Page 37 of Adam, Mine

Victor opened his mouth to explain that he could probably generate a few with sufficient motivation. But before he could speak, Alain’s hand collided with the side of his face so hard his head snapped back. Victor could not even take a breath to process it when another blow knocked him the other way. The palm of Alain’s hand was broad and tight, like being slapped with steel in leather gloves. Victor had never been treated with such roughness and violence.

He cried out, tears of pain and rage springing to his eyes. He stood quickly to protest, and Alain caught him. Bending his head back, fiercely gripping his hair. Then, to Victor’s ever-relenting horror, licked the tears from his face in broad, hot swipes.

Victor pushed at Alain’s chest, but he was far too strong for Victor’s efforts to matter. He looked down into Victor’s eyes with his frigid, merciless gaze and tightened his grip until Victor saw stars.

“That man was not your friend,” Alain said, calm and conversational. “I could smell your lies as you stood sniveling on my porch.”

“How dare you strike me!” Victor shouted, furious.

Alain hummed. Victor’s outburst did not intimidate him. “I accept this payment.”

He released Victor, snorting as Victor crumpled to his knees. Then Alain sat back down and took a sip of his wine.

“It’s an exchange spell; your bodies are seeking equilibrium.” He peered hard at Victor. “Hmm, one and a half souls, it looks like, trying to find a balance. Best case you settle with seventy-five percent of a soul in your body. The sun won’t ever feel as warm, food won’t taste as good, pleasure will never be so sweet as before your transgression. But if this was done for a friend or a lover, would this be so much to lose? To sleep beside a wife snatched before death untimely?”

He took another bite of his bread, watching dispassionately as Victor struggled back into the chair.

“I’d give more than hair, blood, and tears for that. You would have liked my wife; she was nicer than me,” said Alain.

“You are a devil,” Victor spat. His face still burned hot as fire, and his pride burned worse.

Alain snorted. “Perhaps. Now for your tears. If this had been a friend or a wife, it would have settled between you two. Saving them and granting you both an enchanted half-life. But that man is not your friend, araignée. He will pull the life from you until there is too little left to sustain you. Whether he knows it or not, his body will be seeking one hundred percent of a soul, more if he needs healing. Leaving you with a quarter left in the end. Eventually, one of you must die, but for now you are . . . in an interesting space.”

Good God. Victor snatched the glass of wine off the table and downed it entirely.

“What then?” he rasped.

The French alchemist shrugged. “Many things? I deal in blood and soil; maybe another alchemist has more for you. Perhaps extended unconsciousness, maybe depression so dark you cannot move. You could weaken until the point of death, then expire naturally, perhaps.”

Victor panted and thought hard.

“Is there a time limit before that happens?”

The French alchemist shrugged again, this time with a smirk.

God damn it. God damn this man, and damn this house and damn this entire country.

“You want blood?” Victor asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t say no.” Alain’s smirk widened into a grin.

“Are you going to drink it, too? Lick it off my arm like some kind of beast?”

Alain let out a peal of laughter. “There are much better things to do with blood, araignée, though I have heard it does cook well into a sausage if Englishmen are to be believed.”

Victor rolled his eyes.

“It could be worse.” Alain stood. “Mr. Fitz gave me a small piece of his liver* so I would be written down in his little book. Searchable by any shithead alchemist who got his hands on it. Present company excluded, of course.”

He clamped a hand on Victor’s shoulder in a way that reminded Victor of his monstrous strength. “Come on.”

He followed Alain to a room at the back of the house. Victor wisely kept his eye on every exit and anything that could potentially be used as a weapon.

As they drew closer to the door, something that had escaped Victor’s notice at first became quite apparent. The flowers in front of the house smelled so sweet, their scent cloying and bright. Intentional in their obscuration. But beneath this scent, a persistent aroma of iron.

Light at first in the foyer, then covered by the scent of home cooking in the kitchen. But growing stronger and stronger as they went toward this room.

The door had flaking paint around the edges, strange for such a pristine house, and Victor’s sense of alarm screamed at him to run.