The fog had thickened in the streets to the point where I could almost reach out and grab a handful of the chill moisture from the air. The buildings of Whitechapel, already worn and gloomy, were now reduced to indistinct shapes in the gray, clinging fog. It had grown colder as well, each particle stinging my exposed skin as I ran. In some places I saw moisture just beginning to collect upon the cobblestones, and I soon had to tread more carefully to avoid slipping and falling in the street.
Benjamin and Francis had long since disappeared into the mist on their own labor. With such poor weather I had little fear for my friends’ safety; following and attacking them in such conditions would be nearly impossible, especially considering Benjamin’s talents at deception. In addition to caring for the wounds he and Francis had suffered, they had one other task. Daniel’s device had been left with Devonshire, and that made him vulnerable. The young inventor had to be warned and a cover provided for his participation or he, too, would suffer the pain of our defeat. I only hoped they would reach Daniel in time, though so much had already gone wrong. There was no other choice but to leave them behind as I sped toward the place I hoped to find Patricia and the Dollmaker.
I had one major advantage in searching for my friend; the Oracle stone I had given her on our second day of the hunt. If Patricia had not been of a mind to discard the small keepsake after our quarrel, the Delphic would guide me directly to her.
The device’s initial directions matched what I remembered of their travels. When Patricia and “Eaton” had left the constabulary, they had been traveling south, nearly toward the river. I had known that the man leading her intended to eat and assumed that one of the restaurants or bars along that trail would have served the need for his low company. Now, however, I knew more of his plans, his character, and those clues guided my path as I ran.
He had obviously meant to ambush her at the doll factory. “Eaton” had probably intended to kill Patricia that day, and had likely fixated on her since then. His original plans, whatever they might have been, would no longer work. If he brought Patricia to that lonely spot a second time, she would be alerted to the trap. Therefore, he had more than likely prepared another place for his kill rather than striking immediately. I only needed to reach him before he completed his hunt.
The position of the Oracle stone I had left with Patricia was not changing. My worries grew as I raced through the fog, and increased as I left Whitechapel behind. Why would the Dollmaker be leaving his chosen hunting ground? Was I chasing a phantom of some kind, or had he been leading his victims out of the borough the whole time? I did not slow, however, and in a very short time I found myself approaching the stone’s position at Whimbley’s Fine Arms and Equipment.
The store was silent as I advanced. It was a simple one-story shop with a single front entrance. A coat of arms was scrawled in faded paint on a sign close to the doorway, that of a rifle and cane crossed over a shield. Whimbley himself was not in evidence, though it was clear from the weapons on display in the windows that the proprietor had exquisite taste in weaponry. Rifles, pistols, and even swords were hung in a manner that showed both their delicate artisanship and their lethal effectiveness. Patricia would have loved the place.
More alarmingly, the door to the shop hung slightly ajar. While it was possible that Mr. Whimbley was inside and simply waiting for new customers, I found it suspicious that a man who took such good care of his stock—and more importantly, someone with the sort of mindset to sell weapons in the first place—would leave his front entrance unsecured. It seemed more likely that the shop was empty or that Mr. Whimbley had also fallen victim to “Mr. Eaton.”
I kicked the wooden door open and had my pistol out before it slammed into the wall. Nothing moved; no one protested. Whimbley’s shop was entirely still and quiet, though it remained clear of the fog that permeated the air outside. Then my heart fell as I saw Patricia’s gray overcoat hung on the nearby coat rack. She had left it here, and here the Delphic had led me.
I stepped further into the shop, searching desperately for any other sign of either Patricia or the man who surely threatened her life. My search was in vain; I found only a wide assortment of weaponry lying silent and unused on the racks. Then I noticed something. A stain on the floor had darkened the carpet near a rack of carbines.
My heart seized in my chest, and I reached the spot in a bare handful of strides. The smell confirmed what it was, but I had to test it with my fingertips in order to force myself to be sure. It was blood. The sticky texture and coppery scent brought a rush of desperation to my already battered soul, and I turned my eyes away.
Which is when I found, entirely without meaning to, the doll.
It lay sprawled on the carpet a short distance away. The resemblance was instantaneously recognizable. It wore the achingly familiar gray overcoat; miniscule goggles had been set among the swatch of red hair on its scalp. A tiny toy carbine was fixed in one hand as a pair of brilliant green eyes stared at me across the space of the darkened shop.
I stared at the doll as rage and despair made war over the tattered remnants of my soul. My sacrifice had come to nothing. She had already been taken. The Dollmaker had caught her unawares, and she was gone.
