Shorefall (The Founders Trilogy #2) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,72

said the man in black. “But I am not a liar. Maybe it’s not your fault. Maybe you, like so many of this city, believe that all the world should be your servant because you haven’t ever learned what it’s like to be powerless.”

Moretti broke out in a sweat. There was a curious pressure building in his mind, like a bubble at the fore of his brain. “I won’t sign your damned contract,” he gasped. “Get out. Get out before…before I have someone come in an—”

“I wonder—would you like to know what it’s like to be truly helpless, Armand? To have all choices ripped away from you?”

“I…I…”

“Listen to me,” said the man. His voice was soft, yet it seemed to echo in the depths of Moretti’s bones. “Listen to me now, and be still.”

A long silence.

Moretti sat frozen in his chair.

The time lantern ticked and ticked.

“Now—stand up, Armand,” said the man in black.

Moretti watched himself stand up. He wasn’t sure why he was standing—in fact, he was barely aware of himself actually moving at all. It was like the command was written on some underside of his very brain, and he couldn’t ignore it.

“Turn around,” suggested the man in black.

He did so.

“Look at that cabinet there, up against the wall.”

Moretti tried to resist. He furrowed his brow, trying to focus on the man, on this room, but his words were so rich, so smooth, so…What was the word? Mellifluous? As he pondered this, he realized he was now looking at the cabinet up against the wall, which was dark green with gold inlay.

“There is a knife in the top drawer of the cabinet,” said the man in black. “You’re going to go to the cabinet, open the drawer, and look at this knife.”

A black, churning dread boiled in Moretti’s belly. He jerked slightly, but did not move.

Tick, tick, went the time lantern.

“Do it,” said the man in black.

Moretti stiffly walked to the cabinet and opened up the top drawer. Inside was a long, curved knife, with a black handle.

“You see the knife,” said the man in black. “Yes? Answer me.”

“Yes,” whispered Moretti.

“Good. Pick it up, please.”

With trembling hands, Moretti picked up the knife and brought it over to the table. The man in black watched him return, his veiled body so still and motionless Moretti briefly wondered if there was anyone under there at all.

“Now, Armand,” said the man. “I want you to take the knife in your right hand and press your left palm flat against the table.”

“Please…” whimpered Moretti.

“Now.”

Moretti did so. The table felt cold and hard to his touch.

He stared at his left hand.

The time lantern ticked and ticked.

“Look at the knife, Armand,” said the man in black. “See the knife. See how sharp it is, how strong.”

Moretti’s gaze moved to the blade in his hand, and he studied it. It did seem very strong and sharp.

“Now,” said the man in black, “you are going to take the knife, Armand—and you’re going to use it to cut off your left thumb.”

“No!” cried Moretti.

But his right hand and the knife were already moving.

“You will have to wedge the blade between your knuckles,” said the man in black.

“Stop!”

“I mean, I doubt if you’re strong enough to sever a bone…”

Moretti watched in horror as he placed the edge of the blade against the knuckle of his left thumb, right beside the webbing of his palm, and began to press.

He screamed as he began to draw the blade back and forth across his flesh. Bright-red blood came welling out of his knuckle, and he felt the movements of the blade in the bones of his hand, felt the metal sawing through the joint, felt the ligaments in his thumb snapping and rolling up within his skin, felt the nerves in his thumb suddenly