Breathing ragged, Roberto broke mind-meld. If he wasn’t careful, he’d give himself away. Once he’d controlled his shock, Roberto slipped back into Zens’ mind.
The man threw Zens into a metal tub, mounted in a bench. Zens pushed a shiny handle and water came out of a spigot. He bathed himself in warm water.
More wizardry.
After he’d bathed, Zens pulled on a suit of soft fabric.
“Done, are you?” said the yellow-eyed man. “Now clean up that mess.”
The man shoved some rags and a clear bottle—too light to be glass—into Zens’ hands. The boy stumbled to the cupboard to clean up his mess.
The stench of stale urine and blood made Roberto’s empty stomach roil.
Zens squeezed a handle on the neck of the bottle and a fine spray shot out of the strange spout-shaped lid. When he was done, Zens threw away the rags. “Sorry, Papa.”
The man towered over him. Eyes slitted, he backhanded Zens so hard his jaw snapped shut.
Zens bit his tongue, the coppery tang flooding his mouth. He curled in a ball, blows raining on his head. Blinding flashes of pink and yellow seared through his mind.
Roberto snapped mind-meld. Nausea hit him as his memories of Amato beating him resurfaced. He almost pitied Zens, until he remembered the countless slaves he’d murdered and villages he’d razed in his quest for power. He tried to moisten his lips again, and failed.
Should he dive back in? What if Zens woke?
Despite his trepidation, Roberto slunk back into Zens’ mind, a silent witness to his worst nightmares.
The man kicked Zens in the gut. He retched on the floor, clutching his abdomen. Dark blood flew out of his mouth as he vomited, splattering the cupboards under the benches.
Aiming a final kick at the boy, Zens’ father spat on him. “Clean your filth up.” He left the room, slamming the door.
The scene of Zens’ nightmare changed.
Zens was in the center of a group of littlings, taunting him and jeering.
“Your father smack your nose in?”
“How’d it get half way across your face? Fall off a roof again?”
“You’re uglier than ever—suits you.”
Shame knifed through Zens. He lashed out with his fist and connected with someone’s stomach. As cries broke out, he fled along a shiny metal corridor. Flexing his fingers, he shook his hand, but the pain felt good. Better than cowering in shame.
A new memory surfaced.
A thin dark-haired woman was seated on a high stool at one of the workbenches in the room where Zens had wet himself. “This won’t hurt a bit,” she crooned, strapping Zens’ arms, legs, chest and neck to a worktable. She tightened the bands and gave him an acrid red drink, cradling his head as he swallowed.
Sweet dreams flowed through him—of sunny beaches edged by vast forests full of colored birds. Zens reveled in the air’s salty tang, the cool water lapping around his ankles and the sun on his skin.
Something pricked the soles of his feet. Heat surged through them, building until his feet were blazing hot. His body convulsed. The bands cut into him. Small, neat stabs of pain trailed up his legs. Fire seared his veins. He was burning up. He screamed for help, “Mama.”
“You’re all right, darling,” responded the dark-haired woman, her eyes cold as she plunged needles into his arms.
His arms were on fire. His chest, his belly.
She stuck a needle into his neck.
His head throbbed with heat. “No, Mama,” Zens whimpered, over and over.
The woman stalked from the room without a backward glance.
Zens twisted and writhed but couldn’t escape the burning.
An age later, the fire ebbed and he collapsed like an empty sack. Everything went black.
Had Zens stopped dreaming? Gods, his parents were devils, evil torturers.
Light entered through a narrow window high in a wall. Dawn was breaking. Zens was still strapped to the table. His body ached all over. What had his parents done to him this time? Darkness clawed inside Zens, robbing him of hope.
Muted voices sounded. Large metals doors were flung open. His parents entered. Zens’ mother flicked a tiny lever in the wall and white light flooded out of strange globes in the ceiling.
Zens’ eyeballs were on fire. He squeezed them shut, trying to stamp out the burning with his lids.
“Open them,” barked his father, his voice grating, hurting Zens’ ears and head.
Zens opened his eyes, but the light burned them. Through a film of tears, he faced his parents, still bound to the bench.
“Oh, God.” Zens mother recoiled. “What have we done?’
“He’s a monster.” Even his father looked shocked.
“What have we done? This experiment was supposed to give him extraordinary mental powers to help subdue our enemies, but look at him.”
“As ugly as sin.” His father grimaced.
“Papa,” Zens’ littling voice shook. “Mama?”
His mother turned on his father, lips tight with rage. “I told you we shouldn’t use that DNA, but you wouldn’t listen.”
Roberto had no idea what she was talking about, but Zens seemed to.
“Mama,” Zens whimpered. “What is it?”
His mother held up a mirror. Zens’ eyes had become enormous yellow orbs. His head had grown and his neck had thickened. All of his hair had fallen out. He was ugly. Uglier than ever before. The bullies would never stop taunting him.
“Let me go,” he yelled, bucking against his restraints.
“You’re uglier than a scum-sucking dog, but it might have worked.” His father’s smile sent chills down his neck. Turning to Zens’ mother, he said, “Let’s test his powers.”
Zens lay helpless, crying, on the workbench.
Zens’ dream flipped to the same corridor where Roberto had seen him being taunted.
He was surrounded by a crowd of littlings.
“Your eyes are big and yellow. Did your daddy’s experiment go wrong?”
Experiment? That word
