A Longing in the Fog

chapter 7

I

Mizuki, your grace,” called out what was distinctly the voice of an old man.

“Is that you, Zangleson? What is your business with me?” replied the voice of Duchess Mizuki Dandorian. Though it was fuzzy, it came from what seemed to be an enormous throne. From the sound of it, she wasn’t sitting bolt upright but rather languidly draped across the arms of the chair.

The one who called out to her didn’t stand before the throne but rather was down on one knee in the ancient display of fealty.

“A short while ago, this item was left in the square before the main castle gates.”

After a short pause, the duchess said, “Why, this is—?!” There was the sound of the Noblewoman drawing a sharp breath. “It bears an image of that man. However, this is human skin.”

“It would appear to be the skin from the palm of a hand,” said the servant. “That eye is drawn in normal ink, but the image it contains also holds everything about that person. With this, a person’s location and all their actions are ours for the knowing.”

“Who could make such a thing . . .”

“None other than—”

That was as much as the servant said before falling silent. But not out of puzzlement. Rather, it was out of anticipation, knowing that the person he addressed knew the rest.

“—his grace?”

“I should imagine.”

“Why has he not returned? Even though everyone and everything has been restored, and it has all begun anew?”

There was a long interval. Undoubtedly that was an expression of some sort of objection.

Presently, Zangleson replied, “His grace will not be returning. Long ago, he bid your grace adieu and took his leave of the castle—and that is the truth of it for him. Even now, that has not changed.”

Somewhere, someone nodded. Listlessly and sadly.

“Your tone—for all its consolation, it hides a blood-soaked blade. Perhaps the blade is called torment? Do you wish to say that I bear responsibility for all of this?”

“As you say, your grace.”

“You are correct,” said the duchess. “And I myself am well aware of as much. Of all our followers, you are the deepest, the truest, and the most fervent. His grace will not be returning. Even if one of the two is slain, they are likely to battle on in hell for all eternity. And I think that is for the best.”

“Your grace?!”

Unmoved by this cry of commingled surprise and reproach, the woman said, “You of all people must know. Long ago, I loved the one who brought destruction to this project, and to all of us. Not only was that a betrayal of all of you, it also was a moral breach against the Sacred Ancestor. For this project spilled through the Sacred Ancestor’s own fingers, coming down to us.”

Duchess Dandorian’s words were neither a simple deposition of memories nor a monologue to rouse herself. It was a viscera-shredding act of self-destruction, a confession given while blood poured from every orifice, a prayer uttered while swallowing one’s own teeth.

“But your grace fought that man—a man you loved—in an attempt to destroy him,” the servant said, his voice suddenly full of sorrow and pride.

“That is so. And I was defeated with disappointing ease. And not I alone. Gildea and Danae were as well, and you, and the ten thousand soldiers stationed on the island. He drove cold, black steel through the hearts of everyone, and lopped off the heads of all save Gildea and Danae. His will was as inevitable as the coming of night, and he displayed no emotion, as if he were a murderous machine shaped from ice. All was lost. Every last one of us was reduced to dust, the castle decayed, the facility burned, the test subjects ruined . . .”

“And after all that, why? Why have we now been resurrected? Is it to prove the truth of the legends that for the Nobility, peaceful sleep is but a dream within a dream?”

“For a feeling,” said the duchess. The way she said it was bizarre, as if she didn’t know which emotion the words should carry. “No, jealousy—enough to eat away even a body and stomach made of iron. Am I mistaken?”

“No,” Zangleson’s voice responded. “That is correct. However, that is not the full extent of it.”

The silence was the duchess’s creation.

“Kindly return that to me,” said the servant. “I shall keep it.”

The exchange was conducted in the mysteriously swaying fog. Or rather, it was nearly conducted.

“That will never do, your grace,” said a rough voice that left the fog in turmoil, fleeing from the speaker like a coward.

“Gildea.”

“Baron.”

“Are you well, Zangleson?” the figure who’d approached from the milky depths said in an affectionate tone. “You are an idiot who knows not his place, and this is folly—for which you will be punished once this matter is concluded. Your grace, kindly give that item to your humble servant, Gildea.”

