Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [175]
Vermishank dug inelegantly through the unwilling flesh. He gripped and ungripped his fingers to grab hold of a rib. Isaac grabbed hold of Vermishank’s wrist and held it. His face was set in a grimace. He was stronger, but pain was disabling him.
Vermishank was wailing as they wrestled. “Let me go!” he screamed. He had had no plan, had struck out in fear of his life and found himself committed to a murderous attack. It could not be undone. He could do nothing but scrabble for purchase inside Isaac’s chest.
Behind them, David fumbled for his key.
Isaac could not pull Vermishank’s fingers from his chest, and Vermishank could not push them any further in. They stood, swaying, tugging at each other. Behind them the confusion of voices continued. Lemuel had stood, had kicked away his chair and was feinting to find a vantage point for a clean shot. Derkhan ran over and pulled violently at Vermishank’s arms, but the terrified man curled his fingers around the bones of Isaac’s chest, and with every pull Isaac screamed in pain. Blood was spurting from Isaac’s skin, from the imperfect seals where Vermishank’s fingers punctured his flesh.
Vermishank and Isaac and Derkhan wrestled and howled, spraying blood across the floor, fouling Sincerity, who bolted away. Lemuel reached over Isaac’s shoulder to shoot, but Vermishank tugged Isaac around like some grotesque glove puppet, knocking the pistol out of Lemuel’s hand. It hit the floor some feet away, scattering its black powder. Lemuel swore and dug urgently for a powder-case.
Suddenly a shrouded figure stood by the clumsy fighting trio. Yagharek threw back his hood. Vermishank stared into his hard round eyes, opened his mouth at the garuda’s great predatory birdface. But before he could speak, Yagharek had plunged his vicious curved beak into the flesh of Vermishank’s right arm.
He tore through the muscle and tendons with speed and vigour. Vermishank shrieked as his arm blossomed with ragged flesh and blood. He snapped his hand back, withdrawing it from Isaac’s flesh, which resealed imperfectly with a wet snap. Isaac growled with agony and stroked his chest. It was slick with blood, the surface misshapen, pocked and still bleeding from Vermishank’s hand.
Derkhan had her arms around Vermishank’s neck. As Vermishank clutched the bleeding ruins of his forearm, she hurled him away from her into the centre of the room. The construct rolled out of Vermishank’s way as he staggered and fell, fouling the boards with gore, screaming.
Lemuel had primed his pistol again. Vermishank caught sight of him aiming and opened his mouth to beg, to wail. He held his bloody arm up, trembling, supplicating.
Lemuel pulled the trigger. There was a cavernous cracking sound and an explosion of acrid gunpowder. Vermishank’s cry stopped instantly. The ball hit him right between the eyes, a textbook shot from close enough range to pass through him and take the back of his head off in an efflorescence of dark blood.
He fell back, his broken skull smacking dully on the old boards.
The particles of gunpowder spun and tumbled slowly. Vermishank’s carcass shuddered.
Isaac leant back against the wall and swore. He pressed his chest, seemed to smooth it down. He fumbled at it in an ineffectual attempt to repair the cosmetic damage Vermishank’s intrusive fingers had done.
He emitted livid barks of pain.
“Godsdamn!” he spat, and eyed Vermishank’s body with loathing.
Lemuel held his pistol idly. Derkhan was trembling. Yagharek had withdrawn, stood watching the proceedings, his features dim once more in the shadows of the hood.
No one spoke. The fact of Vermishank’s murder filled the room. There was unease and shock, but no recrimination. No one wished him alive again.
“Yag, old son,” croaked Isaac eventually. “I owe you.” The garuda did not acknowledge him.
“We have to . . . we have to get this out of here,” said Derkhan urgently, kicking Vermishank’s corpse. “They’ll be looking for him soon.”
“That’s the least of our worries,” said Isaac. He held out his right hand. He