in the room; he’s on the radio introducing some Beethoven.
I take hold of the doorknob, concentrate again to ensure I stay invisible, and slowly and gently open the door far enough to slip inside the room.
Beethoven starts, nice and slow. I close the door quietly.
The room is bright. Skylights line the ceiling. At the far end of the room are two figures sitting at a bench. They are bent over, working. A man and a young woman. The man has his back to me. He’s narrow, thin, wearing a white lab coat, and although I can’t see his head because he’s bent over I know it’s him: Wallend.
The woman looks toward me and the door. She must have noticed a movement. She says something to Wallend and he turns as I approach him and he looks right through me.
The room is a laboratory, full of equipment and jars and tubes and stuff that I’ve no idea about. I daren’t use electricity in here. I take the Fairborn and see that Wallend and the girl are not bent over a desk but a body laid out on a bench. The body of a man and on his neck is a tattoo in large letters: B 1.0. His chest is cut open, his heart exposed.
I go to Wallend’s assistant and neither me nor the Fairborn hesitate. Her blood flows over my hand and the assistant’s body slips silently to the floor. I allow myself to become visible.
Wallend stares at me. He has a scalpel in his hand. I hold up the Fairborn and say, “Care to try your luck?”
Wallend steps back between the tables and turns, and I go round fast to follow him and I’m on him in three strides. I grab his arm and pull hard but he squirms round behind a desk. My hand slides down to his wrist and I slam his hand onto the wooden desktop and pin it to the surface with the Fairborn. Wallend’s shaking, not resisting, and I use the scalpel to fix his other hand in place. He still hasn’t said a word: no scream of pain, no cry for help.
Beethoven is playing, a nice tune—very soothing, gentle, not that funereal stuff.
I say to Wallend, “I have to tell you that I’ll probably kill you whether you help me or not. But the longer you live the bigger the chances are that you’ll carry on living. When the rest of the Alliance gets here they’ll want you alive. Want to put you on trial and stuff like that.”
He doesn’t say anything, just shakes.
“I really can’t be bothered with all that, though. I mean, as far as I’m concerned, you’re guilty of murder. Lots of it.”
Now he speaks. “And you’re not?”
“We’re talking about you today. You’re guilty. The question is: can you stop me from executing you?”
“Wh-what?”
“I need you to show me how the Hunters go invisible.”
He shakes his head.
I take another scalpel from the end of the bench and go to Wallend. I chop his right thumb off. Now Wallend screams.
“Painful, isn’t it?” I say. “How’s your healing?”
He’s shaking again, worse now. Blood running across the desktop.
“You’re not good at healing. What are you good at, Wallend? Just chopping people up?”
He looks at me, terrified, then turns away and is sick on the floor.
“You ever get sick when you’re cutting up other people, Wallend?”
He doesn’t reply, just shakes, which I think is a no.
“So, where are the witch’s bottles that you use to make the Hunters invisible? That’s how you do it, isn’t it? With bottles?”
He nods.
“So?” I ask. “Or are you going to let me take the other thumb?” I smile at him.
He stares. “They’ll kill you. Slowly, if I have anything—”
I take his other thumb off and he makes a strange choking cry.
“You want to move to ears and nose next?” I ask. “Or eyes?”
“In the next room! In the next room!”
And I glance over to where he’s looking, to another small metal door between the benches.
I pull the Fairborn out of Wallend’s hand and then the scalpel, and push him to the door. He’s weak and quivering but he goes.
“Open it.” I could use Mercury’s pin but I need to see if he’ll do what I say.
“I can’t. My hands . . .” he says, holding them out and staring as if what’s happened to them is only now registering.
I open the door. Wallend begins to collapse—it’s definitely only hitting him now that he isn’t ever going to be able