The Dark Deeps (21 page)

“He’ll choke,” Colette shouted. “Stop!”

She was slapped so hard her teeth felt loose.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to slap you!” Griff said.

She spat toward the voice. Her spittle stopped in midair, then dripped to the floor.

“You’ll pay for that,” Griff said. “I’ll have my hands around your lily-white throat soon enough.”

“You don’t frighten me,” she said, straining at her ropes.

“Ta-hee! I’ll drag you over to the hold with the other Icarians. They’re standing in four feet of ice water.” His laugh was grating on her nerves. “I can do it! I can. I’ll be your worst nightmare, I promise you.” The rope around Modo’s neck tightened—Griff had given it another pull. “Now, Modo, if I had the time I’d sit and wait while you choke. What will your pretty little coquette think when she sees your real face?”

The door opened and slammed shut, cutting off Griff’s laughter. The Guild soldier stood motionless with his hand on his pistol.

“Is—is he gone?” Colette said.

“Who knows,” Modo rasped.

“Well, we must behave as though he is here,” she said. “Are you going to be able to stay upright?”

“Yes. For now.”

Captain Monturiol moaned and slowly opened her eyes.

“Where are we?” she asked. “Where is the
Ictíneo?
”

“We are imprisoned on the
Wyvern,
” Colette replied. “An organization called the Clockwork Guild is in control of your submarine ship.”

Monturiol pulled fiercely against her ropes. “They cannot have my ship!”

“Calm down, Captain,” Colette said. “Struggling won’t do any good.”

“Yes, save your energy,” Modo said, and Monturiol turned to look at him. Her eyes widened.

“They’ve hanged you!”

“Yes,” he said. “It seems they have.”

The door opened and Miss Hakkandottir entered, two soldiers on either side of her. A mechanical-jawed hound slouched along behind her. “Ah, I see Griff has been busy,” she said. She patted the dog and it raised its head. “Find Griff. Bring him to my quarters.” The dog sniffed and bounded out of the room. “I am interested in you two. I want to discuss your operations, but first my men will take the good captain out for some fresh air and a pleasant discussion about submarine science.”

The four soldiers grabbed the screaming Captain Monturiol and lifted her easily. She spat and fought as hard as her bound body allowed her, but it was no use. They carried her out the door.

“We’ll be back soon enough,” Miss Hakkandottir said playfully as she followed her catch.

The door slammed. Modo hacked and sputtered. “I appear … to be … losing my breath.” Before Colette could speak, he’d fallen forward, tightening the rope.

G
riff stood silently on the tiger-skin rug in the captain’s quarters. Miss Hakkandottir sat with her back to him. She tapped with a metal finger on the golden key of her wireless telegraph, sending a message, he assumed, to the Guild Master. Griff trembled with joy. It was so wonderful to be with her again. He’d grown up under her tutelage and he loved her fervently. Why isn’t she talking to me? he wondered. Can’t the telegram wait? I haven’t seen her for six months. Six months!

The longer the message grew, the more Griff rubbed his hands and fidgeted. The movement kept him from shivering. The
Wyvern
was an icebox—all ships were cold. He actually missed the cramped, humid quarters of the
Ictíneo
. At least he had been warm there.

He began twirling a nearby globe on its pedestal, first slowly, then faster, watching all the countries spin. Turn, he thought. Turn! Turn! Turn!

The world turned, but Miss Hakkandottir didn’t. He jammed his finger on the globe and let out a squeak of pain. He put his finger in his mouth, then pulled it out and looked at it. It was, of course, invisible, but a bead of blood appeared in the air and slowly rolled down his finger, revealing some of its shape. He watched the blood drip, then stuck his finger in his mouth again. It was comforting, and he liked the brassy taste of blood. Dr. Hyde had never been able to explain why his blood still appeared red when he cut himself. It was the only color he had.

“I remember when you used to bring me flowers,” Miss Hakkandottir said, abruptly standing to face him. “Do you remember that, Griff?”

“Yes! Yes! I was a boy then. I would watch you arrive in your airship. It was such a lovely vessel.”

“Well, today you brought me something much better than flowers. You have exceeded all my expectations. I am so proud of you.”

His invisible heart began to beat faster. “Oh, it was nothing, Miss Hakkandottir.”

