You’re the one. Her mouth twisted in a smile, self-satisfied and very knowing. He remembers you.
I remember him.
You killed her. Her smile broadened as she sensed his discomfort. The one who came before me. I suppose I should be thanking you.
You should, he agreed. I’m here to set you free.
Really? She raised her elegant eyebrows in mock contrition. You are here to rescue me? I do crave your pardon, sir. I had assumed you were here to kill me. How remiss of me to mistake our respective roles in this drama. Apparently, you are the brave hero come to vanquish the monster and I the helpless princess. Tell me, how exactly do you intend to accomplish this mighty feat?
Clay looked around at the nightmarish garden with its dangling corpses and storm-dark sky. He saw that the mansion house was shifting in appearance. One second it was a fine whitewashed example of the classic style favoured by the upper echelons of the managerial class, the next it was a ruin, the windows empty of glass, the walls streaked with soot and the roof a mess of blackened timbers.
Well, I ain’t gonna appeal to your kindly nature, he replied, turning back to her. What is this place? Your home? Where you grew up, maybe?
Mind your own fucking business, you gutter-scraping bastard. The thought was accompanied by a sweet smile, rich in sincerity.
Clay ignored her and moved towards the nearest tree, looking up at one of the corpses dangling from the branches. It was a woman of hefty proportions clad in an unadorned black dress. Her eyeless, blue-lipped face possessed a stern aspect even in death.
Who’s this? Clay asked.
Catheline crossed her arms, tilting her head and remaining silent as they matched stares. After a few seconds of mutual antipathy she shrugged. Miss Pendlecost, she told him. My governess. She used to twist my fingers if I got my calculus wrong, only when my parents weren’t looking of course.
Clay inclined his head at the corpse. Is this what you did to her, or what you wanted to do to her?
What difference does it make? Now or when I return to Mandinor, she’s still dead.
Clay moved on to the next corpse, a bewhiskered man of middling years, his pot-belly poking out above a pair of half-fallen trousers. And him?
My mother’s second cousin, Erdwin. He tried to fuck me when I was thirteen. She gave a fond smile as she looked up at the dead man. Him I did kill. Paid a short visit to his house in Sanorah before I took ship to Feros. It was strange, but I almost pitied him. Just a sad little man living a sad little life with only his cats and his very specialised library for company. When I burned them he cried and cried so I broke his neck. Just in case you imagined mercy to be beyond me.
Clay shifted his gaze from the tree to the house on the far side of the expansive lawn. That seems a mite strange, he said, noting again how its appearance continued to shift from whole to ruined. Can’t decide how you want it to look?
What are you talking about? she demanded. It’s my parents’ country residence a few miles east of Sanorah. I spent most of my childhood here.
You don’t see it, do you? he asked, finding no note of subterfuge in her thoughts.
She replied with a bemused frown, though Clay saw how her lips twitched a little as she asked, See what?
Not afraid of it, are you? he pressed, sensing her growing unease. Something in there you don’t want to remember?
It’s just a house. She pulled her shawl tight about her shoulders and turned away.
Then I guess you won’t mind if I take a look.
He managed only a few steps before a geyser of dark earth erupted directly in his path. A Green clambered from the hole, eyes glowing and flame blossoming in its maw. This is my head, Catheline informed him as more Greens began to claw their way up through the lawn. And I don’t want you here.
Clay drew the revolver from his belt, holding it out as he fused it with fresh memories. The revolver doubled in size, growing multiple barrels and a large chamber. It was a reasonable facsimile of a repeating gun, not entirely accurate but it would serve his needs well enough. He levelled the barrels on the nearest Green and pulled the trigger, the drake transforming into bloody pieces in the torrent of bullets. Clay advanced across the lawn, working the repeating gun like a scythe, sweeping the whirring barrels left and right as he reaped a harvest of dismembered Greens.
Sorry, ma’am, he called to Catheline over his shoulder as he reached the house. You’re stuck with me for a while yet.
He turned the repeating gun on the large double door at the front of the house and blew it into splinters, stepping inside and returning the revolver to its original size. The shifting nature of the house’s exterior was matched by its interior. The marble-floored lobby with its fine curving staircase and chandelier transformed every few seconds into a scorched, soot-blackened wreck. There were more bodies here, not hanging this time but lying about the chequerboard floor. Clay took them for servants from their clothing, maids and footmen either burned to death or broken by the kind of injuries that only Black could inflict.
I haven’t been here in years. Catheline stood in the shattered doorway, arms crossed tight about her chest. Clay could feel the depth of her reluctance to step inside, her pale blue eyes guarded as they darted about the lobby with its many corpses. I have no use for childhood concerns, she insisted. There’s nothing of interest here.
Clay saw that, although her eyes roved about, they were conspicuous in avoiding the hallway to the left. What’s back there? he enquired, gesturing with his revolver.
Nothing. The word was spoken in a whisper, Catheline’s gaze abruptly frozen, staring straight ahead. There’s nothing there. That wing of the house was long out of use, even when I was a girl.
For someone who’s done so much bad, you’re a really terrible liar, Clay observed, starting down the hallway.
There’s nothing there! she insisted, rushing after him. You’re wasting your time.
He found a door at the end of the hall, locked when he tried the handle. He turned the revolver into a replica of Skaggerhill’s shotgun and blew the lock to pieces, kicking the door open. The room he stepped into wasn’t like the others, no continual shift from one state to another. Here everything was in a permanent state of disorder. Clay deduced it had been a study from the blackened remnant of the desk in one corner and the charred books on the shelves. The room wasn’t completely burned out, however, one section near the fire-place remained intact.
A couch sat on a fine Dalcian carpet in front of the fire-place, and on the couch were two bodies, a man and a woman. They were undoubtedly dead judging by their bleached skin and open but unseeing eyes, but they sat upright, hands resting in their laps. The man was somewhere in his fifties and wore a well-tailored suit that only the most senior managers could afford. The woman was a few years younger, wearing a plain but elegant dress that would have done much to enhance her figure, had her form not been so completely drained of life. Her hair was a shade darker than Catheline’s, but Clay saw the similarity in their features.