Chapter 38 Pike
Pike
The delightful thing about going up against an obsessive personality is that they are so predictable.
Pike must have known I was attempting to lure him into a trap; and yet, I had no doubt he would come.
He had to. Any whiff of surrender from me, of unrestricted access to my brains and my blood, would be enough to draw him.
It was a cold night. The air blowing off Pemberley’s small ornamental lake made it still colder.
I pulled my cloak closer about me and leaned against the low fence next to the lake.
Young Charlotte Darcy seemed determined to teach herself to swim, so her desperate parents had erected this barrier, though it marred the view.
I had wanted to dress as a boy again, but I suspected that Pike would be more receptive to what I had to say if I wore women’s clothes.
It was less safe—I could move better in boy’s attire—but then, nothing about this was safe.
There was every chance I would not survive this night.
It made no difference. Pike was not the only obsessive one.
“Hello, Mary.”
I started. Despite my constant vigil, he had managed to approach unheard. With the way the wind was moaning through the trees, it was no surprise. All this land was part of Pemberley’s grounds, but in the deep of the night, it felt like the wildest, loneliest woods.
I turned. Pike was standing a few feet behind me. He looked just as he had the last time I saw him. No older, no less handsome. His face and eyes looked perfectly human. Clearly he had had no trouble finding other sources of chroma serum than mine.
“Mr. Pike. You look well,” I said. “You must be killing some lovely people these days.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Thank you. Actually I have taken the lessons of my Meryton factory to heart. No need to cause such a stir to get what I need.”
“Isn’t there?”
“No.” He was walking slowly around the clearing, pacing a large circle around me.
“Do you know that once in a London slum a woman sold her baby for a ration of gin? I’ve no need to kill that sort to get a little blood out of them.
There are plenty desperate enough to sell it directly, and despicable enough that I need feel no scruples. ”
“Sounds as though you have an excellent situation.”
“Indeed.”
“And yet, Miss Carrie Baker in Manchester, Mrs. Josephine Smith in Derbyshire, that Lascar in London—”
“Yes, well. One tires of the blood of gutter rats.” His eyes raked over me. “Speaking of fine fare. Why am I here, Miss Mary?”
“Is that what I am? Fine fare?”
“You know you are.”
“And yet you come no closer.”
He laughed darkly. “If I did, I suppose I’d fall through a trapdoor or something. I know you.”
So he was at least a little afraid of me. Good. “If I am so dangerous, why come at all?”
He laughed. “It is rude to ignore an invitation from a lady.”
“And I am fine fare.”
“The finest.”
So he was still afraid of me, but he still wanted me, too. Good.
“Come, tell me why you brought me here. I believe the words I give in were mentioned?”
I drew in a deep breath. “You were right,” I said. “The last time I saw you.”
“About?”
“I’m a monster,” I said. “Like you.”
His prowling half circle drew a little tighter about me. “Oh?”
“I’ve tried for two years now to repair my mistakes with you,” I said.
“I’ve got nowhere.” I laughed a little. “Worse than nowhere. I’m…
a burden. An embarrassment. They all despise me.
” I shook my head. “Then suddenly I realized that I’ve been going about it all wrong.
I cannot stop you by force, but you and I cannot stay away from each other. You understood that long before I did.”
His circle drew tighter still. He was almost close enough to touch me now. Instinctively, I took a step back.
“I would never despise you,” he said softly. “Never overlook you.”
“I-I suppose.” In spite of it all, my chest ached like an old scar at his words. Why did it have to be he who spoke that way? And why did part of me still respond to it?
“I have not always been kind, I know, but you never wanted kind, Mary, not really. ‘Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.’”
I shivered. Apparently he had found time in his wanderings to take in some Shakespeare.
“You have fascinated me always, you know,” he said.
“Since the day you marched into your uncle’s office with a bag of gunpowder.
You were never a creature of ballrooms and soft politeness.
” He waved his hands. “This is you. Midnight, in a deserted patch, with a man you have twice tried to kill.” He smiled a little.
“Once successfully. You could never love any but such a man. For you, any lover would have to be your fiercest enemy, too.”
His voice was oddly soothing. I was so tired these days. He was coming closer. My hand slipped into my pocket. Just stick with the plan, Mary.
One more step…
I whipped my hand out. The knife flashed in the moonlight, almost too fast to see. Bound straight for his heart.
Just before it sank into his chest, he grabbed my wrist. I struggled to complete the blow, but it was no good. His grip was like iron.
“There, you see?” He wasn’t even out of breath. “You cannot seriously have thought that would succeed, dearest. This is mere flirtation. Admit it. You thought the words of your message were a subterfuge, but you inadvertently told the truth. You are ready to give in.”
My wounds were seeping again. Was the gray mist creeping over my vision once more? It was hard to tell in the dark. My brain felt fuzzy.
