9. Chapter 9
Riley
Conall leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Are you worried?”
“Some. But I don’t think it’s all from me.”
He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
I traced the scar along the back of my neck. “The energy coming off the implant this morning seemed less analytical and a little more agitated. I don’t know how to explain it. This isn’t the first time I’ve sensed something other than emotional suppression or data analysis coming from the thing.”
Did it sense I wanted it gone? And did it understand another specialist was going to look at it?
He stared at me. “Can you try to keep track of what’s happening, and what you’re thinking or doing when you feel the fluctuations?”
“Yes. I know I sound a little crazy–”
“You don’t. And don’t feel obligated to answer anything that makes you uncomfortable.
We don’t know much about Dr. Wharton beyond that she’s an expert in paranormal neurophysiology, specializing in cognizant biology, and a contracted medical professional with the FBCI.
Likely because they didn’t give her a choice. ”
Jamie picked us up from the airport. “Hey, Sparky. I’m sorry to hear about your witch friend.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulder when I stepped off the plane.
His upbeat energy wrapped around me, and I leaned into him for a moment before having to step away.
“Me too. I only met her a couple of times, but she knew my father.” I tried to sort through my feelings.
“She said she’d try to help me with the implant.
Why is it that good people always seem to be the ones who die? ”
We climbed into the Pack SUV, and Conall turned to Jamie. “The clinic is in Cherry Creek. It specializes in supernatural medical care.”
Jamie drove through increasingly upscale neighborhoods until we arrived at an underground parking garage beneath a striking modern glass-and-stone building.
I stared up at it. “This doesn’t look like a clinic.”
Jamie smirked. “That’s the point. It’s designed to look like a high-end spa and wellness center. They also do a shit-ton of cosmetic surgery here. This is where powerful and rich supernaturals around here come for little touch-ups.”
An attractive receptionist in a blue silk wraparound dress escorted us up a private elevator, and we stepped into the reception area, the air carrying subtle notes of orange blossom.
As I signed in, I cataloged the layout and exits. Conall scanned the area, probably reviewing contingency exits too. I hoped this examination would provide some answers.
Agent Mercer stood in the waiting room, her distinctive red hair pulled back into a low ponytail. “Thank you for coming. When you get done with your exam, I have some questions for you.”
Jamie took the seat next to the wary agent even though there were other seats open, and gave us a toothy grin. “I’ll keep her company.”
An assistant led us to an examination room that was more like a luxury hotel suite. The room’s energy held some low-key anxiety, but nothing indicating torture had taken place here. It was a low bar, but I’d take it.
A minute later, someone knocked on the door and stepped into the room. A rounded, middle-aged woman in a lab coat entered, her energy signature humming with intelligence and sharp drive.
“Alpha Segerson, Agent Blackthorne.” Her gaze openly assessed me. “I’m Dr. Wharton. I’ve been reviewing your file.”
“I wasn’t aware I had a file.”
A smile ghosted across her lips. “Of course you have a file. Someone with your unique background, and an Alpha’s Mate.” She gestured toward the chairs in a small sitting area. “Please, let’s talk before we begin the examination.”
Conall positioned himself between Dr. Wharton and me, his protectiveness leaking through our bond.
“I understand you were detained at the facility in Roswell, where you were subjected to experimentation.” She leaned forward. “I assure you that today’s examination will be nothing like that experience. Alpha Segerson can remain with you throughout the exam if you wish.”
Conall was definitely staying. “What exactly will this examination entail?”
“We’ll conduct a standard physical, blood work, and a series of neurological tests. I’m particularly interested in the implant and chip that was placed along your cervical spine, and the symptoms you’ve been experiencing as a result.”
A wave of coldness sharpened my thoughts. “Who will have access to the results?”
“Agent Mercer, as your FBCI liaison, and a secured database accessible only to those with proper clearance. Your status as an Alpha Mate affords you protection.” That was her first lie.
“And my status as an ISB agent?”
Her eyes narrowed. “It complicates matters, but Pack law is your best defense.”
I studied her energy. She wasn’t outright lying, but she wasn’t telling the whole truth either. There was something beneath her professional demeanor—not malice or ill intent, but an intense scientific curiosity that felt almost hungry.
“Area Director Langston seemed to think otherwise,” I informed her.