She declined, saying, “I cannot.”

“But you must,” the baron countered, denying her in turn.

There in the heart of the syrupy fog, conflict sparked like a fire.

“If your grace keeps it, the same fate will be repeated. To wit, we will be destroyed, and none will stand in the rotting remains of this castle save that vision of beauty in black. And it may well be that such is not his desire, either.”

From the female figure, who was like a faint ink-wash painting, there came an intense feeling of curiosity, but she never gave voice to it, nor did Baron Gildea reply.

“Can you tell me the reason why I must not have it, Gildea?” the duchess said, her voice carrying a slight horror that someone would feel. The baron.

Gildea said, “Because you still love that man.”

The shadowy figures froze. Even the fog that clung to them was robbed of its motion.

“Your grace was less than twenty years of age when the duke took you as his bride. You were as beautiful as some princess from the moon, and though none ever breathed a word of it, all of us resolved that you alone would never know the filth and cruelty of the world. And as we had predicted, your grace was an individual lovely and endearing, as well as being far stronger and more ferocious than we had ever expected. When you walked with the duke in the garden to enjoy a bright moonlit evening, a group of young lords who envied the way your grace looked upon the moon said they would wipe it from the sky, whereupon they fought their way into the Bureau of Planetary Control. And during a demonstration match in the fighting arts, your grace took up bow and halberd with her pale and delicate hands, exhibiting such skill we were left no choice but to battle in complete earnestness, and even then we could get nowhere near you.

“With all that skill your grace fought that man, and was consequently defeated and destroyed. I say this bearing not a mote of criticism. However, your grace—love sets its roots deep in the young. Your grace was not yet twenty years of age when you encountered that man, and even knowing him to be the enemy, you were captivated by him from the very first glance. That tells me that even now, after dying and rising, your love for him still burns. There is a stanza in a poem that goes, The life of love is like that of a Noble, and I cannot deny the truth in that.”

“It is as you say, Gildea,” the duchess conceded. “However, I, who fought the bringer of destruction, am confident that all will find me a fit wife for Duke Dandorian and his house.”

“That is most welcome news,” Gildea said, his voice trembling with joy.

The duchess continued, “Victory or defeat comes down to the luck of the moment. I was defeated, yet there is no shame in that. And even if the result of our next battle were to be the same, I would still be entitled to bear this item. There is another reason as well—this is the skin of my husband.”

There was a hushed murmur from the world. And in the hush, a voice was heard to say, “Your grace, discounting the time I was dead, I am 2,006 years of age. I acknowledge all that your grace has stated, but such things are said due to age. So long as you love him, you cannot win. Even if your grace were to change your appearance, to change your heart, to gain abilities tens of thousands of times as strong as his, you will not triumph over that man in all eternity. From the moment your grace first let him sway your heart, you became the vanquished party for all time. Is that not so, Zangleson?”

There was no reply.

“What do you think, Zangleson?”

The source of the elderly voice seemed to shrink into the fog.

The other two put no further questions to him. Now all that remained was to wait.

Presently a dry, withered voice said, “I believe I would like Baron Gildea to have it.”

“I see,” the duchess said, her voice actually sounding rather refreshing. “However, even if your opinions are correct, I will not follow them. Both of you are, ultimately, vassals of the Dandorian family, and that is the iron rule.”

“This we know.” The two voices overlapped. They had a ghastly ring to them, as if the speakers’ outward mental strength counted for nothing, and some innate difference in nature had been hammered into the marrow of their bones.

“Very well, then. Gildea, I shall be keeping this. I am hardly the sort to not know their own heart. And my heart says that the two of you are correct. However, Gildea, there is an arrow that missed my heart and remains stuck in my soul. It is I who made his grace suffer his present fate. And even after my destruction that arrow has shaken me without a moment’s respite, I must confess. I wish to do battle with that man for my heart and my soul and his grace—Duke Daios Dandorian. And why is it that his grace left this for me rather than making use of it himself? I am of the opinion it is his grace’s wish that the woman who betrayed him exact his revenge on the one with whom she was unfaithful. Cruel though it may seem, I must follow through. I will slay that man without fail. Have I made myself understood?”

