King of Lies, page 14
“What happened to my shirt?” I asked, unable to let it go, even if it pissed him off.
“Oh!” He blinked, then grinned. “Would you believe me if I said it fell off?”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
He gave a sheepish shrug. “You can’t blame a boy for taking an opportunity when it comes along.”
“An opportunity?” My voice was ice, and I couldn’t find it within myself to temper my reaction. Consent mattered. Choice mattered. And as twisted as it might be, getting something out of it mattered as well. So unless Oz intended to let me go in exchange for whatever it was he’d done to me, he could forget it.
“I kept it above the waist.”
“Oh, well, that’s alright, then.”
“Exactly.” He smiled too wide as he skipped closer. “We’re friends, right? Friends do each other favors.”
“We’re not friends. Friends don’t chain each other up.” Not unless you were Keaton and me. But that was gone now, buried beneath the lies I’d kept telling. I just hoped he understood that my apology had been in what I’d done for him. If he made it to Dover, I hoped he’d look back one day and appreciate the small part I’d played in him getting his revenge.
“I put you by the photos,” Oz said. “So you’d have something interesting to look at.”
Photos? I turned my head and froze. I’d been so busy examining the rest of the room that I’d missed what was right next to me. The wall was plastered with photographs—not landscapes, not family portraits, but blood and bone, internal organs on the outside that should have been inside, horrors framed in glossy prints. My stomach clenched. I’d seen some things while I was on the road, even done some things, but I’d seen nothing quite like this.
Oz tapped a photo. “This was Robert. I don’t use numbers. I like to use names, Tobias.” I was glad I hadn’t given him my real name. “Names are more personal. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yeah,” I forced out, my throat sandpaper. I couldn’t take my eyes off the photo. The boy in it looked no older than twenty. He had the expression of a man who’d long since come to terms with his fate. Which was understandable given the rest of the photo. He was bare-chested with a crude snake tattoo curling over one pec. It cut off suddenly at a series of messy stitches, where another limb had been grafted on.
“One of my first experiments,” Oz said proudly. “I replaced his arm with that of someone who’d turned.”
I swallowed the instinctive why?—afraid of the answer. “What happened to him?” A pointless question. He was half-dead in the photo. I doubted he’d lasted more than a day or two after it had been taken.
“I thought he’d turn,” Oz said. “But the results were inconclusive because he died before that happened.” He shrugged. “I didn’t let it deter me. Science requires perseverance. Great discoveries are born of failure.” He pointed at another photo. “This was Benjamin.” He frowned. “Or maybe it was Nathan. Same procedure. He lasted a week. Then he turned.”
The man in this photo was older, his hair graying at the temples. Just like Robert, he’d mentally checked out. I couldn’t say I blamed him.
“What did you learn from it?” I asked.
Oz blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You said yourself that science is about discovery, that great things come through perseverance. But if you’re not learning, you’re just…” Butchering people. Playing God.
“That’s confidential.”
“Right.”
Oz didn’t like that, his expression clouding. I decided I didn’t want to see what remained after he shucked off his sunny facade like a snakeskin. Someone who could remove someone’s limbs like it was nothing was damn scary. Remember who you are, August. You’re the person who knows how to appeal to someone’s ego.
“I wouldn’t understand it,” I said quickly. “I’m not a scientist like you. It’s all so complicated.”
Oz brightened again. “It is. I’d have to use lots of big words.”
Like murder and psychopath. I held my tongue.
“Anyhoo,” he said, skipping to the next photo. “This is Clive. I injected infected blood straight into his brain. It was one of my most interesting clinical trials…”
I tuned him out, refusing to look at the next photograph and burn more faces into my memory. Robert and Benjamin were enough. How long had they been here before he’d gone all Frankenstein on their asses? I hoped not long.
A snarl came from the opposite side of the lab, Oz’s dad growing restless. Oz turned with a frown. “Shush, Dad. I already fed you. I’m talking to Tobias. He’s interested in our work.”
