I awoke to a pain in my arm.

My eyelids fluttered like injured butterflies until I finally forced them open. It took several more seconds for the haze to leave my vision, but once it did, I could see a crude, antiquated needle protruding from my arm.

"Don't struggle," soothed a man's voice. "It will hurt terribly if you do."

Despite my sudden panic, my body was still too groggy to jerk away from the needle. I could feel that I was seated in a high-backed chair, but nothing specific beyond that. With an effort that caused me exhaustion, I turned my head toward the speaker.

Tawny hair with a severe part, pale eyes, black suit... The man who had called me by name. The man who had drugged me.

The associate of Madam Longwenier.

My eyes must have shown some type of recognition, because he hummed in amusement. The corners of his mouth pulled up ever so slightly — a crack in his stoic veneer.

"You've worked out my identity at last, have you?" he asked. He removed the needle from my arm and the sensation caused me to flinch.

"Dr. Cadaver," I murmured. My mouth hadn't yet decided to cooperate with my brain. My consonants came out like mush.

"Yesss, indeed," he said softly. "I'm glad I made some impression on you, dear creator. After all, in each novel you write me, I'm only a supporting character. Associate of Sir Wilhern... Associate of Madam Longwenier... Supporting parts are never quite as memorable as leads, are they?"

I blinked as hard as I could, as though I could magic myself away from him. Pages of my notebooks flipped through my mind.

NAME: Gil Rosencrantz
ALIASES: Dr. Cadaver
AGE: 31
OCCUPATION: physician of physiology, part-time Necromancer
LOCATION: London, England
TIME: the year 1901
WRITTEN WORK: (past) "Carpe Noctem" (completed), (present) "Masquerade of Murder"
STATUS: unfinished - writer's block
DESCRIPTION: obsessive perfectionist, total belief in "the end justifies the means," lacking moral code, objective: bring the dead back to life, stoic, emotionless, apathetic...

After aligning himself with Madam Longwenier, I'd had Dr. Cadaver 'rebrand' himself to accentuate his more sinister traits. But he was right: he was still a supporting character.

Dr. Cadaver held the full syringe up to the light. "Blood of the creator," he mused. "From the realm of the real. Truly, I never thought I'd possess anything like it. I cannot wait to see what happens when I inject this into the heart organ of a fresh corpse."

"You can't draw my blood without my consent," I said.

Dr. Cadaver sniffed and showcased the syringe before my face. "All evidence to the contrary."

I made to lunge at him, but found myself unable to move. I looked down. My arms, feet, and torso were held fast to the heavy wooden chair on which I sat by leather straps, like those of a horse's bridle.

I scowled. "You drugged me."

"Chloroform," Dr. Cadaver said in a bored voice. "Potent enough to fell a horse."

"How long was I out?"

He gave the grandfather clock in the corner a blasé glance. "Four hours, more or less."

I looked at the clock as well. The hands marked the time as few minutes to five, and by the weak light filtering through the thick windowpanes, I assumed that was PM. The heavy drapes were pulled back from the glass, revealing the overcast sky.

I gazed around the room. The chair that held me hostage was situated next to a massive wooden desk, the surface of which was littered with papers and medical equipment. Beyond the desk was a velvet-covered Chesterfield sofa and two matching chairs, all sporting blood-red cushions that matched the color of the drapes. A stylish hearth was embedded in the far wall, and a dreary Rembrandt painting was mounted above it. A crystal chandelier hung from the arched ceiling. There were two sets of double doors, one to my right and one to my left. I knew the doors to my right led to the kitchen. Those to my left led out into the main hall and the entrance foyer.

We were in the parlor of Madam Longwenier's manor.

"When does your boss get back?" I snipped.

That question hit the mark. Dr. Cadaver set his equipment down and looked at me, his eyes hard. "Madam Longwenier is not my employer," he informed me. "As you well know, creator. She has the habitual need to dispose of bodies, and I am always in need of fresh cadavers. It is a partnership. However, it was you who had her dump the body of her latest late husband off the tower of Buckingham Palace. You owe me. Hence, the blood I took."

"You can shove that syringe—"

"And will continue to take," he spoke over me, "for as long as you remain her...guest."

"So, that's what you're getting out of this little arrangement?" I asked. "Fuel for your creepy experiments?"

Dr. Cadaver sniffed at my question. "I find it exceedingly comical that you would classify my work as 'creepy'," he remarked. "As you are the one who dreamed up my ambition, objective, and fondness for the undead, I would think you'd demonstrate a bit more pride in your creations."

"You're full of vengeance," I accused.

"We are what you make us," he corrected. "We're human. And regardless of favorable attributes and moral compass, human beings are essentially selfish creatures. We want, and we desire, and we demand, and we take. I want my endeavor with necromancy to be a success. Ergo, once you are finished giving Madam Longwenier her desired outcome, I will demand you do the same for me. It will not behoove you to resist. I hope we understand each other."

