Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(101)

Such a peculiar pleasantry. Can’t imagine why he bothered. (Why it would’ve cared.)

I pushed the door open and nearly tumbled inward right down the stairs—a faster way down, to be sure, but not my goal. I caught myself, and it wasn’t so bad. I had been sitting on the floor to start with; now I was only sprawled across it, half on the cellar landing and half in the kitchen. I drew myself onward with my hands, to the edge of the landing and to the step beyond it. I turned on my hip and thigh, so that I faced the right direction. Should I fall, I could at least fall productively, and in a somewhat controlled fashion.

I pulled my feet over the edge, and felt for the next step; I grasped the handrail and gave it a tug, knowing it might not hold me. I went sideways, almost, using my bottom to catch myself. One step. Caught with my toes, my knees, my rear end. Another step, navigated painstakingly in the same way. A third. How many? Eleven more to go.

Another knock behind me, more impatient and less precise, less polite.

Let him knock.

I did not stop my downward progression, painful though it might have been. I coughed, and wiped with my arm. I spread more phlegm and gore before me; I dragged it after me, smeared it with my dress and my hands. Everywhere I went, everything I touched . . . I left it looking like the scene of a terrible crime.

When I thought about it that way, it was almost funny—or I almost thought so, in one moment of insane hilarity. I was creating my own murder evidence, wasn’t I? Just as well I make a big mess of it. It might be my last creative act.





? ? ?


In my head, I performed calculations. Seven to twelve seconds per step. Another ten steps. Nine steps. A minute or so left, depending on how my strength held up. Less than that if I slipped and fell, meaning no strength left at the bottom. (I was reasonably certain.) Less time also if I were to tuck my head down, release the handrail above me, and roll forward. Perhaps some strength left at the bottom, perhaps a broken neck.

Was it worth the risk? The thing at the door was knocking again, erratically now, without the rhythm of a visitor.

Five more stairs. I would not fling myself headlong. I would need my strength at the bottom, for I would need to stand again. From my elevated position on the incline, I could see where Seabury’s satchel was placed, beside a packet of letters which he’d already read to me. And knowing their contents, I knew what to do with the contents of that satchel, if I could reach them.

First I had to reach them.

Three more stairs, and my body ached at every joint. The knocking upstairs had become constant and was coming harder, more like the pounding demands of a policeman or a burglar.

Why didn’t it just come inside? If Nance could vanish from the basement, never mind the doors, walls, or anything else . . . why couldn’t Zollicoffer appear in my presence, and frighten me in person?

Last stair.

My feet were finally on the floor, planted beside each other. I leaned forward, hoping to leverage myself up off the step with my own momentum—but I went light-headed, and I swooned instead. I heard the sound of something dripping, and I wiped at my mouth again but found nothing new.

It was only blood. I watched a droplet fall from my face to the floor . . . but it was coming from my nose. I don’t know why. That had never happened before.

I wiped my nose, then, and I looked back to see a trail of smudged blood behind me. It was all over my dress, all over the floor. All over everything upstairs, too. How much blood could I possibly have left?

No wonder my vision swam, and my head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

I sniffed hard, and tasted the tang of filthy coins—which set me to coughing again, but what of it? I always coughed. If I didn’t cough now, it’d be strange.

Upstairs, the front door broke.

I heard it shatter, and I heard bits of splintered wood bursting into the foyer. Glass was breaking, too, but I didn’t know what or where. The china? The mirrors? The windows? Had Zollicoffer come alone, or had he brought minions?





? ? ?


I considered the corpses of the needle-teethed monsters Lizzie had carted indoors, into the cooker. She tried to prevent me from seeing them, but I saw them. She tried to protect me, I suppose, but she’s never protected me from the right things. Not even when I told her what the right things were.





? ? ?


More breaking upstairs. Glass again, and something else. I couldn’t imagine what, and didn’t have time to—I knew that now. I was out of time for fancies and prayers, that was for damn sure. I only had time for action.

I hauled myself to my feet, and I felt the flimsy banister crack beneath my weight. I pushed myself off from it, and caught myself on the corner of the nearest table. This was not the table I needed. I needed the next one back. That’s where Seabury’s gift awaited. That’s where he and Lizzie had been mixing up the treatments that did nothing to treat Nance.

(Or perhaps they did. Perhaps that’s why she woke up at all. Maybe it gave her just enough strength to open her eyes and not kill everyone in the house. I doubt I’ll ever know, and to be indelicate, I do not care.)

One more table back.

God, the whole room was full of them, a gauntlet of tables covered in delicate equipment. And there, in the middle of the floor, I spied the cooker. I’d never actually set eyes on it before, though obviously I knew its job and I knew about its installation. Lizzie had the whole thing brought in through the cellar entrance, so no one would see it. Even me.