Chương 31: Chapter 30 - Igor

If you had asked me before that morning, I would've told you that Iset never got angry. And I would've been wrong. After the zombie chimeras had burned to nothing but bones, Igor, Conrad, and I went into the kitchen to do some first aid. Mrs. Park excused herself the moment she caught sight of Igor, and she walked out of the room looking slightly green. I sent Kappa after her. He was unhurt, and I figured Mrs. Park could use something cute to look at.

Conrad had already finished healing by the time he wiped the blood off his fur. I tried not to be too jealous. Some jealousy was inevitable. In a few hours, I would have enough bruises to make my skin look as patchy as Kappa's. My left ankle and knee were hurting more than the rest of me, and I had some long and ugly looking scrapes thanks to the truck roof—but I had to take care of Igor first. I was in better shape than he was. That wasn't saying much.

Some of the demolished zombie corpses were in better shape than Igor. Since I was the only one besides Igor who knew anything about first aid, I was once again forced into the reluctant role of doctor. Helping Igor was just as disgusting as cutting up the zombie, but at least he didn't try to bite me. After Iset brought me the medical reference books I asked for, she stayed in the kitchen and demanded to know what had happened.

Igor sat in one of the dining chairs between the dining table and the kitchen island while Conrad and I walked around him to do our work. We set Igor's broken limbs and joints, and tried to splint them up the best we could with what we had. Igor's biggest reaction was to grunt quietly when Conrad yanked his shoulder back in place.

One of Igor's eyes was covered by the bandage we'd tied around his head to keep the skin flap in place, but he kept his other eye on Iset as he explained his plan and how we had adjusted it, "as required by the moment." Iset was livid. To anyone else, it must have looked like she was leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossed, listening quietly. There was no facial expression to give her away. But whenever I glanced over, I could see the rage pouring off her bandaged form. I tried not to glance over much.

When Igor was done explaining, Iset proceeded to give him the most serene chewing-out in the history of the world. It was almost an honor to hear it. Her voice stayed low and calm, but each word was saturated with disapproval and disappointment. All those words boiled down to the fact that Iset thought Igor should've brought his idea to her. It would've been more just, more considerate, and wiser.

"It was a near disaster," she said.

"They're zombies," Igor said.

"Every fight is either a disaster or a near disaster. We won. That's all that matters."

"We could have helped you."

"And we wanted you safe!"

"But you dragged in Emerra?"

"That damn fool is an agent of her own mischief and can't be controlled. You might as well flip a coin to see if she'll listen to instructions." Conrad smirked. I yanked down as hard as I could on the two ends of the bandage I was tying around Igor's arm. He let out a quiet "ouch," then gave me a one-eyed glare before looking back at Iset.

"The more minds working on a problem, the better," Iset said. Her voice softened.

"Why can't you accept that, Igor? Why didn't you trust me?"

"I know you, Iset. I know you better than Mr. Noctis and better than Vasil! You would've said no. You would've rather played it safe, waiting inside the house. There's no safety in hiding! They're getting smarter and stronger, and their only goal is to kill us. It's better to bring the fight to them on our terms."

"You lit a bonfire when we're surrounded by some kind of magical wall that cuts off our access to the outside! We might have a limited amount of air! Did you think of that?"

"And what do you think will kill us first? Running out of clean air, or having those magical walls come crashing down on us? We don't have time to keep playing defense!" Iset pushed away from the island. She stood there for a second, facing Igor, her body rigid, then she turned and left the room. Conrad and I glanced at each other over Igor's bandaged head. What was left of Igor's face was grumpy enough to grumble for him, even though his mouth wasn't moving.

After about a minute, Conrad said, "Igor, did you think of the limited air thing?"

"I did not," Igor said. Conrad sighed and rubbed the back of his head, squishing down one of his triangle ears in the process.

"Emerra," he said, "do you need me any more?" Need him? Probably not. Most of Igor's major breaks and dislocations had been dealt with. There were a few fingers I needed to tend to, but I could do those myself, and there was nothing any of us could do about that indent in his skull. The majority of the cuts and gashes would be easy enough to take care of… I glanced at the wound on his head—you know, the flap that we'd tied in place with a bandage. If none of the other gashes did, that one would need stitches.

Conrad added, "I want to go see how much damage was done to the house." My heart sank. That was a much more important task than standing beside me for moral support while I tackled yet a new task as Medical Director of Chateau de Nightmares.

"Go ahead," I said, trying to sound as cocky as I could.

"I'll call you if I need you." He gave me a sympathetic look—like he could smell right through my bravado—then left. I could have done without the sympathy. What was the point of acting tough if no one was falling for it? I was left alone to deal with Igor's "lacerations." That's what the medical book called "cuts," and some of them were impressive enough to deserve the more pompous title. I started with the smallest and easiest to take care of so I could work up my confidence for the bigger ones.