I gritted my teeth together. Why had I made him such a pretentious ass? Now I'd have to write a successful resurrection, or it would be my body donated to science.

Suddenly the windows burst open and a chilly wind swirled around me. Papers blew off the desk, and the drapes fluttered.

I heard the melancholy lilt of violins.

"Ahh, speak of the Madam," Dr. Cadaver said. "It appears she's home. Mind your manners."

"Bite me," I snapped.

"No. Shan't," Dr. Cadaver said. "Though, I have an undead gent in my laboratory who would likely relish to do just that."

The swell of violins grew louder, and another gust of wind hit me in the face.

Madam Longwenier swept into the room with the whisper of satin against tulle. She rounded the sofa and made her way over to me, her hands on her hips. The icy blue of her eyes gleamed victorious as she appraised me where I sat tied to the chair.

"Cristina Castillo," she purred. "We meet again."

Her presence was still intimidating, but somewhere between my office and this Victorian parlor, she'd lost her ability to frighten me. Now I was irritated.

"Theory of Causality, am I right?" I said. "C'est la vie."

"You owe me an ending," she informed me. She took a seat on the sofa across from me and crossed one ankle over the other beneath her black gown. "Actually, for all the trouble you've caused me, you owe me the ending of all endings."

"I don't take requests," I stated. "Sorry."

Longwenier studied me in silence for several pregnant seconds. She then reached behind her head and untied the ribbon of her mask. Her movements slow and deliberate, she removed the mask from her face.

Never had I seen a face so beautiful. Or so unhinged.

"Brave talk from one strapped to a chair," she remarked. Her voice was soft. Her expression unreadable. She tilted her head to the side. "You will do as I ask."

"Or what?" I challenged. "You'll pitch a fit? Let Dr. Cadaver use my body as spare parts? Torture me?"

Longwenier's scarlet lips curled up in a smile. The same beautiful, horrible smile I remembered from our first encounter. It hadn't lost its potency.

"I had a feeling you might say that," she mused. She smoothed the elaborate twist in her hair with a graceful hand. "After all, you are so strong, and brave, and tenacious. But you are something else as well — something that will not help you here. Care to wager a guess what that might be?"

"Short-tempered?" I supplied.

Longwenier shook her head. "Compassionate," she corrected. With her stare still fixated on me, she addressed her associate: "Dr. Cadaver, bring in our other guest, won't you?"

"With pleasure," the doctor replied. He spun on his heel and marched out of the room.

"You see, you care about people, creator," Longwenier said. She stood and began pacing around me in a slow circle. "And people care about you, which in turn makes you care more, and so forth, and so on. It's all quite dull and tedious when discussed aloud. But I digress: therein lies your greatest weakness."

The parlor doors swung open, and Dr. Cadaver wheeled in a hospital gurney laden with a body.

No, not a body. A living person. Strapped down and gagged.

"Not long after I found you, this vulgar miscreant made an appearance," Dr. Cadaver told me. "He would do well to have his mouth sewn shut, but I knew he'd be of use."

Blonde curls. Red hoodie. Pissed off expression.

Peter.

His eyes widened when he saw me, and he forced a muffled cry.

Longwenier gripped my chin, and her lips moved against my ear. "I know you won't yield if I threaten to torture you," she murmured. Her breath tickled my temple. "So, I'm going to torture him instead."

"Let him go!" I exclaimed. I jerked my chin out of her grasp. "He's not part of your story!"

"See?" Longwenier said with a triumphant sneer. She sashayed over to Peter and yanked the gag out of his mouth. "Compassion. Such rubbish."

Peter coughed and sputtered. "Listen, you—!" He broke off to cough again. He cleared his raw throat and glared at Longwenier.

"Cat got your tongue?" Longwenier asked.

Peter expelled the most sarcastic laugh I'd ever heard. "First of all," he said, "fuck you. Second, heroes don't negotiate with terrorists, animal abusers, or bat-shit-crazy bitches. So, you're outta luck. Torture me all you want — Cristina isn't going to write you anything more exciting than a headache!"

Longwenier laughed. The sound was beautiful and melodic, but somehow still managed to be cruel. "Oh, we'll just see about that," she declared.

From the ledge of the hearth, she retrieved a tiny bell and shook it. A cheerful tingle rang out. "Ceylan!" she called.

"Now what?" Peter asked. "You're summoning a different lackey to bring in your kit of knives and pliers?"

"Don't be such an alarmist," Longwenier said. She laughed again. "Ceylan is my maid. It's tea time."

"I could do with a spot of tea," Dr. Cadaver remarked.

A young woman in a pristinely pressed white apron emerged from the kitchen. She carried a silver tray laden with a china teapot and dainty cups. She purposefully avoided my eye as she set the tray on the desk and began preparing a cup for Longwenier.

