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If a jacket could survive my life without falling apart, surely I could too.
I huddled in the corner, relieved to finally be able to cry. I knew it was a useless waste of energy, but I needed it. I’d spent days with no sign of rescue, no word on Holden or Maxime. If they were dead, how would anyone find me? The council would be looking, but what would they come up with if they went after me? Was there any trail to follow from the Winchester Mansion to wherever we were?
Since I hadn’t the faintest fucking clue where I was, I couldn’t imagine anyone else having an easy time locating me. My sleeps had been near comatose, and I hadn’t dreamed once. The psychic energy it took to reach out to someone was exhausting. In the past I’d been able to see things, communicate with my loved ones when I’d thought the end was near.
But this was real. This was the end of my days reaching out to me with arms spread wide, and I couldn’t talk to anyone. If I couldn’t find Holden now when I needed him most, I feared that meant the worst. He would stop at nothing to find me, to reach me by any means possible, but if he was dead, his fight for me was over.
If he was dead…
I didn’t want to think about it, but it made sense.
Unless The Doctor was holding him, starving him the way he starved me. Holden was a full-blooded vampire and could last infinitely longer than I could without blood. If he was being starved, it stood to reason he wouldn’t be able to reach out to me, or me to him. Two nearly dead batteries can’t complete a circuit, not the way fresh ones could.
A starved vampire was an appalling sight. It was considered a fate worse than death for most, but right then I was wishing that fate on Holden. I wanted him to be starved, prayed for him to be in agony.
I didn’t want him to suffer, but if he was suffering, he wasn’t dead.
All alone, with enough blood to be lucid, I started contemplating what I knew about the man who held me captive. I’d seen him before he took me, dressed as a homeless man, so it was possible he’d been following me for a long time, disguising himself to avoid recognition. But how long? Was it just in California, or did this go back longer?
Was he acting alone, or had someone hired him?
Sutherland had told me in his dream he’d been taken by The Doctor, which I believed now that I’d experienced those blistering emotions for myself. I understood why he’d told me to stop looking. Was he still here somewhere, or had this room been his first, until The Doctor finished with him?
I zipped my jacket up to my throat, like the leather could protect my chest from further penetration.
The entire time he’d been cutting me open, he prattled on, making notes and comparing my parts to those of other creatures. He seemed fascinated by my normalcy in a lot of ways, commenting on how similar my organs were to those of a human.
What did he want from me? Did he want to open the hood to see how the gears worked before sending me on my merry way? It was unlikely.
I suspected once he got bored of timing my healing process, he was just going to dismantle me entirely. And I couldn’t fight back. Between the minimal amount of blood I was being given—barely enough to recover what was being lost in the surgery—and all the healing my body was forced to do over and over, I didn’t stand a chance. I couldn’t best him in a fight.
I might be able to land a few blows, but he had a full staff with him as far as I could tell, and he only spent time alone with me when I was weak or incapacitated.
He was smart, and had obviously perfected a system to keep supernatural beings from getting the best of him.
But for what?
Science?
Was he trying to create a real Dungeons & Dragons monster guide, some sort of ultimate physiological compendium of how we beasties ticked?
If that was the case, I could respect how rare a specimen I was for him. I didn’t empathize, because the guy wanted to filet me, but I kind of saw how I might appear to him. A white whale of sorts.
But how…how did he know about me?
The pocket of people who knew what I was had grown over the past couple of years, but they were all people I trusted, people I’d relied on. If one of them had spilled the beans on my condition, it had been under duress.
Unless it hadn’t been a friend at all.
Two people who knew what I was wanted me dead.
My mother had known from day one, and she’d abandoned me because of it. She’d worked closely with Alexandre Peyton in an effort to overtake the city, and though I don’t think she’d ever told him what I was, she hadn’t hidden what she was.
Peyton had spent years alone with only his thoughts, and in that time I was willing to bet he’d thought about me an awful lot. Enough for him to realize a girl with a werewolf mother who was half-vampire had to be hiding something.
They both hated me, but my mother wanted to see me die in front of her eyes. I knew that because I wouldn’t be satisfied with her death unless it was by my hands, and she and I were cut from the same cloth in a lot of ways.
So this torture? This starvation and pain?
