hadn’t cried. I hadn’t screamed. Yet.
The boy had disappeared a while ago. Thackery was typing notes into a PDA—he didn’t seem to use normal clipboards like other doctors I’d seen—his mouth puckered into a grimace. As though sensing my curiosity, he said, “I calculated four and a half hours for these to eject, based on the times of the other instruments. It’s been six, and while the instruments are out, the wounds have yet to heal properly.”
Instruments. I grunted.
“Perhaps you’ve had too much stimulation for such a brief period of time. I have other things to attend to, so I’ll let you rest.”
Other things. Other patients? Other torture victims?
He left without a word, shutting off the last of the lights, bathing the room in complete darkness. In the pitch black, I was aware of something else—the constant motion had ceased. We’d reached a destination of some sort. Would I be moved out of this lab-on-wheels? Relocated to a lab with even more horrific methods of testing my body’s ability to heal?
Waning ability, it seemed. I flexed my thigh muscles and was rewarded with tiny shocks of pain, one from each of the six wounds. I’d had a snapped wrist heal in less than twelve hours. Half a dozen holes shouldn’t still be there after six.
My scalp itched just behind my right ear. I reached automatically, and my wrist slammed hard against the strap holding it down. The itch intensified, taunting me to scratch it. I pulled against the strap, twisted, yanked until my wrist was raw. No luck. The restraint held.
My fucking scalp itched all night long.
A sudden glare of light shrieked through my brain, and I squeezed my eyes shut as hard as I could. It wasn’t enough to block out the onslaught and, after being in pitch darkness for what felt like days, the light fried my senses. I shrieked and yanked at the restraints on my wrists, desperate to cover my eyes. Nuggets of fear blossomed into full-on panic.
God, what was Kelsa going to do to me today?
No, not Kelsa. Thackery.
Shit. I was already losing it.
“My apologies,” Thackery said. The level of glare seemed to dim, but my headache did not relent. “I thought you’d be pleased to know your shape-shifter friend, Phineas, is well on his way to a full recovery.”
My eyelids popped open, glare be damned. He was grinning at me, and oh how I longed to break those perfect white teeth. “You saw him?”
“Oh no, but I still have sources in the city. He’s been kept quite protected, not only by his people but also yours.”
“Mine?”
“Specifically, Mr. Truman.”
My heart soared. Wyatt was keeping company with Phin. It was an idea I loved and hated in equal measure. Loved, because the pair were not terribly fond of each other, and I was glad Wyatt wasn’t alone. Hated, because it meant Wyatt wasn’t looking for me. Had he given up? How long had I been gone?
Thackery held a bendy straw up to my mouth. “Drink a few swallows of this.”
“What is it?”
“A protein shake. It’s likely you aren’t healing as you should because your body has been deprived of basic nutrients since you came into my care. I was foolish for neglecting those needs.”
Good point. My mind rebelled against doing anything to help him, even as my empty stomach and trembling limbs craved sustenance. I took three hard pulls on the straw. Something cool and thick and lemon-flavored oozed down my throat. It settled heavily in my stomach, which threatened to expel it as quickly as I swallowed.
Ugh. I was never fond of lemon, but this made me absolutely despise the flavor. Before I could suck down any more and see if I could manage to projectile-vomit onto Thackery, he removed the temptation and backed out of sight.
“I’ll give you more in fifteen minutes,” he said, returning. “Too much at once is dangerous to your system. I don’t want to shock you.”
“Just torture me,” I said.
“Study you.”
“Fuck off.”
He smiled, and almost seemed … sad? Nah.
“So what now? Bamboo shoots up my fingernails?”
“I told you—”
“Yeah, right, not torture.” Something occurred to me. “You find that thing in my blood you were looking for?”
“Yes and no.” My face must have flashed a “What the fuck does that mean?” at him. “I didn’t find what I expected; however, results were not a complete loss.”
“Can’t cure a vampire infection, huh?”
His mouth pressed into a thin line. “No, not yet. I do have my most encouraging results thus far, and discovering the secret of your regenerative abilities may be the final piece of the puzzle I’m lacking.”
“You can’t re-create magic.”
“It’s physical.” Something cold stole across his face, cutting hard lines in his otherwise handsome features. “The vampire infection is physical, and you physically repelled it from your body.”
“With a magic healing—”
“No!” It was the first outburst I’d ever seen from him, and it was truly a terrifying sight. Cracks of madness peeked through his carefully erected exterior and proper manner. The madness of a man whose entire world had been devoted to one singular goal, and who wouldn’t let anyone tell him his goal was unattainable. He’d lost his family to an infection he was now determined to eradicate, no matter the cost. And it was a cost that had slowly eaten away at his soul.
Definitely his sanity.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, held it, then exhaled. Repeated the action several times. Calm centeredness reigned when he looked at me again, the raging storm quieted. For now. “How many Hunters have you lost to this battle? How many half-Bloods have you killed who were once innocents, whose minds were ravaged by the disease and turned into raving murderers? Wouldn’t you pay any price to stop it from happening to others?”
Images of Jesse and Alex haunted me, both of them torn apart by the bloodlust and hate in their newly altered DNA, thrown into turmoil by the residual memories of their old lives. Both of them infected because of me, and both of them dead by my hands.
Thackery stepped away. Drawers opened and shut. He arranged instruments on a tray and brought it back to the bedside.
“What if you can’t?” I asked. “What if you can’t find a cure, no matter what you do?”
His mouth twisted into a contemplative expression. He plucked a scalpel off his tray and held it up, light glinting off its mirrored surface. My insides clenched. “I believe I will cure it, Ms. Stone, I sincerely do. But you are correct. One should always have a Plan B.” He studied his scalpel, offering no more.
“And?”
“And my Plan B is quite simple. If you can’t fight an infection, you remove the damaged limb.”
The hair on my scalp prickled. He pushed the gown up my arm to expose my right shoulder. The tip of the scalpel dragged over my bicep, not quite cutting.
“You mean destroy the vampire race,” I said.
“Precisely.”
He cut deeply, and I gasped. Swallowed a shriek. Deeper, the blade ate into my skin and muscle. Tears welled and spilled, and I couldn’t stop them. I didn’t scream, though, not even when he held up a chunk of my flesh the size of a thumb, oozing blood and quivering like skin-coated gelatin.
I did manage to turn my head and vomit onto his shoes.