"Ceylan!" Peter called. He struggled against his bonds to get her attention. "Hey! Psst! Ceylan! Are you tired of being a maid? That's Cristina Castillo over there! The author! Help us get outta here, and she'll give you a leading role!"

Ceylan ignored him. She placed a teacup on a saucer and handed it to the Madam.

I flinched at Peter's useless efforts.

"Don't bother," Longwenier said in a bored voice. "Ceylan can't help you. She's only a 'side character.' Isn't that right, creator?"

I hung my head. "Yes," I mumbled. "I never gave her a thought process or a personality. She wouldn't recognize that we're in trouble."

"Perfect servant, and little else," Longwenier agreed. "You ask her to do much more than prepare tea or answer the door, and she gets confused."

"She gets confused regardless," Dr. Cadaver chided. "And she only speaks Turkish."

"Turkish?!" Peter exclaimed. He gaped at me. "Why?"

"So that she wouldn't overhear any of Longwenier and Dr. Cadaver's plans," I said, my voice just above a whisper.

"Teşekkür ederim, Ceylan," Longwenier said, dismissing the maid in Turkish.

Ceylan curtsied and quickly left the room.

"I'll take my tea downstairs," Dr. Cadaver commented. He gathered his cup, a folder full of notes, and the syringe that contained my blood. "Call via the voicepipe in my laboratory if you need me."

With a curt nod and a brisk step, the doctor marched from the parlor.

Longwenier settled on the sofa and took an indulgent drink of her tea. Her eyes closed and she hummed in appreciation.

"So, you're just gonna sit there sipping tea and eating scones while you decide how many of my fingernails to yank out?" Peter asked. "Does the word 'priorities' mean anything to you?"

"Oh, of course," Madam Longwenier responded. She sniffed a silent chuckle. "Let's just not have High Tea. Like animals."

"Wow," Peter said. He ogled her, astonished. "Just...wow. You're a cold bitch."

"You know," Longwenier commented, "I was going to start with a hot poker...or dismemberment. But I'm finding your constant prattle irksome. Learn to hold your tongue, or lose it. I will only endure so much cheek before I snuff out the source."

"Don't talk to him that way," I said through clenched teeth. "Just let him go. Peter has nothing to do with this."

"On the contrary," Longwenier argued. Her teacup landed on its saucer with a shrill clang. "If not for this devious little pretender, I would have already had you here long enough to finish my story. He set us back days by stealing you from me. I will enjoy torturing him."

"Eat a giant bag of dicks," Peter jeered.

"That's not necessary!" I cried.

They both turned toward me with identical expressions of confusion.

"Um, the torture, I mean," I clarified. "Not...the other thing. Just tell me what you want, Longwenier. I'll write it."

"Cristina! No!" Peter exclaimed. "Don't give this crazy bitch anything!"

"That is quite enough of that," Longwenier stated. She crossed the room and stuffed the gag back into Peter's mouth. "Do not speak unless you can improve the silence."

I flinched at Peter's pained expression. "Just tell me what you have in mind," I said.

"I've married and murdered three times for money," Longwenier told me. "I want my fourth marriage to be for love. I want my happily ever after, and I want it as something other than the villain."

"Fine. Agreed," I sighed. "I could...hmm. Tell me the physical attributes and personality you want him to possess. I'll build you a husband."

"That won't be necessary. I already have someone very specific in mind," Longwenier said. She smiled. "A prince."

I thought back to my research on Buckingham Palace and the British monarchy of the early 1900s. Longwenier killed her third husband at a palace masquerade ball, therefore I'd needed the occupants of the palace to be historically accurate.

My brow creased in confusion. "Edward VII?" I asked. "He's king now, but—"

"Not that boring old sot!" Longwenier snapped, cutting me off. "I tire of rotund, aging aristocrats. I want someone young, strapping, and handsome, who will positively ravish me in the boudoir."

At that moment, the front door slammed in the entrance foyer. Heavy footsteps stalked across the hardwood floor.

"Ah! Perfect timing," Longwenier declared. She sashayed over to the double doors that led to the main hall and pushed them open. "Darling!" she called. "Come in here so the creator can take a look at you." She turned and stared me directly in the eye. "I want her to capture every rugged, delicious detail."

"A new beau?" I asked. Quizzical, I watched as she perched on the arm of the sofa across from me. I hadn't written her any such person.

"Yes. Very new," Longwenier said. Her smile was pompous and calculating. "And I believe you two have already met. Isn't that so, darling?"

"It is so," a rich male voice replied. "Most assuredly."

My head swiveled back in the direction of the doorway just as a man stepped through. His tall stature made the door appear dwarfed. He gazed down at me, and his dark eyes narrowed in distaste.

My stomach lurched as the floor dropped away.

It was Hamlet.

~ * ~