Then a shot rang out. Clear and sharp despite the muffling fog, it was instantly familiar. Before I knew it, I had stood and spun toward the door. Every nerve was now on fire with the painful hesitation brought by hope. If she had survived the attack, she would fight. She could still be…
A second shot rang out, followed closely by a third. Without further thought I ran toward the door and a high, enraged scream rose over the blanketing fog. It was her! I had come in time! Without hesitation I threw the door open once more and ran out into the mist, sprinting in the direction from which her voice had come. It was hard to judge where she was in the fog, but a fourth shot echoed out. It was a softer sound, and it told me that “Mr. Eaton” had apparently decided to employ his own weapon in this hunt. A desperate, wounded kind of anger drove me to accelerate my pace, and I called out into the fog. “Ms. Anderson! Ms. Anderson, where are you?”
Silence followed my shout, as if both parties to the struggle had frozen in the mist. At the very least the Dollmaker would be adapting his tactics, possibly dividing his attention now between his intended prey and her unexpected helper. At worst, that final shot had killed her, and I would now only be able to avenge her death. The thought brought me to a halt; she had still not answered. I called out again, feeling my desperation grow. “Ms. Anderson!”
Mr. Eaton’s pistol coughed again, and a bullet struck the cobblestones nearby. I ducked and ran for the nearest alleyway as more shots bounced off the stone, skipping like rocks across the surface of a rippling pond. None came close enough to be of true concern, but the simple fact that the Dollmaker had been able to locate me by sheer sound alone was worrying enough on its own. I obviously could not trust in the fog to obscure his aim forever, and it would only take one fated shot to end my participation in our little contest.
Fortunately, it did not appear that Patricia intended to lie idle. Just as I reached the safety of the alley, her carbine blared to life once more. Three quick shots slapped the masonry of a nearby building, and I heard a male voice utter a foul oath. It was curiously devoid of the rustic accent that had characterized “Mr. Eaton,” but I could recognize the fraudulent hunter well enough without it. I heard a scattering of stones, or perhaps shingles, as the man retreated from Patricia’s assault, and then all lay quiet once more.
I risked a glance around the corner of the alleyway. My attempt was foiled by a wall of white; the fog was impenetrable. The only benefit was that the obscured view had to foil the Dollmaker as much as it did me. Neither of us could hope to settle the engagement with a long-range pistol duel. As things now stood, my only option would be to reunite with Patricia and face the Dollmaker together.
Fortunately, Patricia’s intervention had given me a clue as to her location. The shots from her carbine had come from a building about a hundred yards away and at least two stories off the ground. I could not be sure that my hearing had been perfect, but I had no other option. I charged into the fog in that direction, hoping that the echo the alley walls lent to my footsteps would confound further shots from the Dollmaker. Fate, though fickle in her favor, must have lent my crumbling hopes some small attention, for the murderer held his fire.
The small cover provided by the alley disappeared a moment later as I exited onto a broad street. Uncertain now about the direction where Patricia had fired from, I slowed my pace to a near stop. I stared hopelessly into the fog, listening for some sound or signal that would allow me to narrow her location down.
Footsteps on a rooftop drew my gaze up and to the right. I aimed my pistol in the direction of the sound, but hesitation stopped me from firing. If Patricia had managed to run, her boots would make a very similar sound to that of the erstwhile “Mr. Eaton.” While a lucky shot might turn the fight in our favor, I did not wish to hit Patricia by accident and thus cause the very thing I dreaded.
So instead, I lowered my pistol and shouted into the fog. “Ms. Anderson, stay still and I will come to you!” I then prudently dove to the left as the footsteps stopped. My caution was rewarded a heartbeat later as another volley of pistol shots coughed from where the murderer had apparently come to a halt. Fragments of cobblestones stung my cheek as I rolled along the street. The shots followed my progress along the avenue until Patricia’s carbine once again roared to life, and I heard the Dollmaker curse once more as two sharp cracks drove him to silence his own weapon. Broken shingles announced his scramble to safety.
I did not pause this time, for if “Mr. Eaton” had only been a little more accurate in his shooting, my fate would already have been sealed. With renewed vigor, and with a steady determination to ignore the warmth spreading down my cheek from a scratch there, I sprinted for the origin of Patricia’s shots. The rows of shops on either side of the street faded abruptly away, while the aged bulk of an old wall rose up out of the mist before me.
