Curio (48 page)
Blaise didn't let the porcie speak. Freeing his hands, he pushed the tocks away and held them at arm's length as he stared down Benedict.
“The only way I walk out of here without leaving you a pile of dust is if you give me Grey
now
and release Callis and Seree.”
Blueboy's lip curled. “My estate is surrounded by soldiers. You can't fight them all off.”
“No. But I can smash you to pieces before they take me.” Blaise stepped forward. The tock hands grasping him felt like sticks snagging in his clothing and breaking off as he passed.
Benedict's eyes widened. He held his one remaining hand up.
Blaise paused, brows raised.
Blueboy jerked his chin toward Grey. “Take her.”
“And my friends?”
Benedict raised his voice, sliding his gaze to a group of stunned soldiers. “Release the other prisoners.”
Blaise put every threat he needed into one look aimed at the porcie's cruel eyes. He turned on his heel and raced to Grey.
The maid had done her best, folding Grey's arm in layers of torn petticoat. She whimpered in her soft tock tone when Blaise lifted Grey.
“Thank you.” He crushed Grey's limp body to his chest.
She was as cold as a porcie on the operating table.
The mark on Blaise's stomach fluttered then cooled.
S
he strained against the white-hot bond on her wrist. The rope cut into her flesh. Terror coursed through her veins.
The pain woke her. She screamed. All went black.
The rope wouldn't give. It was agony to fight against it, but she had to. She had to get away. She gathered her strength, loosing a wail meant to be a battle cry. A feeble whimper trickled to her ears. She tried again.
The pain stole her breath. She gasped and choked.
“Shh,” a voice whispered near her head. “Shh, Grey. You're safe.”
She drifted off, a pleasant warmth around her navel siphoning the worst of her pain.
Grey opened her eyes and focused on a dark shape near her head. Black cords of hair stretched over a white surface as though they'd reached for her and fallen short. She followed the thick, copper-woven twists to their source. The hair partially obscured his face, sallow beneath the natural tan.
Black lashes fanned over sunken cheeks and faint stubble crusted his jawline.
“Blaise.”
She started at the croak of her own voice. He didn't move. He was so pale.
She tried to lift her hand to touch him but pain lashed her wrist.
The ropes. Benedict!
“Blaise. Blaise.” Panic edged her raspy words.
His lids opened and deep umber eyes locked on her. “Shh, you're safe,” he murmured. The lashes lowered, hiding those liquid irises. Without their anchoring light, she sank into confusion.
“Blaise, please.”
This time his pupils sharpened.
“You're awake.”
A sob clenched her throat. “I . . . Benedict, he . . . Untie the ropes. It hurts.”
Moisture gathered along his eyelids. He shifted, a wince clamping his features. His warm hand cradled her cheek.
“I know it hurts. It'll get better. Your Defender blood will help you heal.”
Something cold crept into a corner of Grey's heart. “Why won't you untie me? My wrist hurts.”
He dragged himself closer, rising up to press a kiss on her cheek. “Shh, Grey. You're safe. I promise.”
Tears spilled out of her eyes. The cold grew, gnawing at her insides. “Blaise?”
He collapsed beside her, rolling onto his back so their shoulders pressed against each other. With his warm body flush against hers, the fear receded. His fingers traced from the crook of her elbow down. She held her breath as pain seared her wrist. Then the sensation changed. He pressed her
palm, but it felt like her hand remained in a Defender state. A layer of stone muted his touch.
His fingers glided between hers. She flinched as he lifted their clasped hands and her wrist throbbed with the movement. A white bandage wrapped his arm at the elbow.
“Hold on to me,” he said before their twined fingers came into view.
She clutched his hand.
Their laced-together fingers hovered before her eyes, white and brown so tangled that none of the digits seemed to belong to her. Her wrist burned and she rotated her arm. She choked and cried out. A white glove of porcelain skin covered her hand. Fine metalwork, like lace, extended from beneath the seam of the glove and clamped into the skin of her forearm.
The cold in her chest cracked and ached.
“My hand.”
“We gave you a new one.”
“A new one? You meanâ?”
He pressed his cheek into the pillow, eyes skimming her face. “We couldn't save yours.”
“Who is we?”
“Weatherton and me.”
The name sounded familiar, but Grey couldn't attach meaning to it. “Who?”
“Never mind. You'll meet him soon enough.” Blaise dropped their hands between them as though holding their two arms up took too much strength. Grey tested her new hand. She could wiggle her fingers and detect Blaise's fingers notched into her own. When she concentrated, the warmth of his touch transferred through the smooth porcelain skin. But how?
She rolled her head into Blaise's shoulder, but he didn't respond to the movement.
“Blaise?”
He jolted and then shivered. “Yes?”
“Where are we?”
