Page 38 of Adam, Mine

But Alain’s hand was still on his shoulder, and he simply could not test if this man’s strength was rivaled by his speed.

Alain whistled a light tune as he pulled a key from his suit pants. He opened the door and shoved Victor inside.

Victor stumbled, catching himself on a table—no, a surgical site. The smell was thick and foul, worse than in a butcher shop.

His eyes rolled around the room in a panic. The walls in here had a strange patchy brown color that it took a moment for him to recognize as blood.

“We have specialties, you know,” Alain said, closing the door hard behind himself. “If you survive this and live to learn, you’ll choose your own. I do not recommend your current path, though. Too tempting, I think.”

Victor gazed with revulsion at the surgical bed. It smelled like infection: pus stained yellow and red.

“Hm. Not that. I haven’t had the chance to clean here yet. I wasn’t expecting guests. This will do.” Alain seized Victor’s wrist and dropped him in an armchair.

He circled behind Victor and pulled a thick leather strap hard around his biceps, pulling it tight until Victor’s veins stood out bright blue. A tourniquet and a restraint all in one.

“How much will you take?” Victor asked, willing his voice to not shake.

Alain paused. “How much will you give? This is payment, child, not extortion.”

Victor answered immediately. “Four ounces.”

Alain huffed. “For six I can tell you who not to visit, if you’re seeking others.”

Jesus Christ. Haggling with this man? The scent of blood was so heavy it was starting to make Victor feel nauseous. He had never been so outraged in his life, but disgust was beginning to eclipse even that.

“Fine.”

“Spirited,” Alain commented gleefully. He sanitized his tools, then sanitized Victor’s arm.

Then, gentler than Victor believed Alain was capable of, he pricked him. So quick and smooth Victor barely felt it. He watched his blood flow into Alain’s waiting flask.

“You are good at that,” he admitted.

“It’s my job.” Alain flushed, pleased. “I am a good doctor, too, when the circumstances call for it.”

The silence after was heavy. Victor could tell it wasn’t bothering the French alchemist, but sitting here in this shrine to gore, he couldn’t help but squirm a bit.

“Did you know,” Alain began again, “that you can pull gold from blood?”*

“Yes, I know,” Victor said. “But the volume is impractical.”

Alain shrugged, lifting the rubber line high for better drainage. “At least forty thousand people for eight ounces. A decadent, sanguine orgy, perhaps, but the power in that gold would be magnificent. You wouldn’t wear it; you could use it as an amplifier of some kind.”

“Could we perhaps just not talk?”

Alain clicked with amusement in the back of his mouth. He waited until the flask was full, then removed the needle and wrapped Victor’s arm with clean bandages.

He allowed Victor to sit outside his lab on a white wicker chair in the foyer as he locked the door tight. Victor waited patiently as Alain returned with a fresh peach and a cut of ham for Victor to eat to replenish his strength.

“Depending on your vitality and the experiences your . . . companion has on the other side of your connection, this should take three months. The more taxing his burden the more vitality he will call from you. But every day after the second month will be agony and weakness.”

Victor chewed and swallowed. As he ate, he watched the French alchemist pour his blood into a half-full watering can by the window and swish it around.

“Who are you set to visit?”

“Willem Dijkstra, Bradley King, Ayan McClean, Brogan, Cupido Colombo, Orazio Sal, and Yaroslav Voronof.”

“Hmm. You can probably skip Greece, but it is so close. Russia is a last resort. I trained with Voronof and he is not a pleasant man.”