“You are not normally modest, Griff. Nor should you be. Dr. Hyde would be proud too.”

“How is the old genius?” he asked.

“Busy. There is always work for him to do and places for his mind to go. He misses you.”

“He misses my help, you mean.”

“Perhaps, but he has other helpers now. Not as colorful as you, of course. He sends his best.”

Griff had been prodded and poked so many times by the old sot, he didn’t think of the doctor with much fondness.
But Hyde had made Griff who he was, Invisible Man the First. For that, he was extremely thankful.

“The Guild Master sends his greetings as well.”

That made Griff swallow. The man who led the Clockwork Guild, who had no name but the Guild Master. Griff had never even glimpsed him. He had tried once to sneak into the glass and iron fortress on the far end of the island, but the dogs had prevented him.

“Then I’ve done well!” Griff said. “I will bring you many more flowers.”

“I hope you didn’t find New York too cold. The information you gathered there and from the submarine ship was crucial. And figuring out how to use that agent’s wireless telegraph was brilliant! The Guild Master relied on your reports to design the balloons, and he provided us with much more equipment. Is there anything else you have yet to tell us?”

“There’s a city, Miss Hakkandottir. Mad Monturiol created a city beneath the waters that she calls New Barcelona. I’ve not seen it with my own eyes, but Modo and Colette visited it.”

“Ah! I am certain we will learn more about it from the captain. She was not talkative a few minutes ago, but the guards are ‘encouraging’ her as we speak.” She paused. “I am especially curious about this Modo.”

“There’s not much to him,” Griff snapped.

“Now, now, no jealousy, Griff. You are better than that. You say he can change his appearance?”

“Yes, and his actual shape. He can disguise himself as anyone. Well, not as me, of course.”

“A very interesting skill.”

“He’s a bore, though. Unimaginative, strong, and dumb as an ox.”

“And his loyalties. Are they deep?”

“He’s loyal as a mongrel to his master.”

“Well, we shall have to study him. The Guild Master will want to know details. Dr. Hyde, too. Perhaps we can learn how he performs his tricks.”

The thought of them being thrilled with Modo made Griff grind his teeth. “But he’s not invisible.”

“No, my sweet, dear Griff—he is not you. No one is. I assume the knot you tied will not choke him. I would be disappointed if it did.”

Griff bit his invisible lip. “No. No. He’s safe.”

“Good. Again, I am so very proud of you.” She had an unerring ability to stare directly into his eyes. He didn’t understand how she sensed where he was standing. “I
am
disappointed in just one thing, though. We have talked about your slowness to take action. Sometimes you hesitate too long. You could have brought that submarine ship to the surface much earlier.”

“I—I will do better. I promise.”

“I know you will, Griff. That is all. The coxswain’s cabin has been prepared for you. Please relax. You deserve it.”

She patted his shoulder, but what he wanted most of all was for her to wrap her arms around him. To be held, that metal hand clasped tightly around his back.

“Thank you, Miss Hakkandottir. Thank you.”

M
odo forced himself back into a half crouch, struggling for breath. He’d nearly blacked out—the suffering was too intense. His body was changing, sending painful ripples through the muscles in his arms, legs, shoulders, neck, and face. He was unable to hold the tall, slender shape of the handsome Knight. He felt his bones creak as his back hunched inch by inch, shortening his torso and tightening the noose around his neck. How long had he been standing like this? Minutes? Hours?

“Modo, are you well? You keep gurgling,” Colette said.

He was thankful that there was very little light. He kept his face turned away so that she couldn’t see the monster he was becoming.

“My shape is—is changing. That is my affliction.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s hard to explain. You see, I can change my appearance.
My body is contracting into a—a different shape. I’m not strong enough to stop it. The knot is growing tighter.”

He was surprised at how calm he sounded. His calves were cramping, his feet, each toe. Waves of agony that came and went, and he had to concentrate on staying still and stretching himself against the weight of his own body.

The rope tightened around his throat again, so he whispered desperately, “Griff, Griff, are you here? Can you loosen it?”

He waited, but nothing happened. Griff must have been watching Monturiol being interrogated. Modo shuddered. He knew Miss Hakkandottir’s methods. She had likely refined them further.

“Oh, Modo, I wish I could do something.”