Pike waved a hand at the sky. “No lightning tonight,” he said. “Skies are clear. Your arsenal is bare, dearest.”
I wondered if he was right. Would everything be easier if I just went with him? We were two of a kind. Perhaps the obsessive loathing I felt for him was as close to love as someone like me could come.
“I know you,” he breathed. “I know you. Come with me now. I won’t take too much.” He reached out a hand toward my face.
Oop! Jam.
Georgiana dancing. Georgiana in the world’s busiest hat. Georgiana touching a Leyden jar, laughing as her hair stood on end. Georgiana crying, screaming, turning away. Georgiana waking up, finding me beside her, and smiling.
“Come,” he said, as he moved his hand toward mine. “Take my hand.”
I did.
“You know,” I said, “you have bested me many times now. There are parts of me that no one but you seems to see—even me.”
“I know.” His fingers tightened around mine. Like a dance hold, except we were gloveless.
“But,” I said, “you don’t know me.” And with my free hand, I seized the metal fence.
I have, of course, been electrocuted before.
If being struck by lightning was, on a scale of 1 to 100, a 92 for intensity and a 95 for pain, this was perhaps a 99 for both.
It also seemed to go on for longer. The voltaic piles I had wired to the fence were perhaps less powerful than lightning, which resulted in continued consciousness and, hence, continued pain.
If Mr. Franklin of Philadelphia is still among the living, perhaps I shall write and solicit his opinion.
Pike and I were flung in opposite directions.
As I flew through the air, there was room beneath the pain and fear for a drop of satisfaction: It had all gone off just as I had designed.
The voltaic piles, which I’d constructed of copper and zinc discs collected over the course of my wanderings, were occasionally used in my serum production, but only one or two stacks.
Now every one I had was wired to Darcy’s fence.
When he had stepped on the plate attached to the piles, which I had barely concealed under some sod, he inadvertently became a part of a circuit, which I closed when I grabbed the fence.
All I had needed was for him to draw close enough to me that I could serve as a connection between the fence, charged by the piles, and Pike.
Two poles repelling, to spectacular effect.
There was a shower of sparks and a tinkle of broken glass as I flew across the clearing.
“If you’re interested…” I panted. “That was my plan.”
No response. I hauled myself up on my elbows. My hair and dress seemed to be smoking a little, but I was absolutely alive.
“Pike?”
He lay quite still. Flames licked at his cravat. “Pike?”
No movement. No hint of breath. I found the knife, crawled toward him… His eyes opened. A hand seized my throat.
I was slammed to the ground. My ears were ringing—he’d hit my head on the fence. His eyes were open, but fully black now. The black traceries were taking over his face. He barely looked human anymore. There was nothing behind his eyes as he calmly squeezed.
The world began to go dark. Sorry , I thought. I tried.
I was falling backward. My eyes rolled up to the sky. A lovely clear night. A dark shape against the moon.
“Help,” I whispered. Over the pounding of my heart I could not tell if I even made a sound.
It takes longer than you may think, getting strangled. I kept my eyes on the moon’s glow for as long as I could as it faded.
Fumf.
Suddenly, I was free. I could breathe. I gave a ragged breath, then another, clutching at my throat, scrambling away.
Pike was struggling with a large pale shape. A ghost. No—an owl.
It—she—beat her wings against his face. He struggled to get free of it. For a moment she had the upper hand, but owls are not well equipped for close combat, and Pike managed to get her by the throat. He slammed her to the ground, raising a knife with his other hand.
No.
I was running before I knew what I was doing. I had lost too much to him already.
There was something in my hand. I smelled woodsmoke. My little trap had set one of the fine old trees of Pemberley aflame, and I was clutching a burning branch like a club.
Pike was so strong, and it was terribly difficult to hit him without striking the owl.
Perhaps, I thought miserably as I flailed with it about his head and shoulders, it was no good.
Perhaps I had pulled him away from death too many times.
Perhaps this evil I had put into the world was here for good.
All I could hope to do was distract him long enough for the bird to escape.
Then I realized that there were flames licking at his form.
It took him a moment to realize it himself. There are downsides, I suppose, to feeling no pain. When he did, he let go of the owl, who fluttered upward, and he began trying to beat out the flames.
Yet, that black, powdery dryness that made up his insides, whatever it was, it had no fire-retardant properties. Indeed, it would have made excellent kindling.
I backed away and sat in the damp grass, hands around my bent knees, watching as Septimus Pike burned to a fine ash.
Then I passed out again. When I awoke, the owl was perched on a low branch, staring at me.
“Georgiana?” I wheezed.
She cocked her head.
“Thank you,” I said.
The great bird spread its wings and took off noiselessly into the sky.
I am tired. I will continue the tale tomorrow.