Page 42 of Monsters and Mocha

“You’re going to kill me.” The words were barely a whisper, spoken as a statement that she understood the truth of the moment they left her lips.

Fransten tsked. “Such a crass, horrible way of saying things. Think of it as donating your life to science. Without your sacrifice, these barriers will never be broken.”

“But why wait? Why bring me here? Why not just leave me to die in the hospital?”

“Because,” Fransten said slowly, setting the blades down on the table beside her, “you’re going to do it one last time. On him.” He pointed to the corpse. “You’re going to animate him the same way you did Monstrego and you’re going to tell me exactly how you do it.”

Darby felt like she was talking to a wall. “It only worked because Fitz wasn’t dead. There was still enough life in him to make a connection with the magic.”

He’s truly crazy. He so fervently believes that this is possible that he won’t even listen when I tell him otherwise.

“So it’s life that you need? And what does that mean, medically? Because Monstrego certainly wasn’t alive without your magic moving the blood and oxygen through his veins. Is that what it takes?” Fransten’s methodical movements were in stark contrast to the wild, deranged light in his eyes. He picked up his cleaver and swung it down at the corpse, cutting off a gray hand and tossing to the floor.

Darby closed her eyes and fought the urge to vomit.

“Oxygenated blood and magic to force it through the body? Very well, Shelton. Hold still.”

He picked up a rag, and the sickly sweet smell of chloroform hit her nose once again. She shook her head violently side to side, doing her best to avoid the fabric as Fransten covered her mouth and nose. “Stop! Dr. Fransten, please!”

The doctor roughly grabbed her chin. “I said, hold still.”

Her eyelids drooped as the chemical began taking effect, causing her vision to blur. A stream of tears leaked from her eyes and down the side of her face into her ear.

Deus, please.

The last thing she saw was Fransten, with his goggles pulled down over his eyes, pouring a stream of alcohol over the edge of his cleaver. “Don’t look so worried, Shelton. I’m a professional.”

She whimpered.

Fitz, where are you?

A deep, aching pain at the end of her left arm was the first sensation her mind registered as the anaesthetic wore off. Darby reacted instinctively, attempting to coil into herself as she screamed. Her arm slipped free of the restraint, though the action caused a searing agony as the skin of her wrist touched the leather cuffs. She cried out again as her eyes blinked rapidly, as if clearing her eyes of tears would change the horrifying sight before her.

Her wrist ended in a stump, stitched neatly together with dark threads that screamed Fransten’s handiwork. Another scream tore itself from her throat, cut short by Fransten’s hand over her mouth.

“Stop that at once!” he hissed.

“Darby!”

Fitz’s voice was so far away that she wasn’t sure if she was just imagining it, wishing that he was there to save her. She called for him, anyway. “Fitz!”

Fransten grabbed her wrist, squeezing so tightly that she let out another tortured scream as she felt the stitches pull apart. He pulled her to the side, forcing her to look at his creation. Her own hand was sewn in place at the end of the corpse’s arm, the pink flesh stark against the gray.

“Do it! Use your magic. Your own blood still retains enough life to bring him back.”

“DARBY!”

Fitz’s voice was definitely closer now, somewhere just beyond the door. Darby’s head started to turn toward the sound, but Fransten gripped her chin in his hand and pulled it back.

“The door is six inches of solid wood. He won’t be breaking it down anytime soon; not before you die of blood loss, anyway. But use your magic, Shelton, and I can keep you alive long enough to say goodbye to your captain.”

The handle of the door jiggled, and a fist pounded against the wood. “Darby!” Fitz’s voice was frantic. “Are you in there?”

She jerked her face out of the doctor’s grip. “Fitz! Help me!”

“Do it, Shelton!” Fransten squeezed her arm again to punctuate his command.

Darby was hyper-ventilating, and she could feel her body going into shock. The tears were flowing so thickly from her eyes that she could barely make out more than the blurry outline of Fransten’s face. “I can’t. I told you that before—I can’t.” A hysterical laugh escaped her as she recalled the accusation that Fitz had leveled at her early on in his recovery. “I’m not Deus.”