I jerked my chin toward the photos. “Is this what’s going to happen to me? Are you going to chop off a part of me and substitute it for something else?” It was on the tip of my tongue to make a jibe about ending up with the cock of someone who’d turned, but I didn’t want to put ideas in his head.
“No!” Oz looked taken aback by the suggestion. “You’re different. You’re immune. You’re like a… a golden egg.” He grinned, pleased with his metaphor. “The things we’re going to do with your blood.”
“And this?” I rattled the chain around the pipe. “Is this my life now? Sleep here, piss here, shit here?”
Oz chewing on his lip said I’d created a logistical problem that hadn’t occurred to him.
“I tell you what,” I said, softening my tone. “I’d love nothing more than to be instrumental in creating a cure. It would be an honor.” Yeah, right? What did a man like me know of honor? “We could be partners. You do all the science stuff and I provide the magic blood, and maybe I could…” I thought fast, trying to come up with something that might be of use in a lab. “I could take notes for you or something. Dictate your findings, and record them for posterity.”
“You can write?”
He said it as if I’d confessed to levitation. “Yeah… So can you. You wrote on the clipboard.”
Bright spots of color appeared on his pale cheeks. “It looks official, doesn’t it? I like to look the part. I have an excellent memory, though,” he said defensively. “I could tell you everything you said.”
“So, notes?” I suggested again.
He shook his head in awe. “Immune and literate. You truly are blessed.”
“Yeah, that’s me,” I muttered, unable to keep the note of cynicism out of my voice. “So what do you say?”
He stared at me, his pale blue eyes slightly narrowed in contemplation. “This partnership… I assume it means letting you roam free? No chains. No tranquilizers. Like a… house share?”
“Well, yeah. We’d be friends.” I offered him my most charming smile. “United in our goal to rid the world of the blight that’s plagued it for over seventy years. And as the first person cured, your father would be famous. You’d be rolling in money, able to live wherever you wanted to.”
“I like it here,” Oz said defensively. “I’ve lived here all my life.”
“Then you can stay,” I added quickly, sensing him slipping away. “Money just gives you choices. This could be your base, and then you could have a holiday home somewhere nice.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. By the sea, maybe. Have you ever seen it?”
Oz shook his head. “I’ve heard it’s so vast you can’t see the end.”
“It is. We could go there together.”
“After we find the cure?”
“Of course. That’s our priority.” I nodded toward the cage in the corner. His father was quiet now. “The three of us could go. He’d like that, right?”
Oz studied the cage, face drawn in thought. “He would.” A pause. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Take your time.” I said, rattling the chain. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He nodded, leaving the lab before I could stop him. “Oz,” I shouted after him, desperate to keep him in sight. He either ignored me or didn’t hear. Hopefully, he wasn’t heading toward Keaton, whether or not he’d managed to escape.
All I needed was for Oz to unchain me. Then I’d find a weapon and get close enough to take him down. He had to sleep. Even a psychopath had to close their eyes at some point, and once he did… I spent the next ten minutes dreaming of all the different weapons I might use to dispatch him. Anything but look at the photos.
People like Oz weren’t new to me. I’d met broken minds before, but never while chained and helpless. The photos confirmed I’d been right to give Keaton a shot at escape. Without immunity, he’d be another grim picture on Oz’s wall. If I died here, at least I could take that to the grave with me.
An hour crawled by before Oz’s footsteps sounded in the corridor. Faster than usual. Closer to a run than a walk. I knew two things from his thunderous expression when he burst into the lab. Keaton had escaped, and he knew I’d helped him. Relief and dread crashed together in my chest.
The relief vanished when I saw the scalpel in Oz’s hand. I stood as he closed in on me, the chain pulling taut. He slashed at me, forcing me to dance backwards if I didn’t want him to slice through my skin like it was butter.
“You,” he spat, fury twisting his features. “You took my keys, and you gave them to him. You don’t want to be my friend. You lied. You’re working against me.”