It had clearly been a fanciful addition to an equally ancient larger structure, both of which had been constructed on the very banks of the river. No clue appeared in its frame as to what purpose it might have served, but now the building seemed to have been abandoned. After a moment’s frantic search I found a stairway that led to the upper floors. I ascended without delay, hoping that Patricia would be as careful with her shots as I had previously been. A doorway blocked my entry for a moment, but a well-delivered kick burst the lock.
Inside I discovered a fairly unpleasant surprise. The abandoned building appeared to have been a slaughterhouse at some juncture during its lifetime. Chains and hooks hung down from the upper level of the two-story building, while animal pens lurked in the nether reaches. Old equipment creaked and drifted with the breeze from broken windows, and the frost from the cold air now coated the closest of the metal tools. What must have once been the killing floor was stained with old blood—or perhaps not so old after all.
Under most circumstances, it would have been hard to know where to look for her, but I knew Patricia too well. She would not be crouching in some corner, waiting for the Dollmaker to seek her out. Nor would she be hiding along the bottom floors, searching for a means to escape. I immediately looked for access to the roof, where she would have the clearest shot at her attacker, and found droplets of blood that told me I was headed in the right direction.
I followed her trail, pausing as she had likely done to glance backwards and assure myself that the Dollmaker had not come in close pursuit after me. No one materialized out of the doorway, though a little fog had started to drift in from that opening as well. When I reached the end of the slaughterhouse, I found that she had climbed the ladder there to the roof, confirming her intention to stand and fight even though she was wounded. Despite the desperate situation, I smiled and gave a grim nod to her determination. When I scaled the ladder, I found the trap door at the top closed tight. Another moment’s struggle freed me of the obstacle, and I drew myself out into the chill once more.
I had just placed my feet on the rooftop when I heard an ominous click. The sound was rather like that of a gun being prepared to fire. For an instant, I was utterly baffled. It was impossible, no matter how skilled, for the Dollmaker to have tracked my progress so quickly and laid in ambush. Then the true matter of the situation made itself clear in my mind, and I smiled. “Ms. Anderson, I am here to help.”
“About time, Hector.” Patricia’s voice was hoarse and weak, and I turned toward her in alarm. She was leaning against the side of an old chimney with her carbine pointed in my direction. Without her overcoat, she was clad in only her shirtsleeves and trousers, with one side stained by blood. Her smile seemed just as fragile, and her skin seemed terribly pale. “You took long enough.” Then she started to slip away from the chimney, losing her grip on the carbine in the process.
Immediately I was at her side. I caught her just before she would have hit the ground, and by some miracle her weapon did not discharge as it struck the roof of the slaughterhouse. She blinked at me rather sleepily and coughed. “Hector, it’s Bill. He’s not—”
“Who he seems. I am aware, Ms. Anderson, though I did not know before you left.” I paused and shook my head. “I should have. I am sorry.”
“Don’t be an idiot.” She coughed again. “We need to get out of here. He’s too dangerous, and he caught me by surprise. We’ll have to get him later.”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Perhaps, Ms. Anderson, but first we need to bring you to a doctor. Did he shoot you?” When she did not answer, I began to feel toward her side; the cloth there was wet with blood. She batted at my hand.
“Shoot me? The man couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.” Patricia drew a shuddering breath. “His knife. He used the knife on me. Broke my goggles, too—can’t see him in the fog. Hector, he’s quick.” She shuddered a second time, and I gathered her closer. I looked back toward the trap door. There had to be a way to escape without drawing the Dollmaker’s attention. My heart boiled with the need to bring him to justice for his crimes, but he could wait until Patricia had been treated. His disguise would no longer work this time; his face would be known. “Mr. Eaton” would be brought down, whether by my hand or by the reliable pursuit of men like Mr. Aberforth.
As I tried to help Patricia to her feet, I heard a thump. I turned back to the trap door and felt a chill. The door lay open, its top now flush against the roof of the building. After a futile, panicked struggle, I stopped trying to convince myself that I had left the door open and it had fallen on its own. The Dollmaker had found us.
I glanced about the roof in an attempt to find cover, but a low chuckle echoed out of the blank fog that engulfed the surrounding area. Out of pure reflex, I drew back and took shelter near the chimney; I was forced to half drag the stumbling Patricia with me back to a place of dubious safety. The Dollmaker’s voice rumbled through the thick London fog, proving that my attempt had been in vain.
“Do you think to hide, Kingsley? Too bad—I can smell you.” He chuckled again, and I heard malicious hunger nestled amidst his mirth. “How kind of you to come, though. It saves me the trouble of dragging you here myself.”
