Such Wicked Intent

CHAPTER 12

In my bedchamber I lit a single candle and stripped off my clothes. I set an empty flask upon my desk and sat down. I breathed calmly, my gaze drifting across my naked body, waiting. Before long I saw two small, compact shadows glide over my ribs and pause in the ridges of my abdominal muscles.

Slowly I closed my left hand around the open flask-then struck. It took me three tries to trap the shadow against my tensed flesh. I swiftly sealed the flask, the spirit’s fluid darkness seeping up the inside of the glass.

I smiled.

That makes two.

“Victor? Victor!”

With a jerk I looked up, annoyed at having my concentration broken. Elizabeth stood over me, staring in bewilderment at the collection of books I’d piled around me at the table in the west sitting room. Judging by the light now filling the windows, I’d lost track of time.

Once again I’d woken very early. Hungry to fill my mind, I’d come here to read. I’d been concentrating on the wonders of human anatomy, tomes in all languages under the sun. As I’d devoured the pages, I’d been scribbling occasional observations and questions in a small notebook. I closed it now, put down my quill, and looked back at Elizabeth pleasantly.

“Is it time for breakfast yet?”

“What are you doing?” she asked, and I saw her eyes take in my ink-stained hand, and the lamp I’d lit when I’d first arrived in darkness. “You were turning pages like a madman.”

I shrugged. “Just looking at the pictures.”

“Don’t lie to me, Victor. You have one on you, don’t you?”

I nodded. I saw no point in insulting her.

“Since when?”

“Two nights ago. It must have clung to me as I was leaving.”

Henry stuck his head into the room. “Ah, there you are, Victor. If you want breakfast, you’d better hurry. They’re starting to clear.” He must have seen Elizabeth’s grave face, for he walked in and, more quietly, asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Victor has a spirit upon him,” Elizabeth whispered.

Henry looked at me uneasily. “Is that wise?”

I laughed. “It heals the pain in my hand! And it sharpens my mind. These books, I can understand them so easily, and so quickly, just as I did in the spirit world!”

“And how do you know it won’t also make you behave as you did in the spirit world?” Elizabeth asked.

I lifted my hands impatiently. “Can’t you see it? These things are little packets of vital energy. Just one of them has the power to grow a new body for Konrad. Life from death! Who knows if there’s any limit to what they might help us achieve.” I paused. “You and Henry could have one as well.”

Perhaps with one upon her Elizabeth’s supernatural passion for me would be rekindled in the real world.

I saw Henry chew at the inside of his lip. He was tempted. But Elizabeth shook her head.

“They’re powerful, I agree, and you’re right. We don’t know what they might be capable of. But for that reason we should be very cautious. Who’s to know what they might do in the real world?”

“Ah, I see,” I said. “You’re happy enough for them to bring your beloved Konrad back, but not help me.”

“We all agreed to bring Konrad back. We made no further pact. On this you’re acting alone, Victor.”

“So be it,” I said. “But I don’t intend to let this opportunity pass.” I looked at the books piled around me. “There’s too much to learn.”

“This is what worries me,” she said. “You’re too ambitious. And the spirit world has too strong a pull on you.”

“And you as well, it seems,” I replied. “Have you told Henry what happened there last night?”

Henry looked at her in surprise, clearly hurt. “You went in last night? Both of you?”

My stomach rumbled loudly. “Elizabeth will tell you all about it,” I said, enjoying her obvious discomfort. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to have some breakfast before it disappears.”

It had grown.

The day before, we’d left a three-year-old, and now, entering the cottage, I beheld a child of six or seven. It was asleep in the hole, the blanket tangled about its torso and legs. Its skin had lightened still further and looked like human flesh in every way. It even had the characteristic Frankenstein pallor. The only hint that this creature had been birthed from mud was the clay-colored scar in the center of its chest.

The food we’d left had been devoured, none too neatly. And scattered among the remnants was something that took me a moment to understand.

“They’re teeth,” I said, kneeling down and picking one up.

“His baby teeth,” Elizabeth said. “He lost them all in one night.”

