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Back Maplecroft
Chapters (206)
  1. Praise for Maplecroft
  2. Title page
  3. Copyright page
  4. Contents
  5. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  6. THESE ARE THE THINGS AN EARTHQUAKE BRINGS
  7. •   •   •
  8. •   •   •
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  11. •   •   •
  12. A DOCTOR, A LAWYER, A MERCHANT, A CHIEF
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  20. Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
  21. Lizzie Andrew Borden
  22. •   •   •
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  24. •   •   •
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  26. BE SURE YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT
  27. •   •   •
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  29. I CROSS THE MAGPIE, THE MAGPIE CROSSES ME
  30. •   •   •
  31. Nance O’Neil
  32. THIS KNOT I KNIT, THIS KNOT I TIE
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  37. AND IF YOU HAVE A HORSE WITH ONE WHITE LEG . . .
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  43. THE WORST IS TO BE JUDGED WITHOUT HOPE
  44. •   •   •
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  46. Lizzie Andrew Borden
  47. •   •   •
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  53. BUT NETTLE SHANT HAVE NOTHING
  54. •   •   •
  55. CUT THEM ON FRIDAY, YOU CUT THEM FOR SORROW
  56. Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University
  57. •   •   •
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  62. HAPPY IS THE CORPSE THAT THE RAIN SHINES ON
  63. •   •   •
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  67. A DWELLING PLACE OF JACKALS, THE DESOLATION FOREVER
  68. Lizzie Andrew Borden
  69. •   •   •
  70. •   •   •
  71. Nance O’Neil
  72. •   •   •
  73. •   •   •
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  84. Emma L. Borden
  85. •   •   •
  86. •   •   •
  87. •   •   •
  88. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  89. •   •   •
  90. •   •   •
  91. Lizzie Andrew Borden
  92. •   •   •
  93. RIGHT CHEEK, LEFT CHEEK—WHY DO YOU BURN?
  94. •   •   •
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  101. Aaron B. Stewart, Fire Chief, Farthington, Mass.
  102. Emma L. Borden
  103. •   •   •
  104. Gerald Macintyre, Telegraph Clerk, Western Union
  105. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  106. •   •   •
  107. Physalia, Z. University I Was Not Now
  108. •   •   •
  109. DEPART, ALL ANIMALS WITHOUT BONES
  110. Emma L. Borden
  111. •   •   •
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  115. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  116. •   •   •
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  118. •   •   •
  119. Lizzie Andrew Borden
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  130. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  131. Phillip Zollicoffer. Physalia Zollicoffris.
  132. •   •   •
  133. •   •   •
  134. •   •   •
  135. •   •   •
  136. •   •   •
  137. Christoff Dane, M.D., Ph.D., University of Rhode Island, Kingston
  138. •   •   •
  139. Emma L. Borden
  140. •   •   •
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  144. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  145. •   •   •
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  149. •   •   •
  150. Emma L. Borden
  151. •   •   •
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  153. FAMILY SLAIN IN MAYFIELD
  154. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  155. •   •   •
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  165. Lizzie Andrew Borden
  166. •   •   •
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  176. Emma L. Borden
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  186. Owen Seabury, M.D.
  187. •   •   •
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  197. Lizzie Andrew Borden
  198. •   •   •
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  204. •   •   •
  205. Inspector Simon Wolf
  206. •   •   •

But I could kill him. I only needed the strength (and luck, and timing, and divine assistance, surely) to make it happen.

I crawled up to a crouch, braced myself, and I hurled the axe as hard as I could, straight at his head.

My aim wasn’t perfect.

I caught him in the neck, and there—where the toxin was eating away at him, ever so slowly—his skin split beneath the blade.

No one was more astonished than I was, except possibly Emma.

No, not Emma after all. Emma did not see my blow, for she was unconscious. She’d slipped down to the floor, folded over like a ragdoll cast aside. Beneath her face, a dribble of blood and saliva pooled. Her gore-soaked hair was sticking to the floorboards, and her eyes were not quite closed.

But I couldn’t rush to her side. Not yet.

I was transfixed by the axe, even as he pulled it free of his skull and tossed it out of my immediate reach. He clutched the wound it left behind, and blood the color of tar squeezed out from between his fingers.

I grabbed at the table and used it to pull myself up, knocking it over in the process.

But then I lunged at Doctor Phillip Zollicoffer, who had once sent us friendly notes about crustaceans and cephalopods, and had mailed us a box of chocolates shaped like seashells at Christmas, and had murdered countless people, lost his mind, his humanity, his soul—if I could bring myself to believe in souls anymore.

I lunged for him because somehow, he had killed Nance, and in some way he’d killed me, too. What on earth was left for me without her? A sister who loathed me, and a daft doctor who only wanted to help? There was nothing left worth counting.

I lunged for him, and I caught him in the torso, where his skin was peeling, crackling, and turning black. The toxin was still working, still weakening him. I took it as encouragement. I needed some. I needed something other than the press of his horrible body, and the stink of his skin corroding before my eyes.

Still holding on to his broken head, he pushed back with his shoulder, absorbing some of my momentum—but I shoved him again, with all my weight. Together we fell over the upended table—him backward, me atop him—and he tried to catch himself. He extended his free hand, and landed on it. Not half an inch beside the cooker.

He teetered. The edge so close he must’ve been able to smell the lye and the heat.

He leaned, and tried to roll away.

He released his grip on his head wound, and blood gushed forth . . . or if not blood, then something thicker than that. Whatever weird oil went through his veins, it splattered the room, the table, the floor, and the cooker.