Even in her thoughts, he sounded awed.
The blindfold pulled up, along with her hair. Her teeth sank into her lip to smother a cry of pain. The fabric knot wasn’t pressing into her head anymore—the blindfold was loose. She shook her head back and forth. The blindfold fell down, lying over her nose. She could see!
Euphoria lasted seconds.
She could see and now she knew what sort of room she was in and what surrounded her. Sickening. Horrible. She lay on a table in the center of a dark room. Faint light came in high, small windows. She was in a basement and those windows let in the glow cast by street flares outside.
Her eyes grew accustomed to the faint light. It was still hard to understand everything she was looking at. Some things were too shrouded in shadow. Rows of wooden shelves lined the walls, and the light reflected on dozens of glass jars. It looked like a basement filled with preserves—
A hand floated in a jar.
Ophelia jerked her head to the side, fighting the urge to vomit. Gathering courage, she looked again. Was that an
The body parts must be in alcohol. That explained the strong odor.
Was
It was as if he was with her. Her panic eased. All she had to do was bring him to her and she would be safe. She believed in him.
In her thoughts, she told him about the body parts. Even in her mind, she could hear how she fought not to cry. She quickly described the rest of the basement room: the damp stone walls and the table that stood along the wall; stacks of dusty books, measuring rulers, paintbrushes, quills, and bottles of ink. But nothing she could see helped to reveal where she was.
She peered at the windows. They were above her and to her left, since she was flat on her back. She could see the sky, and the tops of buildings.
Off-key singing came from outside. A couple stumbled past the window. She could see the torn hem at the bottom of the woman’s skirts and her black buttoned boots and the man’s shiny boots, his breeches, the bottom of his tailcoat. Both staggered.
There had to be a public house here.
But really, there was a public house at every corner.
In her thoughts, Ravenhunt coaxed her. Could she see buildings. People? Signs?
She twisted her head to look out the window that was behind her. It was the direction the drunken couple had come from.
Footsteps sounded outside her door, and there was a rattle at the lock. Someone was opening her door.
There was no answer. Ophelia couldn’t explain it, but she had a cold, empty sensation in her mind for seconds. It went away, but she was sure it was because their connection had broken.
The door opened.
A short, plump man leaned over her. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up. He wore thick, round spectacles and a waistcoat of gray with dark spatters on it. Ophelia saw red stains on his rolled-up sleeves and realized it was blood.
He threw a bundle down on the table and unrolled it. It was a sheath of leather and as it opened, the light gleamed on blades.
This was the doctor and with those things he would cut her open.
“No,” she cried. “You cannot do this. This is inhuman—”
A gag was pulled between her lips, and it jerked painfully at the corners of the mouth. “Take care not to touch her.”
She recognized the voice as that of the second man. He was tall and muscular, and wore a gentleman’s clothes. His hair was jet-black, slicked back, and receding at the corners. It gave him a devilish look, along with his dark eyes. They looked as pure black as Ravenhunt’s.
But much more cruel.
Another man watched, at the edge of the shelves, his fingers stroking his chin. Clear blue eyes peered at her. His features were perfect, like a Greek statue. His hair was gold. At his side stood the man who had attacked her the first time she escaped. The grey-haired man called Cartwell.
“This blanket has to be removed,” the doctor barked. “How can I get to her to begin with a wool blanket wrapped around her?”
“We had to ensure she did not touch us.” Now she knew, from his voice, the blond man was the first man.
He stepped forward with scissors from the bench and hacked at the blanket. She flinched and tried to pull away as much as she could. When he had it cut to pieces, he ripped some of it back, but not enough to let her hands free.
She fought to break the rest of the blanket, lifting her arms. The straps bound her across the upper arms. Her hands were now free.
“Damnation,” yelled the blond. He came at her—he carried a dagger. He plunged it at her wrist and she screamed more shrilly than she ever had.
The tip went through the sleeve of her dress, securing it to the table.
The other man did the same to her other arm, and she was pinned, like an insect secured to a board.
“Now I begin.” The doctor nodded with satisfaction.
A blade cut through her shirt, and the doctor tore it open. He looked up and met her eyes. She couldn’t speak; she could only make fierce sounds around the gag.
“One day,” he said, “I will determine how magic resides in the bodies of demons like you.”
“We need to know,” said the second man, “so we can destroy her power.”
“Or take it,” said the first man.
“That you may not be able to do.” The doctor sliced through her shift. He was going to start cutting into her abdomen. To do that would kill her.
“There are stories that such powers like hers can be taken by magic, but that only works for other demons,” the first man said. “Mortals cannot take it.”
“The damned vampires who have infiltrated the society refuse to try,” the second man snarled.
“No, they cannot do it,” interjected Cartwell. “If they do, it is said it will destroy them. It would destroy a vampire to do it just as easily as it would destroy a human being.”
Ophelia jerked, forgetting for one moment the doctor, who had returned to his row of instruments. It would destroy a vampire to take her power?
