60. weird, world.
“This is your sister?” Devorah said after Akiko had introduced herself.
“Half-sister,” Robbie clarified. “Did Nikola tell you the situation?”
Akiko nodded. “It shouldn’t be a problem-I’ll try a variation of what I do with Genny.”
Robbie and Charlie relinquished their chair and helped pull it closer to the couch. Akiko sat down directly across from Devorah, who was starting to look distinctly edgy. “Don’t worry,” Akiko said, radiating soothing warmth like a space heater. “This won’t hurt, and if you want to stop just imagine a locked door. I’ll only see what you let me see. Relax your arms. You’re very comfortable. Safe and warm. Listen to the beat of your heart. Feel the rise and fall of your chest with each breath. Breathe in deeply… And let it out. Good. Now, I want you to picture yourself, just as you are. I’m going to take your hands in mine…”
Akiko fell silent as their eyes closed. The words she spoke now were heard only in Devorah’s head. When they opened their eyes again, they could see only one another, illuminated in a single pool of light, everything else masked by the deep darkness around their circle. “Let’s take a walk,” Akiko suggested calmly. “Why don’t you show me where you like to go every night?”
A door appeared before them, standing slightly ajar. It was the door to her bedroom, Devorah saw, recognizing the distinctive crack radiating from the bottom hinge, a mark left behind by a fit of anger years ago when she’d slammed the door after a heated argument with her mother, only to crush a toy that had gotten caught under the jamb. She stepped forward and lifted a hand to push it open fully. Beyond was the east gate of the Old Jewish Cemetery; as in the manner of most dreams, this incongruity didn’t bother her. It was immediately accepted as fact rather than seen as a disturbing anomaly. The gate was unlocked, too, something unheard of at this time of night, but she didn’t pause to wonder at that, either. Simply strode forward, left hand still held by Akiko, and lead the way inside.
The Maharal’s tomb loomed up before them instantly, four times taller and wider than it truly was. The first time she had seen it she had been little more than four or five-in fact, it was probably her first concrete memory-and it had struck her as monumental. It was how a part of her would always see it. After all, someone so important deserved an awe-inspiring resting place. Something far grander than the comparatively modest marker the Rabbi and his wife actually had.
“Why do you come here, Devorah?” Akiko asked. Her voice was in her ear, but it was also echoing like thunder. There, but not there.
“I feel safe here,” she said slowly. “I feel like I belong. I come here and I understand.”
“What do you understand?”
“The city is sick. There is an infection spreading. I have to do something about it. I have to do something now that the Maharal is gone. His people still need him. The people pray for deliverance. Someone needs to answer their prayers.”
“How do you know all of this, Devorah?”
“He shows me.”
There came a hollow rumbling. The ground began to tremble. Summoned by Devorah’s words, a giant man stepped around the tomb. He, for lack of a better term, was over six feet tall and the color of terracotta. The crude arms and legs would be more suited to a doll; the hands were more shovel-like than human. The face was blank-there was no mouth and no nose, and the ‘skin’ was covered with smudges and swirls that must have been made by a pair of firm hands when the round head was first shaped. The occasional fingerprint was clearly stamped into the clay. Only the pair of glowing eyes gave the hulking rudimentary shape a more humanoid air; they were the ruddy color of banked coals in a fireplace left to smolder throughout the night, and burned with the terrible strength of conviction.
Akiko felt the non-existent hairs on the back of her hypothetical neck stand up. She had the distinct feeling that she was being watched; and not be the silent Golem standing before them. No, this presence was human, curious in a way the Golem was incapable of projecting. She found herself glancing around sharply, as if she’d catch the observer out of the corner of her eye. But there was never anyone there-just the disquieting sense that it wasn’t simply her and Devorah in this nebulous space of memory, thought, and emotion.
The Golem brought its massive hands together in a clap like thunder. It had no mouth to speak, but in that crash Devorah could hear the words it could not say. ENEMY rang in her ears. THE DRAGON. And when the Golem pulled its huge hands apart a ghostly image shimmered in the space between them. The profile of a man. A large nose, dark goatee, and glasses. The Golem’s hands shook abruptly, the image disappearing with a bright flash, and the creature pointed with all the grave finality of a bell tolling a death knoll.
“What are you doing?” Akiko asked as Devorah turned and began to walk.
“He is a danger,” she heard herself say. “A threat. He has to be stopped. So I will.”
