Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [100]
Dunn had backed him to the foot of the table. A pair of balloons floated to Coleman’s right, closer to the broad oak expanse (which, he had time to notice, was incised with row after row of the same figures written on the balloons’ paper surface). There was no need for him to slash the two of them, yet there was no denying the deep rush of pleasure that accompanied the act. At this latest insult to his inventions, Dunn roared and charged. Coleman ducked the swing at his head and jabbed Dunn’s right arm high, near the shoulder. Dunn yelped and retreated a step.
The library door slammed shut behind Isabelle and Cal Earnshaw. Coleman doubted Cal would last out the next hour, let alone the remainder of the night, but at least he would do so in the company of his wife and not splayed on a table surrounded by a charlatan and his paper toys. Coleman lowered the tip of his sword. His breath coming fast, he said, “There. Mrs. Earnshaw’s wishes have been fulfilled. Now perhaps you and I can settle matters between us in a more civilized fashion. I apologize for the destruction of your creations. I would be willing to recompense you a fair amount—”
“You fucking idiot,” Dunn said. He had pressed his left hand over the wound Coleman had given him; his fingers were scarlet. He had not dropped his saber, which he pointed at the first balloons Coleman had vandalized. “You think these are works of art? They’re cages.”
“More metaphors?” Coleman looked to the other end of the room. The balloons he had stabbed were in a state of half collapse on the floor, surrounded by ever-widening pools of brackish ichor. Those he had sliced open were sagging downwards, raining their contents as they descended. Through the vents he had cut in them, he could distinguish something, a mottled surface his blade had torn and which was the source of the viscous liquid. That layer was pierced by additional holes, lozenge shaped and anywhere in size from that of a small coin to a handbreadth. Each of the holes was moving, opening and closing with a motion that was repellently familiar. Coleman stared at them blankly before understanding rushed in and he recognized the apertures as mouths. For a moment, he felt the room around him tilt crazily. He reached his left hand to his forehead. “My God . . .”
With a sudden burst of speed, Dunn lunged forward and stabbed Coleman in the chest. The blade was a white shock. For a moment, Coleman was propelled out of his body to a lightless place. When he returned, he had fallen to his knees and Dunn was holding forth. “—true,” he said. “The veil between the worlds is thinner, here. With the proper preparations, the inhabitants of the other realm may be lured across, captured, and put to work. Their physical capabilities are limited, but what they offer in terms of knowledge . . . Their appetites, however, are considerable, and they require a rather specialized diet. Human sensation sustains them—the more intense, the better the meal. Pain they find particularly satisfying. The agonies of the dying will keep them happy and compliant for days.”
“Your . . . services . . .” Coleman panted. With each breath, his chest filled with white fire.
“No doubt some of my clients have taken comfort from their time with me,” Dunn said. “They’ve certainly been more use here than at any other time in their lives. It’s a pity,” he continued, “I had hoped that you—an artist—might understand the work in which I am engaged here. It was not my intention for your stay to end this way. But since it has, and since you have