Such Wicked Intent by Kenneth Oppel Read Free Book Online

paintings, bits of unknown furniture, different doorways, flagstones, wall sconces, and moldings—everything that was once in the house, or was once part of it, is still here, waiting to be seen and touched again.
    I reach the entrance hall. Flanking the great wooden door are two leaded glass windows, beyond which is a fog so thick, I cannot see the courtyard.
    Once more I’m aware of being watched. I whirl back to the stairs to find no one upon them. But fluttering lazily down toward me is a black butterfly. I remember the two dark creatures in Wilhelm Frankenstein’s self-portrait, holding the paintbrush. But this butterfly here is surprisingly large, witha dark blue eyespot on each of its wings, and with every wing beat I can actually hear a strangely musical thrum.
    As I watch, the creature circles above my head, tentative, as though asking permission. Instinctively I stretch out my hand, and cautiously the butterfly lands upon my finger. At its touch a thrill of pleasure passes through me—and something else too, which reminds me of both hunger and being fed—and as I watch in amazement, the butterfly is illuminated with color more intense than any stained glass.
    When it flutters away, gloriously ablaze, I feel a twinge of sadness. I check the spirit clock. The fetal bird leg points straight down. Half my time already gone!
    I hurry upstairs, and as I near Konrad’s bedchamber, my step falters. If I find him inside, what will he look like? What will I say? I force myself onward. The door is ajar—
    Sitting at his table before a chessboard, he’s turned away from me, dressed in the suit he was buried in. I can only stare in wonder. My voice abandons me. My brother is not gone. He has been here all along, just waiting. He moves a rook, then turns the board around, considering his next move, and I realize this is the same game we were playing at his bedside before he died.
    I push the door open, enter the room. “Konrad,” I whisper.
    Immediately he turns, throwing an arm across his face, as though shielding himself from a blinding glare. He stands, upsetting his chair. In shock I see him snatch up a rapier and back away from me in terror.
    “Are you an angel?” he cries out. “Or a demon come to punish me?”
    I walk deeper into his room, arms spread wide. “Konrad, it’s just me: Victor!”
    He cowers, squinting, still shielding his face. I look over my shoulder and can’t see the source of any glare. Can it be me?
    “No!” he shouts. “You lie! My brother’s alive! What are you?”
    “Victor!” I insist. “And I am alive! But I found a way inside! I came to find you!”
    He tightens his grip on the hilt, but I can see the blade shaking. “Prove it.”
    “Ask me anything—something only we would know.”
    “When we were four years old,” he begins, “there was a cat we both loved, and—”
    “One day in the stables we had a contest to see who could lure it to him first. It preferred you, of course, and you gloated, so when your back was turned, I picked up a large stone and dropped it onto your head. I promised you my dessert if you wouldn’t tell anyone.”
    “Victor?” Konrad says quietly. “Is it really you?”
    I draw closer to embrace him, but he staggers back wincing, hand outstretched to ward me off. “No, don’t touch me! Your heat!”
    “My heat?”
    “It burns!”
    I stop, confused and hurt—and then another thought blossoms, unbidden, in my mind:
    I am light and heat. I have total control over him.
    “Why do you have a rapier with you?” I ask him. “What are you afraid of?”
    “The house is different now.”
    “What do you mean? Are there others here?”
    “Yes,” he says, “but—”
    In my pocket I feel a strange vibration, and I hurriedly pull out the spirit clock. Its skeletal leg points straight up, and the tiny clenched claw is ghoulishly tapping at the glass.
    “What’s that you’re holding?” Konrad says, squinting.
    “I must go,” I say to my