When even the butterfly bandages weren't enough, I had to pull out the suture kit from our mega-sized first-aid bag. Funny how I didn't feel like it was overkill anymore. With the first set of stitches, I spent more time staring at the book's diagrams than I did putting them in. And it was hard. Digging that wicked little hooked needle into Igor's skin made my stomach squirm, and a high note of panic whimpered in my head.

Pulling the thread through was only slightly less awful, but I managed to tie the knots, despite my trembling hands. By the time I had finished suturing the other lacerations and moved on to his head wound, I didn't need the book anymore. Through it all, Igor never said a word. He never twitched, moved, or made a sound. I worked in silence. And thank god for that! Never had I felt such a dire need to focus. But it also left me feeling somber and quiet.

As soon as I snipped the thread free from the last suture, I laid the needle on the dining table beside me, took off my gloves, and put them down beside the needle. I walked around the table and dropped myself into one of the dining chairs near the boarded-up French doors. My head murmured and whirled, swirling together my mood and my hazy thoughts. Igor was in front of me, facing the other way.

He prodded the reattached section of his face a few times, then stood up and walked over to the cupboard where he kept the bar glasses. With all of the splints and braces, every movement was some kind of lurch or limp. It was a wonder he could move at all. Blood like red tar. Injuries without swelling. He never went unconscious. He feels pain, but he doesn't react to it—not like a normal person. Igor pulled out the whiskey.

It was only around eight-thirty in the morning, but drinking norms pale in importance after the second or third zombie attack.

"Do you want a drink?" he asked. I shook my head. He let out a humph.

"That law about the minimum drinking age was arbitrary. We survived for millennia without it." The larger of his two eyes rose to look at me. It twitched once or twice as it got used to moving and being useful again.

"You look like you could use a drink," Igor announced. I found myself smiling. It felt weak and subdued—especially for one of my smiles—but that's what it was.

"I'm a seer," I informed him.

"I can't drink." Then I waited to see if he would argue. Igor eyed me for a moment longer, then lowered his lopsided gaze.

"A miserable existence," he grumbled. He raised his voice: "A cocoa then?" My smile widened.

"I would like that." I watched while he poured the water into the kettle and set it on the camp stove. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. He can't be a zombie. If I'm not a zombie, then he's not a zombie. He served himself a double-shot of whiskey, then put three spoonfuls of his personal blend of instant hot-cocoa powder into a mug. When the water was hot enough, he started pouring it over the cocoa.

"Igor, what are you?" He paused for a moment, finished pouring, then dropped the spoon in my mug. He picked up my cocoa and his whiskey and lurched over to the table. As he passed me my cocoa, he said, "I'm a golem." He sat down across from me and sipped his drink. I stared at him, unblinking, my cocoa forgotten. All my thoughts had been swept away, leaving nothing but a wide open expanse of perfect confusion. If someone had put their ear next to mine, they could've heard the wind whistling through my head.

A golem. An artificial human being innervated by a false life. But I'd seen a golem. I'd fought it. Igor was nothing like it.

"How?" I managed. Igor let his glass rest on the table. His eyes rose to my face, one after the other.

"I was assembled from dead body parts by a man named Victor Frankenstein. I was his second complete creation." The information went into my head, only to be swallowed up by the nothing. I had to hope that some deep, dark recess of my brain was doing something useful with it. Igor reached out and tapped on the side of my mug with one of his splinted fingers. It made a quiet, chink, chink sound.

"Drink up." I sat up and stirred my drink.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" He grunted.

"Why would I?"

"Doesn't everyone like to talk about themselves?"

"Evidently not." I smiled and shook my head at my own naiveté. A line like that would never work on Igor. I'd have to go for the sympathy angle. I finished stirring, licked the spoon, and set it on the table.

"You could tell me because I want to know. I'm dying of curiosity over here."

"Ah. Another dead body to deal with. How ever will I manage."

"Here lies Emerra Cole—the girl who so kindly sewed up her friend when he needed it."

"I'll bake you a cake." My stomach dropped a little. When I spoke, my voice was low and serious.

"I'd rather learn about you." Igor went silent. I felt too shy to look at him, so I don't know what his expression was or what he was doing.

"Oh, fine," he said. I raised my eyes in time to see him lounge back in his chair. After one last put-upon sigh, he started talking.

"I suppose the first thing you ought to know is that the first creation ruined my master's life. You've fought the zombies. You know. When you animate dead bodies, they're stronger than they were in life. The care my master had put into constructing the creature's body made it even worse. It was a terror—a thing of large emotions and no restraint. Really, it was a toddler with the power of a superman.

