Chapter 12 #2
“This marriage will change everything. Uniting with Ukraine will advance our stance in the world. Hungary will become a formidable capital in the Eastern Bloc. Trade, money, armies, power. Humans will rise to power again. So I can’t be sorry for breaking either of your hearts.
You are young and na?ve and will easily bounce back.
You both will soon realize love is a foolish ideal and has no place in the scheme of life.
Not for us.” He dipped his chin. “Now, clean yourself up, put on a smile, and rejoin the party. The Leopold press are here. It looks bad if you are not there, celebrating with your brotherlike figure on this happy occasion,” he ordered and marched back inside.
I watched the door shut after him, a deep rage pinning me to the rug, my fists rolling into balls. To him, I was still the chess piece he had created and had the right to move around. My life was entirely in his hands. All for more power.
My mind flicked to something Caden had said with what I had read on Istvan’s desk.
The word nectar . . .
“. . . he has not given up the hope of finding the nectar of life.” The journal of this Dr. Rapava flashed back.
“They have him set to marry some leader’s daughter in China, which is a huge blow to Father since they have some object or substance my father wants. Some special nectar.”
“Hungary will become a formidable capital in the Eastern Bloc. Trade, money, armies, power. Humans will find their way to the top again.”
“Superior human army.”
My lungs squeezed together, the puzzle pieces starting to click together, but I couldn’t see the full picture or how deep it went. Istvan was up to something bad, and I would not be used as a pawn, blind and na?ve to what was happening around me ever again.
My gaze swung to the hallway where Istvan’s office was.
A soldier stood there, but he wouldn’t think twice about me going down there.
Caden and I had the complete run of the place in their eyes.
And I’d known where Istvan hid his spare key from the time I was a kid.
Adults always thought children were clueless and obtuse.
We picked up and saw much more than they thought.
Not having a clue what I would find or if I wanted to discover it, the decision tugged at my gut.
I should go back to the party, smile for pictures, and act like the ward they trained into docility.
I should . . .
Istvan thought I was a pretty face he could sell off to another country for more power and money. Tamed and obedient. He had no clue. I was more dangerous. I might look like a doll on the outside, but I was savage on the inside.
And I would bend to no man again.
Strolling past the guard on duty, I held my shoulders back and head high, trying to disguise the terror surging through me. Confidence was necessary in the art of deception. If you acted as if you belonged, no one questioned your intentions.
And I belonged here.
At least to them.
“Good evening, Ms. Kovacs.” The guard bowed his head.
“Good evening.” I kept my chin up, traveling down the hallway, casually peering over my shoulder when I got to Istvan’s door. The sentinel looked forward, shoulders relaxed. His job was boring and tedious, probably one of the easiest here, keeping guests from wandering places they shouldn’t.
My fingers tapped over the hidden lockbox behind a painting next to Istvan’s door, popping the lock open.
One thing with Istvan, he might have been an extremely good general, paranoid when it came to the outside world, always noting every detail, but he had grown lazy and arrogant inside his domain. He had not bothered to change the code for the hidden key in years.
As gently as I could, I twisted the key in the lock, holding my dress around the knob to muffle the sound.
Click.
My head swung again down to the guard, my heart throbbing in my ears.
He didn’t move.
With care, I opened the door wide enough to slip in, closing and locking it softly behind me.
I exhaled, feeling my pulse beat wildly against my flimsy dress.
You should not be in here, Brexley. My conscience stomped its foot like an uptight preteen.
You’re going to get in trouble. Why are you doubting Istvan?
What are you even looking for anyway? All these thoughts tumbled around in my head, racking up my pulse until it pounded in my ears, almost convincing me to slip back out and return to the event pretending this lapse in judgment never happened.
You can no longer pretend you don’t know anything.
You know something is off. Feel it in your gut.
Istvan is lying. You’ve seen the pills. What they can do.
The notes from that Rapava. The opposing voice slid into my head.
My tongue slid over my dry lips, tilting my ear toward the closed door.
I listened for any activity before moving to a shelf with books, which held no interest for anyone, especially an enemy.
Books on literature, art, languages. Old and antiquated in times like these.
