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“It’s working,” he declares with a sense of victory.
But I have to get this out. “No. I need to talk to…” I drift off for a moment, a splash of water and louder chanting snapping me back into reality. “Judas.”
Meridei scoffs, a wet choking sound. “And what makes you think he wants to speak with you? A traitor? A whore? A demonically possessed woman?”
“Do not taunt it,” the priest snaps.
It. I’m an it now, huh?
“Judas,” I say again, louder this time.
“Just because you asked so nicely…” Her tone is too soft. Too sweet. “I’ll make sure he never steps foot in this room. Because it looks like I’m getting my wish after all. Since a priest is now overseeing your treatments, no more death sentence.”
I tremble violently under my sheets, clanking my chains together over my lap.
“Which means… more playtime for me.”
20. Dual-Treatments
I am not given days to recover.
Despite the fever, chills, vomiting, diarrhea, and achy limbs… I am treated as though my body is indestructible. In a hazy state of weakness, I’m dragged from my bed, knees scraping over the checkerboard tile as two orderlies haul me to another treatment.
If there was anything left in my system, I’d vomit again. But there isn’t. I’m an empty vessel. And this is only day two.
My elbows are locked in two choke holds, tugging me along like an old, worthless doll. A puppet who has lost her strings. A run-down, vintage marionette.
My stomach is in knots and I’m shivering at the crisp draft in the air. Nothing in the world would make me happier than being back in bed. I don’t even care if they didn’t feed me. But it’s so cold out here—
A treatment door swings open, and I strain to lift my head, afraid to see what I’m in for.
No.
A pair of shadowed eyes lands on me. And in this gaslit lighting, they’re a smoky shade of hickory. Dessin is strapped down to an inclined table, raised enough for him to look back at me without lifting his head.
“Dess—” But there’s something about the cold, unfazed gleam in his stare. Detached. Eager. Vigorously amused. He nods at me with a smirk or anticipated entertainment. But that can’t be right. Dessin would be, at the very least, frustrated that I’m in a treatment room with him.
“Until your fever drops, you’re exempt from treatments,” Meridei announces, cutting off my line of sight to Dessin. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t watch Patient Thirteen suffer.”
I didn’t even have to watch that when I was his conformist.
My stomach takes a tumble. I’m going to be sick.
My heavy eyes trail over the wires on each side of him, the small machine on a table to his left, and a rag to bite down on. The orderlies on either side of me let go of their grips on my elbows, shutting the door behind me. And I want to stand. I want to rush to his side. But this fever, these viruses in my bloodstream make it hard to keep my eyes open, much less walk.
“Do you remember this treatment, Skylenna?” Meridei skips over to Belinda’s side, who is turning on the machine, swiping at switches and pressing buttons.
Electroshock therapy.
Meridei turns to Dessin. “Aren’t you going to grovel? Beg me to make her leave the room?”
Dessin raises an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?” His eyes slide back to mine, slowly, like slicing a dagger through skin. “I like the idea of her eyes on me.”
Meridei and Belinda exchange a look, attempting to hide their disappointment.
But I can’t stop staring at his expression. His slightly different mannerisms. All of it combined with his words… it can’t be Dessin anymore. It must be the alter that was locked in the cage surrounded by the Nightamous Horde.
What is his name?