It murdered at least three people, all of them friends and family of Frankenstein, and framed another for one of his crimes. My master lost his whole family. His friend. His new bride. He vowed to destroy the creature, to save the world from what he saw as the evil that he'd created. That vow nearly killed him, and in the end he never succeeded. The pitiful thing destroyed itself. My master was left alone to brood over what had happened." Igor paused.

He took a long, slow sip of his whiskey, then put the glass down again. He went on.

"It took years for him to physically recover, as much as he did, from the ordeal. He never recovered mentally. He blamed himself for everything." Igor's voice trailed away, but I was too invested to let him stop.

"For creating the creature?" I prompted.

"That, yes," Igor said, "but also for abandoning the thing." His smaller eye rolled to look at me.

"The creature was ugly, Emerra. Uglier than me. As ugly as those zombies. And he was massive. And terrifying. My master was not a strong man—" Igor stopped.

"Or maybe he was," he said. He took a deep breath and stared off into the corner of the room.

"All these years, I've told myself that he was weak. But I wonder."

"Why?" I asked. He motioned to me with his glass.

"Because of you. Before you, I'd never seen a human forced to interact with a terror they weren't prepared for. I'd never seen how they fall apart. And how they put themselves back together." I shook my head.

"I'm not strong, Igor."

"You're strong enough, Emerra. And you certainly aren't weak." He lifted his glass. Before he drank, he said, almost idly, "Imagine falling apart, like you did when you had to cut up that zombie, and then you lose everyone you love because of that one moment of weakness. That's what happened to my master." I squirmed in my seat and looked away. Igor drank, shrugged, then continued: "On the night he brought the creature to life, my master fell apart. He ran from his own creation."

"He created something that horrible?" Igor gave me a look of scorn and pity.

"I would've thought, with all you've seen, that the idea that mankind would make something that horrible would no longer surprise you." He scoffed.

"At least Master Frankenstein had the decency to stop while his creations were still in the single digits."

"What happened after he ran away?"

"By the time he got home, the creature was gone. The next time my master saw the creature, it was over a year later, and it was already a murderer." A fine shiver worked its way down my body.

"A man never stops thinking about his worst mistakes," Igor said.

"My master became obsessed with trying to figure out if he could've prevented it." A bemused smile appeared on my face.

"But all he would've had to do was not create it." Igor shook his head.

"The master believed there was no harm in the act of creating it. His intentions had been mostly good. There was some desire for renown…but they were mostly good. He decided the creature had become evil for two reasons. The first was that it had been abandoned. The creature insisted that all it wanted was love and companionship, but the world hated him on sight." Igor paused to take another sip from his drink. After he swallowed, he seemed to lose himself in staring at the whiskey in his glass.

"And the second reason?" I said. Igor blinked, then raised his eyes to me.

"The creature had no soul. Master Frankenstein believed all that hatred and loneliness could only grow unchecked without one. So he made me. To test his theory." Igor had added those last two lines almost as afterthoughts, making himself an addendum to someone else's tragedy.

"Smaller," he said.

"Less threatening. Slightly more palatable. I was made to prove a point." A dark chuckle snuck around the edge of his battered, lopsided grin.

"He gave you a soul?"

"He had a Jewish thrismage put the word of life in me. He thought that would do the trick."

"And he kept you?"

"From the moment I came to life until the moment he died. He tried to give me the love he felt he owed to his first creation." A whisper of sadness wafted through me. I could feel the story hiding around all the tricky words Igor had used.

"Owed" was bad enough. You should never have to use the word "owed" when you're talking about affection. But also—"Tried?" I said." You try showing affection to something that constantly reminds you of your greatest failing and the death of everyone you ever loved," Igor grumbled.

"Master Frankenstein was kind to me, but I didn't have a childhood or a child's mind. I had no naivety or romanticism to protect me. And there was no love when he looked at me. Only regret and misery." An image flashed into my head—a man, standing over me, glaring at me with pain in his eyes. I clenched my eyes shut to banish it. Too late. I was already cold. … no love when he looked at me… I knew what that could do to a person. And a child's mind wasn't the protection that Igor seemed to think it was.

I needed to switch the topic.

"Igor, do you really have a soul?"

"Who knows?" he drawled with perfect indifference.

"What's a soul anyway? Whatever I have, it was enough for them to spare me."

"What does that mean?" Igor tilted the glass in his hand. There was only a fraction of an inch of whiskey left in the bottom. He lifted the glass, gulped the final mouthful, then laboriously rose from the chair and lurched over to the counter where he'd left the whiskey.

"That's a different story," he said.

"Please?"

"Haven't I talked enough?" He poured the whiskey higher this time.

"You know, you're right," I said.

