Angelika Frankenstein Makes Her Match(7)
She slipped straps underneath his shoulders and around his waist and, with difficulty and a lot of dripping goo, used the wheel and pulleys to transfer him into the deeper tub. “This is an awkward way for us to meet. Just as I am your last hope, I think you are my last hope, too.” She closed her eyes, and the truth of that statement sank in. “I refuse to be an old maid at twenty-four. Victor will marry Lizzie soon, then a baby will arrive, and I’ll be their unofficial nanny, then governess. Then, a withered old aunt.”
She’d be happy for her brother, but it would be hard to smile through the jealousy. In her dreams, for years, she’d heard the call of true love; a yearning inherited from her madly devoted parents.
“Hmmm. I’m not sure what comes next.” Maybe she should have stayed awake more while Victor did this next bit. His notes were strewn around the benchtops, all in his particular shorthand, and were therefore useless to her. Now was her chance to prove she was a full contributor. “I will do my best.”
Even though prayer of any kind was forbidden in their household, her next words sounded very close to one. Eyes closed, hands folded, she said:
“Dear sir, I will do anything for you. To have you, I will change what I must about myself. I will sacrifice and make you proud—” Here, her eyes welled up, and as she bent down over him, her tears dropped into the vat. “I will cut myself up into as many pieces as you are.”
There was only silence in reply, but she felt like he understood.
Angelika took a few fortifying breaths. “I think I connect this here.” She pulled a springy cord down from above and slipped a metal ring around his forehead. “And then I tighten it just so, and lightning hits the rod on the barn roof, and I wish myself luck, and—”
An almighty rumble of thunder drowned out her next words. There was a crack, everything went white, and then the world filled with sparkles and star-fire.
There was the smell of burning hair.
“Damn it all,” Angelika cried out in anguish. “He was so perfect. I will never again have another so perfect.” Those beautiful brown eyes would never gaze upon this world again. Loss nearly turned her inside out. Outside, her brother was roughhousing with his creation, but her own darling was burned. “Well, I’m alone forever,” she said to herself as her tear-filled eyes began to readjust to the gloom.
Her heart stopped.
Wrenching himself upright in the chamber of gel was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He was spluttering out mouthfuls of liquid, before inhaling some rough, crackling breaths.
“My love?” Angelika came closer, and all she could see was how well she’d done. Unlike Victor’s man, her keen eye for sewing and pattern making had resulted in a truly excellent outcome. He was perfectly formed, with ideal proportions.
This was a body to live for, and a face to die for.
She came closer still, smoothing down the front of her blouse and plumping her bosom up. “My love?”
After an almighty coughing fit, the naked man managed to get out: “Where am I?”
Chapter Three
Angelika had rehearsed a welcome-back-to-life spiel three times before this, but everything was now forgotten. “Oh, goodness. Sir, you are gorgeous.”
“My arms feel strange.” He tried to rub his face on his shoulder. “Oh, the pain. What has happened to me?”
Angelika took a handkerchief from her trouser pocket. “Let me help.” She wiped his eyes clean, and when they opened and looked into hers, she could have sworn she felt another lightning strike. Star-fire was in her blood and bones. “You’re alive. I cannot believe it.”
The man winced and shifted, breaking the moment. He was busy getting his bearings, eyes wild and unfocused as he looked around the room and down at his own body. “Who are you? Where am I?”
“You died, but I brought you back. Well, my brother and I. I am your new . . .” She hesitated on the phrasing. Maker? Admirer? Friend? He was waiting for her explanation, so she went with: “. . . mistress, and my brother, Victor, is your master. You may live here with us now, as long as you like.”
“But where is here?” The man reached out for the edge of the chamber and froze at the sight of himself. “This isn’t me,” he said in a daze to his arm, and began to struggle, clumsy like Victor’s creation. “I’m all heavy and cold. It’s pain like I’ve never known, piercing right through me. And you won’t tell me where I am.”
“Blackthorne Manor. Well, the laboratory anyway, which used to be the barn.”
“That’s not as helpful as you seem to think,” he replied, and with a huge amount of placenta slopping over the edge, he hauled himself out of the chamber to stand beside Angelika, his muscles gleaming in the candlelight. She could not admire his body now. He shimmered with agony, and it made her sick to her stomach. She put a hand on his slimy elbow, but he shook it off irritably, looking instead to the window. He moved toward it with wincing, grunting determination, his ambulation stiff. Both of tonight’s creations seemed hell-bent on escaping.
“No, stay here, it’s raining,” Angelika shouted. She noted his exceptional backside in an abstract way as he leaned out the window. But he made no further move to climb out, and when she came closer, she saw he was observing Victor struggling on the lawn in the sheeting rain. Victor had managed to loop a rope around the huge man and was wrangling him as best he could with the loose end around a tree for leverage. In the shadows of the house, a lop-eared pig was observing the commotion.