Cara MIA - By Book One of the Immortyl Revolution - By Denise Verrico Page 0,7

thick, dark hair. He worked to unsnarl it as if it was one of his twin daughters’ barrettes. Who knew if she felt pain? It was the most nerve-wracking task he’d ever performed— like a cop on the bomb squad felt sent in to disarm an explosive. He kept expecting her to break free of the straps and strangle him. Finally he worked the metal free from her hair and removed the mask. He wasn’t prepared for the sight.

How could something so foul look so… well… pure? Her face was pretty, but not in the conventional, All-American way but in the timeless fashion of a renaissance Madonna, a Leonardo, disturbing in its apparent youth and innocence. Its porcelain skin was smooth, framed by the somewhat short, dark hair. Her cheeks were round and pinkish, and the smallish mouth like an absurd little rosebud. Her arresting hazel eyes cut him to the quick: deep, sharply intelligent, looking straight into his, glittering enigmatically. Shards of broken mirror. They’d seen a hell of a lot more than the innocence of her countenance suggested.

Her voice dropped somewhere deep in her chest, rich and resonant, screen sirenish, “Not quite what you expected Doctor?”

“Sorry?”

“The girlish phiz.” A smile gelled and set on her face as she stared back.

Disturbed, he looked away and down to his clipboard. “I’ve been sent to do a basic assessment— I have a few simple questions.”

“Never said I’d answer any questions. Where’s Kurt?”

He looked up. She regarded him like the proverbial cat. He turned away again. The probing eyes spooked him too much. He covered by jotting down bogus notes on his clipboard. The only thing he’d really observed so far was that she was as intimidating as hell. “He’s right next-door.”

“If he was I could hear him.”

“These walls are at least a foot-thick.”

“I can hear better than you.”

“He hasn’t said much.”

“No, he wouldn’t. How is he?”

“He hasn’t attacked anyone, if that’s what you mean. I haven’t been to see him.”

“Get me out of this thing.”

“I’ve been advised not to.”

“But you have the authority?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“You think for an instant I’d treat you like those baboons? You’re obviously evolved a notch or two above them.” Her voice grew husky again, “To a gentleman I can be a lady.”

His gut told him she was telling the truth. Still, if he pissed her off somehow, he could end up a mangled mess like the chair in the corridor. He was dealing with a large, dangerous animal, only this animal was equipped with an intellect and from what he saw, a pretty sharp one. He was uncertain how to treat her— even if he’d addressed her properly. Were there certain cultural mores they observed? A social ranking? She spoke to him with certain arrogance. Racism perhaps? He could deal with that. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Taking out a small light, he said, “Look into the light, follow it with your eyes.”

“Ooh, how commanding.”

Despite her mocking, she complied without protest. Was she playing some kind of game? He jotted down his observations on the clipboard, and then followed with some simple tests of response to visual and aural stimuli. The tests were crude compared to the precise laboratory instruments. Her responses were extremely rapid. He longed to test her reflexes and muscle control but that would involve releasing her from the restraints and he wasn’t quite ready to take that leap of faith. All he wanted to do was to get this over with and escape in one piece. He didn’t trust her and doubted if she trusted him.

But his mission was to win that trust. At the last moment Lydia thrust these grimy little notebooks into his hands and ordered him to read them to see what he could make of them. They were found when they’d ransacked her backpack, the only thing she’d brought with her. Both of them had arrived bedraggled, with the clothes on their back, he with a laptop computer in a case and she with the small leather bag. He wondered why Lydia had found it necessary to search it.

He rubbed his eyes in agitation. Too much was left unsaid on both sides. Lydia obviously had nefarious motives in sending him in here, but his distaste couldn’t outweigh his desire to get to the bottom of the situation.

He already had too much on his plate. But now that Rider was laid up, Lydia explained, someone had to work with them. Find out what made them tick, she said. Why