Seeing Light (The Seraphina Parrish Trilogy) (6 page)

::9::
The Doctor

A hollow dread creeps into my limbs as the overzealous doctor steps into my room, followed by two Society soldiers. Who brings henchmen to a physical exam? They are the Grand Master’s personal guards, overgrown meatheads with biceps the size of their thighs.

Across from me in the living room, Bishop appears. “Sera?” He tilts his head, taking in the scene. “What’s going on?” Worry contorts his features and he steps forward to defend me, but Sam rushes to his side and tugs at his arm, then whispers in his ear. When his eyes widen at her words, one guard deliberately shuts the door, separating me from my team and my freedom.

If Grand Master Levi ever found out what I really am, he’d just send me back to Nocturna, and then I’d never be able to save Bishop’s family or stop the Society’s corruption.

“I’m feeling much better,” I say brightly, though I’m certain I look pretty awful after crying my eyes out from Hologram Turner’s visit.

The doctor ignores me, walks to the end of my bed, and holds up his briefcase, flat side up. He presses a button on the side and gives the box a quick mid-air bounce. Four retractable silver legs mechanically extend until they hit the floor, converting the briefcase into a table.

“We’ll just make sure, won’t we?” he says with a coldness that nearly makes me shiver. “Take a seat, Miss Parrish.” He gestures to the bed, then looks up from behind his round, wire-rim glasses. I comply, sitting down, desperately attempting to control my anxiety. My gaze pings from the window to the door to the pair of Society guards, as my brain calculates an exit strategy.

The doctor pops open the latches on his briefcase and lifts the top. Hinges squeak before locking in the upright position, and two small workspaces slide out, one from each side. With precision, he drapes a white cloth across each, and one by one he removes several medical apparatuses, placing them methodically on the tabletops.

My jaw tightens when each new shiny and complicated contraption appears. These are terrifying tools of Wandering medicine that he will no doubt, poke, prod, and torture me with to decide if I’m a Watcher or even a Chosen.

He stops to inspect a gadget with several rotating lenses and numbered cranks. It reminds me of the machine at the eye doctor’s office, but this one is different, smaller and more complex, with several spidery legs and colored lenses that extend in every direction.

Immediately, I register what it’s used for and Terease’s warning rushes back. Begin wearing them as soon as you return to Gibeon. I scan my bedroom, looking for the clothes I wore to Nocturna, hoping Bishop left them here. The contacts she gave me are still in the pocket of my jacket.

“Everything all right?” The doctor pins me with his stare, one brow arched in question. My facial expressions must have betrayed me because even the guards stiffen, analyzing my reaction.

“Fine.” I stand. “I need to use the restroom.”

“Go.” He nods and continues polishing a lens.

I walk to the bathroom, picking up piles of clothes along the way.

The doctor steals a glance over his shoulder and glares at me.

“I’m a little embarrassed that my room’s so messy, sorry.” I pick up my clothes from Nocturna, nonchalantly bundling them with the rest, acting like I’m going to dump them in the laundry basket in my bathroom.

He eyes me suspiciously, causing the guard nearest to approach.

I smile, step into the bathroom, then shut the door as normally as possible and lock it. Now by myself, I frantically dump the clothes on the floor, drop to my knees, and begin digging through them, checking all the pockets. If I can’t find the lens case, who knows what will happen? The doctor will use the eye machine on me and learn that my eyes are violet, then he’ll know what I am. Will they send me back to Nocturna or just kill me?

My mind spins with the possibilities, which are many, and my options, which are limited. Even if I could find a way to escape, I don’t have the option to do so. I need to have access to the Academy and its archives if I’m going to find my mom’s journal and save everyone, so I need to keep myself in check and stay the course.

Just as I take a breath to calm myself, I find my jacket and dig into the pocket. “Thank God!” Relief washes over me as I grasp the little white container. I rush to the sink, pop open the box, and lean toward the mirror. I pause, not exactly sure how this works because I’ve never worn contacts before. So I do what I’ve seen on TV: with a lens balanced on the tip of my finger, I use my free hand to hold the eyelid open and then gently place the clear disk on my eye. It settles on the cornea uncomfortably, and I blink away several tears. Immediately the lens grows like it’s alive, reaching across the surface and covering every part, then sealing itself shut at the edges. I shiver at the creepy sensation, but no one will even sense its presence now.

I dip my finger back into the box, searching for the matching lens, but nothing’s there. Where is it? I lean close to the sink and glide my hand over the porcelain—and find nothing!

“Miss Parrish.” The doctor knocks. The sound startles me and I accidentally drop the plastic case on the floor. It clanks as it bounces across the tile.

