The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(158)

Next, he headed for the sitting room, which he surveyed carefully from the doorway. Everything seemed in its place. Puzzled, he walked over to the window, where the garden was timidly revealing itself in the first light of day. Perhaps he had merely imagined the noise. Lately, he had been more nervous than usual, which was hardly surprising given that, only a few days before, his world had been turned completely upside down. He had encountered a twin of his from a parallel universe, in a state of surprising decrepitude, and had watched him die at the hands of an invisible man at Brook Manor. This had all obliged him to believe in more things than his brain seemed willing to accept in such a short space of time.

The whistling kettle interrupted his thoughts. He hurriedly removed it from the hob, praying this fresh uproar wouldn’t wake his wife. That cup of tea no longer seemed so urgent . . . It was then he noticed that on the kitchen table there were three cups, which he hadn’t put there. He stood gaping at them, wondering whether, for some absurd reason, Jane had put them out before going to bed. And yet, he could have sworn they weren’t there when he came in to put the kettle on. And there were three of them. Then one of the drawers in the dresser slid open slowly, and three teaspoons floated toward the table, landing gracefully next to the cups.

“Bertie?” his wife’s voice rang out from upstairs.

“Jane, whatever you do, don’t—”

But before Wells could finish his sentence, a knife rose from the draining board, arced through the air like a salmon leaping upstream, and pressed itself against his neck. This didn’t surprise him. Clayton had warned them that sooner or later they would all be forced to resume their duel with the Invisible Man.

“Oh, let’s invite your charming wife to join us for breakfast, George,” said the voice that for nights on end had plagued his dreams. “Why do you think I put out three cups?”

With the knife at his throat and his back arched over the stove, Wells heard his wife padding down the stairs. She walked into the kitchen, still half-asleep, wearing her nightdress, and with her hair hanging down her face.

“What are you doing, dear? Why don’t you go come back to bed?” she asked before noticing her husband’s strange posture, the pallor of his face, and the knife pressing against his throat, apparently with no one holding it. “Oh, B-Bertie . . . ,” she stammered. “He is here . . .”

“Good morning, Mrs. Wells,” said the knife, moving away from her husband’s neck and floating toward her. “What a pleasure to meet you again.”

Jane swallowed, unable to take her eyes off the hovering knife.

“And how considerate of you to come down without your hairpins; you’ve no idea how glad I am.” A chair slid out from under the table. “Be so good as to sit down, Mrs. Wells.”

Jane obeyed, and Wells saw an invisible hand gather up her hair, revealing her graceful neck and, in a flash, the knife pressing against it. The sharp blade made her shudder.

“Don’t hurt her, you son of a . . . ,” Wells cried, making as if to hasten toward her.

“Stay right there!” the voice commanded. “Don’t force me to kill you both again, George. I’ve done it so many times now that, quite frankly, it is starting to bore me.”

Wells looked anxiously at his wife, who was pursing her lips with the forced determination of someone trying desperately not to give way to panic. He tried to speak calmly, but the voice that came out sounded more like a pitiful howl.

“Please . . . I beg you. You are making a dreadful mistake. We don’t have what you want.”

“A dreadful mistake, you say?” A dark guffaw spread like a drop of ink through the air, darkening it. “No, George. I know you have the book somewhere. The old woman gave it to you. I am absolutely certain of that. H. G. Wells wrote The Map of Chaos. His wife took it away with her when I killed him and then gave it back to H. G. Wells, ingeniously completing the circle! I’ll grant her that, at least.”

“What?” Wells looked nonplussed.

“Don’t make me lose my patience, George,” the voice snapped. “I warn you, it is running out fast.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about!” Wells yelled, red with rage.

“You’re lying,” hissed the Villain. “And you don’t know how sad that makes me.”

The tip of the knife suddenly broke Jane’s skin, causing her to squeal. A shiny drop of blood began to trickle down her neck, like a stream meandering down a hillside.

“Please, no, please . . . ,” Wells implored. “I swear I don’t have the accursed book . . .”

“Really?” The tip of the knife crept up his wife’s neck and began circling her right eye menacingly. “Good. I’ve been looking forward to inflicting on your little wife the excruciating pain of having an eye plucked out.”

“Stop, stop!” cried Wells. “All right, you win! I’ll tell you where the book is!”

“Don’t, Bertie,” whispered Jane. “He’ll kill us anyway . . .”

“You are as intelligent as you are beautiful, my dear lady,” the Invisible Man hissed in her ear. “Yes, I might kill you anyway. But, Jane, let me tell you that there are many different ways to die . . .”

Wells took a step forward, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender.