Island of Doom: Hunchback Assignments 4 (The Hunchback Assignments) by Arthur Slade Page B
Authors: Arthur Slade
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normal man’s, except for the tiny pink finger on his right hand. It was so different from the rest of his grayish-green flesh.
Ah, the science that had brought the creature to life, that made it walk and grunt, he did not understand. Dr. Hyde did, of course, and perhaps the Guild Master did too. Lime didn’t care how it had been created as long as it obeyed orders.
He was becoming convinced that Modo’s parents were not in this town. It had been fifteen years; they could easily have moved anywhere. How many potters could there be in France? He was at a loss as to where to look next. Perhaps he shouldn’t have killed that priest. After all, Mauger may have had other documents. Or the midwife. She might have been able to recognize Modo’s parents. He’d been too quick to kill. Again. But what was done was done.
There was a tentative knock on the door. Lime unlocked it, letting in a pale, dark-haired chamber boy who carried a large brass platter with three cooked hens surrounded by roasted vegetables. “Set them there.” He pointed to the table. The boy did so and left without a word. Lime began eating, meticulously cutting the flesh from the birds with one of hisown knives. The birds were still pleasantly steaming. The carrots and potatoes were delicious. At least the French knew how to cook.
He heard a thump behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Had Typhon moved? The monster was in the same place. Lime finished the first bird, then set the plate of scraps next to the creature. It stared at the food. “Eat, Typhon,” he commanded, and Typhon leaned over and began to devour the remains of the hen, bones cracking and crunching between his large teeth. He left the vegetables.
Lime returned to the table and the remaining hens. So where were the Héberts? Had they died? Emigrated? That wasn’t beyond possibility. The French were as adventurous as the English. Perhaps they’d moved to India, to Africa, even to America. He banished the thought; he didn’t want to spend months sorting through passenger lists.
“More meat,” a voice rumbled.
Lime shuddered and looked up from his meal. The monster had spoken and was looking directly at him with those horrible eyes.
“Did you say something?” Lime tried to keep his voice steady.
The monster lifted a foot and stamped once, the floorboards shaking. “More meat,” he growled.
So it could speak! Could it think? If so, he couldn’t just let it order him around. It needed to know who was in charge.
“Ask nicely,” he said.
“More meat …” The thing paused, struggling to find the right word. “Please.”
Lime carried the last hen over and watched it disappear into the maw of the creature. Then it downed the bowl of water, splashing half of it across its chest, and closed its eyes.
“Yes, you sleep, my pretty one,” Lime said quietly, staring at the creature from several feet away.
In time, too much time, he too fell asleep, clutching his gun under his pillow.
18
Eyes That Are Blind
M odo turned his back to Octavia and Colette and let his natural form return. At this stage of his transformation there was little pain; this was where his body was meant to be. When Modo was a child, Mr. Socrates had once given him a hand mirror and let him take his first real look at his own face. He had stared in horror. Mr. Socrates then said, “You are deformed. You are ugly. But remember this day, Modo. It’s the day you learned that you’ve been given an incredible gift. Your unsightly countenance may seem unbearable now, but because of it, the world will always underestimate you.” Modo had been five years old.
He was no longer troubled by people underestimating him, nor did he fear the horrified glances of strangers. Who cared about them! No. But the fact that Octavia and Colette couldn’t stand to look at him. Ah, that seared.
He had grown more comfortable in his hunchbacked body. Any time he changed into one of his many personae, his skin was
Ah, the science that had brought the creature to life, that made it walk and grunt, he did not understand. Dr. Hyde did, of course, and perhaps the Guild Master did too. Lime didn’t care how it had been created as long as it obeyed orders.
He was becoming convinced that Modo’s parents were not in this town. It had been fifteen years; they could easily have moved anywhere. How many potters could there be in France? He was at a loss as to where to look next. Perhaps he shouldn’t have killed that priest. After all, Mauger may have had other documents. Or the midwife. She might have been able to recognize Modo’s parents. He’d been too quick to kill. Again. But what was done was done.
There was a tentative knock on the door. Lime unlocked it, letting in a pale, dark-haired chamber boy who carried a large brass platter with three cooked hens surrounded by roasted vegetables. “Set them there.” He pointed to the table. The boy did so and left without a word. Lime began eating, meticulously cutting the flesh from the birds with one of hisown knives. The birds were still pleasantly steaming. The carrots and potatoes were delicious. At least the French knew how to cook.
He heard a thump behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Had Typhon moved? The monster was in the same place. Lime finished the first bird, then set the plate of scraps next to the creature. It stared at the food. “Eat, Typhon,” he commanded, and Typhon leaned over and began to devour the remains of the hen, bones cracking and crunching between his large teeth. He left the vegetables.
Lime returned to the table and the remaining hens. So where were the Héberts? Had they died? Emigrated? That wasn’t beyond possibility. The French were as adventurous as the English. Perhaps they’d moved to India, to Africa, even to America. He banished the thought; he didn’t want to spend months sorting through passenger lists.
“More meat,” a voice rumbled.
Lime shuddered and looked up from his meal. The monster had spoken and was looking directly at him with those horrible eyes.
“Did you say something?” Lime tried to keep his voice steady.
The monster lifted a foot and stamped once, the floorboards shaking. “More meat,” he growled.
So it could speak! Could it think? If so, he couldn’t just let it order him around. It needed to know who was in charge.
“Ask nicely,” he said.
“More meat …” The thing paused, struggling to find the right word. “Please.”
Lime carried the last hen over and watched it disappear into the maw of the creature. Then it downed the bowl of water, splashing half of it across its chest, and closed its eyes.
“Yes, you sleep, my pretty one,” Lime said quietly, staring at the creature from several feet away.
In time, too much time, he too fell asleep, clutching his gun under his pillow.
18
Eyes That Are Blind
M odo turned his back to Octavia and Colette and let his natural form return. At this stage of his transformation there was little pain; this was where his body was meant to be. When Modo was a child, Mr. Socrates had once given him a hand mirror and let him take his first real look at his own face. He had stared in horror. Mr. Socrates then said, “You are deformed. You are ugly. But remember this day, Modo. It’s the day you learned that you’ve been given an incredible gift. Your unsightly countenance may seem unbearable now, but because of it, the world will always underestimate you.” Modo had been five years old.
He was no longer troubled by people underestimating him, nor did he fear the horrified glances of strangers. Who cared about them! No. But the fact that Octavia and Colette couldn’t stand to look at him. Ah, that seared.
He had grown more comfortable in his hunchbacked body. Any time he changed into one of his many personae, his skin was
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