Cress (The Lunar Chronicles #3) - Marissa Meyer Page 0,148

even know about. She pushed herself away from the desk.

Wolf was out in the small lobby, leaning against the wall by the stairwell door. At some point he’d removed his tuxedo jacket and bow tie, unbuttoned his collar, and rolled up his sleeves. His hair was no longer neat and tidy, but sticking up at odd angles. He looked bored.

At his feet, scattered across the lobby floor, were at least thirty palace guards.

He met Cress’s gaze just as the door to the stairwell burst open and a guard charged through, gun raised.

Cress screamed, but Wolf just grabbed the guard’s arm, bent it behind his back, and targeted a precise hit to the side of his neck.

The guard crumpled and Wolf slid him neatly onto the pile of his peers.

Then he held his palms toward Cress, as if to ask what was taking so long.

“Right,” she murmured to herself, heart thumping. She inspected the screen with the elevator status reports one more time, and saw that only one elevator was moving. Descending from the fourteenth floor in the north tower.

A smile tickled her lips, but was restrained behind the avalanche of anxiety. Leaning over the control panel, she attached her portscreen to the main input console and set the timer.

* * *

Dr. Erland watched the small screen on the machine’s panel as it spit out a stream of data, documenting the stability of Thorne’s stem cells, each step of the automated procedure, and the details of the chemical reaction that was happening on a cellular level inside the tiny plastic vial fitted into place. It was taking ages, but they weren’t in any rush. Not yet. Behind him, Thorne was sitting on the lab table, kicking his heels against the side.

The data stream lit up.

SOLUTION COMPLETE. REVIEW PARAMETERS BELOW.

He made a quick scan of said parameters before allowing himself to feel pleased.

Ejecting the vial, he reached for an eyedropper on the counter. “Finished.”

Thorne pulled the blindfold down around his neck. “Just like that?”

“Your immune system will have to do the rest. We’ll need to saturate your eyes four times a day for a week or so. Your vision should start returning after, oh, six or seven days, but it will be gradual. Your body is practically engineering a new optical nerve, which doesn’t happen overnight. Now—can you be a big boy and do the drops yourself?”

Thorne frowned. “Really? You want us to come all this way just so I can stab myself in the eye?”

Sighing, the doctor dipped the dropper into the vial. “Fine. Tilt your head back and keep your eyes open wide. Three drops in each side.”

He reached forward, the clear solution bubbling up at the tip of the dropper and hovering over Thorne’s wide-open eyes.

But then Dr. Erland’s attention caught on a bruise on the inside of his wrist. He froze and twisted his hand around to examine it.

The bruise had formed around a dark red splotch, like blood puddled beneath the surface of his papery skin.

His stomach dropped.

Suddenly shaking, he inched away from Thorne and set the vial and the dropper on the counter.

Thorne lowered his chin. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Dr. Erland murmured as he reached for a drawer and pulled out a face mask, snapping it on over his mouth and nose. “Just … double-checking something.”

He grabbed a sterilizer wash and wiped down the vial and the eyedropper, then wrapped them up in a cloth. He was feeling weak already, but that was no doubt all in his head.

Even with the mutated disease, victims still survived anywhere from twenty-four to forty-eight hours after showing symptoms. At least.

But he was an old man. And he’d been overexerting himself all day, with the walk through the escape tunnels and rushing through the palace. His immune system may already be strained.

He glanced at Thorne, who had begun to whistle to himself.

“I need to take a blood sample.”

Thorne groaned. “Please don’t tell me something got messed up.”

“No. Just taking precautions. Your arm, please.”

Thorne didn’t look happy about it, but he rolled up his sleeve nevertheless. It was a quick test, one Dr. Erland had done a thousand times—drawing the blood and running it through the diagnostic module to check for letumosis-carrying pathogens—yet he found himself distracted by the warmth of his breaths as they caught inside the face mask.

Thorne. And—if he returned with the others—Cinder.

And his Crescent Moon.

He gripped the side of the counter to keep his hands from shaking. Why hadn’t he told her the truth before? He’d assumed they