And she yanked her hand from Akiko’s.
The severing of the connection sent a jolt through her that made her gasp, eyes flying open. She barely managed to catch herself before falling from her chair. Never before had someone else broken the exchange. When she reached out again with her Empathy it was to find only a metaphorical brick wall standing coldly between her and the girl. It was as if she had shut down her emotions completely-as if she had somehow assumed the inanimate quality of the Golem in her mind.
Devorah stood and stepped around Akiko, unaware of anything around her, eyes half-closed and unfocused as she moved towards the front door.
“Devorah, what are you-”
“Don’t!” Akiko grabbed Annie’s arm. “Don’t touch her. She’s in a trance, caught up in a vision. Trying to wake her might not be the best idea. I… I don’t think she’s entirely herself right now.”
“So what do we do?”
“We need to follow her. The Golem showed her the man from last night. It gave her a mission-and something tells me it won’t end well for him.”
It was a very strange, furtive party that stepped back out onto the street. They all stuck close to the sleepwalking Devorah and Nikola kept close to them, like some protective swan trying to wrap his wings around his wayward cygnets. They passed a couple walking wearily home with bags of groceries hanging from their arms and garnered a puzzled look of suspicion.
“What happened?” Robbie asked after they’d hurried onward. “What did you see?”
“It’s… I don’t know,” Akiko said, eyebrows furrowing with confusion. “I’m only just starting to understand some of it myself, but… With Genny, her gift is all wrapped up with her emotions and memories. Her anger and frustration, her pain and guilt, have gotten tangled up with the fire because she can’t help but associate her gift with traumatic events. Because her gift is triggered by powerful emotion. With Diego, his gift has always been something he’s repressed or hidden-at least until recently, anyway-and so I didn’t ‘see’ it immediately. It’s something he doesn’t focus on the way Genny does. So it was more subtle and unobtrusive. But with Devorah… I was walking with her the way I walk with Genny, moving through memories. I could sense something on the peripheral of her thoughts, waiting, and I assumed it was her gift. And then we came to the cemetery as she thinks of it and it was like… This sounds crazy, but it was like someone else was there, too. It wasn’t just Devorah I was feeling.”
“Like… someone was controlling her?”
“Well, yes, but like… I don’t know, like there was a third person in her mind with us. Another personality. And it felt… Masculine, is the best way I can describe it. It was as if another mind had slipped in, like it was drawing closer as we entered the cemetery. Or perhaps it was already there.” She shook her head; she was disoriented, unbalanced, from the unexpected expulsion from Devorah’s subconscious. How had it even been possible? Not even Diego had been able to sever a connection before like that. Perhaps she was simply too tired. Perhaps her nerves were wound too tightly and her gates were cracked open; that third presence could’ve been someone she’d accidentally picked up on from another apartment. She may have just been absorbing too much information and that overloaded her in a way that allowed Devorah to slip out of her grasp.
Whatever the explanation, she kept her eyes on the teenager walking slowly, steadily, purposefully before them. Stretched out a tendril of her Empathy-and still she couldn’t pick up anything from her. Just a blank space, a void that almost ached the way the gap from a missing tooth sucks at a tongue. That was worrying. Humans can’t shut down every emotion for long, can’t be reduced to mere moving machinery indefinitely without some sort of repercussion; it’s impossible to function properly for long without some degree of sensation. Akiko’s instincts screamed out for action: they had to find a way to safely snap Devorah out of her fugue state. And there had to be some way for her to control these episodes-before they caused any lasting damage.
To her-or to anyone else. Because the Old Jewish Cemetery stretched before them once again and Devorah’s pace began to quicken. As she followed the long wall, they had to jog to keep up. Much longer at this pace and Nikola would be unable to run and shield them all simultaneously.
They were approaching a bus stop, a steel-framed shelter encased in clear glass. On one of the three seats inside sat a man in a black jacket, hunched over and staring at some electronic device in his hands. A phone or tablet; the glow from the small screen reflected off his glasses. Hearing their rapid footsteps, he glanced up, body stiffening into alertness. Akiko knew that Nikola’s gift would cloud their faces-it was impossible for him to entirely mask their presence, only cloud the finer details to keep anyone from immediately recognizing or remembering them-and she also recognized him immediately. The man from last night, the man the Golem had showed Devorah.
With the Order? Almost certainly.
