“You have to stop this,” I said. “You’re manufacturing ferality.”
Ashcroft stepped past me, unbothered, and studied the nearest wolf like a sculptor appraising stone. “We are doing what’s necessary.”
“You’re drugging them,” I said.
“Of course,” he replied.
“I won’t be silent,” I said.
“That’s understandable,” he said pleasantly. “Silence is boring.”
He nodded to the handler.
“Release one.”
The restraints snapped open on the far platform.
The wolf rose in a violent surge, the mask tearing free as it inhaled the last of the mist. Its roar shattered the room, a sound of pain and fury braided together. It staggered, then locked onto me with an intensity that made my blood run cold.
I ran.
The corridor narrowed too quickly. Doors I’d passed moments before were sealed now. I slammed my palm against one, felt the unyielding refusal, and turned back as claws scraped steel behind me.
Ashcroft didn’t move.
He just watched me.
The wolf lunged. I ducked, felt the wind of it pass, and then crashed into a lab cart, sending a couple of canisters clattering to the floor. My foot slipped. The world tilted. Teeth closed on my forearm and pain flared white.
I screamed and kicked, connecting with the wolf’s ribs. It recoiled. Handlers rushed in then, batons cracking, driving it back into a cage with practiced cruelty.
I lay on the floor, breath ragged, staring at the blood blooming beneath my sleeve.
Ashcroft crouched beside me, close enough that I could smell his cologne. He examined the bite like a physician might, calm and curious.
“There, there now,” he said in a soft, patronizing manner. “It’s not a fatal bite. We are not savages after all.”
“You’re a monster,” I scoffed.
“Perhaps,” he smirked.
I felt hands seize my shoulders, forcing me back to the floor.
“Don’t,” I rasped. “You don’t have to do this.”
Ashcroft crouched again, bringing himself to my level. Up close, he smelled faintly of citrus and antiseptic, the scent of someone who never touched anything dirty if he could help it.
“My dear boy,” he said softly, “I very much do.”
He reached into his jacket and withdrew a syringe.
Clear liquid. No markings.
My heart began to pound, not with fear this time, but fury. I twisted, trying to wrench free, but the handlers were too strong. One pinned my uninjured arm. Another pressed a knee into my chest, not enough to break ribs, just enough to make breathing difficult.
Ashcroft held the syringe delicately, like a pen.
“You were too curious, Mr. Hale,” he said conversationally. “You saw things you were never meant to see.”
