“Good.” Nikha readied a plate and the frosting. “If that thing expects us to be gourmet patissiers, it’s going to be disappointed."

“Is that a swear word?” asked Kemp.

“No, it’s a sort of baker that only makes sweets. The best ones are from Asteroux, I’m told. That’s where the Ilmedovs hired theirs from, as Rulia must have told me fifty times.” She flipped the pan over and gave it a few angry jerks until most of the cake slapped down onto the plate.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re telling me you have cooks whose only job is to make cake?”

“And tarts, and pies, and croissants, and biscuits and other things of that nature. And we don’t, Rulia does.” She began piling icing onto the rather lumpen mass of pastry.

“I just hope the arm doesn’t think you do.”

“Hmph. Begging arms can’t be choosing arms.”

“Aren’t we the ones begging?”

“Kemp. Do you think anyone else is going to make that thing a cake?”

“It might make us come back here and try again.”

She turned to glare only to find him already grinning at her. “Well, if it’s too good for our cooking it can go bother the Ilmedov’s patissier.”

“I’m not sure it’ll listen to us either.”

“Oh, I don’t know. For a demonic arm it seemed rather intelligent. Erudite, even.” She gave him a frank look. “You could learn a few things.”

“W-wait, seriously? Maybe you ought to take the arm with you instead.” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but Nikha thought he actually sounded a little worried.

“I was only-“ Nikha let out a sigh. Already she’d managed to make things awkward again. “I’m sorry, Kemp. I was trying to joke around. I hope you’ll stay with me.”

“Of course I will,” he said, his face a little red. He seemed embarrassed she’d gotten to him.

“Thank you.” She made to gather up the plate, but he took it from her. “I can-“

“You need your hands free,” he said. “I’ll carry it.”

“I guess you’re right. Thanks.” They left the kitchen without looking back, traversing the pristine halls yet again. Despite nothing being outwardly wrong, Nikha still found herself unnerved. This part of the house seemed too quiet, too empty to be normal.

“You really don’t need to worry about your manners,” she said to break the silence. “I’m always-was always getting yelled at for being rude.”

“Seriously? You?”

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.” Kemp just rolled his eyes. “Well, anyway, it’s true. Sometimes I’m late to dinner, or I skip out of lessons, or I get my clothes too dirty. And Annoumenos forbid I use the dessert fork to eat dinner with and vice-versa.” She shuddered. “But the most I’ve ever been in trouble was when I used my grandmother’s portrait for target practice.”

He laughed, nearly fumbling the cake, then stopped when she didn’t join him. “Wait. Really?”

“Oh, yes.” Nikha nodded. “I got shut in my room for a week. No sweets, either.”

“Whew. Why in the world would you do it, then?”

“The Dowager Countess Perenike Vadimevna Meshchetsa von Kranssov-or so she styled herself,” replied Nikha, lip curled with scorn. “She was a mean old woman who never once said a kind word to me. I think she hated me, in fact. And Mama.”

“I only knew my grandmother for a little while, but she was always so nice to me.” He shook his head. “Why did she-“

“Because I look like this, Kemp,” Nikha interrupted, old anger coloring her voice. She trailed a hand through her hair, black as oil. “A witchborn. ‘You’re a curse on this family, girl!’ she croaked in her best imitation of Grandmother’s smoky rasp. “I’m Papa’s punishment for marrying a ’penniless slattern from Asteroux’ instead of a good Tsevan girl. The bitch.”

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Kemp had an awkward expression on his face. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry about that.”

Nikha tossed her hair out of her eyes. “It’s not your fault-and she’s dead, so I suppose I won. She took ill about a year ago. It was some kind of ague. The doctors couldn’t do anything about it and she died. I was made to go to the funeral, of course. Papa wouldn’t let me stay away. That made me, um, rather angry.” Nikha remembered standing there in her black dress and veil, listening to the old funerary nun go on and on about what a wonderful person Grandmother had been. It’s not true, none of it, she’d thought. When the nun finished and asked them to make a silent prayer, she’d prayed for Grandmother to be damned to the Blazes forever. Then, feeling guilty, she’d amended that to a request for a temporary damning-just a century or two, maybe. She still felt a little bad about it, to tell the truth. She continued.

“So later I took her picture down off the wall and out to the field where I put my targets. Zent the groundskeeper caught me, and that was that.” She sighed, and they walked in silence for a few seconds.

“You left out the most important part.”

“Hm? What’s that?”

Kemp smirked. “Did you hit it?”

Nikha gave him a sharp grin in return. She made a circle with thumb and forefinger and put it over her forehead. “Five rounds right here at two hundred yards.”

“Martyrs.” They passed by King Bignose’s portrait yet again, hopefully for the last time.

“Papa acted angry, but when no one else was there he told me ‘Nice shooting.’” Her smile softened as she reminisced.

“Hm.” He looked thoughtful. “Even though it was his own mother?”

“He was angry too, don’t worry. But him and my grandmother, they, um…” What was the polite way to put it? “They weren’t close. They were always having fights about Mama. My grandmother said he should marry someone else and he wouldn’t.”

“Noble of him.”

