Dead of Eve (36 page)

I rinsed my mouth with a pitcher, dressed and sat on the bed. “Let’s get this over with.”

He held his post on the wall. “Proud of yourself?”

I shrugged. “I’ve had cleaner cuts with a blade. Didn’t get the timing right.”

He read my eyes, saw the truth there. “That right?” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I don’t hold you responsible for what happened.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I talked to your priest.”

So his lies continued.

“His cooperation wasn’t forthcoming. He decided if you thought him dead, we would lose our leverage.”

My jab hand curled in my lap.

“But I made sure he understood that his death had broken you.”

I rubbed the vein at my elbow, one of the many bruised blood taps I’d offered without fight. His death
did
break me.

He pushed away from the wall and knelt before me. “In Malta, the children used to sing
Nannakola, mur l-iskola, aqbad siggu u ibda oghla.
” His expression softened. “Ladybird, go to school, get a chair and start jumping.”

I gasped and covered it with my hand. “What did you say?”

He pulled my hand from my mouth. “His sign. The ladybirds. The
Nannakola.
” He squeezed my hand. Lifted my chin with the other. “You are hallowed.”

I stopped breathing.

“That’s what he called you.”

Oh, my sentimental Irishman. “Infection?”

“He’s human. No bites.”

My chest expanded. Then it heaved with the thunder of my breaths. He lived. Oh God, he
lived
.

The lines around the doctor’s eyes faded. Tenderness touched his features. Too tender. Was that his game? To break me then rebuild me? I jerked my hand away and jumped from the bed. “Where is he?”

“Two floors down.”

“In a cell like this?”

“The same. But no visitors.” He tipped his head to the rafters. “And the view’s not as good.”

No visitors? “Are you starving him?” I couldn’t keep my voice from hitching.

“The human staff delivers his meals.”

“Why did you let me think he was dead all this time?”

He stood, eyes fastened on mine. “He’s alive because if his death didn’t break you, his torture would.”

My jaw clenched to the verge of pain. “Free him and my cooperation will be without bounds.”

“I cannot.”

My shoulders sagged. “Let me see him. Move him here. He can stay in my cell.”

“Aiman and Siraj cannot know their plan has been compromised.”

Or they’d move to Plan B. Roark’s torture. “So I pretend to be broken. Why is that important?”

His eyes narrowed. “You’ve exceeded your questions. My turn. What are the black spots on your back?”

No idea. “Never seen them before.”

Lines rutted his forehead. Then he nodded at my chest, where the blouse had fallen away from my scar. “How’d you get that?”

Of all the questions. I gathered the material at my collar, covering the atrocity. “A prig of a man deemed me the devil and attempted a mastectomy.”

His face smoothed into a blank canvas. “Does he live?”

Same question Roark asked. I shook my head.

“It was deep. Through the muscle. It hit bone?”

He knew the extent of the damage, had scrutinized it under the slide of soap. I lifted a shoulder.

“The stitching was a sorry attempt. Who did it?”

I shrugged again. “Who cares?” Then his drawn eyebrows compelled me to say, “I did.”

He cleared his throat. “I see.”

We stared at one another in a suspended moment. Whatever his plan was, he had returned my will to fight. I would escape that damn island with Roark in tow. The key was in my physiology, in the vials the Drone collected every day. What did the doctor know about my blood?

Time to pull my head out of my ass and find out. I crooked my lips.

His brow furrowed and he spun on his heel.

Maybe the doctor wasn’t as unaffected by me as I originally assumed. I didn’t know his intentions, but I could leverage his give-and-take to find out. I let my smile fill my face as I admired his retreating backside for the first time.

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.

“If we evaluate the life cycle of parasites and viruses, which are very efficient at mutating and adapting into different forms, we may find the answer. You’re not mutating like Aiman. Your abilities are an environmental response.” A sparkle lit his eye. “Aiman was bit.”

Wow, he was in rare form and he pulled me right along with him.

“Let me guess. His own guards?”

“His lover.”

I let out a bitter laugh. A creation that became dangerous to its creator. “How’d he avoid the immediate changes of the mutation?”

“He was already inoculating himself.”

With his unproven spider serum. “What about you?”

“I won’t touch his experiments.”

“I meant did you have a lover? Wife? Children?” Why the hell did I care?

“No.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t considering you created a virus intended to kill them.” Hit with the reality of the conversation, I stubbed out the cigarette. “Why are you always in here? Sleeping in here? With your attack dogs at the door, there’s no way I’m escaping.” Unless I could use my connection to them.

The skin around his eyes creased, no trace of their earlier animation.

I’d annihilated the mood, but one question remained. “How’d you get mixed up with the Jabara brothers?”

“We grew up together in Okinawa. Our fathers were stationed there. U.S. Air Force.”

A Japanese heritage fit his silken gold skin, almond shaped eyes, thick black hair. “Your mother was Japanese.”

He nodded and eyed my cup. Back to captor and captive.

I gagged down the soup.

“Aiman and I reunited in med school and collaborated on a project. We were pursuing a hypothesis involving the relationship between entomological and viral saltation. I believe that project initiated the design of the nymph virus. But we had a fundamental disagreement that roadblocked our work.”

He might as well have been speaking another language in regards to his project. But I could guess the roadblock. “Religion.”

“Yes. So I broke off from the project and the friendship dissolved.”

“Sounds like you’re saying you didn’t knowingly aid in mass murder. Yet here you are.”

He lifted his head and met my eyes. “I take full responsibility for what happened.”

Something lurched in my gut, something corroded and unused. I wanted to forgive him and didn’t know why.

We fell silent after that. A short time later, he stood and left the room. I lay on my side on the bed and arranged the robe over me. I pretended it was Roark’s wool robe and Roark’s bed. I could feel his easy smile whisper against my back, his protective arms grabbing hold of my waist. Every breath was a breath for him and charged me anew. Imagined fingers trailed my body. My skin bumped up. I visualized his generous lips parting over mine. His curls would be soft in my hands.

The threads of the mattress tingled on my fingertips. Warmth stirred through me and pulsed between my thighs, a sensation I’d suppressed for weeks. I sank into the bed and let it take me.

The knob on the chamber door jiggled. A heavy weight crashed against it. The throb inside me was replaced by a different kind of hunger. Scratches climbed the door.

Was it the chemical factor he had mentioned? I’d read how insects used pheromones to attract mates. Had the aphid guards sensed my arousal? Maybe I could use the link to control them. A ticket to Roark. To freedom.

I focused on the streaming vibration. If I could just get a steady hold—

Pain stabbed the space behind my eyes. Stars bleached out the blush of daybreak. I ground my teeth and tensed my muscles to anchor their hunger.

Eveline.
The Arabic rumble tossed my gut. The bond between us snapped together. The Drone’s anger and surprise became my own, like a violation of my soul. His essence permeated through the floors and laded my inhales. He was coming. What the hell had I done?

“The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,

And I have many curious things to show you when you are there.”

“Oh no, no,” said the Fly, “to ask me is in vain;