“Weather'slab.” His words ran together.
“What happened?”
“Too much,” he murmured.
She glanced down. A soft white gown covered her upper body, and a blanket lay over her torso and legs. Blaise's legs stretched all the way to the end of the bedspread. His bare feet poked up out of dark pant legs. His left hand lay on the bare ridges of his stomach, and a brace of some sort strapped his upper arm to his chest.
Grey's eyes swept to his face. His dark lashes were lowered again. The strong features looked vulnerable under the unusual pallor. A line of faint green edged his full lower lip. She fought an urge to shake him awake.
“What is it?” she breathed, scanning his body for other injuries. Splotches of purple bruising spread from the crook of his arm, livid against the white of the bandage. “What are you not telling me?”
He didn't respond. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.
“Blaise, you're scaring me.”
The dark eyes drifted open, and a ghost of a smile played over his lips. “Shh. Safe now.”
“What's wrong with you?” Grey yelled, clamping his right forearm with her new fingers.
He winced. A twinge of pain flared in Grey's right arm. She shook back the gown's sleeve and found a matching bandage clamping her elbow.
“What happened?”
The door opened then. Grey started as a porcie man with dark hair stepped inside, but he wasn't someone she recognized. He strode over, the green-white light reflecting off his shiny locks.
Grey pushed up into a sitting position. “You're Weatherton, right? What happened to Blaise?”
The tall porcie sat on a chair and glanced around the bare bedroom before he returned his gaze to Grey.
“The truth is, I'm not sure. Were he a porcie, I'd say he was de-animating. We tried giving him water and, I believe you call it âfood.' Items from our paintings? But nothing helps.”
“What did you give him?” Grey demanded. “It has to be a picture of foodâreal foodâor we can't eat it. Flowers and candlesticks won't do.”
The porcie offered a sad smile. “He told us what to bring him. It didn't help.”
“But why? Why is he like this?”
Weatherton leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He studied Blaise, his gaze lingering on the bruises. “He said you'd lost too much blood. He showed me how to connect the wires.”
“The wires?”
Weatherton scowled at Grey's bandaged arm. “The tubing. What did he call it? Veins. Yes, he had me connect your veins to draw the blood out of him and into you.”
Grey's head swam with the nightmare of what Weatherton described. No, surely such a thing could not,
should not
, be done.
“I'm sorry,” Weatherton was saying. “I've never done anything like it. He insisted we continue even when I could tell it was draining him. I believed him when he said he would recover.”
Grey turned away from Weatherton. She ached to bury her face in Blaise's neck and feel his arms clench her close, but she stayed still, looking down at him.
“And my hand?” she finally asked.
“I've done some experimenting of my own. I had the materials. He guided me through the process while his blood flowed into you. Thankfully, I was able to finish when he lost animation.”
A tear dripped off Grey's chin. She swiped at it with her left hand and felt silky smooth skin over her jawline. “How is it that I can still feel with this, this modification?”
“Why wouldn't you be able to feel, my dear?” Weatherton lifted his own hands, revealing patched-together porcelain.
She gave up her futile questioning and slid her new hand underneath the covers. At least for now she didn't have to look at the alteration that came at such a high price.
“Do you know how to help him?” Weatherton's voice, a mixture of command and sharp curiosity, snapped Grey to attention.
“I need to take him home. I don't think the food here can replenish his blood. He needs real food.”
“I will help.”
“We will help.” The musical words came from the hallway.
A woman in a long yellow dressing gown stood in the doorway. The light from the hall gave her brown hair a halo of red-gold. She didn't look anything like Fantine, but for a moment Grey saw Blueboy's mistress studying her with cautious friendliness.
A smile transformed Weatherton's severe features. He stood and turned, holding his arm out for the woman.
“My wife, Clara. The Mad TockâBlaiseâwalked into her room while we readied you for the procedure. He came
out leading Clara. She . . . I've been trying to bring her back for a long time.”
Clara's brows crumpled as she took in Blaise's still form. “Is he the Designer?”
“No . . . Well, I don't think so.” Grey frowned. Blaise was trapped here, imprisoned. Who would design their own prison?
“Then how did he bring me back?” Clara's voice sifted through the quiet room.
“I don't know.”
The bandage on Blaise's arm caught Grey's eye. Red mist tainted her memory and the smell of wet rust invaded her nostrils. She shook off the recollection of Benedict's steam breath mixed with her blood and thrust the blankets off her lap. When she swung her legs to the floor, the room spun. She pressed her hands into the mattress, her stomach heaving. A crackle of foreign energy skittered through her veins then hid itself somewhere inside her body. Grey shivered and Clara rushed over with a robe.
“We'll have sustenance brought.” Weatherton moved toward the door. “Now that we know what to look for, the house is fully stocked.”