The Final Descent (The Monstrumologist #4)(8)

“ ‘To go beyond Humanity is not to be told in words . . .’ ”

“Well, I would agree with you there,” I said. “You certainly seemed to have gone beyond humanity.”

“My life’s work, Will Henry.”

“Your work? There are no monsters left, Warthrop, or men to hunt them.”

He shook his head—and then he nodded. “There will always be monsters, but it is true: I am the last of my kind.”

“I suppose I am to blame for that.”

“Oh, you would have been terrible at it. Better that it ends with me than with mediocrity.”

I laughed at the insult. What else could I do? The gun had no bullets.

“If I am a mediocrity, it isn’t my fault,” I said, returning to the theme of maker and his creation. “Could God not have made Satan beautiful through and through? He is God, after all.”

“And there is the difference,” the old monstrumologist wheezed. “He is what he is, and I am not.”

“Which? Not God or not you?”

He snorted and flicked a skeletal finger at my face. “Both.”

“Well, you have looked better. What has happened to you?” Suddenly I was very cross. “What has happened here? I hired that girl to cook and clean for you—can’t think of her name now . . .”

“Beatrice,” he said. I give him a look: Is this a joke? But he wasn’t smiling. “I sacked her.”

I nodded, inwardly seething. Something had come loose again, the dark, unwinding thing. “Of course you did! I have always wondered what would kill you first, Warthrop: your titanic ego or your colossal self-pity.”

“They are one and the same, Will Henry. They have always been.”

I watched his tears fall. How many times had I sat in this chair while he watched mine?

“Why do you cry, Warthrop?” I asked in a harsh voice. “Do you think your tears will bring me back?” And the thing in me, unwinding. His gift to me, his curse. “What do you desire? Will Henry is gone; he is no more. You must harden yourself to that fact.”

His lips drew back. It was not a smile; it was a mockery of a smile.

“I have. Why haven’t you?”

We regarded each other across the vast space that separated us.

Himself in me.

And me in him.

In the gloom, he might have passed as a victim of one of his horrid specimens—the death-leer grin, the wide, unblinking eyes, the pale, wasted flesh. In a sense perhaps he was.

Please, do not leave me, he had begged me once. You are the one thing that keeps me human.

SIX

I went into the bathroom. In the mirror I saw a boy in a man’s mask, wearing a fashionable suit, hair neatly trimmed, beard neatly shaved. Only the eyes gave him away: They were still his eyes, the boy Will Henry’s, regarding the world as if in mid-flinch, waiting for the whatever-it-was to jump from the shadows. Eyes that had seen too much too soon and for too long, unable to look away. Look away, the man whispers to the boy in the mask. Look away.

I filled the tub and rinsed out the cleanest cloth I could find (there were none in the closet). Returned to his room.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice quivering with fear as I came toward the bed.

“You stink. I’m going to bathe you.”

“I am quite capable of bathing myself, Mr. Henry.”

“Really? So what has stopped you?”

“I am too tired at the present. Let me rest a bit.”

I grasped his wrist and pulled him from the bed. He struck me lightly on the shoulder. I drew his arm around my neck and helped him into the bathroom.

“There is the soap. There is the washcloth. There is a towel. Call when you’re finished.”

“I’m finished!” he shouted in my face, and then cackled like a madman.

“And after you’re done washing yourself, I will give you a shave and find you something to eat.”

“You are not my creation, you know,” he said.

“No, Warthrop,” I answered. “I am not anything. I am not anything at all.”

It wasn’t in his study. At least I couldn’t find it in any of the drawers or on the dusty shelves or tucked in any of the usual hiding places. The room, like the rest of the house, was thick with dust and the desiccated remains of insects and the sepia-colored pall of memory. Here he had written all his important papers, his letters, his many lectures to the Society. Here had sat the luminaries of the day: scientists, explorers, writers, inventors, even a celebrity and a president or two. Warthrop was renowned, in his own way, even famous in some select circles. All had fallen from his orbit as his star faded, as the lamp he bore into the darkness exhausted its fuel and the darkness pressed in around him. The unanswered letter, the unreturned call, the ignored summons, and Pellinore Warthrop had faded into the background of memory, a towering figure shrinking into the horizon. Warthrop? Yes, of course I remember Warthrop! Was it Warthrop, though, or Winthrop? Warthrip? Well, anyway. Whatever happened to him, do you know? Did his luck finally catch up to him?

An old map hung on the wall behind his desk. Someone—I assumed it was him, for it had not been me—had stuck pins in it to mark the places where his studies had taken him. I knew those places, or most of them: I had been there with him. Canada, Mexico, England, Italy, Spain. Africa, Indonesia, China. Wherever the darkness drew him. I stood for a long while, staring at this map. How many lives had he saved where these little pins lay, facing terrors that no other man but he could face? Impossible to say. Hundreds, perhaps thousands. Perhaps more: T. magnificum had had the potential to wipe out the entire race, and he’d defeated it. He, Pellinore Warthrop, whose name lesser men now struggled to remember.