Devorah came to such an abrupt stop Genny had to swerve to avoid smashing into her back. She stared at the man in the glasses, who stared back nonplussed.
“The bus shouldn’t be coming for another fifteen minutes,” he said in unpolished Czech, pointing at the schedule affixed to the back wall of the shelter. “No need to run.”
They were all silent, Devorah staring with an unnerving expression while the rest fought to catch their breath. After a tense ten seconds, the man turned his attention back to his phone, thumbs flying over the screen as he composed his text. Another ten seconds and he glanced back up, unable to ignore the focused attention Devorah had leveled upon him. “I said the bus won’t be here for another fifteen minutes,” he repeated, this time in English. Another long, watchful pause passed. “…Well? If you want to say something, say something.”
“You are with the Order,” she obliged. But the voice that came out of her mouth wasn’t purely her own; there was a second, deeper cadence overlaying her higher natural pitch. Two voices speaking as one not quite in harmony, coming from a youthful face so blank it was almost waxen. The uncanny dissonance of it made Annie shiver. “You kill in the service of hatred.”
The man scrambled to his feet, looking distinctly pale. “What the hell are you?”
“The persecuted. Unwilling to remain passive.”
“I-look, I don’t know what you think, but I’m like the last man on the ladder,” the man stuttered, backing up. “I’m not a threat. I wouldn’t hurt you even if I could.” How unsettling must it be: to hear such condemnation coming from a girl with an indistinct face.
“Lies. Liar. You would stand aside while others suffered. Turning a blind eye to torture and murder. You are as culpable as those who pull the triggers.”
Charlie’s ears ached. It was the voice; and it was because she could pick out more than one language. The deeper, masculine voice wasn’t speaking English at all. She could hear-what was it? Yiddish? Hebrew? Czech?-beneath the words Devorah uttered. Speaking in two voices at once was impressive; but speaking in two languages?
“You have seen too much. I cannot allow you to go.”
And suddenly it was there, as large and impressive as it had been in Devorah’s head. Close to seven feet tall. Barrel-chested. A ruddy gold in color. The banked coal eyes gleamed beneath a broad forehead that was inscribed with red Hebrew letters glistening like fresh blood. Where the arms and legs joined the rocky torso were huge metal bands heavily corroded with rust. The air around the Golem rippled and distorted, shimmering with heat waves, as if it had just walked out of the immense kiln that had baked it firm and solid.
The man in black screamed, a high-pitched wail of terror, and tried to run.
With two massive steps the Golem had bridged the distance, reaching out in a way that was somehow both ponderous and lightning quick, grabbing him by one arm. The man shrieked again as he was lifted off his feet by that arm, shoulder twisted at an unnatural angle. The Golem’s other hand struck him sharply across the chest and there was an audible crack as a rib or two buckled under the force.
“Devorah, wait!” Annie cried, rushing forward to put herself between the girl and the creature. “Those other times, the Golem killed to save someone. This is different.”
“He would hand us over to his masters,” came the monotone reply. “He would do this for his own advancement, his own benefit. Such a man should not be suffered to live. Any man who would trade another’s suffering for his own reward is not a man at all-he is more a monster than my beast of burden.” Devorah’s eyes lost their faraway glaze. Sharpened into a hawkish intensity; leveling upon Annie with a piercing knowledge. “You understand of what I speak. How many men betrayed your people, ignored their treaties and rights, in order to steal what had rightfully been theirs? How many of your ancestors died in sickness, starvation, abject poverty because others looked the other way or called it divine justice? Your people were once many, and proud, and happy. And they were exterminated like pests. Treated like vermin, denigrated and demeaned, reduced and humiliated as they were raped and murdered. Do you not see, Annie Palehorse? Do you not share the sorrow and burden my daughter Devorah feels every time she looks upon the photos of the family burned to ash by man’s inhumanity?”
Annie swallowed fitfully, the tears in her eyes threatening to spill down her cheeks. “I do,” she said hoarsely. “But I also know that it’s wrong to use people-that sometimes the bad means to a good end is still wrong. This isn’t Devorah I’m talking to, is it? You’re the Maharal, aren’t you? The Rabbi and protector of Prague. If you were truly the good and holy man your people believe you to be, is it right to use Devorah like this? You’re making her a murderer. You call her your daughter-then treat her like one. Protect her, too. Not just everyone else. Not at her expense.”
