Marc fell back a step as Katrina swung the iron poker with both hands again. The
first blow had connected strongly enough with Marc's head to send him staggering
sideways, but there was no sign of any wound. Of course not, thought Katrina
crazily. He's not really there. That's just an illusion of Marc. Behind the
illusion, he's probably bleeding like a stuck pig. The thought comforted her as
she swung the poker again, putting all her strength into it.
Marc's hand shot out at the last moment and intercepted the poker, absorbing its
momentum with hardly a jolt, though Katrina's hand went numb from the impact.
Marc smiled at her, and her eyes rolled up in her head as he sucked the strength
out of her. She collapsed in a heap, and Marc let the poker drop to the floor
beside her. He turned to face Holly again, and then stopped as Arthur grabbed
him by the ankle. Marc tried to pull free, and couldn't.
Arthur's fingers whitened as he put all his remaining strength into his grip.
Holly needed him. Nothing else mattered. Marc bent down and picked up the poker
he'd dropped. Arthur knew what was going to happen, but didn't have the strength
to turn his head away. He couldn't even shut his eyes. Marc struck down hard
with the poker, and Arthur's vision disappeared behind a sudden rush of blood.
He still wouldn't let go. Holly needed him. Marc hit him again, and again.
Holly burst out of her chair and threw herself at Marc, screaming and flailing
at him with her fists. Marc stumbled backwards and almost fell, but he quickly
regained his balance and grabbed one of her waving arms. She fell to her knees
as the strength went out of her, and he smiled down at her.
'Don't be so impatient, Holly. I'll be with you in a moment.' He bent down and
struck repeatedly at Arthur's hand with the poker. The sound of bones breaking
and splintering was horribly loud on the quiet. Marc pulled his foot free, threw
aside the poker, and turned back to look at Holly. 'There; that didn't take too
long, did it? Now I'm free to give you my full attention.'
He smiled slowly. 'You know, Holly, you're all I ever dreamed of, down all the
years, locked away in stone and silence. I watched the light come and go through
the narrow slit of window, and listened to the gulls screaming, and felt the
slow turning of the seasons… and dreamed about what I'd do when I finally got
out. At first I dreamed of blood and pain and sweet revenge, and then I dreamed
of the world beyond the Tower, and all the terrible things I would do there, and
then I dreamed of women, and all the warmth and kindness and beauty I've always
longed for, and never known except in dreams.'
'But the years passed, and the dreams got mixed up with each other, until I
really don't know what I want anymore.
I want you, Holly; you're all I ever dreamed of. So I'm going to hurt you and
drain you and hurt you some more and maybe finally I'll hurt you till you die of
it, because I want you so much it hurts. Come to me, Holly. No need to be
afraid. After all, I'm just one of the Family.'
Holly jerked her arm free from his grip and scrambled to her feet, backing away
across the room as he came unhurriedly after her. She looked desperately around
for help, but Katrina was lying unconscious on the floor, and Arthur was only
moving feebly, despite the desperation on his bloody face. Holly wanted to cry,
for them and for herself, but there wasn't time. She kept backing away, and Marc
kept coming after her, still smiling. She wanted to scream for help, to Jamie or
David or one of the others, but she knew they were too far away to hear her.
There was no one to help her. So she'd just have to do it herself.
You're a MacNeil. Act like one.
She chanted that silently to herself, like a prayer or a penance, as her gaze
swept the room, searching for something she could use as a weapon. Maybe a brand
from the fire; she could set his clothes alight. Except that the fireplace was
on the other side of the room now, and he stood between it and her. There were
heavy paperweights on the desk, but even as she looked at them, Marc intercepted
her gaze and moved to block her way to the desk. She thought about making a dash
for the door, but one glance was enough to convince her that she'd never be able
to dismantle the barricade before Marc got to her. She smiled humorlessly. She'd
felt so safe behind that barricade… Think, dammit, think! She passed by an oil
lamp on the wall, and without hesitating snatched it from its niche and threw it
at Marc with all her strength. She just had time for a brief fantasy of his
being consumed by blazing oil, and then Marc's hand shot up and snatched the
lamp effortlessly out of midair. He put it gently down on a nearby chair, and
smiled condescendingly.
'Your problem, Holly, is that you keep thinking I'm human. And I'm not. Not
really. Why don't I show you what I look like? What I really look like. Would
you like that?'
Holly tried to say something, but her throat had clamped shut, and she couldn't
make a sound. She'd somehow ended up by the desk, and her desperate gaze fell
upon a slim silver letter opener. She looked quickly away again in case Marc had
noticed, but his gaze seemed fixed on her. For the first time, he'd stopped
smiling. Something stirred in her mind, like suddenly becoming aware of a
background noise that had just stopped. Marc seemed to ripple and flow, like
something far away seen through a heat haze, and then Marc was gone and the
freak stood before her.
Her first thought was That's not so bad. She'd been expecting something hideous,
some awful misshapen thing, with fangs and claws and bulging eyes, but instead
he looked surprisingly ordinary. He was average height but very thin and bony,
wrapped in clothes that were too big for him. Marc's clothes. Holly supposed
that wearing them made the illusion easier to maintain. Or perhaps it just made
the freak feel more like an ordinary man. His left arm and leg were severely
twisted, and his left shoulder was clearly lower than the other, but none of it
was enough to mark him as a freak. And then she looked at his face, and didn't
know whether to laugh or scream. It was a normal enough face, surrounded by long
greasy hair and a stringy beard, and flecked with blood from a recent scalp
wound, but sometime in the past, the mouth had been sewn together. The heavy
black stitches had sunk deep into the lips, compressing them into a thin white
line. Holly wondered who'd done it; presumably the father, before walling the
freak up in his cell. And why not? she thought crazily. He doesn't need a mouth,
after all.
'How do you speak?' she said shrilly.
The mouth twitched in something that might have been meant as a smile. 'It's all
part of the illusion, my dear. You hear what I want you to hear. But this has
gone on long enough, I think. It's time.'
He started towards her, his laughter sounding in her mind. She snatched up the
letter opener from the desk and thrust it between his ribs. He grunted once, a
dark hungry sound like a pig at its trough, and grabbed both her arms, ignoring
the blood coursing down his side. Holly tried to struggle, but all the strength
went out of her at his touch. She couldn't even scream as the freak's thin white
