Cress (The Lunar Chronicles #3) - Marissa Meyer Page 0,107
throat and she swung her elbow, as hard as she could, landing a solid hit against his jaw. She heard the snap of his teeth, felt the shock in her bones, and then he was falling backward and landing so hard on the wooden floor that the entire building shook around them.
She didn’t check to see if he was unconscious, or if she’d given him a heart attack, or if he was in any shape to get up and follow her.
She wrenched open the door and ran.
Thirty-Seven
Dr. Erland woke up on the floor of a hot, dusty hotel room, unable for a moment to remember where he was.
This was not the laboratories beside New Beijing Palace, where he’d watched cyborg after cyborg break into red and purple rashes. Where he’d seen the life drain out of their eyes, and cursed the sacrifice of another life, while plotting the next step in his hunt for the only cyborg that mattered.
This was not the labs of Luna, where he’d studied and researched with a singular drive for recognition. Where he’d seen monsters born at the end of his surgical tools. Where he’d watched the brainwaves of young men take on the chaotic, savage patterns of wild animals.
He was not Dr. Dmitri Erland, as he’d been in New Beijing.
He was not Dr. Sage Darnel, as he’d been on Luna.
Or perhaps he was—he couldn’t think, couldn’t remember … didn’t care.
His thoughts kept turning away from himself and his two hateful identities, and swarming back to his wife’s heart-shaped face and honey-blonde hair that became frizzy whenever the ecology department was injecting new humidity into Luna’s controlled atmosphere.
His thoughts were on a screaming baby, four days old and confirmed a shell, as his wife dropped her into the hands of Thaumaturge Mira, with all the coldness and disgust she would have shown a rodent.
The last time he’d seen his little Crescent Moon.
He watched the whirling ceiling fan that did nothing to dispel the desert heat and wondered why, after all these years, his hallucinations had chosen this time to torture him.
This shell girl did not really have his wife’s freckles or blonde hair. This shell girl did not have his unfortunate height or his own blue eyes. This shell girl was not his daughter, returned from the dead to haunt him. The illusion was all in his mind.
Perhaps it was fitting. He’d done so many horrible things. The recent attack against Earth was only the culmination of years of his own efforts. It was through his own research that Queen Channary had begun developing her army of wolf hybrids, and through his experiments that Levana was able to see it to its bloody finale.
And then there were all those he’d hurt to find Selene and end Levana’s reign. All those he’d murdered to find Linh Cinder.
He’d been too optimistic to think he could repay those debts now. He’d tried hard to duplicate the antidote Levana had given to Emperor Kaito. He’d had to try, and for his pains—more sacrifices. More blood samples. More experiments, though now he was forced to find true volunteers, when the traffickers couldn’t bring him new blood on their own.
He had discovered, back in New Beijing when he’d studied the antidote brought by Queen Levana, that Lunar shells held the secret. The same genetic mutation that made them immune to the Lunar tampering of bioelectricity could be used to create antibodies that would fight off and defeat the disease.
And so he’d begun gathering shells and their blood and their DNA. Using them, just as he’d used the young men who would become mindless soldiers for the queen. Just as he’d used the cyborgs who were too often unwilling candidates of the letumosis experimentation.
Of course his brain would do this to him. Of course his insanity would reach such a depth that the hallucinations would return to him the only thing he had ever cared for, and they would twist reality so that she became just another one of his victims.
Just another person bought and discarded.
Just another blood sample.
Just another lab rat who hated him.
His little Crescent Moon.
Over his head, his portscreen dinged on his laboratory shelf.
It took more energy than he thought he had to pull himself to his feet, groaning as he used the age-polished bedpost for leverage.
He took his time, avoiding the truth, partly because he didn’t know what he wanted the truth to be. A hallucination he could deal with. He could write it off and continue with