“Is that so? Why would you have come after me? My business with you was purely professional, Dollmaker.” I tried to discern his position in the mists, but the murderer was moving. His steps were not loud enough to hear when he was not running, and his location continued to change just enough to disorient me.
The Dollmaker laughed. There was no humor in the noise. “Dollmaker! Such a fitting name for me, since everyone dances on my strings. And no, Kingsley, our business was not purely professional. I would have hunted you for being in the way the first time, for being in the way at all, and you’ve made yourself far more of an annoyance than that. Besides, I would have loved the challenge. The ones who fight are always the most delicious in the end.”
His tone, so full of avarice and hunger, confirmed what Dr. Burke had said—the Dollmaker was a vampire. The Change explained his continued predation quite well; he must have drained each of his victims for as long as possible before they died in order to satisfy his thirst. I tried to put that image out of my mind and remain focused on the situation at hand. Our conversation, however disturbing, needed to continue until I had his position fixed. “I admire your self-control, Dollmaker. You managed to hold yourself at bay while blood was spilled; not every vampire has such willpower.”
Another chuckle echoed through the fog to my right. “Ah, yes, poor Crimson. She did her best, you understand, but she hasn’t fed for years. Poor little girl Changed after a morphine dose in a hospital; she hasn’t the guts for something like this. Not a true hunter. Not like me.” He chuckled again, dark and low. “Perhaps I’ll help her understand when I’m finished here.”
He had moved again; now his words came from the fog behind me, on the other side of the chimney. I could almost sense him moving closer, using the barrier of the bricks that sheltered us to cover his approach. Quietly, I drew out Patricia’s brass knuckles in one hand. In the other I held my pistol. “Your game is finished here, Dollmaker. If you stay, you’ll be captured and your hunt will be over.”
“Mr. Eaton said something quite similar near the end. He was right, but there are always other hunting grounds. I wonder how Germany’s weather is this year.” The chuckle sounded on my left. His voice shifted, adopting a rough London accent. “They would welcome a visit from Mr. Hector Kingsley, investigator, would they not?”
My stomach seemed to curl in on itself at the prospect of this creature adopting my name and identity for his disguise. I glanced down at Patricia and found her unconscious; the blood loss had drained her entirely of strength. The only alternative to our defeat was to draw the murderer away from her; there was little chance that I could fight the Dollmaker and still protect her at the same time.
Yet first I had to deal with his sense of smell. I chose a sharp edge of brick and scraped the bare flesh of my forearm until it shed blood. Spreading some of that blood on the brick near Patricia, and reluctantly daubing some of her own on my coat, I turned away from her. With a deliberately heavy tread, I stepped away from Patricia. “Your accent leaves something to be desired, Mr. Ea—but of course that is not your name, is it?”
The laugh came directly ahead of me. To my mind’s eye he seemed to be waiting for me with bloody knife outstretched, still hidden in the fog. “You have a point, Kingsley. I had intended to study a while before I baited you to my abattoir, but you came here so obligingly. You and Mustang both. She must have picked the spot because the old blood would foul her scent; very clever in her own way. It would have taken ages to find her if you had not come along. Nice of her to pick my dining hall as her final hiding place, though. It will make dragging you both much easier for me.”
Another step increased the distance between Patricia and me; so far he did not seem to notice that we had separated at all. I paced forward another yard, then two, until Patricia had faded behind me in the fog. “So have luck and a disposition for acting been your only talents, Dollmaker? Or do you have some small amount of skill behind your reputation?”
There was no chuckle this time. Instead, the murderer growled. “Fine words for someone who is just waiting for the sharp end of a knife. Much more talk like that and I’ll get tired of talking to you, Kingsley. Then your time is up, both you and Mustang.” I heard a sniff ahead of me in the fog. “She’s bled out a lot, I think, so I’ll probably end up saving you for a while. Maybe I’ll pick up your little accent.”
“Come and try us, then. I’m tired of waiting for you.” I put as much scorn as I could into those words. If I could goad him enough, he would come without thought, without planning. Then I would have a chance; otherwise, it looked increasingly likely that he would simply knife me in the back and hunt down Patricia afterwards.
That possibility was one I could not allow. Moving quickly, I reached the edge of the slaughterhouse roof and turned my back to it, assuring myself that the killer would have to attack me from the front. There I set myself and waited, ears straining to catch the slightest sound. For a long time, there was no detectable movement, only the muffling silence of the fog around me and the chill bite of the air and moisture as if drifted past.
