The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(97)

His hands went to her neck, squeezing her throat, holding her tight. His long fingers were digging into her skin, and he roared in a fury.

She was afraid of him, for a moment. Afraid of his strength, his frenzied rage. Afraid, too, at what she was doing. There was the pain of his hands, squeezing her, and the burning agony of her body.

Her jaw unhinged, tendons straining. She growled, low and harsh, right before she bit into his face. Her teeth felt bigger, her mouth was full of blades, and he screamed as she took a chunk of him and spat it out, throwing her head back, then slashing at his face and throat with her claws.

She ceased to be Carlota and became fear, became anger, became death, became fur and fang and fury. She slashed and she bit and she tore apart.

His jugular vein was sliced neatly, and she heard him gasp and felt him shiver. But she didn’t move away, she kept pressing him down, she kept thinking, No, not my sister. You’ll never hurt my sister.

The sound of boots upon the tiles of the courtyard made her lift her head, and she stared at Montgomery, who had stumbled out of the house and stood heaving and bloodied, one arm slung against his chest, the other barely dangling a gun from trembling fingers.

“Carlota!” Lupe said, and she was next to her, pulling her up from Eduardo.

Carlota let herself be lifted; she felt Lupe’s arms around her. She shook her head and was slowly moved aside. Montgomery looked down at Eduardo’s body. She could hear a gurgling, not unlike the fountain, as Eduardo lay there, bleeding to death.

There was blood in her mouth and running down her chin. It felt as hot as burning tar and she spat it out, nostrils flaring, mouth pulling in a breath of air. She hadn’t noticed it, but there were also tears in her eyes.

“He’s not dead yet,” Carlota muttered.

Montgomery pointed his gun to the man’s head, pulled the trigger, and the charge exploded, burying itself in Eduardo’s skull. The sound was like the clap of thunder.

Carlota and Montgomery stared at each other. His arm lay limply at his side, and she rubbed the back of her hand against her mouth, wiping away the blood that stained her lips. She didn’t bother wiping the tears, lacing her fingers together with Lupe’s instead.

The patio lay quiet, for they had let all the birds in the cages go and besides, night had fallen, painting the greenery and the flowers black, and her eyes glowed yellow in that darkness.





Epilogue


    Carlota


She couldn’t sleep, and thus she rose early and brushed her hair and dressed long before she ought to ready herself. Lupe came into her room with a cup of coffee, surprising her.

“He’s up already, too,” Lupe said, rolling her eyes. “I thought I’d make all of us something to drink, seeing as you insist on waking me up with your pacing.”

“Thank you,” Carlota said, and she stepped into the interior courtyard.

The house they were renting came furnished, and she appreciated it for its location and price, but it was bare-bones and the courtyard was ugly and did not have any cages with canaries, as they’d had in Yaxaktun. Nor did it have a fountain. She had loved the fountain.

After she finished her coffee, Carlota helped Lupe into her black dress, her gloves, and her thick veil. Lupe seldom went out in Mérida, which was one reason why they must move; it was impossible to be out in a city where she might be seen, but on this occasion her presence was necessary. As was Montgomery’s. He’d spent a good many weeks in bed, healing, and although he swore he was fine by now, she didn’t like to see him moving around, and he had therefore played the role of the good patient.

Once Lupe was correctly outfitted, Carlota took one final look in the mirror and they stepped into the courtyard. Montgomery had also donned black. He had a cheap black hat and a black necktie and that look in his gray eyes he sometimes still got, like he was going to smuggle a bottle of aguardiente into his room. But at least his convalescence had rid him of the drink. If this might last, she did not know.

“Ladies,” he said, and they stepped out into the street. They walked the length of the trip. Francisco Ritter’s office was a few blocks away, which was another reason they had picked this house.

They reached the lawyer’s place of business at exactly the appointed time, and he let them into the room that Carlota knew well. She had been there a couple of times before, but on this occasion there was a new element: the man with a sandy mustache sitting in one of the chairs, which had been arranged in a semicircle so that the three of them would be facing the lawyers as they sat behind a large desk.

“Mr. Maquet, may I present Miss Carlota Moreau? This is Lupe, her attendant and companion. And this is Mr. Laughton, who was Dr. Moreau’s mayordomo at Yaxaktun.”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Maquet said.

“Likewise,” she replied and sat down, pressing her gloved hands primly together.

The others also sat down.

“First of all, I must offer my condolences on your father’s passing and the whole tragedy at Yaxaktun,” Maquet said, and Carlota nodded.

The “tragedy,” as far as the lawyers knew, was that Hernando Lizalde had marched into the jungle intent on killing a group of Indians from the area, only to be killed by them instead. He had been accompanied in this venture by Moreau and Laughton. Although neither Moreau’s corpse nor the corpses of the Lizaldes had been found, they were presumed to be very much dead.