My gaze stayed locked on the scalpel, preparing myself for another attack. “He was dangerous,” I said. “He used to be a soldier. They’re sneaky. They attack when you least expect it. I was worried about you. I thought he might hurt you. It’s better for us both if he’s no longer here. Safer.” The lies tumbled off my tongue, but none landed.
Sweat stood out on Oz’s forehead, his fingers wrapped so tightly around the scalpel they’d gone white. “I needed him.”
“You don’t,” I urged. “You’ve had plenty of others. Robert, Benjamin…” I gestured weakly toward the photos. “The rest.”
His expression cracked. “I didn’t catch Robert. Robert was my brother. He didn’t understand. Nobody understands.”
Bile rose. I forced it down. “I understand.”
“No, you don’t. You’re pretending to understand. You just say what you think I want to hear. I only listened because you’re pretty. But I’m not stupid. You might think I am, but I’m not.”
“No one said you were stupid―”
I knew as soon as Oz’s face twisted into a grotesque mask that it was the wrong thing to say. It made him look older, crueler. He jabbed the scalpel toward the cage. “He did. He said he wished he’d squirted in my mum’s throat rather than her pussy, that it would have saved the world from having to put up with me. He thought my experiments were stupid, that they’d never lead to a cure.”
Every instinct screamed agreement, but self-preservation kept my expression neutral. “Parents can be cruel. Families are like that. He didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“You’re doing it again,” Oz hissed.
“Doing what?” My heart hammered so hard I felt it in my throat.
“Saying what I want to hear.”
“I’m not. It’s the truth.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Those four words packed quite a punch. As did the scalpel blade that came to rest at the pulse point of my throat. Any slight movement would slice me open. And given Oz’s love of dissection, there was no doubt in my mind he’d do it. His eyes were cold, like he’d stopped seeing me as a human being. “Remember, I’m immune,” I blurted. “You need me.”
His brow furrowed as if he’d forgotten. Slowly, he nodded. “I need you to cure my father, so he can tell me how wrong he was. Once he’s cured and he can talk again, he’ll tell me how grateful he is, how proud. And then…” His smile turned chilling. “Then I can kill him. Slowly and painfully.”
The cage made sense now. It was revenge. “So you need me,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “The key to curing him is in my blood, remember? You said yourself that I was the first immune to cross your path. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then take the scalpel away. We can come up with a plan together.” More revenge. First Keaton. Now Oz. Was that what was missing in my life? That there was no one I needed to cut into tiny pieces for crimes against my person.
“The problem is the talking,” Oz said softly. “The lies come from the talking.”
“No more lies,” I lied. “I promise. Only the truth from now on.”
The blade slid upward, tracing an ominous line against my sweat-soaked skin. Cheek. Ear. Jaw. A caress—that was far from it.
“I have a solution,” Oz whispered, eyes shining. The scalpel pressed against the corner of my lips. “Want to hear it?”
No. “Yes.” It was hard to say that word with the razor-sharp blade resting there.
“You can only tell lies if you have a tongue to do it with.”
The words took too long to sink in, Oz already behind me, forearm clamped across my throat. The blade slid into my mouth, cold and sharp, ice spreading through me. “Don’t!” I croaked.
He mistook it for consent, pushing deeper, pressing against the root of my tongue. I went still. Stiller than I’d ever been. Every fiber of my being wanted to struggle. But if I did, I’d make things worse. If such a thing were possible.
“One neat slice,” he crooned. “You’ll barely feel it. And then everything will be hunky-dory and we’ll be friends. You can give me your blood. And you’ll never be able to tell lies again.”
I closed my eyes as tears leaked from them. Tears of frustration at the position I’d found myself in when I was usually the one in control. Tears of grief for what I was about to lose.
Oz readjusted his grip, making a little humming sound of concentration as the blade slid deeper. If this was karma finally coming to call, then I wished it had given more warning, and it weren’t such a cruel mistress. I might have lied and cheated, but I’d never killed anyone. Not directly, anyway.
