“It’s just a small sample collection, Oliver,” says Egor, reaching for a metal trolley. It clatters toward him on a pair of squeaky wheels, a wide array of sharp-looking tools rattling atop the tray. “There’s no need to put up such a fuss. Aren’t you at all curious to know how your insides reflect the changes on the outside?”
“No,” says Lys.
Egortchs, reaching for a silver lancet knife. “Insolent, as always.”
“It’s been said.” Lys eyes the blade in Egor’s hand. Sweat beads along his brow. “You’re not coming anywhere near me with that.”
“Your mother brought you here because she thought I could help you,” Egor reminds him, turning the lancet over so that it catches the light. “Let me help you.”
“Last time I was here, you said I was beyond help.”
“The variables have changed,” says Egor. “This girl—ahumangirl, no less—has caused a violent upheaval in the natural order of your existence. She’s a cataclysm, Oliver. You will not survive her. Not without my help.”
Lys’s gaze snaps to hers. There’s panic in his eyes, wild and dark.
“She is exactly the sort of stimulus we’ve been looking for all this time,” says Egor. “The kind of trigger your father would have—”
“Stop.” Lys’s voice slips out like smoke. He’s not looking at Shea anymore.
Acataclysm, Egor called her. The word reverberates horribly between her ears.
Outside, there’s a new sort of commotion. The splintering of a door giving way. It starts with a crack. A second. A third, and the door falls flat, rattling the room and everything inside it. Asher steps across the threshold, his shotgun at the ready. On his heels comes Poppy, wide-eyed and tight-lipped.
“Kill him,” orders Lys.
Asher doesn’t move. He stays frozen, sighting Egor down the barrel of his gun.
“What the hell are you waiting for, Thorley?” Lys demands. “An embossed invitation?”
“He’s a civilian,” says Asher.
“This is a terrible time to get selective.Shoothim.”
“He’s unarmed.”
“I don’t care.”
“Lys.” It’s the first word Shea’s managed since she woke. It comes out thick, muddled by the swelling of her tongue. Lys blinks over at her, his jaw wiring tight. “No killing.”
It’s a push. She’s always pushing him. There’s a beat—a single, deadly moment—where this could go either way. Both of them feel it—that familiar precipice, the two of them teetering on its edge. He grimaces, as if the idea of doing as he’s told—of letting Egor live—repulses him. But he listens.
“Bind him,” he orders.
“Happily.” Shouldering his shotgun, Asher reaches for a loop of rope on the wall. “Put your hands behind your back.”
Egor splutters. “This is absurd.”
“His keys are on his belt,” says Lys.
Asher yanks them loose and tosses them to Poppy, who snatches them out of midair. She crosses to the wall where Lys is chained, her attention caught on the numerous lit specimens suspended in embalming fluid. She lingers at the fetus, looking contemplative.
“Take your time, Zahar,” snipes Lys. “I’m comfortable where I am.”
She frowns as she reaches up to unlock his cuffs. “That’s a baby.”
“Is it?” he asks thinly, rubbing his wrists. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“You’re making a mistake,” calls Egor. “You know it as well as I do.”
