Heartless

  The creature panted and gurgled. One burning eye darted around the destruction. A curl of steam spiraled from its nostrils.

  It fixed its eye on Catherine again, like a predator singling out the weakest from the herd. Its tongue lolled as it shuddered itself up onto all four legs.

  Cath pushed back, her palms slipping on her gown’s fabric. She was tangled and trapped and the very idea of putting weight on her ankle brought hysteria clawing up her throat.

  The beast lumbered toward her, great globs of saliva dripping from its teeth.

  “No!” Jest yelled. “You’re fighting me, you great smelly beast! Leave her alone!”

  He launched himself off the mezzanine and swung down from a chandelier. The candles were still swinging, splattering wax on the floor, when he landed between the beast’s wings. His brow was beaded with sweat, lines of kohl running down his cheeks, yet he managed to make it look like a choreographed dance.

  It was like being at the circus. Cath could see it all in her pain-filled delirium. For our next act, please welcome Jest and the Jubilant Jabberwock, best acrobatic team in all of Hearts!

  She started to laugh hysterically.

  Raven puffed his wings, still watching her.

  Raging and twisting, the Jabberwock tried to shake off the Joker again, but Jest latched on to the soft tissue where its wings met its back, his scepter raised to strike. Catherine didn’t believe he could kill it with a wooden stick. Take out another eye, perhaps. Wound and maim, no doubt. But soon the Jabberwock’s teeth would find Jest and end this act.

  Feathered wings beat at her hair. She screamed and ducked away, but it was only Raven. He dropped to the ground beside her, his chest fluttering with quick breaths. He had Jest’s hat in his talons, the bells silenced against the broken ground.

  He fixed his eyes on her and nudged the hat forward.

  Cath grabbed it. The fabric was worn and soft. It felt like an ancient thing, not a recent addition to a joker’s motley. The bells twinkled as she thrust her arm inside.

  No fabric lining, no worn seams. The inside of the hat was a void, deep and endless. She pressed her arm in up to her shoulder, her fingers reaching and stretching until they wrapped around something cool and hard.

  She pulled her arm back and gasped.

  She was gripping the handle of a sword.

  No—the Vorpal Sword. She knew it to her bones. Its blade shone silver in the theater’s warm light, its hilt encrusted with the teeth and bones of the creatures it had slain before.

  She thought of the stories. The brave king who had sought the Jabberwock in the forest and slain it with the righteous Vorpal Sword.

  She looked up. Jest was still clinging to the monster’s back. He spotted her and his eyes widened. “Catherine—!”

  The Jabberwock bucked. This time Jest was flung at the ground, landing on his side with a groan. His scepter skittered into the crowd, the few who were stuck by the theater doors, too afraid to make a run for the exit. They stood huddled in terrified groups, some fleeing back into the theater, others hunching into what safety the staircase could afford them.

  The Jabberwock rounded on Catherine again, as if Jest had been nothing but a pestering gnat and she was the true target. Its next meal.

  The beast saw the sword in her hand and froze.

  The weapon warmed in her hand as if it, too, sensed its prey.

  Catherine gulped and allowed herself one whimper of denial. One panicked moment of refusal in which she absolutely, positively, was not going to stand on her broken ankle and face this monster with an ancient, mythical weapon.

  Then she clenched her jaw and yanked her skirt out from beneath her tangled limbs, ignoring the sound of ripping fabric. She stumbled onto her good leg first, pain jolting up her wounded ankle with each movement. With one hand gripping the sword, she used the other to brace herself on the staircase banister. Her breath had gone ragged, her skin clammy. She was already dizzy from the exertion required to stand.

  But standing she was.

  Exhaling, she released the handrail and put her weight onto her injured leg. She bit back a shriek, but refused to crumple. She wrapped both hands around the sword’s handle and lifted the blade, ignoring the tremble of her arms.

  The Jabberwock prowled closer, wary now. It sniffed, like it could smell the steel, or maybe the blood that had once coated it.

  Another slow step closer, prowling on all fours.

  Catherine tried to gulp but her scratchy throat rebelled.