Footsteps sounded on my left, approaching fast. I had but a fraction of a heartbeat to react as the Dollmaker materialized out of the fog, the knife raised and ready to strike. He hissed as he leaped, his eyes wild and wide with a kind of victorious hunger. Without time for thought, I swung my pistol in line to fire.
Fate smiled again as the knife glanced off the pistol casing. Unfortunately, the blow sent my pistol careening away into the fog. He had been in mid-leap as the blade turned aside; his victorious hiss became an angry howl as he clawed for his own gun. I swung a right hook at his gun hand and managed to strike the revolver when it was only halfway clear of his holster. The Dollmaker’s trophy shrieked as the blow reduced it to a mangled piece of gunmetal. Patricia’s brass knuckles were mired in that mess, and I was forced to drop the wreckage of both devices to the slaughterhouse roof.
The Dollmaker snarled and slashed at me, and I was forced to dance to the side. I watched him as he circled me, his eyes filled with rage. If given the chance, I was sure that he would abandon the confrontation. His tactics relied on surprise; rather than fight me face-to-face, he would run and strike at Patricia while she was alone. The fog-shrouded rooftop was his perfect battleground, with too many objects to hide behind and too many open spaces he could run through. I couldn’t allow him the chance to retreat, not if I wanted Patricia to live.
Then I remembered the flowing river below, and a plan formed in my head.
I charged across the rooftop, roaring in challenge. My advance surprised the Dollmaker enough that by the time he brought his knife to bear, I had already slammed into him, tackling him from the rooftop and carrying him over the edge. We hurtled together into space, sailing outward amid the swirling fog.
Of course, I had no intention of joining the man on his descent to earth. I brought my arm up and attempted to engage Icarus; it was with infinite relief that I heard Daniel’s mechanism whir to life. Unfortunately, rather than dropping away from me, the Dollmaker latched onto my coat, burdening the Icarus with the weight of two men as we stooped toward the ground below. It was only a matter of time before the strain burned the mechanisms out, and I struggled unsuccessfully to disengage myself from the madman’s grip.
It was too late. The lift provided by the Icarus died, and our fall toward the ground resumed. Yet it was suddenly not ground beneath us; the river instead waited to receive us, a part of the shallow marshlands that had not yet been covered over by industry and trade. We had time enough for one joint shout before the icy water washed over us, dragging us down. For a moment, all was dark and swirling, and the Dollmaker was torn at last from his stubborn hold.
There is an invigorating effect provided by arctic water, and coupled with the stinging rebuke of saltwater in my various cuts, I fought myself free of the water’s grasp. Fighting frantically for air, I thrashed through the shallows until I reached a place where I could stand, and I heard the Dollmaker doing the same nearby. When I could force myself to my feet at last, the water still came up to my waist and the chill of it ached, even though I had already gone terribly numb.
Grim at the cold and the pain, I faced the Dollmaker. He was still thrashing, and the knife was still clearly in his grasp. Clenching my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering, I quickly tore strips of cloth from my coat. Watching my foe, I wrapped them around my hands, seeking to bind and protect them with the water-logged fabric as the Dollmaker came closer.
He saw me waiting and stopped, his breath coming in harsh, deep gasps. It was clear that neither of us had a chance at running; the water swirling about us would have slowed us easily enough, and the murky bottom beneath our boots was too treacherous for anything of that sort. The Dollmaker measured my stance with a hateful smile and brought his knife to lie back along his forearm. Its blade glittered with sheer lethality. “Enough games, Kingsley. It’s time to die. No more proud, fancy words, no more putting on airs when you’re nothing but common mud. You’re mine!”
The Dollmaker forced his way forward through the water, cruel satisfaction clear on his face. Yet he did not employ the berserk, incalculable speed of a vampire in the grip of blood hunger; the water kept him trapped, confining him to a more normal pace. If there was any time to face the monster, it would be now, when I would face neither vicious ambush nor unnatural agility. I waited for him, my left hand and left leg forward, and smiled back. “I’m afraid you are quite mistaken about me, Mr. Dollmaker.”
My words did not bring him pause, and he brought his knife up to stab down at me. It would have been quite a fatal blow—at least, it would have been had my left jab not met him partway. The blow seemed to surprise him. While he likely did not feel pain from the strike, the impact must have scrambled his perception, and I added to his confusion with a second jab that knocked him back a bit further. “My sense of dignity is not merely about pride, though I might commit that sin on occasion. It is about control. Respect. Confidence.”
