Stefan Bachman - The Peculiar

Bartholomew’s foot tapped the floor. He wanted to move, to get out of the building and run until he found Hettie. How much time do I have? Not long. Not long before she was like the other changelings, quiet and dead. He saw her in the water suddenly. A white shape bobbing in the dark. Her branches wilted, limp in the currents. Hettie. Bartholomew pinched his eyes shut.

“Thank you for coming back for me,” Mr. Jelliby said suddenly, and Bartholomew jumped a little. The man hadn’t raised his head. His eyes were still shut. Bartholomew didn’t know what to say. For a long moment he just sat there, trying to think of something, anything at all. Then the door burst open and an inspector came in, and Bartholomew wished he could sink into the shadows of his cloak and never be seen.

The inspector began asking Mr. Jelliby a great many questions. Mr. Jelliby was tempted to tell him everything. All about Mr. Lickerish, and the changeling murders, and the clockwork birds. Then they could handle it. They could do all this. But he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Mr. Zerubbabel hadn’t believed him. Not even Ophelia had believed him.

Once the inspector had convinced himself that Mr. Jelliby knew very little about anything at all, he too left and was replaced by a small bearded man in a tweed coat. The man was very plain. His face was plain, his bald head was plain, and his wrinkled necktie was plain. All but his eyes, which were a startling, frigid blue, like glacier water. It looked as if he wanted to eat you up with them.

“Good day,” he said. His voice was soft. “I am Dr. Harrow, head of Sidhe studies at Bradford College. The lady who attacked you today is possessed by one. A faery, that is, not a college. Now. If you would be so kind as to recount to me every detail you can remember of her actions, her re- actions, the sound of her voice, and the character of her thaumaturgic abilities, I would be much obliged.”

Mr. Jelliby nodded glumly from under his bandages and began a lengthy description of being attacked and pursued and thrown about alleyways. Then, when he thought he might dare, he asked, “Might I be allowed to speak with her? Is it safe? I’m sure I’d only need a moment.”

Dr. Harrow looked doubtful. “You say you do not know her at all?”

“Oh, I don’t,” Mr. Jelliby assured him hurriedly. “I’d. . just like to ask her something, if that’s all right.”

“And that is a gnome?” the doctor asked, pointing a thumb toward Bartholomew. “He will have to stay out. They are likely to plot together by magic.”

Mr. Jelliby hadn’t thought of that. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll be back shortly, boy.”

Dr. Harrow motioned for Mr. Jelliby to follow, and the two of them went out into a corridor and down a flight of metal stairs. At the foot of the stairs was another corridor, but this one was low and vaulted, with whitewashed walls and a green tile floor. Thick iron doors lined both sides. The smell of lye soap and carbolic soda hung in the air, so strong it burned in Mr. Jelliby’s nostrils, and yet even that wasn’t able to cover the stench of filthy humans and faeries.

The doctor led him to one of the doors and motioned the guard who sat at the far end of the passage to unlock it.

They were shown into a stark white room. It had no windows, no comforts at all. Its only furnishing was a plain wooden chair in the center of the floor. And seated on it, dark and still, was the lady in plum.

The gloves had been pulled from her hands so that her fingerprints could be taken. Parts of her dress had been cut away. Her hat was still in place, though, hiding her eyes.

“The faery inhabiting her is some sort of leeching faery,” the doctor explained, circling her. “A parasite. Such cases are extraordinary. Usually the parasite will take over the consciousness of an animal or a tree. That it should attach itself in such a way to a human is almost unheard of. According to Spense, once the parasite has infiltrated its host, it begins to slowly consume it. The leeching faery takes over the mind, worms into flesh and sinew. . ” He pulled aside the locks of hair at the back of her head, revealing the twisted, mangled face underneath. “Only the voice box is said to be impossible to control. So beware, should you ever cross paths with a silent cow.” The doctor tittered at his own joke.

The face beneath the hair was the ugliest thing Mr. Jelliby had ever seen. Not human, barely fay, a sagging mass of teeth and tentacles and wrinkled skin. Its mouth hung open. Its eyes were shut, almost hidden under the swelling wound from Bartholomew’s cobblestone.

“The faery is under a powerful sedative,” Dr. Harrow said, letting the hair fall back. “By the looks of things it has been inhabiting the lady for many months. It is rooted very deeply. Anything it eats or feels will to some extent affect her as well. She will be drowsy. I doubt she will be able to tell you anything useful.”

Mr. Jelliby nodded. Kneeling down so that he could see under her hat, he said, “Miss? Miss, can you hear me?”

There was no response. She sat there, a dark statue upon the chair, and did not stir.

Mr. Jelliby looked over his shoulder at the doctor. “Consumed her, you say? Will she live? Can’t the faery be. . extricated somehow?”

“Surgically perhaps,” Dr. Harrow answered coolly. “But I do not know if she will ever fully recover, if her mind will ever work on its own again, or her limbs follow her own directions. It is very doubtful.”

Mr. Jelliby turned back to the lady, his face grave. “Melusine?” he said quietly.

This time her eyelids flickered open. The eyes underneath were dead-black, glistening.

He breathed in sharply. “Melusine, you asked for my help, do you remember?” The words came quickly and quietly. “I don’t know if I have helped you at all. I hope you will be safe here. But in truth I am the one in desperate need of your help. Do you remember anything of the past few months? Where you were? What you did? Melusine?”

She continued to stare straight ahead.

“I need you to remember,” he whispered. “Could you try?” Behind him the doctor was frowning, one hand on the alarm bell. “Anything! Anything at all!”

Something shifted in her eyes then, a change behind the mask of her face. Her mouth opened. She sighed a long, drowsy sigh.

“There was a hallway,” she said. It was so sudden it made Mr. Jelliby start. “A hallway into the Moon.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Jelliby thought he saw something. A mass of dark, swarming along the white wall.

“I was hurrying down it,” the lady went on. “Searching for something. And there was someone behind me. . standing. . staring after me.”

Mr. Jelliby glanced at the wall. Nothing there. He stood, turning his back on the lady. “That was me in the hallway,” he said quietly. “In Nonsuch House. It was not the moon.” Her mind was quite gone. She would be no help to him.

“I’ll be going now,” he said, addressing Dr. Harrow. “My utmost gratitude for your time.”

The bearded man gave a small bow. “Oh, not at all,” he said, and his blue eyes gleamed with a strange light. “Not. . at. . all.” With a flourish, he opened the door to the cell and held it for Mr. Jelliby to step through.

Mr. Jelliby smiled weakly. He walked toward the door. But just as he was crossing the threshold, he spun. His fist flew up and he struck the doctor square between the eyes. Then he bolted down the corridor.

“Boy?” he cried, knocking aside the guard and hurtling up the stairs. “Boy, get out of here!”

Dr. Harrow’s lips: they hadn’t moved.

Bartholomew thought he heard something in the depths of the building, a faint banging vibrating up through the water pipes and the walls. He looked over at the scowling secretary. The man was busy hammering away at a typewriter. He didn’t seem to have noticed anything.