The duchess’s voice was filled with such distress it would’ve made any who heard it want to cover their ears.

The answer she immediately received brimmed with the same distress.

“You mustn’t do this, your grace. By all means, leave it to me, your humble servant, Gildea.”

This was a battle of wills between not two but three people, and no matter what form the contestants imagined their conflict would take, they never could’ve predicted what actually happened.

Suddenly a different presence had come into being close to the trio. Judging from its position, it had undoubtedly entered through the doorway, but even that thought didn’t occur to the other three due to how truly overwhelming the presence was. Yet when they tried to learn anything more about the new arrival, they couldn’t sense a thing. While the owner of the presence was there, they also couldn’t help but feel he also wasn’t there.

The following words seeped into the ears or brains of the group. I shall take that.

A heartbeat later, three speechless people prostrated themselves. In compliance with the iron rule of the Nobility.

What is to be handed over shall be given to the one who should receive it. No ill will is to be harbored, no matter what results from this action.

They had neither the will nor the right to inquire as to what that weird final sentence was supposed to mean.

And just as abruptly as it had come to be there, the presence departed.

No one moved, and no one spoke aloud the name that now occupied their minds. The Sacred Ancestor. And the piece of skin her husband had left, containing everything about D, was suddenly gone from Duchess Mizuki Dandorian’s hands.

II

The sound of waves rocked the night that’d fallen over the island. However, no matter how intently the average person might listen in this spot so far removed from the coast, there was no way they would ever hear that sound. For the sound of waves was ringing in Meg’s head.

The thing that’d suddenly appeared in the distance as their vehicle sped through the trees, grass, and vines finally took shape as an enormous scientific research facility.

“This is the castle?” the girl asked, but Danae’s reply was one she could’ve expected.

“Does it appear as such?”

“No.”

The gigantic metallic dome glistened in the moonlight, with rows of pipes that ran on forever like a road and innumerable smaller domes—there were absolutely no antennas or other protrusions from the stylish design. This was certainly one of the Nobility’s facilities, but even more than that, the old-fashioned stone steps and the motley array of passageways leading to the dome were hallmarks of the Nobility. Take away all its modern stylishness and replace it with rough walls with arrow slits, watchtowers, and minarets, and you would have a castle.

“In that case, let’s get going,” said the girl. “We don’t have time to waste.”

“It’s night already. Our world. Do you think yourselves safe because I accompany you?” asked Danae.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!”

“Why not wait here until daybreak? More importantly, you may be able to meet some of your acquaintances.”

“Excuse me?!” Meg exclaimed, eyes agleam.

D’Argent gave her a nod. There was no trace of pain on his face. Wesley had left a storage box on his vehicle, and in it had been a first aid kit containing pain relievers. The kit had probably belonged to the settlers.

“This is the research facility, Meg,” d’Argent said, turning a frightened gaze on the building that towered in the darkness. “I’ve never been back there since I escaped, but the last time I saw it, these were ruins choked with weeds. And now—it’s just like it was back in the day. It’s too remarkable, even for something the Nobility did. What the hell happened?”

“You said it was a research facility. What kind of research?” Meg asked indifferently, and she instantly regretted it. Even through the darkness, the look on d’Argent’s face gave her goosebumps.

“Experiments to turn humans into another form of life.”

As soon as she finished listening to his morose delivery, Meg spun around angrily.

Danae had a distinct grin on his face.

“Having come this far, would it not be odd for you to continue on without knowing? A portion of your compatriots were sent here. Which is precisely why I stopped.”

“Everybody’s inside?”

“A portion.”

“But they’re here, right? Where?!”

Danae raised his right hand and indicated the massive central dome.

“Don’t lie to me!”

Meg adjusted her grip on the harpoon, aiming its point at Danae. For some reason she got the feeling she could’ve killed him with ease if she so desired.

“I shall keep my word. You shall be brought as far as the castle. Any battles along the way, however, will be without comment or assistance from me.”

“Who’d want your help anyway?” Meg spat venomously, and then she looked back at d’Argent. “You can’t use your arms, so wait here. Loan me that weapon of yours, though.”