“Just don’t watch me die,” he said.

“Oh, don’t be
si mélodramatique!
” Colette huffed.

He tried to picture a way out. What would Tharpa do? But it was like a Chinese finger trap—the harder he pulled, the tighter the knot became. Griff had known what he was doing. If only Modo could make his hands smaller and slip out of the ropes … but they were too tight and wrapped around in several loops. His only hope was to convince the guard to untie him.

“Sir! Sir! Miss Hakkandottir will be angry with you if I die,” Modo said.

The guard remained impassive, though his eyes flicked toward Modo.

“Yes, release him,” Colette pleaded.

“The prisoners shall not speak to me.” The soldier’s voice was dull; there was something wooden in his tone.

Modo swayed on his feet, his thoughts caught in a black vortex. He heard voices. Faces floated in front of him. Mrs. Finchley, was she here? And Mr. Socrates? And Octavia? He tried to reach for her, but his hands were tied behind his back.

“Modo! Modo!” Colette shrieked, waking him from his trance. He gulped, his lungs empty, and thrust himself a little farther forward.

“You stopped breathing,” she said.

“I—I didn’t mean to.”

“Keep breathing!”

Maybe there was a way, he realized: if he let his whole weight pull the rope. It was tied tightly, but it was old and thin and there were ragged strands here and there.

“I have a plan,” he rasped.

“A plan?”

“I’m going to pull the noose tighter.”

“What!”

“It’s the only way. Look, the rope is frayed.” Even as he said that, he saw that the worn portions weren’t that weak. “I’ll pull as hard as possible.”

“But if you fail, you’ll die!”

“I don’t have a choice.”

He took a deep breath. Was all this madness induced by lack of air? His thoughts were already slower, his back hunching. Here goes! He let himself fall backward so that the rope tightened around his neck, crushing his windpipe. His face, he knew, was going purple. The rope was now a perfectly taut straight line. He stared, willing it to break. His eyes bulged as he blinked back sweat. He couldn’t even
swallow. He needed so badly to breathe, but his windpipe was closed. Dark spots pooled in his vision.

Now he was floating and felt light as smoke. He saw a young man hanging below him.
That’s me!
The world was fading.
No!
He wanted to shout. His blood was rushing in his ears, a sound like the raven wings of death. Somewhere Colette screamed his name.

He let out a gurgled cry. He was frothing, maybe even bleeding, he didn’t know. He pictured Octavia in her green dress and tried to step toward her.

The rope snapped and he fell to the floor. The noose remained tight around his neck. He still couldn’t breathe!

Then he was jostled by something near his neck, and he worried that rats were at his throat. His lungs expanded like a bellows, pulling in air as he faded in and out of consciousness. He sucked in a breath. Another.

“I used my teeth to loosen the knot,” Colette said. “I nearly dislocated my ankles bending over. Be thankful I’ve got good teeth. You look sick, Modo. Your face, it’s hard to see in the dark, but you seem to have bumps … .”

Modo used his last bit of strength to turn away from her. “It’s nothing. Nothing.”

Someone began clapping.

“Griff,” Modo said, almost spitting the name.

“You two have given a very exciting display. Very much so. You are not so great, though, Modo, remember that!”

“You are a …” Colette’s voice trailed off.

“I know what I am. Well, your good captain has been very uncooperative. She keeps her secrets well.”

Modo felt the knots around his wrists and ankles tighten again.

“That’ll hold you,” Griff said. “Well, it has been a busy day. I’ll be dining with my captain. Venison, I am told. And after that I’ll sleep the sleep of the just. Ta-hee!” The door opened for several seconds and then closed with a resounding thud.

M
odo lay on his side, his back to Colette. He breathed deeply and felt his spine curling in on itself. The hump was slowly rising: she would be able to see it soon enough, but better that than his face. Never his twisted, grotesque face. His wrists ached where the rope was biting into his flesh. Was the blood supply to his hands and feet being cut off? They tingled as though needles were poking them.

The door swung open and two soldiers dragged Captain Monturiol into the corner, where they tied her in a sitting position. Modo pressed his face against his shoulder, hiding most of it. Monturiol’s jaw was set, her hair bedraggled, and her eyes red-rimmed, but she shed no tears.