The Monster’s Corner: Stories Through Inhuman Eyes

As to what Catherine and I could possibly have in common, the answer is little, which gives us much to discuss. Catherine is endlessly fascinated with my life. To her, I am the star in some terrible yet endlessly thrilling adventure.

“Have you been doing better?” she asked as I fixed tea.

“I am surviving. We both know that I would prefer it wasn’t so, but …” I smiled her way. “You have heard quite enough on that matter.”

“I wish you could be happier, Amrita.”

“I’ve been alive too long to be happy. I would prefer to be gone. At peace.” I handed her a cup. “But, again, we’ve talked about this enough. It’s a depressing way to spend your visits. I would prefer to talk about you and your happiness. Did you ask Jonathan about the trip?”

Her gaze dropped to her teacup. “He said it wasn’t possible. He’d love to, but he can’t take you and he can’t leave his duties here.”

“Oh. I had thought perhaps he would be able to take me. That the council would consider it acceptable to revisit my roots. I am sorry I mentioned it, then.”

“Don’t be. You know I want to see India. You make it sound so wonderful. I just hope …” She sipped her tea. “I hope by the time he’s free of his obligation, I’m still in good enough health …”

Her voice trailed off. I didn’t need to remind her that it was a fool’s dream.

“He would like to take you,” I said.

“I know.”

“He would like to go himself.”

“I know. But his obligation …”

Could be over anytime he chooses. Those were the words left unspoken. Also the words but he does not have the strength of will to do it, to defy his family by freeing me on his own, despite the fact it is his decision to make, and the council will support it.

“I would miss you,” she blurted. “I’d miss our talks.”

I smiled. “As would I. If you were free to travel, though, you would see these places for yourself, make new friends. Here, we are both prisoners.”

Jonathan insists she stay in the house. He says it is for her own safety, so she can’t be targeted in retaliation for our acts.

She suspects, I’m sure, that he keeps her here because it is convenient. She is as much his property as I am. Without his obligation as an excuse, she’d have more freedom, whether he liked it or not.

“Jonathan knows best,” she said finally. “He will free you. I know he will. It just isn’t time.”

It never would be. Not if I relied on Catherine.

There were many things Daman and I agreed on, as partners in life, in love, in ambition. One was that — despite the teachings of the Brahmins — all men are created equal. Each bears within him the capacity to achieve his heart’s desire. He needs only the strength of will to see it through.

Daman’s story was an old one. A boy from a family rich in respect and lineage, poor in wealth and power. His family wanted him to marry a merchant’s daughter with a rich dowry. Instead he chose me, a scholar’s daughter, his childhood playmate. I brought something more valuable than money — intelligence, ambition, and a shared vision for what could be.

A hundred years ago, when my ishas lived in England, one saw the play Macbeth, and forever after that he called me Lady Macbeth. I found the allusion insulting. Macbeth was a coward, his wife a harpy. Daman did not need me to push him. Every step we took, we took as one.

In our twenty years together, we recouped everything his family had lost over the centuries. Our supporters would say that we brought stability and prosperity to the region. Our detractors would point out the trail of bodies in our wake, and the growing piles of coin in our coffers. Neither is incorrect. We did good and we did evil. We left the lands better than we found them, but at a price that was, perhaps, too steep.

I do regret the path we took. Yet if given a second chance, I would not sit in a corner, content with my lot. My ambition would merely be checked by a better appreciation for the value of human life. That appreciation has stayed my hand in this matter. Which has gotten me nowhere.

My next assignment came nearly four months later. That is typical. While one might look at the world and see plenty of wrongdoers, it is a rare one that must be culled altogether. Jonathan needs to search for a target. Then he must compile a dossier and submit it to the council, who will return elimination approval or request more information. After that comes weeks of surveillance, at which point my participation is required, my talents for illusion and shape-shifting useful.

Jonathan is supposed to assist with the surveillance work. He claims he’s conducting his own elsewhere, but when I’ve followed, I’ve found him in coffee shops, flirting with serving girls or working on his novel.

He is supposed to supervise me, in case I shirk my duties and find a coffee shop of my own. I’ve considered it. I even have an idea for a novel. While it amuses me to think of this, I cannot do it. I enjoy the unsupervised times too much to risk them, and I do not have the personality for lounging and storytelling.

However, this time when I did my surveillance I was … less than forthright about my findings.

The target was yet another financier. Unlike Morrison, this one had been the subject of death threats, so he employed a bodyguard — a young man he passed off as his personal assistant.

I learned about the death threats by eavesdropping. I left them out of the report. I discovered the assistant’s true nature only by surveillance. I left that out of the report as well. My official conclusion was that this man — Garvey — was no more security conscious than the others, but that his assistant was rarely away from his side, so I would lure the young man away, then let Jonathan subdue him while I dealt with Garvey.

It went as one might expect. Separating the two had been easy enough. Such things are minor obstacles for one who has spent hundreds of years practicing the art of illusion.

I got the bodyguard upstairs, where Jonathan was waiting. Then I hurried back to Garvey.

Jonathan’s cries for help came before I reached the bottom of the stairs. They alerted Garvey, as I knew they would. My job, then, was to subdue the financier before he could retrieve his gun. After that it would be safe for me to go to my isha’s aid.

It took some time for me to subdue Garvey. He was unexpectedly strong. Or so I would later claim.

By the time I returned upstairs, the bodyguard had beaten Jonathan unconscious and was preparing the killing blow. I shot him with Garvey’s gun. Then I left Jonathan where he lay, returned to Garvey, and carried on. This was my mission, which superseded all else, even the life of my isha.

When I was finished with Garvey — after he confessed to killing his guard, then taking his own life — I drove Jonathan to the hospital. Then I called Catherine.

“I take responsibility for this,” I said to Catherine as we stood beside Jonathan’s hospital bed. “My job was to protect him. I failed.”

“You didn’t know about the bodyguard.”

“I should have. That, too, is my job. We are both to conduct a proper survey — ”

“If Jon didn’t find out about him, there’s no reason you would.”

I fell silent. Stared down at Jonathan, still unconscious after surgery to stanch the internal bleeding. I snuck looks at Catherine, searching for some sign that she would secretly have been relieved by his death. I’d seen none.

She claimed to love him. She did love him. I could still work with this.

“It’s becoming so much more dangerous,” I murmured. “There have always been accidents, but it is so much harder to keep an isha safe these days.”

“Accidents? This — this hasn’t happened before, has it?”

I kept my gaze on Jonathan.

“Amrita.”

I looked up slowly, then hesitated before saying, “The council has assured me that the rate of injury on my missions is far below that of most.”

“Rate of injury?” Her voice squeaked a little. “I’ve never heard of an isha being seriously injured. You mean things like sprained ankles and bruises, right?”

I said nothing.

“Amrita!”