Page 114 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

“Drop the gun now,” he told D’Agosta in a whisper. “Not a sound. Or I do to her like what I did the schoolteacher.”

75

D’AGOSTA FROZE. HEmight be able to get off a shot with the revolver, just possibly, before Munck cut the girl’s throat—but the Colt .45 was not an accurate weapon, and the man was using the girl as a shield.

Under no circumstances whatsoever are you to reveal yourself to Constance…

“Now,” said Munck, the tip of his knife just pricking the girl’s flesh, a drop of blood welling up at the point of contact.

D’Agosta held out his arm and let the gun swing by the trigger guard.

“On the carpet,” the man said.

He did as instructed, mind going a mile a minute. This was no mere recon: the schoolteacher was dead. But not the girl. D’Agosta realized she was not so much a hostage as a kidnap victim. That meant Leng wanted her alive. Munckmightnot kill her—it all depended on how strict Leng’s orders had been.

“I’m going to leave,” Munck said. “If you raise any alarm before we’re out the front door, I cut her throat.”

The man lowered the knife from the girl’s throat as he began backing toward the staircase. And in that moment, D’Agosta knew that—whatever orders he’d been given, and as unexpected as this situation was—he had no option but to act.

He leapt forward and rushed the bastard, who in turn jumped to one side and lashed out with the knife, slashing his forearm as D’Agosta warded off the blow. But his forward momentum was so strong that he body-slammed the man. Surprisingly, Munck didn’t go down, merely staggered—short as he was, he was as massive as a rock—and he swung his knife back around with the intention of sinking it in D’Agosta’s back. But he was encumbered by the girl, and this allowed D’Agosta to punch his own arm upward, striking the descending forearm, which—following through on the punch—he slammed against the wall, the knife flying.

Again, Munck backed toward the stairway, dragging the girl with him. Just then, decorative drapery was flung aside from one wall, and out of a hidden door a woman appeared. She advanced on Munck with a poker.

“Meurs, salaud!” she cried.

Munck, clasping the girl to him, abruptly raised his left hand in an odd, martial salute, twisting his wrist as he did so. There was a clang of ringing steel—and suddenly three long, thin blades slid out from below his fingers: a giant, spring-loaded claw, hidden beneath his forearm.

D’Agosta skipped back in surprise as the foreign woman swung the poker, but Munck ducked and swept his arm in a wide angle, slashing her brutally across the midsection. As she fell back, Munck lunged with animal swiftness toward D’Agosta, aiming for his eyes; D’Agosta pivoted, in a desperate attempt to dodge the blow, but Munck twisted his own wrist simultaneously and—though the bloodied claw just missed D’Agosta—its metal enclosure impacted violently with his temple. D’Agosta staggered back, bright lights filling his vision, the sudden warmth of syncope beginning to envelop him. The man raced down the stairs, hauling the girl roughly along with him, even as D’Agosta—struggling to recover his wits—grabbed his gun from the floor, almost collapsing in the effort.

As he lurched down the stairs, he saw that Munck, moving like lightning, had already vanished from the landing below. D’Agosta could hear the house coming to life. Reaching the bottom landing, he saw Munck make a beeline across the entryway and through the first of two doors leading to the street. He raised his gun, but staggered, unable to get a bead on the man.

Suddenly, flying out of a darkened parlor, came a figure—Constance—stiletto raised, terrible in the silence of her attack. Munck reached the outer door and grasped the handle, yanking it open, but Constance slammed it closed again; D’Agosta saw a flash of steel and Munck lurched back immediately, cut badly across the face. Quickly collecting himself, he sprang at Constance, his nightmare device catching her knife arm; then he yanked the door open again and leapt out with the girl into the cold December night.

Constance, sleeve torn wide and blood welling, took up the pursuit. D’Agosta tried to follow. But as he reached the threshold, a wave of dizziness forced him to stop…even as he saw the man—Munck—clambering into the compartment of a sleek trap that had just pulled up in front of the mansion, evidently loitering nearby and expecting his emergence. A glossy thoroughbred was in the traces. A gloved hand from within helped Munck inside, the girl clutched close…and then the horse took off, galloping at high speed down Fifth Avenue and vanishing into the winter darkness. D’Agosta began to raise his gun again, but his chances of hitting the target were nonexistent—all he’d do was alert the neighborhood and draw the police.

Constance ran down the steps, sprinted to the corner…then sank to her knees in the dirty snow, letting forth an incoherent cry of rage and pain, stretching out her bloody hands into the night.

The scene began to whirl around him, and D’Agosta half sat, half collapsed onto the marble floor of the entryway. A darkness that had nothing to do with the time of night closed in from the sides of his vision and he lost the struggle to maintain consciousness.

76

D’AGOSTA WASN’T SUREhow much time passed until he recovered his senses, but it could not have been long. He found himself lying on the floor of the parlor, looking up at Constance, who stood over him, her face contorted, violet eyes raging.

The coachman arrived with a thud of heavy boots and quickly took in the scene. “Your Grace, you’re injured!” he cried in a coarse Irish accent. “What bitch’s bastard—?”

Constance was heedless, staring down at D’Agosta.

The coachman looked down at him. “Is this the one what done it?” He took a step forward, face darkening.

“Murphy, attend to Féline,” Constance said. “Upstairs. Find Joe and keep him safe. Instruct the other servants to lock down the house.”

“Do you not want me to bring the carriage round—”

“You’ll never catch them,” said Constance. “Now, see to Féline and Joe—I fear that beast killed Moseley.”

Murphy backed away, then went up the stairs. Other staff began arriving, but Constance was still staring at D’Agosta, her eyes burning right through him, the terrible look making him forget his pounding head, the dire situation…everything.

D’Agosta wanted to say something, wanted to explain, but he couldn’t think clearly enough to speak. Instead, he struggled to a sitting position, head swimming from the blow.

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