The Veil (41 page)

“What are you injecting me with?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

He raised the needle up. “This? Only what you have already taken a thousand times. I believe the informal term for them is ‘boosters’.” He gave another sinister smile. “Well they aren’t
quite
the same, and the Fae subjects are not as willing to be blood donors, but it’s as close as we can get in a place like this. What I have given you should help your body clear up that fever over the next few hours, so we can get you ready.”

“Ready for what? Where am I?”

It was then that I noticed the five Pitguards standing at the edges of the operating room, watching me with their white-veined, black eyes. One of them had removed some kind of baton from his belt and was walking towards us. Without turning, the surgeon raised a hand. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.” The guard stopped, giving me a final glare, and then retreated back to the edge of the room. “They don’t appreciate the Taken talking without permission, so it would be best if you kept your mouth closed from now on.”

Taken. That’s the second time I’ve been called that. Is that what the Umbra call those they have kidnapped? Is that what I am now, a prisoner of war? A Taken?
For some reason the thought of becoming a statistic, one of the millions that fell through the cracks and disappeared into the hands of the enemy – never to be heard of again – was almost as scary to me as the Sorrow itself had been. I took a deep breath and tried to compose myself. 

The surgeon leaned in and continued his work, pressing down imposingly on my body and injecting me, and I was thankful that at some point during my time spent out cold, my naked body had been dried and covered with a dark sheet. “There,” he said, standing back. “That should handle the recovery side of things.” He raised a finger. “However, there is still the question of your heritage. You aren’t simply a Chosen that is for sure. So I just need to take a few extra samples…for my research.”

My eyes went wide as he picked up his scalpel and came close. I shook my head as much as the binds would allow. “No…no, please. No more.”

“Hush now, girl. Hush.” He reached out to a metal trolley at the side with him, filled with all manner of terrifying implements. The leather strap he picked up had a metal ringed hole in the centre. “Open your mouth wide please.”

I clamped my mouth shut tight. 

The surgeon gave an irritated sigh. “Now, either you can make this easier and allow me to place this jaw positioner in your mouth,” he turned in his seat and gestured out at the silent guards. “Or I can allow one of the Pitguards to open it for me. I can’t say that you’ll be able to close it again afterwards.” He shrugged. “Up to you, dear.”

My chest rose and fell rapidly as fear coiled through my chest. Fighting back the tears, I opened my mouth gently and the surgeon placed his fingers on my bottom teeth and pulled down hard enough to make my jaw click. He forced the metal ring of the positioner into my mouth and then tied the straps around the back of my head. The ring sat underneath both sets of teeth, preventing me from bringing them together, no matter how hard I tried to bite down. The surgeon leaned forward and put his fingers on the metal ring, pressing outwards until the hole expanded, winching my jaw open wide. As he got the positioner to where he wanted it, he brought his mouth close to my ear.

“I need you not to draw the Pitguard’s attention, or we are both in trouble. What I am about to do is going to hurt, but it is also to help you.”

He pulled back and I frowned back at him, as he picked up the scalpel once more. As he leaned close to me once again, I closed my eyes, tears streaming from between them. My teeth bit down so hard against the metal hole of the jaw positioner that had it been anything other than adamantine, I would have ground it to filaments. In my mind, all I could imagine was the surgeon using the blade to carve out my tongue, so that he could display it among all of his other psychotic trophies. So when I felt him slice a long grove on the inside of my cheek, the pain was nowhere near as overwhelming as the relief.

He took a swab from a box on the trolley and dabbed it in the blood, before placing the sample into a bowl. I watched as he lowered his hand again into the swab box, but instead of picking up another swab, closed his hand around a small and dark object he’d hidden inside the box. He leaned forward, and as his gaze caught with mine, I saw that his eyes were flecked with nervousness.
He’s taking a risk. What is he doing?

Excruciating agony flared up in the side of my face as the surgeon slid whatever was in his hand into the hole he had carved in my cheek. Remembering what he’d said, I didn’t make a sound, but I couldn’t stop my body from convulsing from the pain, my bare feet jigging up and down on the cold floor.

“What are you doing, Physicker Agorias?” demanded the Pitguard who had been up for giving me a beating.

The Physicker gave a nervous chuckle. “I am afraid I was a bit enthusiastic with my sample taking. I will need to stitch her cheek. I shan’t be a moment.”

“Hurry. We have orders to prepare her.” 

The Physicker waved a dismissive hand. “I know, I know, but don’t rush me. Do you wish to find her dead in her catacomb cell from blood loss?

The Pitguard frowned, but didn’t say any more. Physicker Agorias picked up a small needle attached to a spool of dark thread and then leaned close once more. I closed my eyes as he started to stich the wound together, feeling the sharp stab of the foreign object as it pressed against the wall of my cheek.

Once he was finished he set the thread back down and unstrapped the jaw positioner. I opened and closed my mouth, feeling a dull ache in my jaw.

“Listen to me,” he whispered so quietly it was barely audible. “Once you get out of your cell, go up the catacomb steps and through two doors. Go left twice and then forward. You will no doubt hear crowds and see a set of large doors, but
do not go through them.
Take the small door right next to it. That is the one you need. You won’t have time to save anyone else. Just go.”

“Why are you helping me?” I whispered.

“Don’t think for a moment you are in some way special. You are simply one of the lucky ones. Some of us Umbra do what we can, when we can.” He turned to face the Pitguards. “There, all done. You can take her now.”

“About time,” growled one of the other Pitguards.

A moment later I was seized by hands and shackled with chains once more. Then I was dragged, stumbling from the room by the guards. I turned to look back at Physicker Agorias, but he was staring down at his tools, slowly nodding to himself. 