Everything had frozen. The Golem stood like a cold statue. The man hanging from its grip had a face that had gone grey and slick with sweat; he was breathing rapidly, with a painful wheeze edging each gasped breath, but he stared bulging eyed and wordless, knowing his life was at stake in this confrontation. Annie stubbornly held the fiery gaze Devorah had fixed upon her, praying to God and whoever else was listening that she was doing the right thing. Because everything the voice had said was true; the man behind her no doubt deserved this pain and fear. But in the core of her being she still felt this was wrong. Lashing out in self-defense was entirely lawful and justifiable-but cold, pragmatic execution? She would never be able to stand in a court of law and look into a judge’s face if she let such a thing happen without a word to the contrary.
“Do you know how long I have waited?” Devorah said in the discordant voice. The weary pain was audible. “For someone like her? Someone touched by God, someone with the power? I watched as wars and evil nearly wiped my people from the earth. Every voice that cried out, only to be silenced, was a knife. I bled for decades. For centuries. And then, finally, there was another in my line. She could do what I no longer could. She would save them. And already her head was full of stories and belief and strength. I could use those. She would use those. As defender and protector. There are always rats happy to spread their pestilence across a city. Across the world. We had to stop them.”
“You have the best of intentions. But you went about it the wrong way,” Annie said. “Don’t use Devorah to continue your work. Talk to her. Explain things to her. Let her choose what she will and will not do.”
“But she has to protect them. No one else can, and she has the means. It must be done.”
“Then work together. You cannot keep your people free by stealing the freedom of another. Don’t you see that? If all the good you do is at the expense of her well-being… Then there has to be another way. You have to know this is wrong, Rabbi. You’re treating Devorah like she’s nothing more than a weapon to be fired at will. But she’s a human being. She’s your blood. Start seeing her as a woman-and not just a means to an end.”
Horror flashed across Devorah’s face. Revulsion and pain. The Golem’s arm slowly lowered. The man was set down onto his own feet, then released; he promptly fell to his knees with his uninjured arm clutching at his chest, shoulder twisted at a nauseating angle, tears bright across his cheeks and face as white as milk.
“Thank God and this woman, boy, that you still have your life,” Devorah said heavily. “And turn your back on your masters-should I find you again and see their mark still upon you, I will not be so lenient.”
Wheezing in agony, the man managed to push himself up onto unsteady feet and shuffle fitfully away into the night. The Golem turned to face them, implacable and blank, a mere machine programmed to act. And Devorah looked at Annie now with a softer, melancholic expression. “You are a wise woman,” the Maharal said. “You have the bearing and strength of a leader. I thank you for your counsel. Even those thought wisest can make grave errors. I thought only of defending this city from the pestilence making it ill. It has been so long since I was a man of flesh and blood, and for so long I have been made mad and bitter with the inability to act. The years have not been kind to my humanity. I see better now, and I thank you for opening my eyes. And, I believe, I have something you need. We are all given our duties and burdens. This was one I have carried, hoping the time would come when I could pass it on to the right person.”
The Golem stepped closer, casting an enormous shadow over Annie as it loomed over her, blocking out the light from the streetlamp. And then it knelt down on one stiff knee, bowing its head as if in prayer. Devorah reached out and from the words gleaming on its forehead plucked a small red stone. Held it out to the awed Annie with a faint smile, and then reached out again to rub her thumb across the words, smearing the marks.
Without a sound, the Golem crumbled into a pile of red dust, which just as swiftly disappeared. Only the cracked bricks from its heavy feet showed it had been there at all. And no sooner was it gone before Devorah blinked, posture shifting and expression becoming one of pure bewilderment.
“What the hell am I doing out here?” she demanded.
“Long story,” Annie said breathlessly, hand closing around the warm red stone. “Let’s get you home and we can tell you all about it.”
“Hang on just a mo,” Charlie said, dashing forward and into the bus stop shelter. The man’s phone lay where he had dropped it. The corner of the screen was cracked in a fine spider web, but it still worked. “Never look a gift horse in the mouth,” she said with deceptive lightness. “Alright. Let’s go.”
The click of the door being opened was inaudible over the beeping of the heart monitor. Roland didn’t realize someone had entered the room until she sat down in the chair beside the bed and the plastic creaked. He turned his aching head and blinked owlishly at the vague figure, the red of her blouse the only solid detail he could make out. “Who is it?”
“These glasses on the table are yours?” she asked. There was a faint rasp to her voice that made him think of certain call line operators, and she had an accent-Russian? Ukrainian?
