The Ten Thousand Doors of January - Alix E. Harrow Page 0,63

no good to me drugged and drooling.”

I snarled and twisted against my restraints. He chuckled. “You were always so biddable, so civilized at Locke House. I told Cornelius not to believe it.”

I spat at him. I hadn’t intentionally spit on anyone since Samuel and I were kids holding contests on the lakeshore; it was comforting to see I hadn’t entirely lost my aim.

Havemeyer wiped his cheek with one gloved finger, his amusement turning brittle. “I have some questions for you, Miss Scaller. Cornelius would have us believe this is all blown out of proportion, that you simply eavesdropped on your betters, that you’re distraught over your father, that you’re no threat, really, et cetera, et cetera. I think otherwise.” He leaned forward. “How did you find out about the fractures? Who have you been talking to?”

I bared my teeth at him.

“I see. And how did you get out of your room? Evans was sure he locked you in, and he’s not foolish enough to lie to me.”

My lips curved into a not-smile. It was the kind of expression that makes you think That person is unhinged and Someone should lock them up; I found I didn’t care. “Maybe I cast a magic spell, Mr. Havemeyer. Maybe I’m a ghost.” The smile turned into a lopsided snarl. “I’m mad now, didn’t you hear?”

He tilted his head at me, considering. “That vile dog of yours is dead, in case you were wondering. Evans tossed it in the lake. I would apologize, but someone ought to have done it years ago, if you ask me.”

My body recoiled like a kicked animal. My ribs were shattered shards, pressing into the soft meat of my insides. Bad, Bad, oh Bad—

“It seems I have your full attention. Good. Now, tell me, have you ever heard of upyr? Vampir? Shrtriga?” The words rolled and hissed in his mouth. They reminded me, for no clear reason, of the trip I’d taken with Mr. Locke to Vienna when I was twelve. It’d been February and the city was shadowed, wind-scoured, old. “Well, the name hardly matters. I’m sure you’ve heard of them in general outline: things that creep out of the black forests of the north and feast on the lifeblood of the living.”

He was removing the glove from his left hand as he spoke, tugging on each white fingertip. “Lies spread by superstitious peasants, in the main, repeated in story papers and sold to Victorian urchins.” Now his hand was entirely free, fingers so pale I could see blue veins threading them. “Stoker should’ve been summarily executed, if you ask me.”

And he reached toward me. There was perhaps half a second before his fingertip touched me when all the fine hairs on my arm stood straight and my heart seized and I knew, in a scrabbling, animalish way, that I shouldn’t let him touch me, that I should scream for help—but it was too late.

His finger was cold against my skin. Beyond cold. An aching, burning, tooth-hurting absence of heat. My body warmth drained desperately toward it, but the cold was ravenous. My lips tried to form words but they felt numbed and clumsy, as if I’d been out walking in freezing wind.

Havemeyer made a soft sighing sound of deepest contentment, like a man warming his hands by the fireplace or taking his first sip of hot coffee. He pulled his finger reluctantly away from my skin.

“Stories always have a grain of truth, don’t you find? I believe that was the principle that kept your father trotting around the globe, digging up scraps for his master.” His cheeks were flushed an unhealthy consumptionish crimson. His black eyes danced. “So tell me, my dear: How did you find out about the fractures?”

My lips were still numb, my blood sluggish and congealed-feeling in my veins. “I don’t understand what—why—”

“Why we’re so concerned? Cornelius would give you a speech about order, prosperity, peace, et cetera—but I confess my own purposes are not so lofty. I merely wish to preserve this world as it is: so accommodating, so obligingly full of undefended, unmissed people. My interest is therefore personal and passionate. It would be wise to tell me everything you know.”

I looked at him—still confidently smiling, running his bare thumb across his fingernails—and was more afraid than I’d ever been in my life. Afraid I would drown in a sea of madness and magic, afraid I would betray someone or something without really knowing how, but mostly afraid he would touch me