Dead of Eve (Trilogy of Eve 1)

The wind roared with the passing of night, pitching the tide and stuffing the sky with clouds. I lay on my back, unable to escape the taunt of having Roark so close, yet unable to reach him.

Something skittered along the stone balk above, followed by the beat of wings.

“You awake?” I knew he was. The doctor’s nights on the couch were as restless as mine.

“What is it?”

“Did you hear that noise on the rafters?” I rolled toward him and pillowed my head with my arm.

“Probably a bat.”

I strained to hear its return. Eventually gave up. “Why did you tell me about Roark?”

Silence weighted the air. Then his outline moved through the chamber and settled outside the gate.

A shallow dish tilted between the bars and sailed across the floor. Of course. Always a trade.

Rice clung to the sides. I scooped with my fingers and chewed.

“I told you,” he said. “It’s my job to keep you healthy. That includes your mental health.”

It didn’t make sense. They wanted me broken. Was there internal conflict on Team Evil? “Why did you do it? The virus?”

He shook his head, his face slack.

Fine. He could keep that secret. “Why does the Drone need my blood?”

He nodded to the bowl. I plucked another sticky clump and smeared it on my tongue.

“He wants your immunity.”

Whoa. What? I swallowed the muck. “So you dumb asses created a virus without a vaccine. One that could come back to bite you.” I pressed my tongue in my cheek. “And you think consuming my blood will be inoculative?”

“He hopes it will be a cure.”

“He wouldn’t need a cure if he kept better company.” I flicked at hand at the chamber door where his guards hummed on the other side. “Besides, you intentionally spread the virus. Why would he want a cure?”

His expression remained empty. I rubbed my neck where the Drone bit me. He didn’t have fangs and wings, though everything else I dreamt was real. And how could he communicate with the aphids? Something didn’t fit. “You still have those cigarettes?”

A cup and spoon appeared between the bars. I scooted closer and accepted the trade. Clams and garlic wafted from the chunky brown broth. I slurped down a fishy bite and made a face.

“Sole stew.” He rose as graceful as a curl of smoke and drifted through the room. A moment later, he returned with the cigarettes and…a fire extinguisher?

“You won’t need that.” Setting fire to my clothes would be one way out, but he’d given me a reason to live.

He lit a cigarette and passed it to me. I coughed through the stale burn. “So what is he? The Drone?”

“His genetic code includes a hybrid of aphid and spider now. It continues to alter and he’s desperate to remain human.”

So he was mutating. “Did you say spider?”

“He’s been injecting himself with a serum derived from genomic macromolecules of various spider species.” He dropped his eyes to the bites on my legs. “It was unproven, so there have been some side-effects. But it stinted his aphid transformation.”

His frankness thrilled me. Even in the dark, his eyes danced. I’d found his spark. “And a macromolecule is…”

“DNA, RNA, proteins.”

I rested my chin on my knee and pinched the bridge of my nose. “So aphid and eight-leggers. No wings.”

“There is wing dimorphism in aphids.”

My heart sputtered.

“Some aphids—the insect species—can produce winged offspring to relocate from overcrowded or degraded food sources. It’s a fascinating example of evolution. But we haven’t seen wings in the aphid humanoid species. And the Drone hasn’t allowed me a full examination of him.”

The perfect segue. “You stole that exam of my body, blood and all. What’s the verdict?”

Arm dangling over a knee, he picked at the chipped floor tile between his feet. The wait was torturous.

He licked his lips, met my eyes. “There’s neither aphid nor nymph genome stored on your DNA.”

Didn’t expect that. “What then?”

“I’m still analyzing your blood.” His eyes darted away. “The absence of aphid in your DNA chemistry questions your ability to link with them. Aiman explained it as a vibration in his abdomen that presses out through his chest.” His gaze returned. “Is that accurate?”

I nodded.

“Insects communicate using visual, chemical, tactile and acoustic means. And aphids have mechanoreceptors—those tiny tactile hairs on their arms and legs—to feel the vibrations you’re producing.”

I held up an arm. “I don’t, yet I still feel them.”

“It’s acoustic. There’s a tympanic membrane, a kind of eardrum, in the insect abdomen to detect sound. That would explain how you feel it there.” He nodded to my stomach.

“You think I have this membrane? That I’m mutating like the Drone?” Sole stew threatened a comeback.

“Your evolution is the result of adaptation. But it’s more complex than that. A physical morphing occurs over generations. Yours is…miraculous.”

My stomach settled, and a smile crept up. Roark would think so.