“I know,” she said, a proud tilt to her chin. “He told me once that heroes don’t exist, not like they do in stories-but he’s pretty close, I think.”

Kemp smiled. “I want to meet him when we’re done.”

Nikha was glad he’d said it that way, because it took their finding Papa as a given. “He’d like you. He’s always had a knack with p-“ She stopped herself saying ‘peasants.’ “With practical people like you.”

Kemp snorted but didn’t press the issue. “Maybe he could-“

Thump. The noise came from within the walls. Kemp froze and Nikha’s gun snapped up. She cast about with her eyes, spotting nothing but some dust sifting down from the ceiling. They waited in eerie silence, not even breathing.

Thumpthumpthump. Once more. “Kemp,” she whispered, “You should-“ She glanced over her shoulder and saw he was already drawing his pistol. The cake sat on the floor between them. The noises continued, as though several people were beating on the walls from inside. The phlogistic chandeliers clinked faintly, casting shadows back and forth as they swayed.

“I’ve got your back,” murmured Kemp. There was only the barest tremor in his voice, and Nikha was glad to have him there.

Suddenly there was a deafening crash up ahead, and for all she’d been expecting it Nikha still jumped. Something-somethings, actually- had burst through the walls in a cloud of splinters and plaster dust and were already coming at them. She aimed and fired at one of the low shapes, the stock punching her shoulder, its head disappearing, her hand drawing back the hammer and flicking the breech lever open without conscious thought. Kemp’s pistol banged next to her and she saw another foe drop. It was more of the carrion dogs, she saw. Ugly creatures, with ill-fitting gray skin and slender, man-like hands, their eyeless skulls stuffed too full of slab-teeth. Two were down but more were scuttling through the hole. Their movements were unnatural, nauseous. Nikha was reminded of the long-legged house centipedes that sometimes darted across the floors, too fast and twitchy to follow. Metal clinked beside her as Kemp reloaded. This time I won’t let him get hurt, she vowed, but then the dogs were nearly on them and she had to worry about herself.

She shot at the one closest to her, barely ten yards away. It twitched aside at the last second and the bullet smashed its shoulder instead of bursting its head. Despite the loss of a limb, she didn’t even have time to curse before it was lunging at her, a purple-gray tongue lolling from its mouth. She jerked her rifle into place just in time for the beast to impale itself on her bayonet, the impact sending a hard jolt through her arms. The blade was sunk deep, its guard pressed into taut, clammy skin. Whatever these things were, ten inches of sharp Zhdanovsk steel was enough to end them. The creature made a sort of gagging noise as it died, its breath so redolent of rot that Nikha nearly vomited. It went limp in death, its slumping weight enough to yank the rifle out of her hands.

“Martyrs damn!” She spat as Kemp shot another dog-thing. They were too close for her to try getting her gun free. Her hands went to her belt looking for a weapon, finding only the long kitchen knife she’d killed Magadan with. It was better than nothing.

“Nikha! Are you okay?” Kemp almost dropped the round he was loading as he asked.

“I will be as long as you keep shooting- Eeep!” Wood splintered as the floor before her exploded. A blunt, eyeless head thrust upward through the hole, tombstone teeth snapping at her. She scrambled back and nearly fell, then moved back in with a snarl on her face. She slashed at the creature’s face, but it had no eyes or nose to target. Her knife ran with gray-pink blood but she was doing only superficial damage.

“Watch out!” The barrel of a gun intruded into her view and she had just enough time to close her eyes before Kemp shot the beast in the head. A foul mist splattered her face and she wiped it frantically with her sleeve. Opening her eyes, she saw only one carrion-eater left. Unlike the others it had retreated from them and now scuttled back and forth about thirty yards away, its hands thump-thumping on the floorboards. On instinct Nikha reached for her rifle before remembering it was stuck under a dead dog, its chamber empty.

Kemp tapped her shoulder. “Here! I don’t think I could hit it from here anyway.” He proffered his pistol, a round already loaded. In a single smooth motion she took it, cocked it, and drew a bead on the last carrion dog. It darted erratically back and forth, almost catlike. Her focus narrowed, and for a moment time seemed to stand still. The front sight covered its head and she pulled the trigger. It fell, collapsing like a dropped toy. She waited, acrid gunsmoke stinging her eyes, but all was quiet.

“Unbelievable, Kemp!” she said, relaxing. “I do wish you’d stop saving my life. At least give me a chance to return the favor!” She did her best to look angry, but could barely keep the smile off her face.

“You’re welcome,” he said dryly. “You all good?”

“Yes. Are you?” She pointed the Belvecher upward and hit the ejector. Rather than the brassy clank she’d expected, there was a wet splat. “Wha-? Oh, no.” She’d managed to send the empty case right into the cake.

Kemp pulled it out and did his best to smooth out the icing. “Careful! And I’m fine, thanks. What in the Blazes were those things?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea. I saw a few earlier, though those were alone. I thought they only ate corpses.”

“I guess they don’t mind making their own,” he muttered, still checking over the cake. “That’s as nice as I can get it. Still a little dusty though.”

“It’ll have to do. Let’s get it to the stupid arm already.”