The Blood Gardener (The Dark River Book 2) Read online

  There, A said, grabbing Derick’s hand as they emerged from between two houses to a more open space. Over there.

  The ground was clear for fifty feet, leading to the side of the cavern, where an archway comprised of bones formed an entrance to something beyond. He looked inside, but it was too dark.

  Think this is it? Derick asked.

  It’s the far right, A replied, and it’s made of bones.

  Yeah, fits the bill, Derick answered. Let’s give it a try.

  They walked to the archway. Derick stopped to look behind them; no one from the pathways was out in the open area. Good, he thought to himself; no one following and no one watching. The archway was a mixture of the same shiny stone surface he’d observed on the houses, but with hundreds of bones jutting out from the material, intertwining with each other. At the top of the archway was a large metal urn.

  He stepped inside and felt a cold mist hit his face. The light from their glasslights illuminated only the swirling, cold fog in front of them. He pressed on, testing each step before putting his weight down, and after ten feet of walking with no idea of what was ahead of them, he began to feel light-headed, as though he’d taken a drug that was altering his ability to sense his surroundings.

  Ghostly faces appeared in the mist, coming at him from all sides. He felt A press in close behind him, his face buried in his lower back, trying to avoid the sight. He lifted his leg to take another step, but found that it took an incredible amount of willpower, and he moved so slowly he wasn’t even sure he was in control of his actions. The faces began to fill all of the space in front of him, and before he could think to stop and try to back out of the archway, arms extended from the mist, grabbing at him from every angle, landing and wrapping strong fingers around his arms and legs — and neck.

  He felt panic rise, and wondered if Monkey and Eva had been right, if he’d made a fatal error ignoring their warnings. He felt pressure begin to build on his limbs, and he realized the hands that held him were now pulling in opposite directions.

  I’m going to be pulled apart! he thought in horror, and just as the pressure on his body began to become painful, it released, and the faces retreated rapidly into the mist, disappearing. He regained control over his limbs and turned, finding A right behind him.

  You OK? he asked.

  Scared, A replied. Not hurt.

  Derick turned back around and stood, and as he did, the fog around them dissipated, revealing a vast graveyard in front of them. Row after row of headstones appeared. In the distance was more fog, obscuring what might be beyond the graves. He walked into the clearing, A right behind him.

  So many, he said, looking over the cemetery. There must be thousands, all arranged in lines.

  They walked between the mounds of earth. Each gravestone was carved with letters and symbols, and the stone appeared to be coated with a dark substance that had dripped over the top of the marker and run down the sides. After a dozen rows, Derick knelt to look closer at one of the headstones. He reached out to touch the dark substance coating the marker, and when he pulled his fingers away, they were red.

  Blood, he said.

  “Please be careful with that,” came a deep voice from behind them. It had an unusual accent that Derick couldn’t pin down. He turned to find its source; hanging in midair three graves away was a face. It floated toward them until it came within a few feet. It was wrinkled and old, and hung thinly about four feet from the ground, with no skull behind it to support its features.

  “I’ve put a lot of work into that one,” the face spoke, looking at the blood stain on Derick’s fingers. “It would be a shame if you ruined it.”

  “Sorry,” Derick replied, wanting to rub the blood off on his clothing, but now unsure if that was wise.

  The face rose in the air until it was six feet off the ground, closer to Derick’s height, and drifted forward until it was within a few feet of Derick’s head.

  “I’ve always been fascinated with people,” the face said, “and why they do odd things. We have such a strange obsession with touching objects. Why is that? From the earliest age we want to reach out and grab. One of the first things tiny babies try to do is extend their arms and grasp; at their parents’ fingers, or a rattle. Our other senses are not enough, apparently. Tactile input is important, even when it’s extremely dangerous.”

  Derick wondered if the substance on his fingers was something other than blood.

  The face lowered, moving around Derick and toward the gravestone he’d touched moments before. Mist formed below the face, and from the mist emerged an arm, holding a small dark sponge. The arm carefully squeezed the sponge and small trickles of bright red blood fell out, slowly dripping over the engravings and covering the fingerprint Derick had made. As the arm retracted, Derick realized it wasn’t a sponge; it was an organ, some body part that held blood.

  “There,” the face said gently, approvingly. “That’s better.” The arm disappeared quickly into the mist, and the mist slowly faded, leaving only the face, which drifted to the next grave and inspected the marker, as though it was concerned Derick might have disrupted it as well.

  “Are you Mazlo?” Derick asked. “The Blood Gardener?”

  “So unnecessarily grandiose,” the face replied as it moved to the next grave. Derick looked around for A, but couldn’t see him. He’s frightened, Derick thought. He’s hiding.

  Derick followed the face. “Are you Mazlo?” he asked again.

  “We are all so many different people,” the face said, hanging in the air over the next stone, examining its state. “The sum of the influences in our lives. Seems so limiting to put a name on it, as though we are just one thing.”

  “If you are Mazlo, you’re irritating,” Derick said.

  The face stopped and turned. It rose from the ground to Derick’s height, and hung in the air in front of him. He watched as a slight grin formed on the edge of its lips.

