The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [51]
He blinked sweat from his eyes and tried to scramble away. From nowhere came Jack's foot, a kick that connected with a furious impact with his ribs, and he screamed.
"What are you doing?" he cried, but realisation, working its slow, inefficient way through his sluggish brain, had finally arrived, and for a moment he, too, froze.
He was backed into a corner of the room. Jack towered above him, unspeaking, his face impassive. His eyes stared down at Orphan but did not see him. For Jack, Orphan realised, was no longer there.
Jack kicked him again. The kick just missed his left kneecap and hit his shin. Pain shot through him, weaving a bright spider-web through his body. Stars exploded behind Orphan's eyes. Amongst them he thought, for a fleeting moment, that he could see a red, large star winking at him.
The starscape faded to black. When he opened his eyes again Jack was still there, his foot raised high. Ready to stomp down on Orphan. Ready to finish him. With no conscious thought, like a spider with its own mind, his fingers reached down to his side and pulled out the old gun, fumbling at it, cocking the hammer. Jack's foot descended –
Orphan pulled the trigger.
SIXTEEN
At the Bibliotheca Librorum Imaginariorum
There thou mayst brain him, Having first seized his books, or with a log
Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake, Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember First to possess his books; for without them He's but a sot, as I am, nor hath not
One spirit to command: they all do hate him As rootedly as I. Burn but his books.
– William Shakespeare, The Tempest
The recoil threw him back. He felt his shoulder and arm slapped as by a giant stone hand. The sound of an explosion deafened him.
A book landed in his lap, and when he looked at it, blinking, realised for the first time that he was bleeding. The blood congealed on the leather cover, mixed with the dust that lay on the book like a thick layer of pollen. A choked laugh escaped from his lips. The book in his lap was Gray's Anatomy. I'm going to need that, he thought.
He raised his head. His fingers clutched the book.
Jack was crumpled against the wall on the other side of the room. There was a hole in his chest. But there was no blood.
Orphan pulled himself up, his bloodied hands leaving palm-prints on the wall. The gun remained on the floor, beside the fallen book.
He took a deep breath and felt pain, like a jagged nail, cut across his ribs. His nose was blocked and hurting. One leg refused to carry him, and he leaned with his back against the wall, letting the leg dangle. Jack remained unmoving on the other side. He, too, had hit a bookcase. He lay surrounded by silent, fallen books.
Slowly, carefully, one hand trailing against the wall and the contours of the room, Orphan made his way toward him.
There was a whistling sound in his ears. And, somehow, he could smell – there was a burning smell in the room, a mix of gunpowder and something else, as of scorched rubber…
He stood above Jack. His friend's face was lax, empty, as if its features had half-melted away, leaving behind a mask devoid of animation. His eyes were closed. He forced himself to look below the face. His eyes moved down slowly, hesitating as they went. They felt, he thought, reluctant to obey his brain.
There was a hole in Jack's chest. And in the hole… blue fire.
A spark flew in the air and made Orphan stagger back. Sparks were coming out of the open hole in Jack's chest, one and then another one and another, until a small electric storm seemed to erupt out of that still body and jump into the air.
He is bleeding electricity, Orphan thought. And then, at last, he formulated to himself the thought that had insinuated itself into his mind when Jack attacked him. Simulacrum.
He knelt beside Jack and took his hand in his. There was no pulse,