“No, I’m going with you. Don’t worry, I won’t slow you down. I can flee with the best of them.”

“In that case, okay,” Meg assented easily. When she thought about it, it made sense that an injured man wouldn’t want to stay behind with a Noble.

Slipping on the hand of destruction, Meg immediately gave up on trying to use it. It simply made it too difficult to work her fingers. For a harpooner, that was a fatal flaw. In terms of sheer destructive power, her weapon couldn’t begin to compare, but it gave her a much better sense of security.

As soon as the girl took the hand of destruction off her arm, d’Argent started to object, saying, “Hey, use that! It’s a lot more powerful than that harpoon of yours.”

Giving the harpoon a rap, Meg said, “But I’m more used to this.”

“It may not be the easiest thing to use, but you’ll get accustomed to it soon enough. With our lives on the line, this is the choice for sheer power.”

Meg pretended to mull it over, then said, “Okay, just in case.”

She secured his weapon to her belt.

“Aren’t you gonna show us the way?” the girl asked.

Danae only grinned and replied, “I should warn you, there are a few researchers inside. Be careful.”

When the humans stood before a wall without a single seam, a rectangular entrance opened. The light that leaked out reached all the way to the pair, casting small shadows at their feet.

Coughing once, the girl said, “Here we go.”

Meg walked through the Nobles’ doorway.

They stood rooted in place in a lobby that looked to be a hundred times the size of the square back in her village.

“State your destination. Even a murmur will suffice,” said a voice that suddenly rained down on them. It was genderless synthesized speech.

“Our destination—where would that be?!” the girl wondered aloud.

“The location of the humans abducted from the mainland,” d’Argent said in her place. Meg recalled that he, too, had been a test subject.

The scene around them changed.

“Wh-what’s all this? A movie?”

“No,” said d’Argent, “we’re moving at ultra-high speed.”

“We’re moving?”

The very thought was inconceivable. It didn’t feel that way at all. There wasn’t even any breeze striking them.

The “movement” had apparently finished while the girl was still busy being stunned.

The black wall before them had the same door in it as the one in the lobby.

Meg hesitated. Things were going too well, and worse yet, far too speedily. It would be best to plan on things turning ugly any minute now. However, even realizing that, she had no choice but to go forward. Harpoon at the ready, Meg went inside.

The room was overflowing with light, and the ceiling, floor, and walls were all black.

“Is that stonework?” the girl asked.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Why? Iron or steel would do the job a lot easier from what I’ve heard.”

“The Nobility have a penchant for old things. Which is why they favor antiquated carriages and castles over ion cars and buildings of plastic and metal alloys. A castle made of iron would never do.”

As she listened to d’Argent’s explanation, Meg was half in a daze.

There was fog there in the room, too. Here and there tables that looked like black beds slipped in and out of sight, and on them were forms that were most definitely human.

“They’re here!” Meg exclaimed, and she was just about to dash forward when d’Argent blocked her way.

“Why the hell did you stop me?!”

“I know what it’s like. I know what kind of experiments they did here. It’s probably already—”

“Already what?!”

Meg was about to really lay into the man when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught some kind of crimson glow. They were small luminous points. However, every last one of them was set in the faces of the figures on the tables, who were looking their way. It was their eyes.

“That’s proof they’re vampires,” d’Argent told her. “They’re not just victims anymore. These are full-fledged servants of the Nobility—vampires.”

“That’s not true . . .”

Now each and every figure sat up on their table and looked at them.

“That one’s . . . Auntie Mabel . . . and over there’s Mr. Ulmer . . . Emilio Kapsch . . . Gialisuna Kapsch . . . and Zacco . . . Raoul’s here, too. Everybody . . . you’re all okay . . . right?”

Meg herself didn’t believe what she was saying.

“Meg, let’s get out of here. We’re too late.”

Though d’Argent jostled her shoulder, Meg didn’t move. She had to know for sure. She had to see with her own eyes what’d happened to them.

A dense fog covered the girl’s eyes, then quickly flowed past.

An old woman was standing there.

“Auntie Mabel . . .”

“So good of you to come, Meg,” the deeply wrinkled face said, smiling gaily.

