Always back to the beautiful, quick-tongued girl. The memory of her was sharpest of all, because he so clearly remembered how she loathed him.
Memories and fears crowded together, shoving up against one another, and he could no longer tell truth from fiction. His head ached.
“What did you say was different about him from the others?” said the thaumaturge, walking around to Wolf’s side.
The technician analyzed a screen built into the tank’s side. “His brain patterns were more active than they usually are in the final stages of reengineering, and usually when they wake up they’re just … hungry. Not violent. That comes later, once they’ve gotten their strength back.”
“He seems to have plenty of strength.”
“I noticed.” The technician shook her head. “It could be from rushing the process. Normally we have them for at least a week. His mind and body have been through a lot in a short period of time, which could be causing the aggression.”
“Is he fit to serve the queen?”
The technician peered at Wolf. He crumpled the cup in his fist. She gulped and slid back a step.
“As capable as any other soldier. I suggest getting some food into him before putting him on active duty. And of course, usually they spend months training with a thaumaturge after the surgeries are complete, so their master can learn their bioelectric patterns and how best to control them—”
“They are not made to be controlled.”
The technician frowned. “I realize that. But they can be taught obedience. He’s a loaded weapon. I wouldn’t recommend bringing him into a room full of people without anyone first being able to handle him.”
“Does it not look like I can handle him?”
The technician’s attention danced from the thaumaturge to Wolf to the crumpled cup in his fist. She lifted her hands. “I’m just here to make sure their bodies don’t reject the modifications.”
Wolf ran a tongue along the sharp point of his canine tooth. It had taken him months to get used to the implants and now they felt all wrong again. Too big. Too sharp. There was a dull ache through his entire jaw.
The thaumaturge paced around the tank. “Alpha Ze’ev Kesley, you are once again a soldier in the queen’s army. Unfortunately, your pack of special operatives disbanded after the first attack on Paris and we do not have time to get you reacquainted with a new one. For now, you will be serving as a lone wolf.”
She smiled. Wolf did not.
“I am Thaumaturge Bement, but you will refer to me as Mistress,” she continued. “You have been granted a great honor. The queen wishes you to be a part of her personal entourage during her coronation, in which she is to be crowned empress of the Eastern Commonwealth of Earth. As you have a history of rebellious tendencies, she feels your presence, serving as a loyal soldier, will send a message to any who would dare threaten the crown. Can you guess what that message is?”
Wolf said nothing.
Thaumaturge Bement’s tone turned to a whispered threat. “Once the queen has claimed you, you are forever hers.” She tapped her fingers against the rim of the tank. “Let’s see if you can remember that this time.”
She waited for a response. When there wasn’t one, her eyes narrowed. “Have you forgotten your training? When you are addressed by your thaumaturge, your proper response is?”
“Yes, Mas—Mistress.” It felt like the words were being pulled up from him, the words a reflex drilled into him from years and years under Thaumaturge Jael. Rip his still-beating heart from his chest.
Wolf cringed and his mouth started to water. He was hungry.
“Who do you serve, Alpha Kesley?”
Who did he serve?
The queen’s beautiful face rose up in his memory, seated upon her throne. Watching the packs fight to gain favor. He had desired to impress her. He had killed for her. He had been proud.
“I serve my queen,” he said, his voice stronger.
“That’s correct.” Bement leaned over the tank, but Wolf didn’t look away. He was salivating now. He could smell the blood pumping beneath the woman’s skin, but a memory of pain darted down his spine when he thought of tasting her.
“I am told,” she said, “that you took for yourself a mate while you were on Earth.”
He tensed. Her red hair flashed through his thoughts.
“What would you do if you saw her today?”
He watched her being thrown against the statue. Crawling on her hands and knees. Staring at him with terrified, hate-filled eyes.
A growl rumbled deep in his throat. “Earthens have the sweetest flesh.”
The thaumaturge’s lips turned upward. “He’ll do fine.” Pushing away from the tank, she strode past the technician and her fallen companion. “Get him cleaned up. You know how Her Majesty likes to maintain appearances.”
Sixty-Five
Jacin, Cress, and Thorne had gone, leaving Cinder to cobble her way through Iko’s repairs. She knew immediately that she couldn’t get Iko back to normal. Not only had Iko given up her finger and some of the wires required for hand dexterity, but they also didn’t have the replacement parts or skin fibers to fix the tear in her shoulder or bullet hole in her chest. But Cinder managed to wrangle together a temporary skeletal patch and reconfigure the joints so she would be able to move her elbow and wrist, at least. When Iko swooned with relief, Cinder knew exactly what she was feeling—having complete loss of a limb was a difficult thing to get used to.
While Cinder worked, Iko explained to her how they’d managed to sneak into Artemisia aboard a supply train, how most of the shuttle system was down and the trains were being searched, how Levana was nervous, if not downright terrified.