Page 56 of Adam, Mine

But it appeared that wounds sustained to him after the curse disappeared even quicker than that. He knew his hands should be callused after days of riding and over a week without the fatty soaps and oils he normally used. But his palms were as soft as they had ever been.

Elias skated a touch across where his skull should be split. There was nothing but warm flesh and hair. It chilled him, made him shake and grip the wall.

Was he human anymore? He didn’t feel like it.

It was vain, but Elias also missed his face. He had been told often of his sad smile and doe eyes. He missed the way women’s and young men’s gazes would soften when he turned to them.

But now, he looked so hard. Elias understood now why people were so ready to believe he was a soldier.

What a waste to cry for beauty when there was still blood beneath his nails. But Elias did.

Then he dressed again, drank his pine tea, ate eggs and mutton downstairs, and headed off to buy his ticket to France.

Flush

Languages were something that came easily to Elias, when the opportunities to learn presented themselves. He knew a few words of Spanish, how to introduce himself in French, the conjugation of love in Italian, and a decent amount of Danish after a fur trader wintered in their town.

But he didn’t know enough for this . . . complicated mission. His main objective was to meet Victor, force him to release him from these foul magics, and then slaughter him as slowly and painfully as his patience would allow. His secondary objective was to make certain that anyone Victor met or would meet had a full understanding of his sins so he could not lie to get the help he was seeking.

Victor obviously was untruthful and cowardly at heart. Elias did not put it past him to spin a tale that put Elias in the wrong and himself in a good light.

Also, the places where Victor was headed were speckled across the continent: a true singular path would be difficult to determine. Elias might arrive at locations long after Victor had left them, and he must have a plan for that as well.

But Elias could, with consideration, make a few conjectures. First, he knew that Victor would go to Russia last. It was the farthest away, and the weather was uncomfortable in winter. France was the closest, and Italy and Greece were just beneath it. The boat ride from Italy to Ireland, Scotland, and England would be the longest distance on sea they would need to take. The boat ride from England to the Netherlands would be only a few days, then he could head to Russia on land by way of Sweden.

Victor could perhaps also head up to the Netherlands first if he would be traveling through Germany, but Elias didn’t think a coward running from justice would travel that way. It was much more likely he would escape immediately to France.

However, it didn’t matter how well Elias guessed Victor’s path: The fact still remained that he had a list of places, not a road map to him directly. It wasn’t unlikely that he might arrive at certain locations before Victor did. It would be easier to encounter people who had met Victor first—undoubtedly Victor’s natural wickedness and agitating personality would provide a smooth introduction for them to receive Elias with mercy and understanding. But if Elias caught an alchemist unexpected because he’d simply chosen the wrong destination and outpaced Victor on his path . . . there might be difficulties. It could be dangerous.

Elias leaned his head against the window and looked out at the grass and hills going past. His booth on this train was empty. Most people were heading to Switzerland from France for this season, not away from it, and he was glad for the peace. He didn’t feel much like being pressed against another body right now.

He did need people, though. Besides for comforting the gnawing loneliness, he needed translators.

Hold

“Es gibt einen Jungen, der an deine Tür kommen wird. Sein Haar ist gelb und er wird nervös sein. Sein Name ist Victor Frankenstein und er wird dich um Hilfe bitten. Er ist ein Flüchtling vor der Justiz, der von den Magiern unseres gemeinsamen Landes verbannt wurde. Er hat mich zu einem Sklaven gemacht und den Willen Gottes verraten.”

“Il y a un garçon qui va venir à votre porte. Ses cheveux sont jaunes et il sera nerveux. Il s’appelle Victor Frankenstein et il vous demandera de l’aide. C’est un fugitif de la justice, exilé par les magiciens de notre pays commun. Il a fait de moi un esclave et a trahi la volonté de Dieu.”

“C’è un bambino che verrà alla vostra porta. I suoi capelli sono gialli e sarà nervoso. Si chiama Victor Frankenstein e chiederà il vostro aiuto. È un fuggitivo dalla giustizia, esiliato dai maghi del nostro paese comune. Mi ha reso schiavo e ha tradito la volontà di Dio.”

“There is a boy who will come to your door. His hair is yellow and he will be nervous. His name is Victor Frankenstein and he will ask for your help. He is a fugitive from justice, exiled by the magicians of our shared country. He has made me a slave and betrayed the will of God.”

Elias repeated these words like a song. Courted the rhythm of consonants until they matched his walk. If the men he met did not speak German, this was enough. After, he could show them his back and show them the book and leave.

Alain

Alain’s house sat like a chalk mark in a field of black. It radiated hatefulness in a way that set Elias’s teeth on edge, and he could smell the gore in the soil from where he stood. He knew that blood helped with farming, had mixed it with water and drenched the ground himself, but this was something more. It was too much.

Elias touched the soft envelope on his left side, and felt for his knives on his right. Brushed his fingertips through the doll’s hair. His heart raced.

He walked up the path, soles burning from the heat of the ground, climbed the white painted porch and knocked.

It was a full three minutes time before the door opened.

Alain Cloutier filled the frame of it, staring down at him in silence.

He was an incredibly strong man. Elias immediately could tell his grip would be iron. He was finely dressed, if a bit disheveled, and very handsome though he was not young. His blond hair was shot through with gray. His chiseled face was dusted in arterial spray.