The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [150]
He fixed his eyes on the canvas splattered with motley shades the colour of gangrene. The Wrath of Ages it was called. And, if truth be told, it was an appalling work that conveyed little beyond a congregation of blurs.
Mattosis reflected on the fact that perhaps the work of Meral of Skitten had found an appropriate place of exhibition, after all. He took a step backwards so he could consider the painting in its entirety.
And walked directly onto the point of the Gutting Knife, which pierced his lower back, then slid up at an angle and severed his spine.
Mattosis fell like a piece of timber. His scream was loud but quickly hushed when his vocal chords succumbed to his paralysis. Nevertheless, it tumbled through the gloom of the Museum like a boulder through a gorge.
And the Gutter's lips twitched, which was the nearest thing he would ever come to a smile.
Sweet Dena'han was described by many as the most beautiful woman they had ever seen. Her form was near perfect ― her face a living image of grace ― and, inside, she was as twisted and gnarled as a withered root.
The curve of her blade matched the curve of her body: they were equally deadly. Sweet Dena'han was an expert at finding her way into the beds of lovers who were actually her victims. They didn't know this until they woke up in the small hours of the night, choking on their own blood. But it was all part of her delicious charm, which was remarkably false for one so beautiful.
Sweet Dena'han was a Catastrophist fundamentalist who was prepared to allow the violation of her body for the sake of achieving her philosophical aims. It was not that she was cold-blooded in some mentally detached or subjectively callous way. She did what she did with a selfless dedication to the task, and with an admirable disregard for her personal ambition (prior to joining the Psychomatics, Sweet Dena'han had been one of the most promising scholars of her generation).
She searched the precincts of a muddled anteroom that was over-furnished with figures and busts that vied with each other for the absurdity of their composition. Comically hideous faces stared at her from rough-hewn pedestals. Contorted plaster-cast carcasses stooped and lurched as she wove her way between them.
And, suddenly, one of them moved.
It was fortunate for Sweet Dena'han that she had been on her guard. When the Gutter swung the Gutting Knife at her, she raised an arm in her defence, her torcs deflecting the blow successfully.
She span on her feet with her dagger whistling, expecting to land a slash across the Gutter's chest.
But he was gone.
No. He had ducked under the trajectory of the swinging blade and was leering up at her out of a pool of shadows. When he thrust the Gutting Knife up at her, it slammed like a shaft of ice between her legs. Sweet Dena'han produced a scream that filled the entire Museum with a declaration of agony few others could rival.
And there were many would say that her manner of death was perfectly fitting.
After the Psychomatics had followed the Gutter into the Museum of Darkest Arts, the Sisters of No Mercy had followed after them.
But nobody knew that they were there.
Now they were in the basement examining the corpses of the elderly servitors who, after a long life of easy living, had died in monstrous pain at the behest of the Gutting Knife.
"Serves the fuckers right, really," observed Little Sister.
"Damn right it does," said Big Sister.
"Still," said Little Sister, "it's a crime."
"It's an absolute fucking atrocity," said Big Sister.
Little Sister stood up from the body she'd been bending over.
"But this," she said, now walking over to the corner of the cluttered holding, "is the biggest fucking crime of all."
Big Sister followed her. She was speechless.
"We couldn't have wished it any other way," said Little Sister. She took hold of the lid of the Gutter's churn and began to twist.
Big Sister said nothing. The tear in her eye surely said it all.
The Gutter was pleased he had found the linear stragglers, but disappointed he hadn't