Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Iput up a hell of a fight, if I do say so myself. This is the first time I’ve transformed different parts of myself into different forms at once, and I’m not sure whether it’s due to my rage or my exhaustion. One arm is that of a dragon, the other is that of a witch, while my mouth, now a siren’s, lets out a scream loud enough to rival Landon’s. It’s not enough though, none of it’s enough, and the fact that the attackers are all women renders my commands to let go basically useless.

"That’s enough out of you," Edith says, waving her hand lazily and inducing paralysis once more. I’m shaken back into human form like someone might shake a bothersome bug off their arm, and I’m helpless to fight it as the other shifters surround me, pinning my arms painfully behind my back. I let out a cry of pain as Edith strides up to me, her emerald eyes flashing. "I’m sorry it had to work out this way, Millie," she says, although I don’t hear any real remorse in her voice. "It would have been fun to get to know you, but you know what they say ... nothing personal." She pauses, her brow furrowing, and then adds, "Actually, what am I talking about? Of course it’s personal."

I glare daggers at her, fighting uselessly against her magic, but she seems to be done taunting me. I guess that’s something, at least. She turns her back to us. "Keep her still," she commands. "We have a long way to go to get to the safe house." Raising her hand, she releases a haze of pale magical light, and I immediately begin to feel drowsy. I’ve seen Josie do this once before, to subdue the guards outside our room when we were trapped at the Academy in Boston, but I’ve never been unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end.

My eyelids suddenly feel immensely heavy, and despite the voice in my head that’s screaming for me to move, move, fight it, do something, the clutches of the spell are unshakeable. Little by little, the life goes out of my limbs, made useless by the paralysis, and within moments the world has faded away around me.

I feellike I’m in a dream. Colours drift in and out, as well as vague bits and pieces of dialogue: "Get her set up."

"She has to wake up first, Sir."

"I don’t care! We’ve wasted enough time already!"

"The procedure won’t work unless she’s conscious! We found that out the hard way with those other boys…"

"Fine. I want to know as soon as she wakes up. Are we clear?"

One of the voices sounds oddly, ominously familiar, but the fog that I’m in is making it hard to listen, even harder to figure out if any of this is real. More images drift through my mind: Mollie’s glazed-over eyes. Edith kissing Hunter. Hazel and the twins, trapped in the burning apartment. Most of all, though, I see visions of the guys running for their lives from the pursuing hunters. My heart aches - I was so cruel to Hunter, and now I may never see him again. What if I never see any of them again? The most precious thing in the world to me, they’ve been torn from my grasp by one treacherous betrayal.

And then I lose consciousness once more.

I’m surprised to find that I’m not dead when I finally stir, my eyelids fluttering against the bright fluorescent lights. The pain in my skull has come back with a vengeance, and for a moment I’m struck by a wave of agony so intense that it makes me want to retch. I double over, clutching my stomach and dry heave . How long has it been since I’ve eaten something?

My head spins, my ears ringing, and it’s all I can do to sit there in a shaking heap as the dizziness starts to clear. Eventually, I’m able to force my eyes open, although the harsh lights make it hurt to do so, and look around.

I’m in a room as nondescript as it can get. The walls and floor are made of concrete, and the lights make me think I’m in some sort of basement or storage facility. What did Edith call it? A safe house?

Seems pretty far from safe to me.

I’m surprised to discover that I’m not restrained. I’m slumped forward in a hard wooden chair. My clothes are the same soot-stained ones I had on when the apartment caught fire, and my hair is hanging around my face in dirty clumps. Slowly, agonizingly, I struggle to my feet, having to pause with my hands on the chair to keep myself from passing out from the pain in my head. Once I’m sure I’m grounded, I straighten up and take a slow, shuffling step towards the door in the back.

Even before I reach it I realise it’s a pointless exercise. It’s padlocked shut on my side, and I’m willing to bet it’s been enchanted. Why else would they leave me in here alone with no restraints?

Still, I can’t resist the urge to summon a burst of flame from my dragon form, breathing it directly into the padlock for several moments. The metal doesn’t even change colour. Of course. Why would it? It’s not like I’ve ever been able to catch a break before.

I let out a yell of frustration and drop my head against the door, banging it uselessly with my hand as if that will somehow change my situation. The gesture sends a fresh stab of pain through me. God, my head hurts -- I go down hard.

The sound of bolts shifting on the other side makes me jump, and for a single crazed second I wonder if my frustration actually worked. But then there’s the sound of shuffling feet and I take a few steps back. I’m still weak from the spell and my injuries, but I’m already preparing to fight, my hands clenching into fists as I back up a few steps.

Then the door swings open and Hawthorne, the man who started all this, strides into the room. The smug bastard is smirking, like this is all some big joke to him. And he doesn’t look the least bit intimidated by my posture.

I raise my hand to cast a spell, but he shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Ms. Brix,” he says, his tone as self-righteous and condescending as ever. “We’re underground right now, miles away from anyone who will be able to help you. And we’re not alone.”

He steps aside to reveal the hulking form of another man, who immediately shifts into a siren. Before I have time to react, he’s already growling, “Don’t. Move.”