Tugging on the one I knew, feeling for the hook, the hollowed-out design pulled away in a grouping.
Fake. Concealing the safe built into the wall.
Caden implied Istvan had more hiding places, but this was the only one I knew about. I had watched him open it from behind a curtain when I wasn’t supposed to be using his office in a game of hide-and-seek.
Like the code outside, I hoped Istvan hadn’t decided to suddenly change it.
Sucking through my nose, my hands shook, feeling the weight of my conduct. I was purposely breaking in and spying on someone I had thought of as a father figure for years. Someone I had believed and trusted. I could walk out now, step back into my role, become the obedient daughter and soldier.
Perspiration dampened the back of my neck, sliding down my spine, while moisture evaporated from my mouth. I typed in the code, my throat tightening, part of me hoping it wouldn’t work, giving me an easy out, an excuse to walk away.
Click.
The lock snapped free, icy weight dropping into the pit of my stomach as the door of the safe swung open. I froze, trying to listen for any sound outside my thumping heart, waiting for Istvan to barrel in and catch me.
Panic lodged in my throat, and fear scraped up my spine as my trembling hands reached for the stack of documents inside.
Flipping through them, I knew the third file was the one I had seen the other day.
I reached for it, my heart stumbling in my chest, alarm shrilling through my veins like a scream.
A note on the second folder was scribbled in Dr. Karl’s handwriting.
Results on Brexley Kovacs. I tested all these three times. We need to talk.
With shaky fingers, I flipped open the file. Most of it was medical lingo I didn’t really understand, though I figured out he highlighted things that were not normal. My regard tracked down to a footnote.
Since the first test, her Immunoglobulin M level has tripled the normal rate.
The more I tested, the higher her results were, as if each time her body was trying to defend against me.
No human can sustain even half of these levels.
Ms. Kovacs should be dead. She is not even showing signs of organ failure.
If anything, she seems stronger and healthier.
Note: Her fresh wounds from when she arrived have now healed as if they are weeks old.
We must discuss these results in private. There seems to be only one explanation.
Terror punched me in the gut, leaning me over, oxygen gushing from my lungs. My nails dug into the desk as I tried to breathe.
They know you aren’t normal. A voice crawled from the depths of my subconscious. It was one thing to let the thought drift across your mind, but to have others say it—it was an accusation.
Did Killian do something to me? Did those pills change me? I pinched my nose, exhaling through my mouth. Come on, Brex, no one can change human DNA. Right?
Boxing up my panic before I fully flipped out, I opened the next folder, quickly fanning out the papers on the desk.
Everything stopped. My world tipped on its axis, trying to shove me off.
Icy fingers dragged down my neck, wrapping around my throat. Shock and fear twisted my chest as I took in the dozen pictures staring back at me.
My own image.
A pinched noise rose in my throat, my heart slamming against my ribs. I reached for the first photo.
It was slightly hazy because it was night and at a distance, but there was no denying it was a picture of me—and Killian.
Embracing.
“Oh, gods . . .” Panic fluttered in my lungs, shadows edging around my vision.
Flicking through the rest, they showed every moment of our kiss. An intimacy and ease between us.
Frantically, I picked up another set. Ones of me standing at the window inside the bedroom Killian gave me. Some alone, some where he stood next to me, our bodies close and in conversation.
My muscles quaked, my mind whirling with justifications about these images when Istvan interrogated me. He knew the whole time that I had come from Killian’s . . . he knew I was lying.
My brain rolled with excuses I could tell him—that I had to fake interest in Killian to get away, that I was doing it all to save my life. It could have been feasible . . . except I had kept the fact I had even been there a secret.
And he kept the fact he knew about my time with Killian from me. He let me walk right into it. It was something he did when trying to trip Caden and me up in a lie. He gave us the rope to do it ourselves.
Terror heaved my lungs.
Istvan knew.
Knew from day one I had straight out lied to him while I sat in the chair on the other side of this desk.
And gave nothing away.
Why had he not confronted me? He let me carry on in this house like everything was normal. What was his plan?
Staring down at the table, bile burned up my esophagus. The doctor called me “anomalous,” and the pictures proved I lied.