Winter's Scars: The Forsaken (Winter's Saga 5) (17 page)

“But the girl?” He shook his head, frustrated and feeling completely out of control.

“If Evan says she’s gone and we have to leave without her, that’s what we’re doing.” The others were already climbing into the van.  Theo stood outside the passenger side door talking, rubbing the stubble on his face and deep in thought.  “Greg, we are going to have to go underground.”

Greg stared at his friend for a moment and finally nodded.  “I’m not going with you, but I will give you this,” he handed his childhood friend a creased envelope from his back pocket.  “It’s what I’ve been working on since the whole mess in Flagstaff.  These contacts are trustworthy.  Just tell them you’re with me.” 

“Thank you Greg,” they exchanged a fast guy-hug, “for everything.”

“Take care of yourself and your family, Theo.”

Part 2

Thirteen weeks, four days later

Chapter 34  New Skin

Dr. Kenneth Williams stared at himself in the mirror.  The pink fingers of his right hand reached reverently to touch the new skin on his face.  The sensation of touch was enough to give him euphoric goose-bumps.  He smiled widely, displaying his new dentures that looked as real as money could buy and admired the way they looked against his beautiful new skin.

The sound of water trickling over the sultry curve of his newest sculpture acted as a soothing white-noise tonic to the restored doctor.  Mesmerized by his perfect skin stretched across his boney knuckles, he opened the lid to the newest lotion container, reached inside with his skilled fingers and collected a generous portion of the bluish cream. 

As he worked the expensive lotion into his restored skin, he smiled to the point of nearly giggling.  Not only was the raw-skin pain gone, but so was the anxiousness he’d felt for the past thirteen years.  His daughter was back in his possession.  The smile on the sadistic scientist’s face was genuine—as genuine as possible for the wicked scientist.

He stood and moved with more grace than he should have at his age toward his closet.  He chose one of his favorite three-piece suits and began getting dressed.  Everything felt delicious on his skin.  And as he donned his blue silk shirt, feeling the way it caressed the fresh, new skin on his back and shoulders, the thought occurred to him that after he visited his lovely daughter in
the chateau, he may have to go on one of his excursions.  Surely the experience would be all the more tantalizing now that he had his sense of touch back. 

Williams made a mental note to gather at least a dozen syringes of the curative antigen derived from his daughter’s blood before he left.  That, and order his scientists to double production of it.  He had no intention of ever going back to his skinned version.

He used his lint brush to remove the tiniest of particles from his left shoulder as he thought back to those moments in the helicopter.  He almost forgot to grab the container of her blood when his metahumans came to retrieve him from the crash site.  If he had left it, he would never have discovered the antitoxin component buried inside.  He’d isolated the immunizer and tested it on a few lab rats before dosing himself.  And look at the results! 

He nearly giggled at his handsome reflection.  He suspected
he’d had an allergic reaction to the Infinite Serum.  Meg’s blood cured him, but the caveat was that he had to continue dosing himself with the antitoxin for it to work.  If he missed a dose, his skin would ache all over and start to sag, then slough off like a snake’s.

He had to keep the girl alive, incapacitated and hidden from Donovan Arkdone.

He exited his chambers to find his faithful manservant.  Williams handpicked him for his strength, size, obedience and simplemindedness.  Stanley Marks fit his duties perfectly.

“The bag is on the dresser, Stanley,” Williams reached in his pocket to retrieve his gloves out of habit, but smiled shrewdly when he realized he hadn’t brought them.  He no longer needed to wear the black leather gloves to hide his bloody skin from the world.  He strode decisively to the limo and paused long enough to let Stanley open his door for him.  Once inside the sumptuous leather
-coated cabin, he reached into his front pocket and retrieved the familiar metallic spheres.  With a sigh, he rolled them in his smooth, flesh-covered hand and reveled in the cool sensation of the orbs.  The scenery flew past unnoticed by the scientist deep in thought about all the possibilities his daughter’s blood afforded him. 

If it cures me of my ailment, what would it do as a curative agent for others?  How much money would someone pay to find out? 

He smiled widely.  Stanley Marks glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled, too.  He was just happy to see his Director happy. They continued their drive to Dr. Williams’ private jet in silence, save the raspy metal on metal scraping sound hissing like a snake from the back seat.  

Chapter 35 Where Am I?

Meg awoke groggy and stiff in a darkened room and immediately, she knew something was very wrong.  The room smelled sterile and cold.  She carefully slipped her hand out to her side, searching for something that should be there. Her empty hand only found empty space. 

She heard the faint beeping of monitors.  A surge of panic slipped like ice through the fog in her mind.  She blinked hard, reaching her hands up to her face instinctively rubbing her eyes to clear her vision in a vain effort to clear her mind. 

Where am I?

She felt the wires attached to her skin drape across her frame as she moved.  With careful hands, she found each of their points of contact and yanked them free of the medical tape securing them in place.  The IV came out first.  She held the site for a few seconds to encourage clotting before she tackled the electrodes on her chest and head.  The connector gel left gummy clumps in her hair making her scalp itch.  A catheter was in place.  She reached between her legs and pulled slowly but firmly until the piercing pain flashed and she was free. 

Her eyes had adjusted just enough for her to make out shadows by the angry lights flashing across the now impotent heart and brain monitors. 

Shit, this isn’t good.  Someone’s going to come running,
she thought as she tried sitting up.  A wave of dizziness hit hard and she had to steady herself by holding on to the bed’s railing.  Scooting as fast as her aching body would allow, she worked her way down to the foot of the hospital bed and let her legs dangle off the edge. 

She looked down at herself, trying different muscles to see if she would have the strength to stand.

