pride and prejudice and zombies:: dreadfull ever after

Part 31

CHAPTER 31

Dr. Sleaford let his pet dreadful nip at Hawksworth for a while, but after his sixth "And what if your friend were to be bitten here?" Mary realized it was all for show. Subject Seven wasn't going to sink its teeth into anybody, anywhere. Not yet.

She returned her attention to a matter of real concern.

"You remain admirably composed," she said to the man she'd known until minutes before as "Mr. Quayle."

He hadn't so much as glanced at the snapping skull as it was pushed within biting range again and again. He merely lay on the cart to which he'd been strapped, staring either at the stain-splattered ceiling or, from time to time, at Mary.

"When last I saw you," she continued, "you seemed to find dreadfuls ... unsettling."

"You are generous with your choice of words," Hawksworth said. At the moment, he was in one of his ceiling phases. "Others might have said that I fled like a craven coward, abandoning you and your family to certain death."

"Others have said that."

"They were right to do so." Hawksworth looked into Mary's eyes. "It is true."

Dr. Sleaford cleared his throat. "I said, 'And what if your friend were to be—?' "

"My friend," Mary said, still holding Hawksworth's gaze, "is not going to be bitten anywhere until Sir Angus MacFarquhar has had a chance to interrogate us. No doubt your master will want the same power over us that you feign, and you could hardly spoil that for him by dooming us before he's even arrived."

"Oh, ho! You think so, do you? Well, what if your friend were to be bitten ... here!"

Dr. Sleaford leaned in to point a long chalk-white finger at a region of Hawksworth's body that was never supposed to be acknowledged at all, let alone pointed at. His assistants, Turvy and Styles, obediently swung Subject Seven's gurney toward the area in question.

"Sir," Hawksworth said, turning away from Mary to glare at their captor, "as you can see, I have been bitten by dreadfuls before." He waggled what was left of his arms and legs, which wasn't much. "With enough repetition, even one's greatest fear loses its hold. So have your creature bite me there, if you truly mean to. Otherwise, end this charade now."

Dr. Sleaford glowered at the man a moment before blowing out what seemed to be a sigh of relief.

"All right, fair enough," he said. "Turvy, if you would see Judith back to her closet, please."

"Judith?" Mary asked as the slimy, sinew-covered skull and spine were wheeled out still wriggling and snapping.

Dr. Sleaford chuckled. " 'Subject Seven' sounds so much more ominous, don't you think? 'Ooooo, tell me what I want to know or I'll sic Judith on you!'? It wouldn't do at all." His long, pale face turned solemn again. "Sir Angus will sic Judith on you, though, I assure you. Unless you tell me who sent you."

He paused hopefully, but neither Mary nor Hawksworth were any more inclined to answer.

"Fine, I'll stop," Dr. Sleaford said with a shrug. "It's just that we've never had prisoners of such obvious quality—not alive, at any rate—and it saddens me to think of what awaits when Sir Angus arrives."

"And when might we expect that?" Mary asked.

"Oh, there's no telling. He's quite busy with the recoronation, you know—or I assume you know. We sent word that we'd captured more spies, but I can't even be sure the messenger got through, with the streets as they are. Frightful out there, isn't it?"