The Final Descent (The Monstrumologist #4)(51)

“I had the oddest dream,” he said. “I found myself descending a narrow stair. There was no rail and the steps were slick, covered in slime. I could not see the bottom and did not know my destination, though it was imperative that I reach the bottom. Time was of the essence, but I was forced to proceed slowly lest I slip and tumble all the way down. I realized where I was: Harrington Lane, and these were the steps leading down to the basement. At the thirteenth step, the stairs turned, so I could not tell how far I had left to go. Down, down, I went, until there was no light, I was descending in utter darkness, and somehow there was no turning round, no going back. It was the last passage, the final descent.”

“The final descent . . . to what? What was at the bottom?”

“I woke before I could find out.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Where is my revolver, Will?”

“Mr. Faulk has it.”

“And why does Mr. Faulk have it?”

I took a deep breath. I’d prepared a speech and now had forgotten my lines. “Dr. Warthrop, sir, it could not stand.”

He brought his hand down hard upon the armrest, but he did not open his eyes. “You ordered him to assassinate Francesco Competello.”

“It could not stand,” I said again. I did not correct him.

“Stop that,” he snapped. “Did he succeed? Is Competello dead?”

“Yes.”

He slapped the armrest again. “You understand what this means. No, of course you do not or you wouldn’t have done it. You have inaugurated war.”

“He murdered Dr. von Helrung in cold blood,” I said. “An innocent man who had nothing to do with the deaths of his men. It could not go unanswered.”

“ ‘Unanswered’? Is that the word you used? ‘Unanswered’?” He sprang from the chair with such velocity that I flinched. “Competello was the most powerful padrone of the most vicious crime syndicate in this country—and you have murdered him! It wasn’t enough that you caused the destruction of a priceless biological specimen or the death of my dearest friend. No! Not enough for you, who have reached the bottom of those accursed stairs already . . .”

“It could not stand.”

“Stop saying that. What has happened to you? What are you, William James Henry? Where are you? I seek you, but I cannot find you. The boy I knew would never have—”

“The boy you knew—where is he? He is in Aden, Dr. Warthrop. And Socotra. And on Elizabeth Street.”

He shook his head vehemently. “No, this is different—an entirely different animal. You had no choice in Aden: the Russians would have killed both of us if you had not acted. On Socotra, too—what choice did you have? Kearns was not letting us off that island alive. Even on Elizabeth Street, you acted in the honest—if grievously mistaken—belief that my life depended upon your actions. But this! This was an act of revenge: rash, vindictive, heartless, monstrous . . .”

“You’re wrong!” I shouted. “There is no difference! In me or what I did or what I will do. I am the same; nothing has changed. You are the heartless one. You are the monstrous one. I never asked to be this. I had no choice or say in it!”

He grew very still. “You never asked to be what?”

“What you have made me.”

He cocked his head at me, pinning me down with that eerie, backlit stare, the same stare with which he regarded a specimen flayed open upon his laboratory table.

“I am responsible,” he said slowly. “That is your argument.”

“More a statement of fact,” I countered.

“For all of it, that is what you are saying. The Russians. The Italians. Kearns. For every action you have taken since you came to me.”

“And for every action I have not taken, yes. Even Meister Abram. That too, Warthrop, that too.”

He folded his arms across his chest and turned away. I went on, “There is no room for pity or love or any silly sentimental thing—I didn’t kill Competello to avenge Meister Abram. Revenge was Competello’s motive, not mine. The message contained in the box had to be answered, you know it as well as I, but Dr. Kearns was right about one thing: There is something missing in you, a blind spot that prevents you from seeing all the way down to the inescapable conclusion of your philosophy—”

“Enough!” he cried. “It is galling—it is grotesque—it is obscene!”

“It is the truth,” I said calmly. “The thing you claim to love above all else. You asked what I am, but you know already: I am the thing that waits for you at the bottom of those stairs.”

He lunged forward, seized me by the lapels, and hauled me upright, bringing our faces inches apart. “I will give you up to them. I will tell them what you’ve done, and then you may debate with them ‘inescapable conclusions’!”

I laughed in his face. He flung me away and I staggered toward the door. I remained upright; I did not fall.

“I have made a terrible mistake,” he said. “I never should have taken you in—and in that one respect you are right: I am a hypocrite. There is no room for pity, and I took pity. No room for mercy, and I was merciful—”

“Mercy? Is that what you call it?”

“I sacrificed everything for you!” he roared. “And at every turn you have hindered me, burdened me, betrayed me! Everything was perfect, down to this latest instance, until you butted your head where it didn’t belong.”