“Haven’t we already discussed motivation,” he said, “or did I not ask politely enough? My apologies. I will try again. Will you please sit?”
Slowly, Emily dragged herself to the chair, breath coming in whimpers. She pulled herself onto it, wrapping her arms around her body, bending double to ease the lingering, cramping aches.
Artaud nodded with satisfaction as he went back to his machine. He flipped switches one by one, and a universe of little lights began to glow like bugs on a summer night. Emily watched him, teeth clenched.
Now what?
Suddenly, Emily noticed that there was something warm touching her. She flinched away, wondering if it was another of Artaud’s attacks—but then she realized that the warmth was coming from her own hand. From the Jefferson Chair ring around her thumb, where it was resting against the bare skin of her upper arm … it was warm. Warm as the hand of a friend.
Stanton was looking for her.
Sudden hope sang in her sore, twitching body. She pressed the ring against her lips, closed her eyes. He was looking for her. It was something, at least.
“After Caul retrieved Grimaldi from the custody of the Philadelphia Police, I had them search your unconscious mind for information about the Otherwhere Marble.” Artaud did not look at her as he went to a metal rack on which dozens of bottles of chrysohaeme sat arranged like colossal, glowing ant eggs. “Thus, I know that it’s a transdimensional portational device of some kind. Mirabilis must have believed that no one could possibly gain access to the dimension in which your hand was stored. But with enough power, it’s possible to open a gateway to any dimension necessary.” Artaud began loading the bottles into the huge machine, like bullets in the chamber of a revolver.
Emily clenched her fist hard around the warmth of the ring. There wasn’t going to be time for him to find her. Artaud was going to tear open the dimension where her hand was … and probably tear her open along with it. Her pulse raced in her temples. She had to do something. Her eyes darted around the room. If only she had a weapon, one she could reach before he could get his hand up to stop her …
A weapon.
The idea came to her in a flash, with such force that it made her hand rise abruptly to her throat.
Of course. A weapon. She did have a weapon. A terrible, beautiful weapon.
Emily fumbled for the silk pouch that was still tucked down the side of her dress. She pulled out the blue and red calico pouch she had carried with her since she’d left Lost Pine. She palmed the little bundle of ashes.
She raised the pouch to her mouth, using her teeth to bite through the thread. When it was open, she spilled the powder into her hand, and whispered the spell over it to recharge the magic:
“My decision is firm,
My will is strong,
Let this spell bind him
All his life long.”
Then she closed her fist around the powder and waited until Artaud was finished. He seized the fat handle of a knife-switch, pulled it down. The portal blazed with sudden light, coruscating with wereflames of brilliant dancing plasma.
“Now, be a brave girl.” He laid a heavy, sizzling hand on her shoulder, fingers digging hard into her flesh. “I’m afraid this is going to hurt quite a lot.”
Emily blew the powder at him in a billowing cloud. The smell of lavender filled the room.
Artaud gasped, choking and waving his hand in front of his face.
“What the …!” he bellowed, taking two alarmed steps backward. And then he stopped, blinking, his black eyes flat and unreadable.
“My God,” he said softly. “What have I done?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Skycladdische’s Revenge
There was a long silence. Artaud stared at her, unblinking, unmoving. Then, abruptly, he dropped to one knee before her, grasping at the hem of her dress.
“Behold, a god stronger than I that is come to bear rule over me,” he whispered as he pressed the purple silk against his face, making a sound of pleasure in his throat. One of his metal-cased hands snaked out to caress her ankle. She tried to move her leg away, but Artaud’s cold hand rose to stroke her calf. She pushed it away angrily.
He smiled up at her, a mean, hungry smile.
“Now, you little connasse, is that nice?” he asked, biting the last word. Wrapping his arms around her ankles, he tipped her backward. She fell hard, banging the back of