As I spoke, I jabbed him again, and again, and finally his anger broke through his confusion. He slashed wildly at my left arm, as if trying to cut it off with the blade he held. I leaned back and tucked that arm in, avoiding the blow entirely, and as the knife swept beneath the level of the water, I stepped forward. The water slowed my movement, but I was still quick enough to land yet another left jab, followed quickly by a right hook that cracked against his ribs. The Dollmaker twisted under the blow and cried out just before my left cross landed squarely in his face.
The punch drove him backward in the water, and his knife hand left the water empty. Pleased at the loss of his weapon, I continued after him, careful to keep my footing secure. “You are right about one thing, however. I am as common as they come. My family is anything but noble and my life will never be marked by honors or grandeur. I can tell you what it will contain. A life of honor, Dollmaker. My success will be measured in the welfare of others, not petty lies or dark secrets, and you would be fortunate if you could say as much!”
The Dollmaker fought his way to his feet just in time to take another jab in the teeth, and he stumbled deeper into the water. He snarled again and reached for me, trying to grab hold of my arms and stop the assault, but I fended him off easily and landed another jab, then a right hook that punished his ribs a second time. A left cross backed him up further, where he nearly slipped beneath the water. “Furthermore, Dollmaker, Arthur Kingsley may have been a common man, but he never lost a bar fight in his life. And as my father, he deigned to teach me all he knew. So here I stand, while you falter. You’re nothing but a coward too scared to face a real fight.”
“Die!” He burst from the water, his hands stretched out to rend and tear at me. I took one step backward. A left jab slowed his assault. It also set him in place perfectly for the right hook that connected with his jaw. I could feel the snap of the impact through my numbed fingers, but I did not allow it to slow me. Even as he staggered, dazed by the blows even if he couldn’t feel the pain they would have caused, I drove my left fist into his gut. The air whooshed out of his lungs in a pained whimper.
Then I closed my right hand over the back of his neck, tangling my fingers in his hair, and allowed him one moment to see my expression. What he saw there made him go from pale and shivering to paper-white, and I growled my words at him in contempt. “You made one last mistake, Dollmaker. You attacked Patricia.” I brought him closer. “And she matters to me.”
I pivoted, yanking the man off his feet. The same motion drove him, shrieking, face-first into the freezing, murky water of the Thames.
Even a vampire, with their immunity to pain and occasional berserk energy, has need of air. The Dollmaker began to thrash almost immediately, his hands clawing at my arm and his booted feet kicking at me. I resisted those attempts to break my grip and held him firm. His efforts grew even more desperate as the lack of breath made itself felt, and I yanked him back by the hair. He sobbed and cursed, but I paid him no heed. “She matters more to me than anything else, Dollmaker, and even if she didn’t kill you in the end, I would have. Now yield.”
He tried for my eyeball with a thumb. I rewarded him by thrusting him back under the waves. This time I held him there, despite an elbow thrown into my side and a boot that nearly kicked my own feet from under me. The Dollmaker’s efforts to free himself grew frantic, and then lessened. Soon, he barely seemed to move beyond the motion the nearly-stagnant marshlands imparted to his limbs; indeed, his drunken actions resembled a landed fish in its last throes. When I pulled him out of the water a second time, I found him barely conscious, and certainly without any fight left in him.
I started for shore, dragging the Dollmaker behind me. If I was somewhat incautious in whether his head ducked below the waves or bounced from the rocks when we reached the shore, I paid it no heed. I had other concerns, Patricia’s survival among them.
Above me I heard Patricia scraping her way along the roof. I spared what little energy I had to scowl; in her condition she should be attempting no such efforts, not without a doctor near. She called out, her voice desperate. “Hector! Hector!”
I found that my breath had returned. “Ms. Anderson, I am quite all right. Please do not injure yourself further. I will be up shortly to help you.” To suit my words with action, I let the Dollmaker fall to the ground and started to prepare my climbing tool. Even from the base of the building, it would be an easy journey to reach her, and then down through the slaughterhouse to the exit. At least, I hoped it would be so simple; the day’s work had been anything but uncomplicated so far.
There was a moment’s pause, and I had begun to worry that she had fainted again. Then she spoke, and her words were sharp. “Hector Kingsley, if you ever do that again, I’m going to kill you. See if I don’t.”
Laughter burbled up in my throat and I was helpless to restrain it. It rose through the fog, and I still smiled when the mirth subsided. “My dear Patricia, I should very much like to see you try. I would very much like that indeed.”