For some reason the notion made me slightly queasy, and I let the tooth drop back to the dirt.

“Let’s leave the food and milk and be on our way,” I whispered. With luck we could just let the body sleep and grow until it was ready.

Yet Elizabeth looked at me askance, as if I were suggesting putting the creature in a reed basket and floating it out into the lake.

“Is that your idea of taking care of him?” she asked.

“What more can we do but shelter and feed it?” I replied.

I was trying to be quiet, but Elizabeth spoke in her normal voice, and it seemed to me she was hoping to wake the child up. I was glad to see that it showed no signs of rousing. I did not want to spend time with it. I would much rather have been back in the library, reading.

“Let’s be off,” I said to Henry, and touched Elizabeth on the shoulder, but it was futile. Henry made no move to leave, nor did Elizabeth-and, sure enough, the little creature stirred, sniffing, and then its eyes opened. They locked first onto Elizabeth. For a moment it only stared, as if trying to remember her. She beamed down at it.

“Hello, little one,” she said.

It sniffed again and looked down at the doll she’d given it yesterday. Its eyes widened, and it grabbed the doll, sniffed it, pushed it against its mouth as if tasting it, and then pulled it away, peering at its miniature human features. Surely such a thing made no sense to the child, and I wasn’t sure if it looked puzzled or if I was simply superimposing a feeling onto its blank face.

“It’s just a doll, a toy,” Elizabeth said gently.

The child looked up, and when it crawled toward her, it tucked the doll under one arm. Elizabeth settled the child on her lap, wrapping her arms around it.

I wondered if she was trying to comfort herself, clinging hold to this facsimile of Konrad’s young body, when she felt she might be losing Konrad’s love.

“He should have some fresh air,” she said.

“That’s a fine idea,” Henry seconded.

I shook my head. “Are you two mad? What if we’re seen?”

“Out here? No one comes this way,” she said.

“It’s almost in sight of the chateau,” I told her. “Justine might be taking Ernest or William for a walk-”

“He’s seen nothing but the inside of a dark cottage,” Elizabeth cut in. “He needs the sun, and sky.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said.

“I can’t see how it could hurt,” said Henry. “Just for a few minutes.”

I glared at Henry. I knew he was agreeing with everything Elizabeth said regardless of what he thought. Did he think he would impress her by being a little lap dog?

I looked at the child and offered my last defense. “It’s naked,” I said.

“I brought some old clothes of Ernest’s,” Elizabeth replied cheerfully, and went to the hamper to pull them out. The child sat obediently while she pulled them on. It was quite a transformation. Clothed, it looked so much more like Konrad-and me-that I was startled, and a bit ashamed of myself. I knew full well this creature was not properly human yet, but to all appearances it was a fine seven-year-old boy, locked away in a windowless cottage like a prisoner. And yet I could still not think of it as him.

“What a handsome little fellow you are,” Elizabeth said. “And heavy.” She grunted as she hefted it onto her hip.

I made them wait inside while I opened the door and took a good look about the cottage. I saw no one in any direction.

“Just a short outing,” I said.

In the sun we spread out the picnic blanket. Still possessively gripping its doll, the child pressed it to its nose and inhaled. Then it turned its head to look in the precise direction of the chateau.

“Did you see that?” I asked.

“What?” said Henry, taking some food from the hamper.

“It sniffed the doll and then looked toward the chateau. It’s like it could smell our home.”

“He probably just heard a noise,” Elizabeth said, and passed the child some ham, which it ate with great enthusiasm.

“He’s surely strong enough to walk,” Henry remarked. Henry, I noticed, had no trouble referring to the child as a he, instead of an it.

He took the child’s hands and pulled gently. Swiftly the child pulled itself up into standing. Henry stood and, stooped over, encouraged it to take a step. I was reminded of a puppeteer cajoling a marionette. For a moment the child did nothing, but then it lifted its left foot, planted it, and then, swaying, did the same with its right.

“Hah!” said Henry. “His first step!”

“Well done, Henry!” said Elizabeth.