Damn it!  Get up and move!
She screamed at herself, clenching her fists around the railing and twisting her hips off the bed.  Her knees wanted to buckle, but she refused to give in to the muscle shakes and spasms racking her entire body.  She pinched her eyes closed and tried to take a few tentative steps.  Her muscles quivered and screamed in anger. 

Hell, how long have I been in that bed?
  She growled in her mind.  She looked down at her body that seemed to act as a hanger for the cotton hospital gown dripping off her. 

Too long.

She pushed herself and stepped away from the safety of the bed.

Move, move, move,
she chanted.

Weapon, I need a weapon.
  She stumbled on bare feet to the door that stood slightly ajar.  Her teeth were chattering from shock and her brain felt numb, but she knew she needed to get out of there.  It was night, and that was her only advantage.  She saw the corridor through the crack in the door and noted that the place she was in looked more like a lavish private home than a hospital.  She saw heavy, ornate décor. 

There’s got to be a weapon I can use,
she seethed, trying desperately to put the pieces of her memory back together.  Her brain felt as lethargic as her body. 

What’s happened to me?

She pulled the door open slowly, begging there not to be a loud squeak from some unoiled hinge.  It opened silently.  She used the wall to help her stay standing and willed her stiff legs to catch her as she pushed herself forward.  Nothing could stop her motivation: survival.

She peeked into the next room, bracing herself for anything, but it was empty and a soft lamp was on in the far corner.  It looked like a small kitchen with a refrigerator, microwave, icemaker and a few tables with chairs. 

This must be some sort of lounge.
She thought. 
Maybe I can find a knife.

The first drawer she pulled open was full of paper plates and plastic utensils. 

Useless.

The next drawer clattered just enough for her to know it contained metal objects.  She saw the glint of a large kitchen knife among pizza cutters, ice cream scoops, ladles and other serving utensils.  She grabbed the knife and exited the room as fast as her shaky body would carry her.  In the hallway, she heard voices. 

They’d found her empty room. 

She stayed ducked back as a nurse wearing scrubs hurried by mumbling.  Her rubber shoes squeaked stupidly with every step so she was easy to track.  Once the hall was clear, Meg slipped out of the lounge and hurried to the next room.  Even from outside the door
, she heard loud snores vibrating from inside.  She opened the door and saw a rotund figure lying on the bed, its chest rising and falling in time with its snorts.  

Chapter 36 Who am I?

“Shh, don’t make a sound,” Meg whispered.   “Do you feel this?” she pressed the business end of the butcher knife deeper into the skin of the portly man’s sweaty neck as he lay on his back in his bed.  The echoes of his sleep apnea induced snores still reverberated around the room.

The greasy-faced man squeaked his terrified response.

“Good.  Where am I?”

“You-you’re in a house.”  His breath was rancid garbage.

“No shit, Sherlock.  Whose house and where?” The girl gripped the knife harder in her unsteady hand.

“Dr. Williams has us in Southern Italy.” His voice raised a panicked octave.

“How long have I been here?”

The pasty little man stopped breathing for a moment before he tried a different tactic, “Meg, you must be suffering from amnesia.  I’m Dr. Chaunders.  You were in a horrific helicopter crash and suffered severe brain trauma.  We’ve been keeping you in a medically induced coma so the trauma and swelling could heal.  It’s why you have no memories and why your father is,” he paused to find the right word, “still recovering.”

Meg frowned, comparing this story to the thoughts in her still foggy, drug-affected mind.  All she could remember was hazy flashes of what she thought were dreams. 

Seeing doubt move across the girl’s face in the glow of the bathroom light, Dr. Chaunders decided he needed to pounce.

“You remember the helicopter, right?”

“Vaguely,” Meg mumbled.

“You weren’t supposed to wake so soon.  How do you feel?”

Meg refused to remove the knife from his throat, however malodorous his breath. She pressed the knife in harder, her knuckles brushing his slimy skin. 

Both Meg and Chaunders gasped but for entirely different reasons. 

Chaunders’ throat was bleeding and Meg was locked in a vile emotional roller coaster.  She felt the man’s fear as though it was her own.  She sensed his panic and terror so acutely, she began to shiver.  A cold sweat blossomed on her forehead. 

Then she felt a distinct moment of exhilaration.  The disgusting man’s fear morphed into anxiousness.

“What did you just do?” she seethed.  Anger and frustration blossomed deep inside Meg.  “What just happened?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.  Please take the knife away from my neck.”

“Something,” Meg cocked her head as though listening, “yes, now I remember.”

Chaunders licked his foul lips.  His eyes were darting.  Williams warned him: no physical contact with the girl.  It wouldn’t take much to spark her gifts.  But what could he do?  She literally had a knife to his throat.

“You want to tell me, Chaunders.”  Meg narrowed her eyes in the dark.  Her knuckles remained touching the frog’s belly-like flap of fat where the man’s neck should be.

“No, there’s nothing to tell.” The disgusting doctor’s darting eyes became fixed on Meg’s.  The bathroom light reflected off them, causing them to glow mesmerizingly white.

“Yes, there is.  So many things are pressing heavily on your shoulders and you’re anxious to let them go.”

“No,” he said vaguely.

“Sure, you don’t mind talking.  Your mind is so cluttered.  Let’s talk some things out.”

He hesitated as though listening to something whispered faintly to his ear.  “I do have so many things on my mind,” he said in a trance-like voice
.

“How relieved
I would feel to be able to let them go.  That’s right,” Meg coaxed, keeping her voice smooth and steady.  She was working by sheer instincts now, but there was something she could feel…it was like a handle she could tug on to pry open his mind.

“You’ve been kept in a medically induced coma.” He stared unblinking at Meg as he spoke words Meg knew in her heart to be true.