Page 15 of Cage of Starlight
Helner isn’t armed aside from the implements she’s stabbed into her bun, but Vantaras is. No windows here to escape through, but the door to the hallway remains open.
He’s not bound—yet. Tory calculates his odds.
He doesn’t get the condescension he expects when Vantaras understands what he’s considering. Instead, he shifts to the left so he’s not filling the doorway. When Tory catches his eyes, he looks away.
Like invitation. Like absolution.
Ormockery. Helner’s hand winds around his arm before he can run.
“You don’t want to know what happens to the ones who try to escape. A NOVA is far worse than this. On the table.”
Her bruising grip, tight over the cloth of his shirt that covers the tattoo, guides him down. “On your stomach,” she says. When he doesn’t go immediately, she pushes him down.
Her other hand locks around the base of his neck. She takes her hand from his arm—blood floods back in with a rush of pins and needles—and buckles the straps around his forearms, then strains the neck of his shirt to expose his right shoulder. The hole in the cushioned table offers a view of a small stretch of floor and nothing else.
“This may feel strange.”
A crack, a hiss, and the drip of cool liquid on his shoulder. Helner’s fingertips trail around to his neck. He waits for the sharp edge of a scalpel, but she only palpates the area with her fingers. “Ready?”
The air around him ignites before he finds words, the pressure no longer on the surface of his skin but inside him—ghosts of her fingertips on his vertebrae. He can’t see it, but he feels it—somehow, impossibly, this woman has shoved her hand into his body as though flesh is as easily displaced as water. Tory bucks against the restraints.
“Damn it, Channeler.” Another strap across his lower back. “You know what? Keep writhing. I can do this for hours.”
“What . . .” He drags ragged breaths in through his nose. “What . . . are youdoing?”
“I already told you: I’m a Reacher. I’m inside you. Surgery without incisions. I could tear out your spleen if I wanted—or if you distract me. So be quiet.”
Tory squeezes his eyes shut against the ringing in his ears. His stomach rolls.
“Gonna be sick.”
“Please recall what I said about your spleen.”
Tory swallows thickly.Happy things.
His thoughts turn to Thatcher, but that makes him sick in a different way. He hopes the soldiers went easy on him. And Hasra—surely, she got away safely.
When he comes back to himself, his body thrums with waves of heat and ice. Blackness dances at the rim of his vision.
Pressure at his back, short and firm. “I said situp. It’s finished.”
The straps are gone. His shoulder and neck blaze as he lifts himself. Dizziness washes over him, and Helner grabs his arm before he tips off the table.
“Burns,” he says.
“Not surprised. Don’t know much about Channelers, but the other Source has a history of not playing well with other Seed energies.”
He waits until his feet are likelier than not to hold his weight, then starts a coltish walk toward the door.
Helner snickers. “See you later.”
Not if Tory can avoid it. He stumbles over his feet, stomach lurching.
Vantaras reaches to right him, face creased with what might be concern, then tears his hand away. There’s fear in his eyes—then something like disgust, then nothing. Whatever shreds of pity Vantaras has earned burn away. He’s wearing gloves and still can’t stand to touch him?
“Follow me.” Vantaras steps through the door, hands stiff at his sides.
The hallway goes on forever. His mouth is dry, shoulder throbbing, but there’s no wound when he reaches back to touch the place Helner put the Core in.
