The trait was hereditary, and immortals had managed to hide their existence from humans for thousands of years.
He often wondered who the original immortals were who had contributed their genetic material to their descendants. Mutants, perhaps? Aliens?
Maybe one day he would gather enough courage to ask the eight about their origins, but right now, Dimitri was operating in survival mode and looking for a way out of this prison island.
His job was to improve on Dr. Zhao's formula, stabilize Dave, and come up with a safe protocol for enhancing more immortal soldiers.
The drugs that Dr. Zhao had developed had turned them into something more. They were stronger, faster, and more resilient than other immortals, but the most significant change was the hive mind they had developed and its ability to compel others.
Dimitri had been working on an antidote in secret, pretending he was researching more compounds for the enhancement. The hallucinogenic mushrooms he'd been experimenting with showed promise. Certain combinations seemed to reduce the effectiveness of Dave's compulsion, creating a buffer between Dave's commands and Dimitri's own thoughts, but they also made him feel drugged and foggy, so that wasn't much help. He needed something that worked without turning his brain to mush.
As a flash of pale blond hair appeared in Dimitri's peripheral vision, an uncommon shade in these parts, he turned to see who it belonged to, and his breath caught.
Given the uniform and the tray of glasses she was carrying, the beauty was a barmaid, but he hadn't seen her in the bar before. He would have remembered a natural blond, with striking blue eyes and delicate features that belonged on the big screen rather than in a hotel bar on a hidden island in the middle of nowhere.
Except the barmaid didn't carry herself like a woman who knew she was beautiful. She barely made eye contact with the customers, and she whispered rather than spoke. She was also limping, almost imperceptibly, but Dimitri didn't miss much.
He noticed everything.
"Fresh meat," Petrov observed, following Dimitri's gaze. "Pretty little thing. Wonder why she's not working in the brothel."
She was certainly beautiful enough, and her type commanded a top price in this place. Maybe there was something wrong with her, some flaw that made her unsuitable for the brothel's purposes.
The limp, perhaps.
Dimitri wondered if she did that on purpose so it would disqualify her from sex work. Supposedly, the men who visited this island were promised perfection and the fulfillment of their darkest desires.
Thankfully, there were no visitors on the island at this time, and there wouldn't be until the renovations were complete.
As she approached their table, Dimitri got his first close look at her face, and she was even more striking up close. High cheekbones, full lips, and a scattering of freckles across her nose.
"What can I get you, gentlemen?" she asked, her voice soft and tinged with an accent that Dimitri recognized as Australian.
"Another one." Petrov lifted his vodka glass. "Make it a double."
He'd forgotten to tell her which brand of vodka he'd been drinking, and she looked too terrified to ask for clarification.
"My friend here is drinking Grey Goose, and I am drinking the Yamazaki 18 Year Old," Dimitri said.
"Of course." She looked relieved. "Would you like a fresh drink as well?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine with what I have," he said. Then, before he could stop himself, he asked, "What's your name?"
She hesitated, and for a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer. "Mattie," she whispered. "It's Matilda, but everyone calls me Mattie."
He smiled and offered her his hand. "I'm Dimitri. This is Dr. Petrov." He gestured toward his companion, who was staring at the bottom of his empty glass as if expecting it to magically refill itself. "We work in the lab. Classified research."
Why was he telling her this? What did he hope to accomplish? She was a barmaid, but she was a prisoner on this island, just like the women in the brothel. Was she even permitted to interact with him?
He didn't want to get her in trouble.
Something in her eyes made him want to try anyway. A spark of intelligence beneath the timidity. A flicker of something that hadn't been completely extinguished.
"Is that an Australian accent?" he asked.
She nodded, and a hint of a smile ghosted over her lips. "And yours is Russian."
"It is. How did you end up here?"