“Let’s get out of here, Auntie Mabel. And get everyone else, too. Our village is a thousand times better than this creepy place.”

“That’s not true at all,” the old woman countered.

“What?”

“Oh, life here is wonderful. The Nobility made machines to do everything, and my infirmities don’t trouble me anymore. You know about all my health problems, don’t you? I have the gout in my right foot, and arthritis in the left. Any pressure on one or the other hurts like the bone’s been shattered. I’ve got an acute hernia that left me hunched over, and my liver, kidneys, and pancreas have all lost ninety percent of their function. My lungs are shot, so I get to coughing at night and can’t stop. Do you know how it feels to not be able to get to sleep every night out of fear you’ll suffocate? And all that got wiped away!”

The old woman’s face was radiant with joy.

“She’s right.”

Mr. Ulmer’s aged, sun-bronzed face appeared from the fog.

Meg heard d’Argent swallow hard.

“You know how I was in the final stages of lung cancer, right?” Mr. Ulmer continued. “Hell, you even came and visited me. But you know what? Not a single person from the town hall ever came. In eighty-two years of woodworking, how many boats you figure I made? How many did I repair? Now, I don’t wanna toot my own horn, but how many hundreds of lives have been saved by the double hulls I built, do you reckon? Meg, the town hall called in a new shipwright to replace me, didn’t they?”

That was a top secret back in the village. When Mr. Ulmer had become bedridden a year and a half earlier, the village had already offered his position to a shipwright from the north shore fifty years his junior. Every day the old man had shot his mouth off, asking, “Who you gonna get to fix your boats when I’m gone?” and a portion of the village had definitely found him irritating in that regard.

Meg didn’t answer, and apparently taking that as her answer, the old man nodded deeply.

“The way I am now, I’ve got a hundred times the strength I had in my prime. Look at me! With this mallet and chisel I could probably build a boat from scratch in half a day’s time. But that’s not what I’m gonna use ’em for. I’m gonna use ’em for destruction. I’ll use ’em to pound those town hall bastards who couldn’t wait to see me dead into the ground once and for all.”

His hand was like a specter rising from the sea of fog, and in it he gripped a chunk of iron with a keen edge.

“Which reminds me, Meg—did you try to stop ’em from bringing somebody in to replace me?”

“No. Actually, I only found out after it’d all been decided.”

Though Meg had spoken the truth, the old man shook his head gravely.

“That’s what they all say. Auntie Mabel, and the whole Gates family beside her, and everybody else says that. I wanted to protest, but it was already decided. But next time I’ll stand up for you! Well, there ain’t a next time.”

Meg became aware that at some point she’d lowered her harpoon and was adjusting her grip on it.

“But that doesn’t matter anymore. Meg, I’ve been sweet on you since way back. Always thought you were a little dear. So you’ll become one of us by my hand.”

The old man hauled back with his right hand.

“Nooo!” Meg exclaimed, and as the word exploded from her, the harpoon in her right hand thrust forward.

III

Even Meg was surprised at how solid the hit felt. Actually, she’d not only driven her harpoon into Mr. Ulmer’s massive barrel chest, but poked it all the way out through his back.

With a mallet that looked to weigh better than sixty pounds still raised, the old man shuddered. Gnashing his teeth, he swung down with his right hand. The wind howled.

Meg and d’Argent heard the sound of the mass of iron ravaging the floor just ten feet behind them.

The old man held that pose for a while. Then he lifted his head and gave the two of them an innocent smile. His smile was so guileless, Meg had to wonder if there hadn’t been some mistake.

Mr. Ulmer touched a calloused finger to his upper lip. The cuspids that grew from his exposed gums were pernicious fangs. They’d been honed to rip into Meg’s soft throat.

“It can’t be . . . If you’re a servant of the Nobility . . . and I stabbed you right through the heart . . .” Meg groaned, but d’Argent’s hand grabbed hers and pulled her along after him.

A milky fog covered the world. She ran with d’Argent.

Her ears caught someone saying, “Meg.” The call came from far off in the distance. And it was d’Argent’s voice.

Meg planted both feet firmly to stop. D’Argent stopped, too. It finally dawned on the girl that the hand grasping hers was horribly cold and bony.