The doctor sighed, her annoyance leaking out. “Langston and I have very different views on the best way to gather information. I’ll do everything I can to make sure your privacy is protected.”
Conall gazed at the doctor. “Your clinic sits in the middle of my territory. If the information you gather is misused or leaked, no one will find your body.”
For the first time, her professional demeanor cracked. She eased back and swallowed. “I understand.” The woman turned to me and removed the stethoscope from her neck. “May I start?”
I nodded, and she began by checking my vitals. “What symptoms are you experiencing?”
Instantly, I started weighing the risks and benefits of disclosing my condition to her. I decided getting answers outweighed the risks. “Decreased emotional responses, persistent sensations of coldness, and enhanced cognitive functions in certain areas.”
She paused in her note-taking. “The implant appears to be redirecting neural resources. We’ll want to monitor that closely.” Then I told her about the recent cracks in the ice and the implant feeling almost sentient.
“Fascinating.”
Her hungry curiosity unsettled me. “I’m not here as a research subject.”
She glanced at Conall. “I’m aware. You’re here to fulfill your agreement with the FBCI, but understanding what’s happening to you serves you as well, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe, but I don’t trust them.” I didn’t trust her either.
Dr. Wharton inclined her head. “You’d be foolish if you did. Let’s finish the exam, and then I’ll scan the implant and run a few tests.”
After she drew blood, the doctor examined the implant. My heart pounded as I lay face down on the exam table, my chin resting on a padded ring while Dr. Wharton guided a device along my neck and spine. Flashbacks flickered through my mind like a nightmarish slideshow.
Conall stood nearby, and my energy sought his. To keep my thoughts from spinning out of control, I cataloged each sensation with mechanical precision. The slight pressure of the scanner, the cool air on my exposed skin, and the doctor’s breathing as she concentrated.
On the monitor beside me, images flickered and shifted. I couldn’t see much from my position, but Dr. Wharton inhaled sharply.
“My god,” she whispered. “This is amazing.” She dropped her stylus on the floor.
Conall laid his hand on my leg. “What is it?”
I remained motionless, monitoring the doctor’s reaction. Her energy signature had shifted from professional curiosity to fascinated repulsion.
“I’ve never seen anything like this. The implant is organic, and it appears to have some awareness.” She bent to retrieve her stylus. “It’s integrating with your nerves, specifically the pathways connected to the limbic system.”
She continued her scan as she spoke. “See these tendrils? It’s weaving them through her cerebrospinal fluid and into the neural tissue. Almost like roots.” I couldn’t see what she was pointing at, but adrenaline flooded Conall.
“Can you remove it?” His voice was tight.
“Absolutely not. These connections are too deeply integrated. Attempting to remove it at this stage would cause catastrophic neural damage.” Crushing disappointment slid through me, and the implant shivered in response. “You can sit up now.”
I pushed upright and looked at the monitor. “Show me.”
Dr. Wharton explained it all again, the screen displaying a cross-section of my cervical spine, with something resembling a thin, rectangular tumor nestled against it.
From the central mass, hair-thin filaments extended outward into surrounding tissue, creating what looked like a network of frost across a window. It reminded me of a lightning strike.
“Can it be neutralized?” I asked, my voice flat.
Dr. Wharton dragged her eyes away from the screen. “I don’t know. This technology is... it’s beyond anything in current medical literature.” She hesitated. “May I ask what Commander Marlowe and his people said about it?”
“That it was designed to enhance my abilities while making me ‘focused and efficient.’ And completely under his command. He said emotions cloud judgment and inhibit potential.”
“Efficient,” she repeated, her mouth twisting.
“What he tried to do is essentially rewire your brain’s emotional processing centers.
The implant was redirecting neural resources away from emotional regulation and toward cognitive functions such as pattern recognition, analytical thinking, and memory. ”
Conall found my hand. “You said was. What has changed, and is there any way to stop it?”
Dr. Wharton tapped her stylus against her palm. “Perhaps. Or maybe rewire it to better suit you. The brain is remarkably plastic and adaptable. It can form new pathways, especially in response to consistent stimuli.” She turned to me. “You mentioned that the effects are progressing?”
“Yes. Every day, the emotional numbness seems to expand while my analytical capabilities sharpen. But it’s not linear.”
She nodded slowly. “It’s not a static condition.”
“How do I fight it?”