*

My legs were weak and I kept collapsing to my knees as I was shoved down dozens of dank corridors, which earned me harsh cuffs to the side of my head from my captors. Eventually the Pitguards realised that beating me senseless wasn’t going to help me stay upright, so two off them hooked their arms under mine and dragged me instead. I could feel the sharp digging of the lock pick inside my cheek, but I didn’t dare try and reposition it with my tongue, for fear of being spotted.

The final stop on the horrible journey through the godforsaken place I’d been taken to was reached by taking an elevator  – decorated with iron flourishes and operated by a crank, taking us down into the depths of the prison. After what felt like an eternity, I was hoisted out into a room lit dimly by candles fixed to freestanding candelabras. It took me a moment to wrap my head around the place, but when I did, I realised we were in some kind of circular, tailoring room. Reams of multi-coloured material hung from spools fixed to the ceiling, pots of dye released nauseating aromas from their positions on an old table, and flat irons and shears stood on boards in front of a large fireplace. The most unique aspect of the room were the countless clothes that hung from retractable poles, that protruded from dozens of tall, rectangle holes formed in the curved walls.

In the middle of all the madness was a Bloodseeker. He was dressed like a Victorian gentleman - complete with a three-piece suit and a cravat – his dark hair cropped short and oiled back across his narrow head. He nodded at the Pitguards when we emerged from the elevator and slowly unwound from the stool he’d been sitting on.

“I have everything ready, per specifications.”

The Bloodseeker walked over to the rightmost part of the room and pulled a chain hanging from the ceiling. Instantly the walls began to revolve, making cranking sounds as they moved. He pulled the chain again, bringing the walls to a grinding halt, and pulling out the pole-arm of the nearest recess. Hanging from it was what looked like a Hasea Uniform. The Vampire draped it over his arm and then walked over to the Pitguards, handing it over to the nearest.

“Here it is.”

The Pitguard nodded his thanks and I flinched as the other guards pulled sharp scimitar style weapons as dark as night from their belts. They formed a cross shape around me and pointed them out, the glinting tips only a few inches from my neck.

The Pitguard with the clothes produced a small key. “I am going to unlock your chains now, Taken. If you so much as think about trying to escape, we will cut you to pieces and throw your remains into Solomon’s fire.” He nodded first to the Bloodseeker and then his roaring fireplace. “Do you understand me?”

I could see from his expression that the Pitguard was far from joking, and I wasn’t in any state to be trying to run for my life…yet.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good.”

The Pitguard crouched down and undid my feet shackles, followed by the ones binding my wrists. I was rubbing at the sore patches of skin when he dumped the clothes into my hands. “Put these on,” he grunted.

With five pairs of eyes watching me intently –and another pair from afar, with the disinterest of someone used to the spectacle – I had to strip off the sheet and allow my self to be completely exposed once more. I tried to cover myself with my arms and received a harsh blow to the side of my head as a result.

“We aren’t interested in your human body, whore. Now hurry up.”

Trembling, I put on the clothes. As I changed, I realised that they weren’t a Hasea uniform, but rather a bastardisation of it. The Alliance emblem had been replicated, but turned upside down and the Latin words underneath translated to
Chosen we fall, united we crumble.
On the back, the word
Huntmaster
had been written and then slashed out with a red line, and replaced below with the word
Taken.
And when I put on the jacket, the course lining scraped against my skin, similar to how I imagined a hairshirt would feel. It didn’t cause serious pain, but enough discomfort to remind me where and what I was. The clothes weren’t a uniform so much as they were a display of humiliation.

“A perfect fit,” said Solomon, clapping his hands together with pride. His accent was similar to an Eastern European. I found myself wondering if he had ever been to Earth, or if Pandemonia had accents as well as languages. I’d only ever dealt with Pandemonians who had been in my world for a while, and it was something I’d never considered. 

“Hold on, whilst I get the boots.” He moved over to a storage box near the fireplace and pulled out a dusty pair of Alliance boots. “I wasn’t given enough time to make any,” he said with an accusatory glare at the guards. “So these will have to do. I believe the Chosen was about your size.”

He held out the boots and I stared at them, swallowing when I saw the dark patch of dried blood that coated one of them. A cold wave of disgust rolled through me and I had to take a deep breath for fear of being sick. Solomon reminded me to take the boots by giving them a little shake. I took hold of them and then slowly crouched down to put them on.

“Magnificent,” Solomon said with affectation when I was done. He took my shoulders and marched me over to a thin mirror. “Look at that.”

The reflection that stared back at me was one that I barely recognised. A crudely shaved head covered in marks, a web of healing cuts all over my face, harsh bruises on one cheek and one haemorrhaged eye that was almost completely red.
They’ve taken my dignity, my pride as a Huntmaster of the Alliance, and turned me into a mockery of everything I represent.

For a moment I thought I was going to cry, but then something shifted inside me, and the misery became determination.

I’m going to kill them all.

*

I was taken back to the dark silence of my cell to wait for what the Pitguards had been preparing me for, which I was beginning to suspect I knew the answer to. I sat in the shadows without moving a muscle until all of the cruel guards had gone, and all that could be heard were the steady of drips water falling from the dank ceiling above. Only then did I press my tongue against my cheek. The stitches had only been passed through the skin a few times, but I knew it wasn’t going to be enough to use my tongue. I took a deep breath, preparing myself and then pushed my fingers into my mouth.

You can do this.

I pressed my fingers either side of the stiches and tugged them apart, letting out a strangled scream and stamping my feet against the ground as the wound ripped open. The sharp tang of metal overwhelmed my mouth as it filled with blood. It poured down my chin as I pushed my fingers to the side of my mouth, wincing as I slowly slid the object out of the hole in my cheek.