“Yeah.”
“Allow me.” She leaned forward and carefully slipped them over his face. He blinked again and then found himself staring. She was undeniably gorgeous; the planes of her face looked sharp enough to cut and the nebulous color of her eyes-somewhere between blue and hazel and surrounded by thick dark lashes-were riveting. Her red-tinged hair was swept back into a tight up-do that reminded him of Tippi Hedren in The Birds, with a few curling tendrils artfully hanging down to frame her face. She was dressed like a professional businesswoman in black slacks with her red silk blouse tucked into a wide belt. Her nails and lips were a matching deep red and as she folded her hands in her lap she smiled in a way that had definite echoes of a vulpine predator; there was a hint of a threat in that smile, but it was also mesmerizing. “Good morning, Mr. Baginski. I’m afraid we haven’t been formally introduced yet. I am Elisabeta Volos.”
“The High Dracul,” he said, struggling to push himself up in the bed. His broken ribs-two on the left and three on the right-protested strenuously and a spasm of pain flickered across his face.
“No, no, please don’t strain yourself,” she said quickly. “Please relax. I know how abominably broken ribs can ache. Better to not move. The doctor tells me that you’ve punctured your right lung as well. He said it collapsed not long after your admittance and they had to reinflate it. A nasty business.”
Roland nodded, dry mouthed. They’d inserted a tube into his chest, which was now hooked up to a suction machine, to draw out the air; and he was doing his damndest not to think about this. It made him nauseous, knowing there was a hole in his chest. It was hard enough to breathe as it was without feeling the tubing rise and fall and the pull of the machine against his skin. And his right arm, still mostly numb from where they’d forced his dislocated shoulder back into place, was similarly hooked up to a massive IV full of antibiotics. It made his skin crawl when he focused on all of this so he had been replaying the original Star Wars trilogy in his head. He’d just gotten to the Hoth opening of Empire Strikes Back when the Dracul had entered.
“I’ve already had a word with Director Franc. He gave me your initial statement. Is there anything you wish to add to that?”
He swallowed. Something in her tone, in the way she stared at him, suggested she already knew everything he had hidden; even the old and shameful adolescent secrets of years past. He never thought he’d meet someone who had actual X-ray eyes, but Elisabeta Volos came really damn close. This was hardly the meeting he had hoped for: he had rather imagined himself in his sharpest suit, calm and dashing and effortlessly humble about his capture of top priority fugitives. A few light witticisms, some serious conversation about his prospects with the Order, and maybe the slightest of digs at Director Franc’s lack of vision. She would have been impressed and grateful. Sympathetic and pleased.
Now he could only think of how lucky he’d been. He’d practically looked Death in the face: and it had eyes like a furnace. Now he was nothing more than a pitiful wreck who’d let success slip out of his fingers while he cried in pain. If only he’d been a bit quicker, a bit more prepared…
“Well, ma’am,” he began awkwardly, struggling to clear his throat. She conscientiously leaned forward, slipped a cool hand beneath his head, and helped him drink from the glass of water she pressed to his lips. “Thank you very much,” he said gratefully. “Everything happened just as I told Director Franc. But… I did leave out a few minor details.”
“About why you were waiting at Starý židovský hřbitov at that hour of the night, for instance?” she said astutely.
“Yes.” He felt a blush of embarrassment burn his cheeks, as if he was confessing a mistake to a stern and disappointed teacher. “Two nights ago, when I called in regarding Operative Declan’s death, I neglected to mention that I had an encounter with… Well, ma’am, several Touched fugitives.”
“And why did you fail to report this?”
He struggled to breathe smoothly, sides aching terribly. “Because I was certain I could apprehend them, ma’am. All I’ve wanted since starting work at this division was to be a full operative-I knew I could prove myself worthy of such a position-”
“And so you withheld vital information from your superiors.”
“They had no idea that I was with the Order, ma’am, I swear to you, I knew I could track them down to their hiding place-it had to be within running distance of the cemetery, because the Hawthorne girl was barefoot-”
“You saw Charlotte Hawthorne?” she interrupted sharply, voice terse.
“Yes, ma’am. She was with the Beechums, Diego Fernandez, a couple others I didn’t recognize. And tonight, well, I can’t be sure, because it was impossible to properly see their faces-their features seemed to be blurred, it was bizarre-but I highly suspect it was the same group at the bus stop. With a girl who spoke with two voices, the one controlling the Golem. Who else could it have been?”