  Another step.

  She imagined herself doing it. Swinging the sword as hard as she could. Chopping through sinew and spine. She imagined the creature’s head rolling, thumping across the lobby.

  She imagined it over and over and over again.

  Off with its head.

  The words churned through her thoughts.

  The creature took another step. Then two.

  A salty bead of sweat fell into her eye, stinging her. She blinked it away.

  “Catherine…” Jest’s voice was strained.

  The Jabberwock watched her with its one burning coal of an eye, the blood still dribbling down its opposite cheek. Its mouth was open and she could see all of its teeth lined up along its huge jaws. Row upon row of fangs, so big that she wasn’t sure it could close its mouth even if it wanted to.

  She bared her own teeth.

  Off with its head. Off with its head. Off with its—

  The Jabberwock shuddered suddenly and turned away. It darted across the floor, claws scratching and scrabbling, and squeezed its wings against its back so it could fit through the doors that had been left open. The crisp twilight air shimmered over the empty streets.

  On the outside steps, the Jabberwock spread its wings. The left one trembled at first, but with a snap, the beast lobbed its body into the air. A rush of air blew back into the theater and then the creature was gone, a shadow on the rooftops, its pained cries fading into the night.

  CHAPTER 35

  CATHERINE DROPPED THE SWORD with an echoing clang.

  Pain rushed through her all at once, a burning iron in her ankle, fire shooting through her bones. She wilted down into her dress. Her pulse was a hammer, her fingers hot with rushing blood.

  Another gasp from the crowd. A frightened hesitation. No one knew what to do. It was clear they were all waiting for someone else to make a decision. To be the first to move.

  A ruler, a leader, a king.

  But the King of Hearts stood in their midst, as pale and whimpering as any of his subjects.

  Cath realized she was crying. She could feel her nose dripping, but she didn’t swipe at it. Let them see her blotchy skin and torn dress and the mucus that was to be expected after witnessing such a horror. Let them see.

  Jest stumbled toward her, ignoring their audience. He had a limp, which was even more peculiar than the smeared mask of kohl.

  “Catherine. Catherine.” He hovered over her, eyes bloodshot. “Where does it hurt? Is it your leg?”

  She locked her jaw and nodded—though that slight movement sent her reeling with nausea. She collapsed onto her back and Jest disappeared from view, but she could feel him pushing up the hem of her dress—just a little. Just enough to see.

  Cath started to laugh, shrill and hysterical. “Well now—that’s hardly—proper,” she stammered, choking, tears rolling into her tangled hair. “Oh, stuff and nonsense, it hurts.”

  Jest touched her ankle and she screamed. The world turned swarmy and full of flashing light. The touch left her.

  “L-L-Lady Pinkerton?”

  She groaned. Her head fell to the side and she saw the King and the White Rabbit and Mary Ann stumbling down the stairs. Mary Ann was pale with fear, her apron balled up in both fists, her pretty new bonnet crooked on her head.

  “Y-Your Majesty,” she said. She wished they would all go away, leave her alone. She wished for unconsciousness. “The Jabberwock—”

  That was as far as she got before another
shot of pain had her reeling.

  The King hurried down the rest of the stairs and knelt at her side, taking her hand into his. “You were stunning.” He pulled a handkerchief from some fold of his garb, but rather than offer it to Catherine, he dabbed at his own glistening brow. Lifting his head, he peered around at the speechless, still-frozen crowd. “Behold! The treasure of my heart! The keeper of the Vorpal Sword! The most brave and b-b-brilliant Lady Catherine Pinkerton. Behold our future queen!”

  “No,” she murmured, but no one heard her over the applause. Her head lolled and she felt a tender hand supporting it. The soft pad of a thumb stroking the arch of her ear. “I’m not—the sword. It isn’t…”

  “Your Majesty,” said Jest, his voice cutting through the cheers. “She’s hurt. She needs help.”

  The King spun back. Panicked. “Oh. Er. Y-yes. Of course.”

  He looked at her ankle and greened.