The shadowy figure turned around. Just then—the fog flowed away. There was Auntie Mabel, baring a pair of fangs.

“Me-e-eg.”

When the old woman tried to embrace her, Meg swung her to the right as hard as she could. The girl, in turn, was swung around as well. Her wrist was still in the old woman’s grip. Scattering the fog, the two of them continued spinning in elegant circles.

The old woman planted her feet and jerked the girl closer. Meg was pulled in by the tremendous strength of the vampire, and her soft throat was left exposed for the old woman’s mouth. The wrinkled mouth snapped open wide, and then there was a cry of pain and bright blood gushed out. Of course, neither belonged to Meg.

Using all her might to escape the old woman’s grip, Meg stared at something on the chest of her lurching attacker. A wooden harpoon was embedded in it. A harpoon the girl had drawn with her left hand while they were spinning in circles.

“Me-e-eg!”

There was the sound of footsteps running toward her through the fog, which then took the form of d’Argent.

“You okay?” she asked.

“More or less.”

“What about the old-timer?”

“Damned if I know,” the former teacher replied. “I just heard a voice that sounded like it was in pain.”

“He was stabbed through the heart and he wasn’t destroyed—what the hell kind of creatures were they turned into?”

“Ageless and indestructible,” d’Argent murmured.

“Huh?”

“The experiments carried out here were intended to turn humans into another form of life. I’m ageless, but not indestructible. Maybe the old man got the reverse.”

Indestructibility. The owner of a body that could take a stake through the heart and not be destroyed—that would be a true undead, a true nosferatu.

“Gaaaah,” the old woman cried, turning toward them.

“Her, too?!” d’Argent exclaimed, eyes bulging.

“No. That’s where her lung would be. I missed her heart!” said Meg.

“She’s getting even wilder!”

The old woman seized the harpoon in her chest and yanked it out. When she slammed it against the floor, the pair broke into a run.

Meg quickly halted and said, “No, this way!”

“How do you know?”

“Never mind that, it’s this way!”

Apparently d’Argent wasn’t too sure of himself, so he said no more and started running.

Meg’s mind kept replaying the same question d’Argent had asked. How in blazes do I know where the exit is in all this fog?

Just as the girl was about to turn her attention to the matter, she sensed a presence on the left.

“Look out!”

Faster than Meg could say that, there was a dull thud of impact from the vicinity of d’Argent’s head. Something warm flew at the girl’s face. Though she dodged most of it with a speed that surprised even herself, some stuck to her right cheek.

A mass of black came out of the fog. Ducking down so it passed right over her, Meg then sped over toward d’Argent. He lay some twenty to twenty-five feet away.

“I’m just—”

He couldn’t finish what he was saying, and Meg shut her eyes. Her nostrils prickled at the thick stench of blood. D’Argent was missing the right half of his face.

“I’m just fine,” he said feebly through the half of his lips that remained. “At least, that’s what I’m supposed to tell you, but I’m not so great. Looks like I won’t have to go through my whole life saying I don’t want to grow old, but this is no good—I don’t want to die.”

Meg heaved a sigh. A great weigh sat on her chest, and it was all she could do to fight back the tears. After all, wasn’t she the one who’d dragged this man from a stable existence? The bounty hunters, Wesley—why had she brought a curse on all of them?

“Don’t let it get to you,” the man said. “More importantly, something’s coming.”

Meg nodded and got to her feet. From head to toe she burned with sorrow—and the rage it whipped up.

Something black was approaching from the depths of the fog.

“Step right up. Come and get it,” Meg said, her lips twisting. This wasn’t her anger suppressing her fear, but rather an innate confidence in her own victory that raced throughout her body with her blood flow.

Mr. Ulmer appeared out of nowhere.

Meg’s eyes bugged. The old man’s face had gone beyond a look of agony and all the way to a rictus. His upper body was stained red, and a slender wooden harpoon was planted right in the middle of his chest.

“Found you!” the old man said. His right hand had been behind him, but now it rose, still gripping his mallet. As Meg stood poised for action, her ears caught a hard clang. The old man had dropped his weapon. His forefinger was aimed at Meg.