Elisabeta sat coldly silent in her chair. The look she had fixed upon him made him nervous and uncomfortable; it was heavily spiced with disdain. How could everything have gone this badly? Success had been so close, just within his reach, really, and now he could only try to lamely defend his actions to the highest authority. What was the best he could hope for now? Demotion was a certainty, if not outright firing and expulsion from the Order. Or perhaps they’d ship him off to the Siberian branch and lock him away in a frigid basement, with only a wall of computers for company. He had zero respect for Director Franc and most of his coworkers were pretentious assholes, but he’d become fond of Prague and its amenities. It would be a wrench to leave it all-
“Mr. Baginski-may I call you Roland?”
He nodded.
“Roland, what is the Order to you?”
He blinked. It wasn’t the question he had expected. “…I’m sorry?”
“What is the Order to you?” she repeated patiently. “A worthy cause? A legacy your grandfather foisted upon you? Just another job to pay the bills and pass the time?”
Perhaps there was a light at the end of this tunnel after all; maybe he could lay the schmooze thick enough to turn this around. “Well, ma’am, I’ve always seen it as a passion,” he said conscientiously, brown furrowed and face grave. “A chance to make a difference while distinguishing myself. I appreciate how important our work is, that lives are on the line, and I’ve always wanted to do the right thing.”
“And, in your opinion, was withholding information the right thing to do? In the best interests of this organization and the people we are trying to protect?”
Oookay, maybe it wouldn’t be that easy. Time to play the penitent to the hilt. “I readily admit it was a mistake,” he said. “I regret it and I’m ashamed of myself. I put my personal gain before the cause and that was absolutely wrong-”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it was. Your actions have put people in danger, both within the Order and outside of it. There have already been casualties; and now there is no telling what further tolls we will be forced to pay. You’ve shown yourself to be grossly entitled and arrogant, Mr. Baginski. A black mark on your division. I look upon this organization as my family, my home, and you have essentially tossed a ticking time bomb into the living room where my children are playing. I am speaking in wild metaphors in an attempt to impress upon you the seriousness of your sins, though I can see that it is hardly sinking in.”
“I want you to know, Mr. Baginski, that I have rarely felt this sort of anger,” Elisabeta continued in a soft voice. “Knowing they were within our grasp once more only to slip away again... It is taking every inch of my self control not to scream. Your selfish, idiotic behavior has set my efforts back and made my work even harder. On a personal note, every moment I must waste pursuing this group is a moment I cannot spend with my daughter. It is another moment of lost expenditures, another moment of frustration that forces my team to redouble their labors. You have contributed to my exhaustion and I am at the very end of my patience. Incompetence like this cannot be ignored. I would say this gives me no pleasure, but I believe fully in honesty: I will take great pleasure from this.”
“From?” Roland said, heart thrumming with fear at the implacable fury suffusing her beautiful face.
She stood, pushed back her chair, and went to open the door. “Jaswinder?”
A man walked in, well-built and dark skinned. He was dressed just as professionally as the High Dracul; but on him the fine clothes did not suit, for all that they were tailored. He radiated a zealous passion, a sense of barely contained violence, and a brutality that clashed with the sophisticated veneer. He said nothing; only looked at the High Dracul the way a hound will look to the hunter.
Roland felt a prescient stab of terror. The man was a killer-he practically advertised it. If she had summoned him, it could only be for one reason. But rather than approach the bed, he turned back to the door. Closed the blinds over the small window and stood like some impassive sentinel.
It was Elisabeta who walked back towards him, calm and silent. He stared, dry-mouthed and unsure. Unsure-until her hands fell upon his wrists, pinning his arms to the mattress, and she was abruptly kneeling on his broken chest.
“What are you-no-wait-please!” Roland tried to shout, unable to take a deep enough breath to properly scream. He thrashed as violently as he could, the IV lines ripping from his arm, and still the woman did not budge. With swift, efficient movements she had slipped the restraining cuffs over his wrists, the ones attached to the bed frame that were used on patients too unruly or afflicted by seizures.
“Let me take these off for you, Roland,” she said practically after he was immobile, pulling the glasses from his face, rendering the room a terrifying blur. “Wouldn’t want to break them.”
The last thing he saw was the white pillow descending upon his face, gripped tightly by a pair of red-taloned hands.