Page 72 of Angel of Vengeance

He looked back down at the pale, beautiful, defiant face. “Where are Mary and the two children?”

“Far away by now.”

“No matter—I’ll find them later. Were you living in my house?”

“She was,” said Decla. “We found her lair down below. And a tunnel, like, straight out to the Hudson. Figure she came and went that way.”

“How intriguing. One final question: I’ve tried to accept it as a given, under the circumstances, but at the same time I still find it hard to believe. Are you and the waif you call Binky truly one and the same person?”

Constance laughed. “Since you ask: yes. How strange are the byways of time. And now, I’ll answer a question you are unable to ask, being ignorant of its circumstances—but that will nevertheless be of great interest to you.”

“By all means, enlighten me.”

“You’ve been poisoned.”

A silence, and then Leng said, “Really. And how might that be?”

“Remember the excellent meal you had several nights ago? Filet de bœuf, consumed with a bottle of Clos Saint-Denis.”

Leng paused. “Decla, please rise, just for a moment; you others, let the girl free, but keep your weapons trained on her.” Leng waited for them to clear a way so he could move in still closer.

“You spied on my dining?”

“More than spied. I poisoned the Bordelaise.”

“What nonsense. That was…” He thought for a moment. “Five days ago. I’m fine.”

At this, the woman smiled. “Since you’re a connoisseur of poisons, perhaps this detail will help convince you: alpha-amanitin, extracted from the death cap mushroom—taken from your own basement storeroom.”

“You couldn’t possibly perform the biochemical extraction.”

“Ah, but I can. Here’s something else you don’t know: in the future—or what, for me, is now the past—I become your assistant. You see, I was the guinea pig whose survival finally convinced you the Arcanum was a success. The half dozen before me had appeared successful—but you forced some to live imprisoned for observation, while you dissected the rest in search of internal damage. One way or another, you killed them all. I happened to be the guinea pig at the time you finally convinced yourself the Arcanum worked. And one thing else: you didn’t just let me live. As it turns out, I not only lived in this house during Pendergast’s time—I lived here for over a hundred years before, as well—with you.”

Leng felt a most unpleasant sensation of cognitive dissonance wash over him: one of utter disbelief combined… with certainty the woman must be telling the truth.

“That’s how I was able to create the poison,” she said, her voice rising. “And that’s how I know there’s no antidote, none whatsoever—not in this century!” And she broke into a peal of laughter that rose toward a scream.

Leng stared at her—and believed. She would not tell such an obvious untruth. And the fact was, he’d already noticed since first rising that morning he wasn’t feeling quite himself.

His thoughts turned wildly to his predicament. Five days had passed already… He knew, given the properties of the death cap mushroom, that gave him another week to live, at the most. Another week to find an antidote. There must be one, somewhere, in his vast chemical arsenal. Hadn’t she just said there was no antidote? Was she lying—toying with him?

He glanced at Decla. “Don’t kill her—not yet. Make her suffer infinite agonies until she provides me with an antidote. You’ll find me in my lab!”

“With pleasure, Doctor.” Decla prepared to reinsert the stiletto into the cut she had begun.

As Leng turned to go, he abruptly stopped. In his panic at Constance’s sudden revelation, he’d forgotten: Ferenc. Pendergast. And Constance herself—the time machine could save him.

There’s no antidote—not in this century…

As this thought burst into his mind, the house itself suddenly shuddered with a deep bass roar: the walls split and snapped; the chandelier and half the ceiling dropped with a shower of plaster; and a huge gout of flame and smoke burst through the lathing.

64

CHOKING AND COUGHING, DECLA clawed away the dust and pieces of plaster, her immediate instinct to locate, by feel, the stiletto she’d dropped in the explosion and collapse. The room was so filled with dust she couldn’t see, but—as she struggled to her feet and took stock of herself—the air began to clear. She was not hurt, beyond cuts and bruises. But the rest of the gang, which had been standing back, lay crushed and buried under heavy timbers.

What the hell had happened? And where was the doctor? She could see no sign of him—no doubt he was buried under one of the numerous piles of debris. Some of these piles were moving, a few forcibly, others more spasmodically. But there, right in front of her, was the duchess, rising unsteadily to her feet.

Constance wiped away a rivulet of blood on her forehead—and then their stares locked.

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