Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL

Chapter 8: Alone in the Mighty Mass

 Will pulled back the hammer on his revolver. He pressed the cold metal of the barrel against his forehead for a moment and considered. He didn't have to open that door. It could all end now.

Inside, over the sound of his trembling breaths and racing heart, he could hear the wet squelching of a knife sawing through flesh, the sick grind as it hit bone.

Will kicked the door open.

Abel Gideon looked up from where he was carving off a section of Mary Kelley's face.

Mary Jane Kelley, Will's informant. And, in a desperate gambit, his bait.

He hadn't gotten here fast enough. It was too late for Mary and it was all his fault.

Gideon must have known she was working with Scotland Yard. Why else would he create such a tableau, emptying Mary of all of her internal organs and slicing so much flesh from her bones? Stripping her face to its skull? Will knew in that moment, through the panicked roar of his ambient pulse, what Gideon meant by that. I saw her for who she was, not the face she presented. She wasn't a sex worker – she was a plant, your undercover agent, and she trusted you to keep her safe. What a terrible mistake this young lady made.

Abel Gideon turned from his work, the knife in his hand, smiling through that damned little laugh, a coyly rueful chuckle. Oh dear, you caught me. I've been naughty, haven't I?

Will raised the gun.

But it wasn't his revolver anymore. It was an alpine dagger, an antiquated thing, but beautiful, with a gleaming blade and smooth wooden handle accented with hammered gold. Will had never seen it before, but somehow he knew the weapon was his. It felt like a part of him where he held it with a firm but mobile grip.

Instead of pulling the trigger on the revolver, Will cocked his arm in a motion that felt totally alien but was simultaneously part of his muscle memory. The dagger flew from his fingers and lodged directly in Abel Gideon's neck.

Gideon dropped his own knife, wavering on his feet, and lifted a hand to close around the hilt of the dagger that stuck out of his neck. He pulled it free; it came out with a sucking sound and a torrent of blood. "Dangerous little thing, aren't you?" he gurgled, sinking to his knees, his blood mingling with the stains on his clothing from Mary's slaying.

Will pulled a second dagger from somewhere on his person and strode forward to kick Gideon in the chest. He fell back against the bed and flopped to the floor, face up, a hand pressed over the hole in his neck. Will skittered Gideon's surgical knife away from his grasping fingers, then knelt on him, straddling his hips, feeling blood both warm and cooling soak into his trouser knees.

"This is how it feels," he murmured, raising the dagger. He brought it down in Gideon's abdomen, carving open his midsection and reaching in with his free hand to grasp at his intestines, drawing them out in great bloody lengths. Gideon watched him in silent horror until, in the end, he smiled. The light faded from his eyes.

Panting, Will got to his feet, slicked with perspiration and blood. Gazing down on what he'd done, he felt a wave of righteousness saturate him, flooding his core. He floated there, the coppery scent of blood surrounding him, in a sweet and easy peace that made him wonder if it was the same for babies nestled in the waters of the womb.

He was suddenly aware of a footstep behind him. Will turned, and noticed Count Lecter standing in the doorway, looking decidedly different from how Will had seen him before. He was in a half-untied doublet, a bruise on his cheek and one eyebrow split, leaking blood, a similarly stained sword in his hand. He also appeared younger, his hair maple brown, face unlined beneath a little stubble, the flesh even more taut and smooth than when Will had first seen him.