“Just a minute!” I call out.

When he knocks again, I panic and flush the toilet. At the sound he relents, and I turn on the sink faucet like I’m washing my hands to buy a few more seconds. Terrified for what might happen, I realize there’s nothing more I can do.

Facing my fear, I open the door. It’s better than making him think something’s wrong. But when I stare at him, taking in his curious face, my lens-covered eye begins to twitch. The eyelid muscles jitter uncontrollably, and I reach up to rub it.

“Sorry it took so long.” I shrug, trying desperately to act normal.

His eyes narrow.

The bridge of my nose itches like a rapidly spreading rash, and I scratch it, digging my fingernails into my skin as I push past the doctor. The irritation travels from the contact-covered eye, under the bridge of my nose, and spreads over my other eye. I rub both hands over my forehead, massaging the skin the way you would with a bad headache, until the uncomfortable tingling recedes, then I turn and sit down facing him.

“Let’s begin, Miss Parrish.” He picks up the eye contraption and sets it on the bed. “Now, let’s have a look at those eyes.” He leans in, exhaling the scent of stale coffee.

I expect the doctor to raise the eye machine to my face, but he doesn’t. Instead the machine, a living Animate, walks like a spider across my hand, my thighs, and slowly journeys its way up my arms and shoulders until it settles itself on top of my head. Uneasy, I pinch my shoulders to my ears as each of its willowy metal legs clamps down, driving its defined points into my skull.

The cold metal contraption presses against my forehead and cheeks, leveling itself with my eyes so that I’m looking through round lenses. With no prompting from the doctor, the machine clicks and clanks, changing various lenses. Through blurry eyes, I can make a distinction of assorted colors and quick flipping movements, but I’m never asked “one or two” or “before or after.” The machine does all the work, evaluating my sight.

Upon completion of the test, the doctor harrumphs loudly.

“Everything all right?” I feign worry with a creased brow. The contact has somehow worked. Apparently the single contact reached across my face and grew itself into the uncovered eye, saving me. Or perhaps there was only one to start, and this is how it was meant to work.

“Yes, yes, fine.” The machine unclamps itself, slowly climbing down my head, shoulder, and arm. Ignoring the tedious pinches of each leg is not easy, but now that it’s moved away from my face, I can see perfectly well.

The doctor picks up a new contraption—one that I can only describe as a short, clear light saber with pink lightning inside. “Please stand,” he says.

Inside the wand, lightning whips back and forth, crackling with wicked electricity. Wild fingers of light sizzle around the edges.

“What’s that for?”

“Hmph.” He laughs. “This will show me your marks. If you have any, that is.” He reaches inside his briefcase and pulls out a long strip of leather. Iridescent marks, designed like tattoos, stretch along its length.

I pinch my lips in disgust when I realize that the leather is dried skin from a Watcher, perhaps a Chosen. My mind leaps to another awful thought: Could it be from my mom, the only other recent fully developed Chosen who would most certainly have the marks they’re looking for? My heart pinches with hatred, and the blood drains from my face as I sit back down, fighting the urge to vomit.

“So, you
are
ill.” The doctor presses a hand to my clammy forehead.

When I look at him I want to finish him, take him down for being one of them, destroying my life as well as my mom’s, Mona’s, and little Charlotte’s. The guards edge closer; I must not be hiding my feelings very well.

I let out a deep breath. It’s not her, I tell myself; it’s not her. Lying to myself is the only way I’ll move past this as I urge some sense of self-preservation to kick in. “Let’s get this over with,” I snap.

“Fine,” the doctor continues. “The machine works like this.” The doctor waves the wand over the leather. Electricity shoots from the tip, creeping and crawling over the mark, causing it to burn with pink light. “And if this were your skin, you’d scream like a dying banshee.” He snickers. “Now, it’s your turn.” He smiles, revealing a mouthful of uneven brown teeth.

I tremble with repulsion and step forward. “I promise, I don’t have anything like that on my body.” I try not to look at the leather, not wanting to recognize it.

“Ahhh,” he says gently, barely able to contain his excitement. “But it may be below the upper epidermis, and if so, this extractor will draw it out, bringing it to the surface. Just stand perfectly still.” He lifts the electrically charged wand to my skin and I cringe.

::10::
The Exam

I straighten into a plank, arms pinned at my sides, because there’s nothing I can do but allow the doctor to examine me.

Pulsing pink strands of electricity extend from the rod of the machine, twining themselves around my arms. On contact there’s an instant shock, twenty times worse than static electricity, but bearable. My muscles tense and I grind my teeth, desperately trying not to react with sound.

“Just relax. It’ll be over faster if you don’t fight it.” The doctor moves closer.

