Page 73 of Even Vampires Bleed
Because there are indeed differences.
They’re small, and I couldn’t explain what they mean, but they’re here. Some of the tendrils on the new scan look smaller, and others look like they’ve broken into small pieces.
I don’t know what that means for the way the microchip would work if it was activated again.
What would happen to Léandre this time?
“We need the doctor,” I say under my breath, but I know everyone here heard me. Maybe not the redhead, though, human ears and all.
Elhyor types on his holo and then the doctor’s face appears in front of him.
“What?”
Well, hello to you, too.
“Are you done with Gabriel’s wings?” Elhyor asks. It seems two can play the same impolite game.
The image on the holo spans a bit to show more of the room the doctor is in, and we can all see his gloved hands covered with blood.
But more than that, we can also see the wings Léandre brought back hours ago attached to the back of the man right next to him.
He’s still lying on his front and the white—and also slightly pink from the blood around the wounds—wings are poking at his back, the tips of them grazing the ground.
It would look gruesome and slightly scary if the archangel’s torso wasn’t moving up and down with the slow breathing that denotes his sleeping state.
“What do you think?” the doctor asks.
“Good. Get to my office. We have something else for you,” Elhyor says and then hangs up.
There is no doubt in his mind that the doctor will be there in a short time. Elhyor pays him more than well to always be ready for anything.
36
Léandre
Why is it so much scarier than I thought?
Maybe because I can see with my own eyes that the tendrils that are supposed to erase my memory aren’t in their best shape? Or because an insidious voice in my mind is making me hope that—maybe, just maybe—there is a chance that with the tendrils damaged, there is a chance that the microchip can’t be activated ever again?
That shouldn’t be scary.
Except it is.
Because hope is scary. It gives those beautiful feelings and all I can think about is how things could get better.
But it’s scarier for one thing precisely. Because it is so easy to crush hope and I have a feeling while looking at the doctor’s face, studying closely my scans, that it’s exactly what is about to happen.
Because there is no light on the man’s face.
His white eyebrows are bent together, and it looks like he might be chewing the inside of his cheeks. Not really the face of someone who is hopeful.
“It’s too random,” the doctor says.
I know what this means.
He’s not even sure that if the microchip is activated this time, it’s not going to erase more memories, like functional ones.
“What is too random?”
