Catherine crouched low and bared her fangs, then turned toward the Beast Men. There was Mary, running toward her through the smoke. “Mary, help me!” she cried. “They’re going to tear me apart with their teeth!”
Yes, Mary could see them now—the grinning, slobbering Beast Men! Where was her pistol? She must have left it at home, back at 11 Park Terrace. But she could see Catherine’s .32 lying there on the ground. She picked it up.
“Mary, no!”
Who had said that? It was a man’s voice, but which man? Moreau? Hyde? Van Helsing? She turned toward the sound. It was Adam Frankenstein! Had he risen again from the dead? She would make certain that he would never rise again, that he would stay dead forever. She pointed Catherine’s pistol at him and pulled the trigger. The shot went straight and true, through the monster’s heart.
Alice wandered in the glittering smoke, alone. She would be alone forever. No one would ever love her or care for her, because she was not worthy of love. Had not her own mother abandoned her? Her very own mother—but there she was, looking younger than Alice had ever seen her, with long black hair that tumbled down her back in thick curls. “My Lydia,” she said, holding out her arms. “We shall never be separated again.”
Alice walked into them. To be held as she had never been held before. To be comforted as she had never been. That was everything.
“My beloved daughter,” said young, beautiful, kind Helen. She kissed Alice on both cheeks. “Now we shall be together always.”
“Traitor!” It was Margaret Trelawny, standing in the swirling smoke, looking at Alice with fury in her eyes. “This is all your fault. How did you betray us? How did you reveal our plans to our enemies? I don’t know how you did it, but you did it somehow.” She pointed her pistol at Alice.
“No!” shouted Helen Raymond. She threw her arms around Alice and turned, so that she stood between Alice and the pistol.
A shot rang out. Helen’s body slumped in Alice’s arms. Incredulously, Alice stared down at her mother. It was no longer the beautiful young Helen that she held in her arms, nor was it the grim Mrs. Raymond she had encountered in the society of St. Mary Magdalen. It was a middle-aged woman, still beautiful, with signs of suffering and sorrow on her face, and strands of gray in her long black hair. “Lydia,” said Helen softly. She reached up to touch Alice’s cheek—then her hand fell, and her eyes closed, and Helen Raymond lay dead in Alice’s arms.
On the second floor of the keep, Diana followed Laura down a long hallway. Where was Mary? They had looked in every room, but seen no one. The first floor seemed to be filled with a strange white smoke. Even up here, it was creeping along the floor. Laura had a pistol in her hand. Diana had her knife. She was looking forward to using it. No one stole her sister! Mary was annoying, Mary was a bore, but Mary was her annoying bore. They had not found her on the first floor, so she must be up here.
Laura threw open the last door on the hall. It opened to a large room filled with shelves on which were placed Egyptian artifacts. There were urns and statues and broken objects that looked distinctly Egyptian, or at least ancient and foreign, which in Diana’s mind amounted to the same thing. This must be Professor Trelawny’s study.
At the far end of the room, in front of a large window, stood Queen Tera. She had her back to them. Out the window, Diana could see lightning crackling across the sky. In the air floated—could that possibly be Ayesha? Queen Tera held out her hand, and lightning surged through the President of the Alchemical Society, lifting her black braids until they all stood on end. Her body arched backward and she screamed in pain.
Diana clutched at Laura’s arm. “I think Queen Tera’s winning.”
Laura looked at her with a grim, determined smile. “Diana, would you like to see how we hunt vampires in Styria? I will shoot her, but that will only startle her and slow her down. Then you must cut off her head. Remember that it must be completely severed. She must not be allowed to regenerate. Understand?”
Diana nodded. Diana Hyde, vampire hunter! This was even better than rescuing Lucinda Van Helsing.
Laura aimed her pistol, pulled the trigger, and emptied all six bullets into Tera’s back. The Egyptian queen’s body jumped as each bullet entered her back. Then, she fell to the ground.
“Quick, the knife!” said Laura.
Diana looked at her knife. It was sharp, but there, on the wall of Professor Trelawny’s study, was a knife that looked even sharper. It was twice as long, with a curved blade on which were etched letters of some sort. She grabbed the hilt and pulled the knife off its hook on the wall. Then, she ran to the fallen queen.
Tera was staring up at the ceiling. Wounded and bleeding, with her blood spreading over the floor, she pulled back her lips and snarled like an animal. For a moment, Diana quailed. Yes, you did, Diana, don’t deny it. Any of us would have under the circumstances. Not even Diana could remain unaffected by the look of baffled anger on the Egyptian queen’s face. Quickly, she knelt down by Tera’s side and sliced through her slender throat. The knife entered easily until it hit bone. Then, it was gross, really really gross, to saw at that neck, with blood all over the floor, tendons snapping, bones breaking, and Tera twisting her head back and forth, making that terrible snarling sound. Almost too gross even for Diana. Finally, Laura had to kneel and help her. At last, at long last, Tera’s head lay completely severed on the floor of the study. Only then did the light go out of her eyes. She stared up at the ceiling, eyes still open but now sightless.
Diana looked at Laura, breathing heavily. Both of them were covered with blood—Diana’s trousers and Laura’s skirt were soaked in it, and there was blood spattered all over their shirts and hands.
“Like that?” said Diana. “Did I do it right?”
Laura nodded. “You did very well. I couldn’t have done it better myself.”
Down below, around the base of the keep, the smoke started to dissipate. Beatrice was sitting on a stone wall that had once been part of the castle, crying bitterly into a handkerchief. She looked up, startled. Where was she, and why had she been weeping as though her heart would break? Justine stared at her hands. The fingernails were bloody, and there were scratches up and down her arms. Had she really tried to take herself apart? That made no sense. Yet it had seemed a logical idea just a moment ago. Catherine was crawling on the ground, growling. She sat back on her haunches. What in the world had she been doing? There were no Beast Men, not anymore. Moreau’s creations had all been destroyed—she was the only one left of her kind. For a moment, the thought made her feel lonely. Lucinda sat on the grass by another stone wall, chewing what seemed to be weeds. She spit them out. How disgusting! She would have to rinse out her mouth with water, or preferably blood. Mary stood over the fallen body of Sherlock Holmes, who was groaning and clutching his side. She dropped Catherine’s pistol. “Oh my God,” she said. “I think I’ve shot him.” Alice sat holding the body of Helen Raymond, which would never rise again. She leaned down and kissed her mother on the forehead while blood soaked through the dress she had brought from the house in Soho, the dress her mother had chosen for her. Ayesha knelt on the ground, her head in her hands, clearly in pain. There were still bits of lightning playing around her, as though she had been electrified. Margaret Trelawny stood in the midst of them, turning and pointing her pistol about. “You won’t get away with this, any of you!” she cried. “When Tera becomes queen, she will kill you all!”