  Cath clenched her teeth, trying to sharpen her focus as her skull pounded. “If I am stunning—and brilliant—and brave”—she swallowed a scream—“then you are useless!”

  Jest froze. The King shrank back.

  “The Jabberwock has been terrorizing us for weeks! And what have you done? What are you doing to stop it?”

  Squeaking, the King ducked his head between the velvet folds of his cloak.

  “You are the King! You have to do something!”

  “Catherine.” Jest settled a hand on her brow, smoothing back her wild hair. “Reserve your strength, Cath—Lady Pinkerton.”

  Mary Ann appeared over the King’s shoulder, her expression bewildered until she saw Cath’s ankle. She pressed a hand over her mouth. It was only momentary, before she steeled herself and turned to the King. “The pain is driving her mad, Your Majesty. Someone must take her to the Sturgeons. I’ll call a carriage straightaway—”

  “A c-carriage, yes,” said the King, his head bobbing, his mustache twitching with each breath. His chest heaved and it seemed he might be sick, but he fought it back.

  Cath was crying again, dizzy from the pain. “The beast must be stopped, before anyone else is hurt—”

  “I’ll take her,” said Jest. “It will be faster.”

  Mary Ann hesitated. “Faster than a carriage?”

  “Yes.” He met Cath’s gaze, his eyes tumultuous and vivid and too, too yellow. She saw him gulp before he added, “We’re desperate enough.”

  Turning away, he grabbed the Vorpal Sword and thrust it back into his hat, which he yanked onto his head. The bells were too bright, too joyful, and they echoed sharply in Cath’s ears.

  Jest swooped his arms beneath her.

  “Nonsense! You can’t carry her the whole way!” cried Mary Ann.

  “I assure you, I can,” he said, and any further protests were drowned out by the roar of an earthquake beneath their feet, the crash and rumble of the theater floor suddenly erupting. Around them. Under them. A tower of stones thrust upward, trapping Jest and Catherine in its center. Her breath caught as she stared at the walls that cocooned them, where far, far above her she could see a jagged parapet and the theater chandeliers, getting farther and farther away. They were sinking, but for the rumble of the ground, it felt as though they weren’t moving at all.

  “How?” she breathed, sure she was hallucinating. “How are you…?”

  Jest’s brows were drawn tight as he peered down at her face. “I’m a Rook,” he said, as if this were answer enough. Then he whispered, “And I’m sorry for this.”

  He lifted her into his arms.

  Agony crashed through her all at once, a red-hot poker jammed into her leg. She screamed—

  Dizzy, throbbing, raw sparks shot up her limbs. Cath awoke crying and disoriented. The hard floor of the theater lobby was now soft, cool grass. She tasted salt on her tongue, felt the crumbly leftovers of tears on her cheeks.

  She was surrounded by trees and shrubs that towered palatially above her. The world smelled of dirt and growing things, plus a hint of something sweet, like warm molasses and ginger biscuits.

  She heard a creaking rope and grinding pulleys, but that could have been all the noise in the world. No birdsong, no crickets, no chattering voices.

  Head drooping to the side, she squinted open her eyes.

  She was in a meadow of sorts—the sharp blades of grass pressing into her temple. The world felt still—no breeze among the wildflowers, no birdsong chiming from the trees. Though it had been evening when they’d arrived at the theater, the light was reddish gold here, trapped between day and night.

  Through her bleary lashes she spotted an ancient well in the glen’s center, its stones worked through with moss and a family of mushrooms growing to one base. Jest stood beside it. His hat was on the ledge and his sleeves were pushed up past his elbows, revealing tan skin above his dark gloves. He pulled on the rope, lifting the water bucket one crank at a time. From how he groaned, it was clear that either the bucket was very heavy or the gears were very old or his arms were very, very tired.

  He’d carried her here.

  How far was that?

  Cath had no idea where here was or how much time had passed.

  Another shot of pain had her whole face tightening up. She whimpered.

  “Almost there, Catherine,” Jest said through his panting. He tied off the rope and she could hear the slop of liquid as he pried the bucket off the hook. “Here we are.” He teetered toward her. Something spilled over the bucket’s side and Cath could see years of buildup on the wood—something sticky and caramel colored. Not water.

