Page 92 of The Last Necromancer
"We'll search for your mother together." He spoke faster and his smile turned harder. "She will love you instantly too. I know she will."
"She's alive? Tell me about her. What is she like? Who are her family? Perhaps she's living with them."
He pressed a finger to my lips. "All in good time. After you help me, we'll find her. I promise you."
"Doctor, I—"
"Call me Father."
I shook my head. "I can't help you. What you're asking is wrong. Dangerous."
"Stop it!" He thumped his fist against the wall, startling me. It must have hurt, against the bricks, but he showed no sign. "I'm telling you that they're wrong. They've fed you lies, brainwashed you. They are not your friends, Charlotte, no matter what they said. They're our enemies. They plan on stealing my creations and using them for themselves."
"That's ridiculous."
"It's not." He clasped my shoulders again and dipped his face to look into my eyes. "I'm sorry, Charlotte, but that's the truth. You can't trust them. Everything they've told you that I plan to do, it's they who plan to do it, only with my creations. They're simply waiting for me to complete the science and reanimate the bodies before stealing all my work. But I've suspected all along, and I'm not going to give up my creatures without a fight."
"You're wrong, Doctor."
"Am I? My dear, I would never hurt the queen. I don't care for power. What would I do with an entire nation to run? I'm a scientist."
The truth of that struck me in the gut. He may be mad, but he was a man of science, not politics or the military. He was obsessed with simply seeing his work come to life, and being remembered for it in years to come—not with taking over the country.
"Listen to me," I said, taking his hands in mine. He squeezed them, and it was as if he could sense that I was about to give in and agree. How wrong he was. "Has someone from the ministry been in touch with you about your creations? Is someone paying you?"
He pulled away and patted my cheek. "Come on. Come inside. Let me show you what you need to do."
He grabbed my hand and opened the back door. He pulled me inside to the scarred bodies on the floor. "We have to get them back in the chairs first." He grabbed one under the arms and began dragging it.
I didn't help. I inspected the bodies on the tables. Seth and Gus breathed normally, but Fitzroy didn't. He labored for every breath, and only managed shallow gasps. I couldn't look at his battered face, once so handsome and now a pulpy mess. It made me want to throw up again.
"Did you do this to them?" I whispered.
"Those two are merely sleeping for now." He grunted as he worked to lift the body onto the chair. "I've given them enough diethyl ether to keep them unconscious for now."
"And Fitzroy?"
He looked up sharply then lifted the body and began dragging. He locked that one into a chair too then joined me by the bed. "He won't survive."
A sob bubbled in my throat. I couldn't hold it in, no matter how hard I tried.
Frankenstein touched my shoulder. "I'm sorry, Charlotte. I see that you cared for him. Your affections are misguided, but I understand why you have them. He saved you from the streets, I believe. It's easy to mistake his actions for caring. He was simply doing his job—a job with the sole aim to rid the world of people who want to live outside the acceptable boundaries of an unyielding society. People like me. And you."
I swiped at my tears and turned away from Fitzroy. I couldn't look at him anymore; couldn't bear to see him struggle for breath. Such a virile, strong man, and now this. It was too much.
"Why do you want them?" I asked.
"You don't know?"
I shook my head.
"To complete the final component of our project. Your part."
I blinked at him. Blinked again. And then it sank in. He wanted me to use their spirits to reanimate the bodies of his creations. To do that, they had to die.
"I…I can't," I choked out. "I want nothing to do with it."
He slammed his fist on the table near Fitzroy's leg. A leg that was covered with dirty trousers, frayed at the cuff. I frowned and inspected the rest of the body. It was still fully clothed, yet they weren't the same clothes Fitzroy usually wore. I'd not seen him leave that morning, but I'd never seen him dress in ragged, untailored trousers. They hung loose on the body—a body that was considerably smaller than Gus's.