  “And you,” it said, “are intriguing. As long as you don’t touch anything.” The face drifted away again, back down to the nearest headstone. “I ought to rip this one out,” it said, hovering within inches of the mound, its eyes scanning the etched engravings. “A good gardener knows when to remove one that isn’t going to make it.” The face rotated, looking up at him. “Even though you put so much work into them, in the end you just have to rip them out if they don’t produce. It’s rather ruthless, isn’t it? Heartbreaking.”

  “I supposed you can leave them in,” Derick replied. “Dead and taking up space.”

  The face turned back to the gravestone. “Yes, but then you’re a poor steward, using up resources wastefully that might otherwise be put to good use.”

  Derick decided to get on with things. “I understand you make things. For people.”

  Mazlo laughed. “Would you say that a farmer makes things?” It drifted to the next headstone.

  “Well,” Derick answered, following it. “I guess not. Farmers grow things.”

  “Because the seeds are already made, are they not?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m no more than a simple farmer. Everything is already made. I just grow things.”

  “I’m going to guess you aren’t growing cantaloupes in these graves.”

  The face stopped once again, and rose back up to Derick’s height. It studied his features, sliding around his body until it was behind him, then finishing the circle and coming to stop in front of him again. “You’re an odd one,” Mazlo said, the sagging skin of his cheeks flapping a little.

  “You’re not so normal yourself,” Derick replied.

  The slight smile bent up a corner of the man’s lips once again. “Come with me,” he said, going around Derick to drift away.

  Derick looked around for A, but A was still nowhere to be seen.

  Stay safe wherever you are, he thought, and followed the floating face as it bobbed in the air in front of him, drifting over the graves, making a path for the edge of the cemetery where the
fog was dense.

  As they got closer to the mist, it parted enough to reveal a path paved with stones. Mazlo led Derick onto the path, and the fog billowed away as they progressed. A small cottage sat beyond. Two wrought iron chairs were arranged around a small iron table in front of the house.

  “Please, sit,” the face said, positioning itself over one of the chairs. The rest of Mazlo’s body slowly materialized under him, a dark human shape that seemed only partially there. Derick was grateful, as it was less disconcerting than just the floating face. He sat in the chair next to Mazlo.

  “So you do have a body,” Derick observed.

  “Oh, yes,” Mazlo replied. “Can’t use it out there, though. Too disruptive.”

  “I hope I didn’t damage anything,” Derick replied, “being out there with you.”

  “Your body is far less likely to cause trouble. Mine, on the other hand, is quite problematic, and I found long ago that it was creating intolerable variances, so I have to turn it on and off. It’s a bother. So are all the people I have to employ to get things done.”

  Derick looked around. “Seems rather quiet. Your employees must be elsewhere.”

  “You passed them on your way in,” Mazlo replied. “I presume they were out and about. They’d better be, or I’ll be rather perturbed.”

  “You mean the creatures walking between the houses, outside? Those are your employees?”

  “More like interns,” Mazlo replied. “It’s a big operation. I’ve considered scaling it down in recent years, but that seems like a defeat. No one likes to feel defeated, so I’ve avoided it. Now. About you being here. You don’t want to commission anything, do you?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not. What do you want?” Mazlo’s dark form crossed its legs, as though they were having a casual conversation at an outdoor café.

  “I believe you made some spiders,” Derick began. “Not exactly spiders — they had ten legs. Came out of someone’s ear and suffocated them by swarming into their nose and mouth. Then they disappeared.”

  “Dissolved. There’s a difference.”

  “So they were yours.”

  “You knew that before you arrived.”

  Derick paused. “So, the spiders — they were one of the things you grow out there?” He waved with his hand in the direction of the graves.

  “Not exactly,” Mazlo replied. “You don’t state things very precisely. You’re close enough that I don’t feel like correcting you. I’m sure you would find it irritating.”

  “I presume the woman I watched die from the spiders wasn’t killed by you, directly. The spiders were administered by someone else, someone you sold them to?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well then, what, exactly?”

  “Do you know why I’m talking to you right now?”

  “I presume you thought I wanted to buy something from you. Now that you know I’m after information, you’re not so interested in talking to me?”

  “I’m talking to you because I find you fascinating on many levels,” Mazlo replied. “Your disguise may have allowed you past my apprentices, but had it not been for your markings, you would have been torn apart in the fog at the entrance to the cemetery. Or worse. That’s what happens here to uninvited guests.”

  Derick felt the heat rise in his hands. “So you wanted to talk to me.”

  “I wanted to find out who you were. Turns out you’re a bit brash, which I find refreshing. Most people who come here are sycophants or brokers. Even those wanting to conduct deals display a tedious deference that makes me a little nauseated. Very uninteresting conversations, let me assure you.”

  “So I called you irritating, and you decided you’d hear me out?”

  “Abnormal. You called me abnormal, too.”

  “No one’s called you abnormal, huh?”

  “Not in a long time.” Mazlo sighed. “They’re afraid I’ll kill them.”