"Don't worry about me—over here, suffering under the agony of a half-told story. I'm sure I can distract myself by counting all the stitches I sewed into your ungrateful hide." Igor lurched back to the table and stood by his chair.

"I suppose you won't stop harassing me until you know." I gazed up at him with my best innocent expression. He rolled his eyes, one after the other, and sat down.

"My master's health had always been bad," he said.

"I only spent two years with him before he died, and most of that time I spent as his nursemaid. After he was gone, another magician took possession of me—"" Possession?" I shouldn't have interrupted. Igor never shared like this. Any time I broke the flow of words was another chance he had to stop his story—but I couldn't help it! The word had instantly ticked me off.

"Whether you like it or not, Emerra, that's what I was. A possession. No different than a clockwork toy made by a craftsman."

"Did the Torr see you that way?"

"The magicians did. The Torr didn't know about me. They would've seen me as an offense to God." I pressed my lips together and frowned. He went on, "My new owner had no high-minded ideals about keeping my two-year-old soul free from evil. He decided there were better uses for me than cooking and cleaning." Igor looked at me with a glint of mischief in his eyes. That meant he was watching for my reaction. I braced myself. Igor said, "He put me in the fighting ring with all the other animated dead."

Braced as I was, my face still went slack. My brain reeled through bits of information—Igor's strange familiarity with the zombies, his hard, ungiving malice toward them, the fighting skills that were, you know, a bit beyond what you'd expect to find in most professional chefs.

"You're not a zombie," I insisted. That was important. I had already decided that.

"You're damn right!" he said.

"I had a brain and a will of my own. I was a damn sight better at fighting than all of them." He relaxed back in his chair.

"I became the challenge that all the other magicians wanted to beat. Not one of them could." There was a strange tone in his voice. I searched his face and caught a glimpse of emotion. It wasn't pride, but it was close to it. Maybe it was the joy of spite. They had tried to destroy him, and they'd all failed.

"That couldn't have been legal," I said.

"It wasn't." Igor took a drink.

"It was an underground establishment—a pit hidden under the city. Dark, fetid—as if fighting a bunch of corpses every week wasn't bad enough." His grumbling was more gloomy than normal, but it reminded me of his everyday grumbling. And there had been that joy of spite…

"Did you like it there?" I asked. Igor frowned. It dragged the left side of his face down.

"I hated it. Every minute of it. All I was doing was surviving."

"How did you get out of there?"

"Back then the Torr was becoming more organized, trying to establish better laws and enforce them—""How long ago was this?"

"1850." My mouth dropped. My gaze floated over the room, as if I was trying to read off the reams of subconscious math being created by my whirling head. I sat there, trying to think something —even if that something was, maybe I do need a drink. At last, I managed a coherent thought: "You're as old as Darius!"

"I don't age," Igor said, "but I've existed for longer than Vasil has been alive."

"That's—that—" I stopped, then tried again.

"When were you created?" Igor's face scrunched into a mess that might have counted as thoughtful. My voice rose with giddy and amused surprise: "You knew right off the year was 1850, but you can't remember what year you were created?"

"I remember it was 1850 because that was the year I moved in with Mr. Noctis," Igor said.

"I don't much care when I was created, but I think it was around 1821." All the giddiness vanished. I wasn't much good at math—subconscious or conscious—but some numbers stuck with me. If Igor had been created in 1821, that meant that he'd moved in with Big Jacky when he was almost thirty years old. But Frankenstein had died after only two years.

"Igor," I muttered, "how long were you in that pit?"

"Around twenty-five years." I closed my eyes when I heard the number. He'd been stuck, fighting, for longer than all my years on earth combined. Igor went on, as if he hadn't just related something that could completely crumble a person's soul.

"The Torr found out about the fights and set up a raid. They caught the ringleaders and seized everything, including the corpses that would've been used for fighting." All the corpses…and one Igor.

"When they came to destroy me, I asked them not to." Igor let out another dark chuckle." That surprised them." Right. Zombies couldn't talk. It had probably surprised a few of them into cardiac arrest.

"They might have destroyed me anyway," Igor said, "but Mr. Noctis was there. He intervened. He said that I was a sentient being, so I couldn't be destroyed unless I had committed a crime. He insisted that anything done in the pit didn't count—that it had been done under duress and in self-defense. So I was allowed to live. Mr. Noctis invited me to stay with him because I had nowhere else to go." I smiled down at what was left of my cocoa. You could always count on Big Jacky.

I inhaled the rich smell of chocolate and thought about a few things—like how warm and comfortable the mug felt in my hands, and how many people with nowhere else to go it took to make a home.

"I'm glad you're here, Igor," I said. Igor eyed me for a moment, then looked away and let out a loud humph.