“Hurray,” I muttered distractedly, keeping a keen lookout, trying to think up some explanation in case we were surprised by someone.

The child took more of its grotesque steps, but ever more quickly and confidently. As Henry guided it over to Elizabeth, she stretched out her arms and caught the child up, kissing it on the head. But the child seemed restless and wriggled from her embrace. Standing, it turned to look at the forest that bordered the pasture. Perhaps something caught its attention, a squirrel in the branches, a bird taking flight, but it started walking, completely on its own, wobbly but determined.

“Look at this!” Elizabeth cried proudly.

Fearful it would wander off and be spotted, I stood and kept pace with it across the grass. It stumbled but kept going, more and more quickly. What a little bundle of impulse it was.

“Shall we turn around now?” I said when it neared the trees. I stepped in front of it, barring its way. The child’s usual look of blank passivity was suddenly replaced by one of outrage. I’d seen Ernest and William in a temper when you crossed their wills, but they were still themselves. What startled me now was the utter transformation of this strange child’s face. In its eyes something old and intelligent kindled, and a low growl rattled in its throat. Its brow creased, and its lips pulled back to reveal a quick glimpse of teeth, one of which seemed oddly shaped.

“Come back, Konrad,” said Elizabeth, approaching from behind with her hand outstretched.

At once the child’s face resumed its usual expression.

“What’s wrong?” Elizabeth asked, looking at me strangely.

“Nothing,” I said. Had I imagined it?

But that flash of teeth, and the split-second image of fury and intent on its face, unsettled me.

That night Father invited Professor Neumeyer to dine with us.

“We’re proceeding very slowly on the burial mound,” he said, pausing to take a drink of wine. “I’m allowing my colleagues to use only small spades so that we don’t risk damaging the remains. We’ve excavated some four feet, and nothing yet. Whatever was buried, they buried it deep.”

“And the curious markings on the walls?” Father asked. “Any progress deciphering them?”

“Ah, yes, indeed,” he said, and I forced myself to look away, for I feared my gaze was too intense. I avoided looking at Elizabeth and Henry, too, and concentrated instead on my roast beef.

“I still haven’t heard from my friend in France,” the professor continued, “but today my colleague Gerard, who specializes in languages, thinks he managed to puzzle out some patterns, using other primitive writings as a template.”

“So he’s been able to translate some of it?” Elizabeth asked with an excellent imitation of detached interest.

“It’s educated guesswork, mind you,” the professor said. “But it seems to invoke some kind of ceremony involving the dead.”

I swallowed dutifully, and brought another forkful to my mouth.

“A primitive burial rite?” Father asked.

The professor shook his head. “Resurrection.”

“Ah,” said Father, and he turned and looked directly at me.

I held his gaze as long as I thought natural. “Fascinating,” I said, and lifted my glass and drank. My confidence returned.

He can suspect nothing, I thought.

What we are doing is beyond belief.

After dinner I put on a coat and walked out along the dock. One of our rowboats was tied up alongside, and I stepped into it and stretched out to watch the sunset fade and the first stars appear. It had always been a favorite thing of ours, Konrad and me.

My mind sped me away from the chateau and up into the sky’s vault. I used to imagine greatness for myself, but now I no longer needed to imagine it. With the spirit butterflies upon me, it was within my grasp. There was no knowledge that would remain hidden from me. All I’d ever desired would be mine. I would have Konrad. I would have Elizabeth. And more.

Planks creaked, and I turned to see Elizabeth walking out along the dock, reading something. It was quite dark by now, and she went right past without noticing me, so engrossed was she in the piece of paper. As she made her way slowly to the dock’s end, she read aloud. Her voice was low, almost hesitant, as if afraid of revealing too much:

“She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”

“Very pretty,” I remarked, sitting up in the boat.

She gave a small gasp as she turned, and guiltily began folding up the paper.

“Why do you put it away?” I said, stepping onto the dock. “Read on!”

“I-” She faltered, and then her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing, lurking out here?”

“I didn’t realize Henry was writing you little rhymes now.”

“Don’t be absurd. Henry and I just critique each other’s work.”

