Page 29 of The Witch's Heart
“They don’t want to cure us even if they could. It was all a lie,” he adds, eyes flashing with fury.
“What do they want really?” I ask.
“To understand us,” Dean says.
Declan nods. “And ultimately, to duplicate us.”
“They want to make more of you?” I shake my head. “But weren’t you born this way? And if so, wouldn’t it be easier to . . . breed you?”
My face flushes at the mental images, and I’m grateful for the darkness.
Declan’s smile is crooked and knowing. “You would think, right?”
Dean sighs. “There’s more to it than that, obviously. Yes, most werewolves are born, but they don’t want us to procreate. What they’re after is more complicated.”
I don’t know what could be more complicated than the impossible truth of what they both are. Werewolves are real. Witches too, if their claims about me are true. Fairytales exist. Or the creatures in them do anyway. Too bad the happy endings apparently don’t.
“What was it like?” I ask. “Growing up a werewolf? In a pack?”
Dean frowns. “It was the best thing in the world, until it wasn’t.”
“With a pack you’re never alone. That can be safe, reassuring, loving, and it can also be smothering, overwhelming and controlling. We were going to be our own pack.”
“With a bakery,” I say softly.
Dean’s lip twitches at some memory. “I miss the pre-dawn smell of freshly baked bread.”
Declan snorts. “I don’t miss pre-dawn.”
I smile at the banter and wonder what it will take to get them their lives back. I realize it’s easier to think of other people’s futures. Despite my promise to Dr. Livingstone, I don’t know how to imagine my own future without the albatross of pain from my twin’s death weighing it down until it drowns.
I lick my lips, knowing I need to ask a question I might not like the answer to. “What did you paint earlier? I mean, what did you see as the model for the assignment?”
They exchange a look, and I swallow against the pit in my stomach.
“Tell me the truth,” I insist.
“Celeste.” Dean takes my hand in his, but it’s clear he doesn’t want to tell me whatever he’s holding back.
I turn to Declan and hold his gaze steadily. “Tell me,” I repeat.
His expression is grim, his eyes hard and knowing, but he nods. “Dr. Livingstone drinking blood out of an IV bag.”
“Drinking blood?” I shake my head, confused. “Disgusting. But that doesn’t make sense.”
“Wait. What did you see?” Dean asks, sitting up straighter.
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” I look at Declan, knowing he’ll answer me. “Why would he do that?”
“Because it’s in his nature. Dr. Livingstone is a vampire.”
7
True to their promise, the boys make sure I'm back in my cell by the time Nurse Evil comes for us in the morning—though we don't have time to see if I can unlock the main doors with my magic. That will have to wait for later.
I’m still trying to decide how I feel about referring to what I did as “magic.” But it seems to be the buzz word here, so I go with it. For now.
Upstairs, in quite the plot twist, we are ushered to a dining hall filled with other patients where I'm actually fed. If this bowl of gruel that smells a bit off can be considered food.