  “This isn’t the beach,” she said, trying to focus on something other than the pain. “You were supposed to take me—”

  “This is better.” He set the bucket beside her. “Much faster than the Sturgeons, I promise. Can you sit?”

  Dizziness threatened her as Jest helped her sit and for the first time she saw her leg.

  He had cut away her boot. The stocking, too, had been trimmed off at her calf, leaving her ankle bare. It hardly looked like her ankle at all. It was swollen and purple. Her foot was turned at an odd angle and there was a massive lump on one side—the bone, she suspected, just shy of pushing through the skin. She whimpered again. Seeing the reality of it made the pain flare up all over again.

  “Here,” said Jest, reaching for a wooden cup inside the bucket. The dark liquid squelched and sucked as he pulled it out, dribbling like honey down the sides. “Drink this.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Treacle.”

  “Treacle? That isn’t—”

  “Just drink it, Catherine.” He sat beside her as she took the cup in her weak hands, her fingers sticking to the sides. Jest was so close his knee was pressed against her thigh, his hands ready to assist her if she needed it.

  The treacle well—another impossible tale. A place where sweetened syrup bubbled up from the depths of the earth, containing mythical healing properties.

  And Jest had found it. Jest knew where it was. How…?

  Her mind was too hazy to think. She drank, because she couldn’t think of any reason not to, though drinking the treacle was a slow, thick process. Like slurping down spoonful after spoonful of the thickest, sweetest, richest syrup.

  It was delicious.

  Oh, what she wouldn’t give to make a treacle-bourbon-pecan pie with it.

  Or that clootie dumpling, just to prove to Mr. Caterpillar that he was wrong and the well did exist after all.

  As the syrup filled her stomach, its warmth seeped into her body. It spread through her limbs, growing hotter, like her muscles had been set aflame. It was its own sort of pain, but nothing like her shattered ankle.

  “It’s working,” said Jest.

  She hardly felt it. The slow straightening of the joint, the shrinking of the lump, the gradual reduction of her swollen flesh.

  She slumped forward as the pain became bearable, then bordered on slight discomfort, then disappeared altogether.

  Jest brushed a
strand of hair off her brow. “How does it feel?”

  She rubbed her ankle, gently at first, but growing bolder when there was no flare of pain. She imagined how distraught her mother would be to witness such a thing—her daughter rubbing her bare ankle while alone in a strange place with a strange man …

  “Better, thank you.”

  “Good.” This single, simple word was full of an ocean’s worth of relief.

  Jest stood and carried the bucket back to the well, replacing it on its hook. “Thank you,” he said. “What do you ask for payment?”

  A snicker echoed up from the bottom of the well, sending a chill of goose bumps along Cath’s bare arms.

  It was followed by a high, dreamy voice, like that of a little girl. She sang, “Elsie wants the lady’s boot, cut near in two. Tillie wants the lonely stocking, lost without a shoe. And I shall take an unspent kiss, as you’ve given far too few.”

  Jest was expressionless but for a brief tightening of his jaw, then he nodded and returned to Cath’s side. Without looking at her, he gathered up the destroyed boot and shredded stocking foot.

  “Who’s down there?” Cath whispered.

  “The Sisters,” he said, and she could sense the weight of the title. “We owe them payment for the treacle, but don’t worry. They only ask for things we have no need of.”

  He carried the boot and stocking to the well and dropped them inside, though there was no splash down below. Then a tiny, pale hand attached to a bony wrist twisted up from the well. Jest bent over it and placed a kiss into the upward-turned palm.

  The fingers curled into a fist the moment he pulled away and the hand disappeared back into the well, taking its prize with it. Cath thought she heard another low laugh, then silence.

  Jest grabbed his hat and paced back to where Cath still sat on the wildflower meadow. He sighed and crouched down, almost at eye level, and this close she could see the weariness in his eyes and the exhausted set of his shoulders. Between fighting the Jabberwock and carrying her all the way here, she wondered he had strength to stay upright at all.