There’s a way I can fight it?

Dr. Shockey doesn’t move the wand over me like I expect. Instead, the electric branches crawl, creep, and wrap the length of my arm, searching my skin for any hidden marks, demanding their extraction. Each surge seeps beneath my dermis, igniting every pore with an intense fire. The roiling energy snakes over my shoulder, heading toward my back and neck. The ribbons will systematically consume every inch of my body, and I find that the more area it covers, the more the pink oscillations feed the unbearable fire within.

Trapped, my body begs for a scream, some kind of release. I drop my chin to my chest to stare at the floor to hide my reaction. In a moment I’ll lose it, and the doctor will know that it’s affecting me.

When I think I can’t contain the agony any longer, from the corner of my eye I see my scorpion Animate skitter across the floor. It disappears under my bed, but it’s the guard who screams first. “Did you see that?” He points but the doctor ignores him, too wrapped up in the torture session.

The guards scramble, searching the floor, when Hologram Turner’s hand reaches out from under the bed and tips over the good doctor’s table. It tumbles over and all the delicate tools crash and fracture into a thousand little pieces that roll across the floor.

“What’s going on here?” The doctor retreats, trips backward over the mess, and falls awkwardly. To my relief, the electrical wand slips from his grip, plummets to the floor and splits in two, releasing me. At the reprieve of pain, I let out the smallest breath of a moan. The sound is so small, it could be from anyone in the room, but the doctor’s head whips to me with evaluating eyes, like he knows.

“There’s nothing here.” The guards stand and circle the debris. “Must have been a faulty table leg, sir,” one says. The doctor shoos them away with an irritated wave of his hand and crawls to the damaged remains.

Now that I’m emancipated I relax on the edge of the bed, appearing indifferent, but the truth is that every part of my body burns. And when the doctor isn’t looking, I rub my arm, attempting to soothe the skin.

“You did this,” the doctor says, accusing me with his eyes. A limp, broken machine dangles as he cradles it his arms.

“Are you insane? Did you not notice the electric beam I was stuck in?” I throw my hands in the air. “And I don’t even know why. You failed to explain that part!”

The doctor approaches and grabs my hand. Before I can pull it away, he pricks my finger with a needle, grabs a vial, and secures the blood sample within the glass tube.

I jump to my feet and glare at him. “What was that?”

“Just finishing my tests, Miss Parrish,” he says with a self-satisfied sneer. “And if you are what I believe you are, you won’t be able to fake the blood test.”

My mouth hangs open with shock but under the circumstances, I respond the best that I can. “I don’t know what you think I am, but whatever it is, I hope I can kick your butt!” I scream and push him. He stumbles and the guards leap to
his defense, but the doctor only slides a hand over his head of wiry hair and laughs. I recognize that laugh; it’s the sound of victory.

“I’ll confirm it soon enough.” Dr. Shockey backs away on his heels and exits the room, leaving the guards to fumble around, collecting the broken bits and pieces that lay scattered on the floor. Finally they stumble behind him, larger pieces of metal stacked in one’s arms while the other carries the open briefcase, the smaller pieces thrown haphazardly inside.

As they exit, Bishop and Sam rush into my bedroom. But I can’t stop staring out the door, jaw set, fists clenched at my sides, and ticked off for what I can’t hide—the truth. Terease didn’t prepare me for everything and that angers me.

“What was that about?” Bishop asks.

“Are you all right?” Sam rubs my shoulder. “Did you see the medical tools they carried out?” She looks worried. “What did you do to them?”

“Wasn’t me.” I look over my shoulder and Hologram Turner appears in a cloud of hazy electrical dust near the far wall, adjusting his shirt in the reflection of the window.

“Turner?” Sam stiffens.

“Hologram Turner,” I correct. “He doesn’t know,” I whisper.

“Oh.” She deflates a little as she walks over to give him a hug.

“What was that for?” Turner holds his arms out in question.

I walk to his side and grab his hand, weaving my fingers tightly with his without thinking. He looks down at our joined hands and back to Bishop and then me. “Sera? What’s going on?”

“Do you think you could give us all a few moments?” I ask Turner, smiling and acting as normal as possible.

“Of course. Meet me in the gym later?”

“Prepare to be whipped,” I say. He laughs so loud that the huskiness of his voice fills the room. The sound is so warm and rich that it makes my heart ache. Everyone reacts, bodies shrinking just slightly at the voice that represents the full life he used to have.

After his hologram disappears into a cloud of sparkles, I scoop the Animate from the ground, cupping it in my palm, and hold the machine up to Bishop’s face.

“How did you do this?” I demand. “And more importantly, why?”