The scalpel bit, a metallic tang flooding my mouth. A sound tore from my throat. Something more animal than human.
“Shhhhh,” Oz said. “Hold still.”
I couldn’t. Not with blind panic taking over. What if this was the last sound I ever made? Could you make sounds without a tongue?
“Let him go.”
The words were like something from a fever dream, the presence of a third voice making no sense. I opened my eyes to Keaton standing there, crossbow leveled at Oz’s head. Keaton, who was supposed to be miles away getting on with his life. Keaton, who was mad enough at me that rescue shouldn’t have occurred to him. Or if it had, he should have dismissed it immediately. Yet, here he was. Handsome. Fierce.
“Let. Him. Go,” he repeated. The blade was still in my mouth, my jaw held in a pincer grip. I wanted to ask why, to thank him, to warn him, but the blade silenced me. Most of all, I wanted to tell him that if he carried through with his threat that I’d likely lose my tongue, anyway.
“You won’t shoot,” Oz said calmly. “It’s too risky.” He gave a little chuckle. “It seems we’re at something of an impasse.”
My brain screamed scalpel, scalpel, scalpel! But I forced my gaze sideways, urging Keaton toward the cage. He understood, crossing the lab and shifting his aim to the snarling figure inside. He might not know Oz’s reasons for keeping his dad close, but he knew he was important to him. “How about this?” Keaton said. “Let him go, or I put a bolt through Daddy’s head? Am I speaking your language now?”
“You wouldn’t.” For the first time, Oz’s voice cracked.
“Five.”
“My father’s done nothing to you.”
“Four.”
My neck was cramping, the position painful. I told myself to bear it for a little while longer, that now would be the worst time to move.
“Three.”
“I’m not killing him. Just cutting his lying tongue out.”
Keaton gave a humorless laugh. “Been making friends, I see, August. I can’t leave you alone for two minutes. Oh, and two.”
“August!” Oz blinked. “Who’s August?”
I glared daggers at Keaton. Way to wind up the guy who had a scalpel in my mouth.
“One,” Keaton said. “Say goodbye to Daddy.”
“No! Wait.” Oz shoved me away so hard I crashed to the floor on all fours, coughing blood. Shaking, I probed inside my mouth. I had a cut, but everything remained attached. Relief had me almost saying a prayer.
Oz stalked toward Keaton, fury radiating off him.
“Do it,” I rasped. “He’s dangerous.”
The thwack of the crossbow bolt came within a fraction of a second, the bolt burying itself dead center in Oz’s forehead. He wobbled precariously, his expression one of disbelief. And then he toppled backward, eyes wide and sightless, staring up at the ceiling.
Chapter Sixteen
Keaton
The decision to go back for August and put my life, my future plans, everything, at risk hadn’t come easily. I’d wrestled with it all the way through the forest, across the courtyard, and back to the door I’d escaped from. I’d kept tussling with it as I searched room after room for my crossbow—or failing that, something better than the thick branch I’d found in the forest.
A room full of biters came early in my search, one thankfully hurling itself against the door before I opened it and all hell let loose. It made sense that Oz would have a stash of test subjects. I resolved to be more careful from this point on.
A kitchen lay across the hall stocked with food: old tins, and vegetables Oz must grow. The remnants of the soup he’d fed us still sat in a large pan on a camping stove attached to a gas cylinder.
On the second floor, I found where Oz slept. The single bed was the only clear space in a room otherwise drowning in clutter. I’d assumed it was all junk until I found the crossbow and August’s axe among the piles. The realization had sunk in at that point that I was looking at possessions stripped from other prisoners.
And then I found the lab.
I’d known the moment I walked in on August in that impossible predicament, with Oz clearly having lost it, that I’d made the right choice in coming back. And now, with Oz lying dead at my feet, I turned my attention to August. He was so pale he almost blended in with the floor. And trembling. Any anger I still carried toward him dissolved in an instant. I’d experienced some things in the army, but no one had ever tried to cut my tongue out.
