know
that I lied. I said I wanted to help you even if it meant not killing him
tonight. Even if it meant that he would escape me again. I want to help you…”

“But
you could never let him get away again,” Anne interrupted him, knowing what he
would say.

Certainly,
his intentions had been good, but Anne would have been a fool to believe he
could truly cast everything off because of her. She should not have expected
him to.

He
only wishes he could care about me like that.

Though
this matter saddened her, she was somewhat relieved that it was not her
personal matters which made him angry.

“It
would be wrong of me to cast off those things,” Armand said, feeling confusion
and hurt inside himself that he did not reveal to her. “I’m doing all this for
Clara and not only my hateful desires.”

“Meeting
me didn’t change much–as it shouldn’t have,” Anne said, forgiving him even as
she displayed her understanding. “I was wrong to project myself on you.”

Her
words sent a shock through him. She had actually spoken that, hadn’t she? How
many things could he have said to counter her on that? Of how she had helped
him feel alive again and gather a better connection with his past feelings of
hate. How she had reminded him of what he could not have and of what he had
missed in his life. The fact that her flesh body had only made him feel better
because it made him feel worse; that was something he could never say, but it
was, without doubt, their rather twisted lovemaking that had made this anger
within him spring up.

“No…”
he said simply, but could not force himself on further.

She
sighed. He didn’t think that she believed him, but he could think of nothing
else to say.

“What
will we do now?” Anne asked after she had gathered herself. She was trying to
focus, but he saw that she was struggling. How could he leave her now? No, it
was not time yet. They would at least press the misfit and the child for
answers.

“We
will try,” he promised.

A
sincere smile pulled at her mouth but did not quite manage to stick. The
gathering moisture in her eyes was countering that feeling of gratitude. Still,
she looked at him with great affection.

“Thank
you.”

The
words warmed his heart slightly, but the core that had frozen over would not be
melted by her anymore. He could not allow it to be. Turning, the nutcracker
headed back to the shafts with the woman behind him.

2

Tucked
in her bed, Elizabeth Ellington swore that she heard voices in the hallway
beyond her room, and she leaned up a bit from her warm blankets in the dark.
Her cousins slumbering on either side of her did not seem disturbed by the
hushed conversation that had taken place outside.

It
took a short moment before her groggy, ten–year–old mind came to the
realization that Christmas was upon them. The whispers in the hallway may have
very well been Father Christmas and his worker elves. A tingle of excitement
ran through her. It was not quite time to rise, but perhaps she should be the
first to sneak downstairs and see the presents!

Carefully,
she crawled past her cousins and slipped out of bed without waking them. She
moved to the door and checked the hallway to make sure it was empty before
stepping out, pushing the door closed behind her. Soundlessly, her tiny feet
carried her across the second floor and down the stairs. Her anticipation grew
as she approached the hall that was glowing with the fire in the hearth.

The
girl stepped in cautiously, thinking before she’d even come close that things
did not look as they should have. Something was certainly wrong.

The
room came into focus then, and her eyes saw the true horror of this magical
night. Within her chest, her heart began to pound.

The
presents that had been placed beneath the tree had all been ripped open. The
packaging of paper and ribbons was strewn about the large room. Toys were tied
and hanging from the great tree, cocooned in thread. The floor was littered
with the bodies of dead mice. All the corpses combined made a rather large mess
of blood that ruined the pale floor. Duchess was perched atop the mantle,
bathing herself of the mouse blood she had romped about in, and the young girl
looked on at the scene, horrified. Her lips quivered, feeling her child
innocence tearing apart inside of her.

Elizabeth
screamed. The sound of it rang throughout the house.

3

In
the swirling dark, the invisible monsters began to gather around the girl who
was their prey. One’s name was Dread, and it gnawed on the girl’s heart. One
was called Anger, and it set her blood on fire. Another creature, Fear, sucked
the air from her lungs spitefully each time she took a breath. The air was cold
here, Olivia was alone in this rancid place, and she had finally realized that
no one was coming for her.

How
long had she been here, belted to this device with the scissors so close and
never knowing when they would snap? Surely she didn’t have much more time to
get out of this. She’d been expecting a swift rescue by her hero, Armand, but
nothing had happened. Could her dream have been correct? Could her prince have
been so involved with another woman that he’d failed to even notice that she
was missing? Somehow, through the clutter of her thoughts, that notion seemed
realistic to Olivia.

The
girl sat quietly in the dim place where she could only see the gleam of the
blades on either side of her neck. She could almost feel the cold rolling off
them even though they did not touch her. Her lip quivered slightly and she
frowned. She shifted a bit in her restraints and thought that perhaps she had
been completely wrong about everything.

Olivia
had been the Lady Sovereign, and yet now that she was apart from her advisors
and protectors, she could not help thinking that she should have listened to
Anne.

Anne–simpleton
Anne. She’d begged Olivia to come with her so that they could find a way out of
this, but the girl had shunned her. Anne had been the smart one all along.
Olivia’s eyes had finally opened–now too late–and she suddenly knew that Armand
never could have saved her. There was only one person who had that power.

“Anne,”
Olivia uttered, her voice coming out as a helpless whimper. There was no reply
from within the cold darkness.

The
girl took in a breath and closed her eyes, beginning to concentrate as if she
could wish herself out of this predicament.

After
her silence, she let out her breath quite suddenly–just as her fantasy betrayed
her fully and the scissor mechanism clamped shut with a terrible snip.

4

Armand
did not know where to look to find either the doll Clara or the misfit toy, but
he had an idea of where to start. The place he had seen them both was in
Olivia’s bedroom, and by going there, he might not only find them, but he would
be able to assure that Olivia was alright–and perhaps even have a safe place to
leave Anne when he had to part from her.

You’re
getting too far ahead of yourself, Armand
, his self insisted. Yes. His self
was right. He was being much too hasty.

He
sent a glance back at the woman traveling along behind him, seeing that she
didn’t even notice him looking at her. She was perhaps contemplating the very
difficult matter in her other life? Or perhaps she was trying to decide how she
would console herself after letting him go. There was no way to know; he would
not ask. There was too much on his mind already.

A
soft noise before them led Armand to turn and put a hand on his weapon, but
when he’d seen what was there, his brief anxiety became wonderment. Anne peered
past him to see what had stopped him, focusing then on the small figure that
stood still and silent before them in the faint shaft.

The
doll seemed just as surprised to see them as they were to see her. Clara looked
on at Anne for a moment, but her face did not lighten. She simply observed the
woman impassively before directing a distasteful gaze toward Armand.

“You
weren’t too hard to find after all,” she said hatefully in her perfect English
voice.

“You
were looking?” Armand asked her.

The
child stared into his hollow eyes.

“Yes,”
she admitted, not bothering to feign sweetness.

“What
a coincidence,” he said flatly. “I was searching for you as well.”

Behind
him, Anne watched the exchange quietly.

“And
why do you find yourself looking for me?” the child inquired. She had not moved
any closer since finding them.

“An
inquiry. And your reason for seeking
me
?”

“He
has sent me to retrieve you.”

The
statement was not surprising to Armand. Anne, however, was quite baffled. The
rat was so anxious for their fight? It didn’t make sense.

“Why
does he wish to confront me at all? Why not run as a coward, just as he’s been doing
for so many years?” Armand asked, remaining firm in her presence.