  “It’s not that easy to kill someone in the Dark River,” Derick said, “so I’m not sure why they’d be so frightened.”

  “There are ways,” Mazlo replied. “I have a few.”

  “I’m naïve, then.”

  “Perhaps,” Mazlo said, uncrossing his legs. “Either that, or emboldened by your markings. I expect people elsewhere in the Belly cower in fear at them.”

  “They do.”

  “And you haven’t grown tired of the deference yourself? Still new to you? Ah, well, you’re not as old as me.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Too many years to count now,” Mazlo replied. “That’s another reason they’re afraid of me. A man who figured out how to cheat death; I must have terrible secrets, right?”

  “You haven’t entirely cheated death,” Derick replied. “You’re looking pretty old.”

  Mazlo chuckled. “I knew taking a break to chat with you would be entertaining.”

  “About the spiders.”

  “Oh, yes, your agenda.”

  “You made them. I presume they were implanted by the people who attacked my friend.”

  “Well, I can’t say about your friend specifically, but yes, they’re implanted by breath. Then they incubate for a while.”

  “Who did you sell them to?”

  Mazlo laughed again. “I also appreciate your determination. You’ve got a swagger I haven’t seen in a long time. Not a lot of that around here these days, not since LeFever arrived.”

  “Were the spiders for LeFever?”

  Mazlo straightened himself in his chair. “I would never do anything for that syndicate.”

  “But you sold them to someone.”

  “Not sold, traded.”

  “What did they trade you?”

  “A finger I’ve wanted for a very long time,” Mazlo replied.

  “A human finger? Like, cut from a hand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose finger?”

  “It’s a tiresome story. And not relevant.”

  “Who did you trade with? Who took the spiders?”

  “One of the benefits of doing business with me is discretion,” Mazlo said.

  “So you won’t tell me?”

  “No.”

  “Loan me the finger,” Derick asked.

  Mazlo scoffed. “No!” he replied, incredulous, emitting a chuckle. “Of course I won’t!”

  “I’ll return it.”

  “After you try to trace its provenance!” Mazlo laughed. “That would hardly be discreet of me, would it? Oh, you are entertaining!”

  Derick decided to back off and try a different approach. “So all those creatures outside, walking between the houses, they’re all your apprentices?”

  “They are.”

  “What are they doing out there?”

  “They’re tending the garden for me.”

  “I thought the garden was in here. The graves.”

  “Half of it,” Mazlo replied. “Come here, I want to show you something.”

  Mazlo rose from his chair. The face stayed visible, but the form of his body began to dissipate as he walked. He stopped at a grave near the edge of the cemetery. It was hollowed out, a large rectangular hole in the ground, with a gravestone still set in the earth at its head.

  “Here’s one I had to dig up,” he said.

  “So I see.”

  “Remember that one I was bemoaning when we first met? The one I said I might need to rip out, because it was underperforming?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is one like that.”

  Derick leaned over the edge, looking down into the hole. An open casket sat at the bottom; it looked constructed of the same dark slate used to make the houses. Arranged inside were dozens of severed limbs and body parts, floating in a soup of gore.

  “You see these organs there?” Mazlo said, pointing to several slimy pieces of offal at the bottom end of the casket. “These are new; I replaced them just yesterday. The organs originally came from a creature I bred specifically for this project,
but it wasn’t as robust as I’d hoped. I’ve had reports of erratic results. Not good enough. I grew a new creature, one whose tissues should hold up better, and the organs you see down there are fresh from that work. I’m testing it now, to see if it’s improved.”

  Mazlo turned again, leading Derick back from the cemetery, on a path into the fog a different direction than the cottage. The mist parted for Mazlo as he progressed, his face drifting through the air. He stopped as they approached an open area that held three small shacks, similar to the ones Derick had seen outside.

  Mazlo pulled at a corner on one of the houses, and the entire front wall swung out, revealing a twelve foot by twelve foot space inside. Mazlo drifted to the back of the shack, where a table came into view. On top of it was a small child, facing away from them. Derick recognized it immediately; no ears, smooth head — it was a monochild. Seeing the smooth back of the child made him regret the scars A bore as a result of Edward’s maiming.

  Attached to the child were several tubes that ran from the kid’s back to boxes that surrounded it on either side. Blood trickled from the points of attachment, and the child was shaking slightly, as a substance was pumped into it through the tubes.

  “Just a few more days of testing, and I think this upgrade will be complete,” Mazlo said, observing the tubes that snaked into the child. “I enhanced the monochild as well. Should be more stable, resulting in a more focused result. Then I can lop off its legs and box it up.”

  “What does it do?” Derick asked with a straight face, though he found the mutilation and hybridization of the monochild repugnant, and he fought to not let it show.

  “It has many uses,” Mazlo replied. “It’s capable of transforming things in a way no other device can. Thoughts into objects; evil into weapons. Very powerful if you know how to use it correctly.”

  “You designed this?”

  “I did. This one took me many years of growth to perfect. Once it finishes testing here, I’ll have my apprentices relocate everything to one of the houses you passed on the way in here.”

  “I don’t understand. Why out there?”