For the second time this week, I’m under the thrall of a siren, and I drop my hands weakly to my sides. Still, I’m able to force myself to speak. “Where are we?”

“Nowhere special,” Hawthorne replies. “The important thing is that we’re safe from prying eyes. Like your boyfriends, for example. We’ll find them, I have no doubt, but it’s nice to know that they won’t stumble across this facility themselves.”

I try to lunge at him, but I’m held in place by the command. “Leave them alone.”

“You really are feisty , aren’t you?” Hawthorne says. “I guess it would take someone with your personality to do all the damage that you’ve done. Still, that’s all in the past. Chin up, right?” He gives me a toothy smile before nodding to his henchman. “Take her to the testing room.”

The man turns to me. “You heard him. Follow us.”

My feet begin to move on their own as the two men turn and lead me out into a long hallway, their footsteps echoing ominously against the high walls. I struggle, but it’s in vain, and this time, Landon isn’t here to override this siren’s command. The men unlock a door at the far end, and what I see on the other side makes my heart stop: it’s a medical examination room, exactly like the one under the Academy where Silas was being kept. A table stands in the middle, manned by a meek-looking woman in a lab coat. The siren grabs my arm and thrusts me onto it, not bothering to be gentle as he secures me in place.

“Thank you, Hugh,” Hawthorne says. “That’s all we’ll need of you.”

The siren leaves, taking his magic with him, but by now I’m stuck in place, and even without his magic, I’m not going anywhere. “What are you going to do to me?” I demand.

“The same thing I’ve always been trying to do,” replies Hawthorne. “Level the playing field.”

“You just want to give yourself shifter powers,” I spit.

“I want to give everyone shifter powers!” Hawthorne snaps. “Don’t you understand? I’m working towards egalitarianism, Ms. Brix. A world where everyone has the same abilities. And if sacrifices have to be made for that, then…” He shrugs. “It’s a worthy cause.”

I open my mouth to protest, but there’s a sharp pain in my arm; I look down to see that the assistant has put a needle in my vein. “Sir,” he says, “I still have reservations about using a hybrid for -”

“We’ve been over this,” says Hawthorne.

“But-”

“Do. As. I. Say.” His dark eyes flash, and I feel a lurch of terror as the machine connected to the IV whirs to life, strange blue liquid shooting through the tube and into my arm. My reaction is as immediate as it is violent; the pain in my head is negligible in comparison to this. It feels like acid is running through my veins, dissolving everything in its path. I barely even feel the assistant putting a separate IV in my other arm, which he connects to another machine, but I do see my blood beginning to move sluggishly out of it and into the collection beaker. It looks wrong, though, too thick: like it’s corrupted.

Or already dead.

The pain rips through me, blocking out all conscious thought. I thrash against my restraints, crying out against the agony, feeling the strength going out of me, but it’s futile. Time slows to a crawl, my eyes clench shut. I think of the guys, their grinning faces, their gentle touches, and latch onto the image like it’s my last hope. That eases the pain, even as I feel tears streaming down my cheeks. I don’t know how much time has passed when I hear the assistant’s voice. He sounds far away. “Sir,” he says, “look at the blood concentration.”

Hawthorne steps closer to examine one of the monitors, and then lets out a roar of frustration. “What the fuck is wrong with her?”

“I told you,” the assistant protests. “There’s no way of isolating the blood serum. Her DNA is scrambled -- that’s the whole reason she’s a hybrid in the first place.”

“Then take more,” Hawthorne commands. “Take as much as you need!”

“It’s not the device,” the other man says. “We could drain her dry and it will still be useless. We need isolated strains from each species, preferably a lot of them. That’s how she was made in the first place.”

There’s the sound of a crash, and I open my eyes to see that Hawthorne has kicked a table in fury, sending medical supplies flying. “We haven’t gotten the okay from the board to start testing on the students yet,” he says. “Everyone’s on edge after that damned convention centre attack-”

I choke out a strained laugh. “You organised that!”

“Shut up.” Hawthorne doesn’t look at me. “Where are we supposed to get more test subjects? I thought the whole point of the girl was to save ourselves the resources.”

“We’re just going to have to wait,” the assistant replies. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but-”

“We are running out of time!” yells Hawthorne. I’ve never seen him lose his composure like this before. “Shifters everywhere are shaking us off. They’re mobilising. We don’t have time to wait for the fucking school board.”

“Then don’t,” I say quietly, a last desperate hope coming to me. It’s a gamble and I know it, but it’s like a light at the end of a tunnel, and I cling to it with everything I have.

Hawthorne turns to me. “Excuse me?”

I give him a humourless smile. “I happen to know four good shifters. And if I’m going to die here -- which considering how I’m feeling right now seems pretty likely -- I’d rather have them by my side.”

“You would send your boy toys to us?” Hawthorne laughs. “What makes you think I believe that? What makes you think they’ll even come?”

"They will," I insist, looking at him long and hard out of the corner of my eye. My body is weak, on the verge of giving out, but the anger I feel in me is enough to make my eyes flash just the same. I could almost swear I see Hawthorne look taken aback for just a second, caught off-guard by my sudden spirit. "They’ll come because you have me."