“No. It was written for you. About you.”

I knew this with absolute certainty. Those few simple lines had captured her. But as jealous anger began to pump through my veins, I wondered how Henry could know her so well. Yes, he’d been her childhood friend for nearly a decade, but I’d thought only I comprehended her dark and light. And all along there was wispy Henry Clerval, observing and loving her from afar with his ink-stained thoughts.

“It would be presumptuous to think it was written about me,” Elizabeth said primly.

“Oh, please. He’s completely smitten. He’s wooing you. Let me read the rest!”

She clasped the parchment protectively within both hands.

“That good, is it?” I asked sarcastically.

“It’s extremely accomplished.”

“Meaning ‘romantic.’” Damn Henry! His skill with a pen was immense. Just this past summer I’d asked him to write some words for me. How stupid of me not to realize he’d eventually start using them himself. And I knew how much Elizabeth valued poetics. I’d racked my mind earlier, urging its new sharpness to concoct some romantic phrases, but nothing had come. Matters of the heart, it seemed, would always elude me.

“I never thought Henry such a scoundrel.”

She laughed. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Well, he can hardly be blamed,” I said. “After all the encouragement you’ve given him.”

“When have I encouraged him?” she demanded angrily.

“Oh, not in this world maybe, but in the other, when you danced with him. You’re a veritable temptress.”

“If you were closer, I’d slap you,” she said.

“Let me help,” I replied, and stepped closer. She promptly slapped me, which surprised me only a little.

We glared at each other in the near dark, and then she looked away.

“I’m sorry I slapped you,” she said.

“That’s all right. I quite enjoyed it.”

“I know how I behaved that night. That’s why I needed to go back alone, to make sure I hadn’t hurt Konrad.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Of course, it seems it’s his affections that have strayed.”

“No, no. I’m sure that’s not the case,” I said halfheartedly.

“So why shouldn’t I let my affections stray?” she said with a flare of defiance.

To this I made no reply.

She turned away with a sad shake of her head. “The truth is, when I read Henry’s poem, it’s not Henry I think of.”

“Poor Henry,” I murmured. Not even his beautiful words could help him. “He seems emboldened, though. He genuinely thinks he has a chance at winning you. If you let him write you poetry, you’ll only hurt him.”

“I suppose I miss being admired,” she said.

“ I admire you,” I told her impetuously. “And I wish I could write you romantic things.”

There was silence, and I regretted my words. She turned round to face me. “You don’t love me, Victor,” she said gently. “You fool yourself.”

“Don’t tell me what I feel.”

“To you I could only be a possession, another thing to be mastered.”

“That isn’t so,” I objected. “I may not be able to pen you pretty verses. And I’ll never be as reliable and kind and graceful as Konrad. I’m not perfect. But neither are you, and I love you all the more for it. You’re willful, and you have appetites bigger than you care to admit. But you’re beautiful and intelligent, and I can’t think of anything on this entire earth I more desire.”

She was looking at me the whole time I spoke. A small swell from the lake made the dock tilt, and we both took a step closer. It was almost dark now, and I remembered how once, in total darkness, I’d tricked her into thinking I was Konrad and stolen a kiss. But right now she knew exactly who stood before her, and I was certain that if I bent my head to hers, I would not be stealing.

“I want you to be mine,” I said.

“I will be yours,” she whispered.

I knew I’d never hear four more thrilling words my whole life. My body was alight as I leaned toward her mouth.

“But first,” she said, gently drawing back, “you must make me a promise. Promise me you’ll have nothing more to do with the spirit world. Rid yourself of the spirit butterfly. And never go back, except to return with Konrad. Do that for me, Victor, and I’ll be yours.”

She stood before me, unutterably beautiful, patiently awaiting my reply.

“Why is it necessary to make such a choice?” I demanded.

“If you love me so much, it should be an easy one.”

“I can’t make that promise.”

A sigh escaped her parted lips, and she shook her head, as if rousing herself from a daydream. She laughed softly, almost ruefully.

“Victor, I believe there is something on this earth you desire more than anything, and it isn’t me.”