The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters

the capacity, the reserves of power…” It was a quality of pride, he knew, especially in those who in their lives have been subject and then elevated—years of withheld speech turned their mouths into arrogant floodgates, and her quick turn from coy seductress to haughty lady made Chang sneer. She saw the sneer. It inflamed her.
    “You think I do not know what you are. Or who
she
is—”
    “I know you hunted us both through the brothels—without skill or success.”
    “Without success?” She laughed. “You are here, aren’t you?”
    “As was Miss Temple. Where is she now?”
    She laughed again. “You truly do not
understand
—”
    Chang stepped forward quickly, took a handful of the front of her robe and threw the woman bodily onto the bed, her white legs kicking free as she fell. He stood over her, giving her a moment to shake the hair from her face and look up into his depthless eyes.
    “No, Margaret,” he hissed. “
You
do not understand. You have been a whore. Giving up your body is no longer cause for delicacy, thus you will understand, given
my
profession…well, just imagine what no longer causes
me
to hesitate. And I am hunting
you,
Margaret. This day I have set Francis Xonck on fire, I have defeated the Prince’s Major, and I have survived the trickery of your Contessa. She will not trick me again—do you understand? In these things—and I know these things—there are rarely second chances. Your people have had their chance to kill me—the only one of you that could—and I survived. I am here to find—quickly—whether you are of the slightest—
the slightest
—use to me whatsoever. If you are not, then I assure you I don’t have the
slightest
qualm in exterminating you as if you were just one more rat in a filthy
infestation
that I am—believe me—going to destroy.”
    He pulled his stick apart as dramatically as he could—hoping the speech hadn’t been too much—and allowed his voice to become more conversationally reasonable.
    “Now, as I have asked…Margaret,…where is Miss Temple
now
?”

    It was then that Chang first took in the severity of the Process. The woman was not stupid, she was alone, she possessed reason and experience, and yet, even though her eyes had widened in terror when he had taken out his blade, she began to rant at him, as if the words themselves were weapons to drive him away.
    “You’re a fool! She is gone—you’ll never find her, she is beyond rescue—she will be beyond your comprehension! You live like a child—you are all children—the world was never yours, and it never will be! I have been consumed and reborn! I have surrendered and been renewed! You cannot harm me—you cannot change anything—you are a worm in the mud—get away from me! Get out of this room—cut your own throat in the gutter!”
    She was screaming and Chang was suddenly furious—the deep disdain in her voice pricking his composure like a venomous fang. He dropped his stick and with his left hand took hold of her kicking ankle and yanked her body sharply toward him. She sat up, screaming still, her face quite mad now, not even bothering to fend him off with her arms, spittle flying from her lips. The dagger was in his right hand. Instead of stabbing her, he forced himself to drive a punch into her jaw, his fist bolstered by the cane-hilt. Her head snapped back—his fingers were jarred cruelly—but she did not fall. Her words became more disjointed, there were tears at the corners of her eyes, her hair was ragged.
    “—worth nothing! Ignorant and abandoned—alone in rooms—pathetic rooms of pathetic bodies—kennels—the rutting of dogs—”
    He dropped the dagger and struck her again. She sprawled across the bed with a grunt, her head hanging over the other side, silent. Chang shook his hand, wincing, and sheathed the dagger. His fury was gone. Her contempt for him was so clearly one with her contempt for herself—he remembered Mrs. Kraft saying Margaret Hooke had been the daughter of a mill owner—that he let it pass. He wondered if anyone else in the hotel had heard, and hoped that such screams—judging perhaps by the profusion of empty bottles—were not unusual in the rooms of Rosamonde, Contessa Lacquer-Sforza. He looked down at Margaret Hooke’s body—the gapping robe showed the softness of her belly and the open tangle of her legs, somehow strangely poignant. She was a handsome woman. Her ribs rose and fell with each still-ragged breath. She