Come Tumbling Down (Wayward Children #5)(32)
The tunnel ended in a vast natural cathedral, the ceiling dripping with stalactites and hung with strings of lights that looked like something from a construction site, too modern for the rest of the setting.
“We sell them generators,” Jack murmured, before anyone could ask. “In a world powered by lightning, everyone desires electricity, if only for the sake of keeping up with the neighbors.”
At the far end of the vast room was a dais, and on the dais was a chair crafted from the helm of a great sailing ship, crusted with barnacles and candy-colored corals, until it became a gaudy monument to the sea, a carnival extraction dredged up from the deeps. It was cushioned in rotten, salt-stained velvet, and on it lounged a boy around Jack’s age. His skin was the salt-white of a body left too long in the water, and his hair was long, black, and tangled with strands of precisely placed kelp. His lips were painted the same color, and thick rings of charcoal surrounded his green, calculating eyes. Red-robed acolytes stood all around him.
The boy—the high priest, Christopher supposed, as it would be ridiculous to think the acolytes took turns lounging around trying to look seductive—was also dressed in red, but his clothing was cut in a more piratical than priestly style, echoed all the way to the tentacle-shaped red coral prosthetic that replaced the lower half of his left leg. No, Christopher corrected himself; not a prosthetic. The tentacle twisted of its own accord, turning over to reveal a single glistening sucker. Whether this was a mobility device or a magic trick gone wrong, the tentacle was as much flesh as the rest of the high priest.
“Well, well, well,” said the high priest. There was a bubbling undertone to his words, like he was speaking from deep underwater. “Jacqueline Wolcott, come to visit after all this time—and Jillian Wolcott as well, if I’m not mistaken. Have you finally made amends with your sister, and decided to strengthen your familial bonds by becoming a single entity?”
“I’d banter, but I haven’t the time, and you haven’t the wit to keep up,” said Jack. “Hello, Gideon. These are my friends. Christopher Flores, late of Mariposa, and Sumi Onishi, late of Confection.”
“We’re heroes,” said Sumi, cocking her head as she considered the high priest. “You’re not a hero, I don’t think. But you’re not from here, either. Are you?”
“I’m not,” said Gideon. He sounded delighted. “What a wonderful pair of wanderers you’ve found, Jack! And I’m told the Drowned Gods have accepted your sacrifice.”
Christopher stiffened. Jack put out a hand to stop him before he could even start to move.
“Then you know these are unique circumstances,” she said.
“Unique? A power struggle in the Moors is hardly ‘unique.’ If anything, a stretch of time as long as you had without your sister trying to rip your pretty throat out with her teeth counts as ‘unique.’ This is no concern of me or mine.”
Jack bit the inside of her cheek—her sister’s cheek—until her heartbeat calmed enough to leave her certain her voice wouldn’t shake. “I think it is,” she said finally. “What do you consider ordinary about this situation?”
“It’s my business to know everything that happens in the Moors. Your Dr. Bleak is dead, perhaps beyond resurrecting, and the Master intends to bring his daughter fully into the family under the full moon. I have little doubt your motley band of heroes will be enough to destroy the elder vampire, even as foolish sentiment stays your hand from slaying your sister. The balance will be maintained. The two of you will make excellent monsters, until something novel comes along to take your place. The Abbey will stand, the Drowned Gods will smash ships against our shore, and I’ll trade you rum and chocolate biscuits for bread and jam. It’s happened before.”
“Ah, but you see, that’s where you’re wrong.” Jack started to walk forward, suddenly smiling. Jill had always taken excellent care of her teeth, anticipating the day when they’d become the symbol of her power. In the dimness of the Drowned Abbey, they gleamed. “I realize the Moors aren’t very considerate when it comes to matters of mental health; I suppose when your power structure depends on the actions of scientists with poor impulse control and a variety of personality disorders, investing in therapy seems like a poor idea. But it’s your job to know things, as you say, and so I’m sure you know that I’ve always had a bit of a problem with the filth of daily existence.”
“I know you’re squeamish, but you’re bloody-minded enough to overcome it,” said Gideon.
“No. I’m not. I have a condition—there isn’t a word for it here, although I’ve heard a few of the older villagers comment about a cousin or grandparent with symptoms similar to mine—that transcends squeamishness. I can’t abide being dirty. It revolts me. This body is tainted, Gideon. It’s rotten, it’s spoiled. The things my sister used it to do … I could wash the skin from these hands and still be unable to stand the sight of them. How do I wash my blood? My organs? How do I scrub the sins from my sister’s skeleton?”
Gideon sat up straighter, looking alarmed for the first time. “I don’t—”
“There’s a natural balance between mad scientists and vampires, but I won’t be a mad scientist for long. This will break me. This is already breaking me. My mind is eating itself alive, and only knowing my failure will mean the end of everything I love is letting me hold myself together.” Jack took another step forward. “I’m a brilliant scientist, not despite my condition, but in some ways because of it. That does not mean I can survive under these conditions. So ask yourself, if you would be so kind—ask your damned and Drowned divinities. How long can I live like this? And how long do the Moors maintain their balance without someone to stop my sister from drenching your world in every drop of blood she can wring out of it?”