The Emperor of All Things - By Paul Witcover Page 0,152

had passed the lowest register of my sensibilities and entered into some realm beyond cold, like the very heart of hell. Inge was sheathed in ice; it covered her like a second skin, a skin of glass, a diamond prison. Corinna might have been carved out of stone. Not a word was spoken by either of them.

Then Inge flexed her coils. The prison shattered, and she was free. Free and moving swift as lightning towards Corinna, who shot forward to meet her. They came together in the centre of the room and grappled there like two wrestlers, straining one against the other, wordless and intent, their eyes locked as fiercely as their limbs.

My ears rang from the thunder of their collision, the force of which shook the building like an earthquake. Yet even so I heard the bells in the clock tower begin to chime, as if the shock had reached all the way to the town square. It was no tuneful chorus such as I had heard before but a riotous caterwauling, strident and clamorous, a noise of panic, of alarm.

The women appeared not to notice, intent on each other. They seemed well matched. Neither could gain the upper hand; their bodies – Inge naked, Corinna clothed – trembled with the choked violence of their efforts, which sent tremors like aftershocks through the room. The floor creaked; the walls cracked; chips of plaster and ice dropped from the ceiling. It felt as if the inn was about to come crashing down around my ears, yet I couldn’t stir.

Then not just the room but the whole earth heaved beneath me. The women raised their heads sharply, seeming to listen with every fibre of their beings. And the earth heaved again. And again. If a mountain could walk, I remember thinking, this is what it would feel like.

‘You fool,’ hissed Inge. ‘You’ve awakened him!’

‘It’s your fault,’ Corinna shot back.

But it was clear that their mutual hatred was dwarfed by their fear of whatever was coming. With an angry cry, Inge pulled free of Corinna’s grasp. She could have struck then, yet she did not, and not from mercy – with a flick of her tail, she propelled herself past Corinna and out of the door, leaving the two of us alone.

‘Hurry,’ Corinna said, turning to me. ‘Follow me if you want to live.’

At her words, my paralysis fell away. I fumbled at my disordered clothing. My heart was pounding, my mouth dry.

‘Hurry,’ she said again.

‘I can’t,’ I told her, gesturing helplessly. ‘My foot.’

With a look of exasperation, she crossed to the bed and, taking hold of my arm, pulled me to my feet. I had an impression of immense strength, as if she could have not just lifted me but thrown me for a hundred yards. Despite everything, her touch, rough as it was, brought me to climax again; there was no pleasure in it, just an involuntary spasm, a reflex that wrung my insides like a cold fist clenching. I groaned, and she glanced down with annoyance, as if I were a favoured pet that had reminded her I was only an animal after all. But perhaps she was equally annoyed at herself, for in the next second I felt a diminution of her presence, a dwindling, as if she had willed herself to become something less than she had been, than she really was. At that, I went as limp as a wet noodle and would have fallen had she not supported me with her arm. This time her touch had no untoward effect. And yet I marvelled, even in the midst of my terror, because I was standing. There was not so much as a twinge of pain from my bandaged foot. It felt as strong, as well, as ever. ‘How—’

‘This is no time for questions,’ she interrupted. ‘Or answers. Come – we must flee. Death approaches.’

And indeed, the gargantuan footsteps had not stilled in all this time, nor had the tintinnabulation of the bells. Corinna was pulling me towards the door. I paused only to snatch my tool kit. Then I followed her.

13

The Productions of Time

HAND IN HAND, we fled the hearth and home. Though Corinna’s touch had lost its uncanny power over me, a chilly blue light continued to radiate from her, a reminder – were any needed! – that she was more than just the simple girl I had known, or thought I had known.

The inn appeared empty, abandoned. There was no sign of Inge,