I gripped the bars next to his face. “My blood test?”
He didn’t flinch. “Your aggression is a symptom of high testosterone. As is your muscle strength. I assume you also have a demanding sex-drive?”
“What blood test?”
“I took your blood on the plane when I changed your clothes.”
Tension racked my body. “What else have you discovered?”
“I’m still analyzing it.”
His monotone voice chaffed my skin. “What do you and the sadistic brothers want with me?”
“To study you.”
“What are your qualifications, Dr. Nealy?”
“I hold a medical degree and my expertise is in molecular biology and genetics. The Drone is a Biochemist. We want to learn about your survival and your connection to the aphid.”
“So I’m the lab rat? To help you control your mutant army?”
“How did you get the scar?” His gaze dropped to my chest.
My hand flew to my neckline, covered by the gown. My other hand shot through the bars, toward his jaw. His body bowed backwards. My fist punched air.
He stepped back. The door crashed open behind him.
“Why isn’t she dressed in proper attire?” the Drone shouted through the chamber.
“She refused.” The doctor’s unemphatic response.
“She refused? She is not allowed to refuse. You assured me you could handle this, Michio. If you are not able to accomplish even the simplest task—”
“I do not need handling,” I said. “And I decide what I wear.”
The Drone strolled over to the gate. “Open it.”
The doctor dialed in the combination and opened the gate.
A brass knuckle dagger appeared in the Drone’s fist. He handed it to the Imago, who stood behind him, and floated into the cell, sable cloak slapping at the bars. The sunlight seemed to twist and slide away to oblige his oily aura. The lock slammed in place.
I braced my feet and met his eyes, though every muscle in my body screamed at me to attack.
He pointed a finger at the hijab. “You will cover yourself. Now.”
The hellish wings and driveling incisors in my nightmares were my own imagining. I supposed him being human was a small relief. Still, a sinister overcast enshrouded him and aroused the hairs on my arms.
I lifted my chin and shook my head.
My back hit the wall. The Drone’s nails curled into my neck as he held my face level with his. I gasped for air and stretched my toes, unable to feel the ground.
Cold lips stroked my face. “Just a flex of my fingers, Eveline, and I will squeeze your last breath from your lungs.”
Pain seared my throat. I kicked his legs until he pinned my lower body with his. My lungs labored for air. I opened my mouth. His fist trapped my voice. He bent his head and moved his grasp from my jugular to my nape.
I gulped, filled my lungs, and whispered through the burn, “Okay—”
His teeth plunged into my neck.
Science has not yet taught us if madness is
or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.
Edgar Allan Poe
Fire lashed my throat and chased a chill down the length of my spine. The Drone’s arms and teeth restrained me against the wall.
The doctor’s face filled my vision, eyes dark and unreadable. “Let her go.” His voice lowered. “And don’t swallow. We don’t know the effects of her blood.”
The Drone’s growl reverberated against my throat. He released my neck, his smile brimmed with blood-tinged teeth, and puckered to spit crimson dollops at my feet.
I slapped a hand to my neck and palmed the hurt there. Had he bitten me out of madness or was he trying to imbibe something from my blood? And how would I keep them from using Roark as leverage? The unknowns lumped up in my gut. I tried to smooth them out with fantasies of the Drone’s head tilted at an unnatural angle, his spinal column protruding from the stiff collar of his shirt. His necrotic eyes yellowed and his tongue buoying in a mouth of vomit—
“You will cover yourself. If not, your priest will be covered in kind with blood.”
I stiffened. My nightmare was true to form, with his ringlets of black hair, sable cloak, even the purr of his accent.
It brought up the troubling question of how I was able to foresee him in visions. Even more troubling were the words he spoke in those dreams. Together we will populate the world with Allah’s chosen.
Queasiness mingled with my rising blood pressure and laced my rebuttal with acridity. Or stupidity. “Fine. I’ll conceal my body to prevent your dick from saluting your desire. It’ll make it hard to knock me up. And by hard, I don’t mean firm.” I pointed my gaze at the zipper of his black pants.
The room stilled, teetered on a deadly edge as if the air itself were afraid to move. The Imago’s cigar paused halfway to his mouth. Beside me, the doctor shifted his weight.
The Drone’s pupils saturated his eyes. His chest ballooned with an influx of air and his face turned to stone. “What do you know of my plans?”