“Wha—aren’t you gonna fight?”

The old man’s lips held a smile that gave the girl chills. It was the kind they called “death’s grin.” A smile that evil was the last thing you saw before they sent you to hell.

“I’ve no intention of fighting. Meg . . . I . . . I’ve come to tell you something,” said the old man, his teeth chattering and blood dripping from the corners of his mouth.

“Tell me what?!” Meg asked, a cloud of anxiety staking a black claim to her heart. There was no way it would be good news.

The old man pointed to the harpoon with his left hand.

“The instant you ran this through me . . . I knew. But you don’t know . . . the most important thing . . . Meg, you’re . . .”

Meg was about to shout at him to stop. She had the feeling she absolutely couldn’t hear what he was going to say. Though she slapped her hands over her ears, her eyes never left the old man.

Mr. Ulmer tumbled forward and fell to the floor, but even seeing that didn’t surprise the girl much because it all seemed so unreal, like she was watching a single frame from a silent movie. Even before she concluded the old man must’ve run out of power, his body had turned to ash.

“Meg,” d’Argent called to her from down on the floor.

She dropped to one knee beside him.

“What did he . . . want with you?”

“I don’t know.”

That was the only answer she could give.

“Instead of killing you, he tried to tell you something . . . What could be so important . . . ?”

“I really don’t know. Forget that. Can you stand?”

“Nope . . . Carry me on your back, please.”

“Sure thing.”

Meg swiftly put down the other knee and turned her back to d’Argent.

“Up we go!”

With that, the man’s arms looped around Meg’s neck and the two of them timed it so they tried to stand in unison.

D’Argent’s breath struck the nape of her neck. Meg felt like she’d been touched with a piece of ice, and her body froze, too.

“D’Argent—not you, too?”

“Sorry, Meg. That old man fed on me just now. I tried to hold it in, but when I saw your naked skin and felt the warmth of your body, that was it.”

Meg trembled. Lips had just touched the nape of her neck.

“Meg,” the former teacher said, and she felt his accursed mouth open.

“Nooo!”

Meg’s elbow shot back. When some drunk had thrown his arms around her at a village festival years earlier, her reflexive action had been identical. The result was also the same. D’Argent let out a low groan, and his hands came away from her.

As Meg tried to dash away, a cold hand snared her ankle. She fell face-down, but immediately twisted herself around so she was facing up. D’Argent’s face had crept to about thigh level on her.

“Stop it!”

“It’s no use, Meg,” d’Argent said. “I can’t fight it. And you’re out of harpoons, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m out . . .”

D’Argent crawled closer, his hand touching the swell of her breast.

“But I do have something else!” the girl cried.

A blistering beam of light punched through d’Argent’s chest and out his back. Throwing the man’s weight off her, Meg got to her feet and took aim with the hand of destruction.

“Right, you still had that? But I thought . . . you wouldn’t use it . . .”

“It’s best to be practical,” Meg said even as she choked back something that was rising within her.

“Hurry up . . . and shoot,” d’Argent told her. “Half my heart’s still left.”

The world glowed.

She could see clean through the six-inch hole that’d been opened in d’Argent’s chest. Black smoke mingled with the fog.

“Ordinarily, I’d have vanished . . . Mustn’t have been enough energy. Like me, that weapon’s . . . on its last legs.”

“Hang in there. You can’t die, right?”

“How many times do we have to go over this before you get it right? I’m ageless . . . not indestructible.”

“Whatever the case, you’ve got to survive. But we’re through as a team.”

D’Argent laughed. It was a lighthearted one.

“You’re a sweet kid. Strong, too. Be careful out there. The Noble outside should be able to help you.”

“I’m so sorry,” Meg said, wiping her tears. Pulling off the hand of destruction, she tossed it down by d’Argent’s side. “I’ll leave that with you. You can finish yourself off, right?”

“Sure.”

“Good-bye.”

Meg turned her back to him.

“Meg,” d’Argent called to her.

She looked back.

The barrel of the hand of destruction was trained on her.

“D’Argent?!” she cried out in despair, and at the same time the weapon spit fire.