To Death and Back

By Alexis Steinhauer

Nightshade is a Hybrid: a human being who has spent his entire life being taken apart and studied by engineers, anatomists, alchemists and madmen. His heart was long ago cut away to be replaced with clockwork, and his limbs with advanced mechanical prosthetics. He’s used to being passed around like cheap currency. In the eyes of the public he is a machine to be put to use, not a person with feelings or ambitions of his own.

He’s fine with this. He doesn’t, after all, have any feelings or ambitions worth mentioning, so the public is hardly at fault. He willingly drinks any poison they give him and enacts any deed too grim for them to dirty their hands with. He has no regrets and never looks to the future.

. . . That is, until he encounters Artemis Southerland, a man who singlehandedly turns his stoic life inside out, who seems determined to teach him that his own value is much greater than he’s ever supposed. Before he knows it, Nightshade finds himself presented with a choice – to be good and accept that he’s only fit for obeying orders, or to step forward and fight for Artemis and all of the values he’s never believed in before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexis Steinhauer
• Release date: Feb 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005071288

Alexis Steinhauer

Alexis Steinhauer is a cat-loving bookworm who likes tea, heavy metal music, dripping candles and dark stories. Her favorite place to be is in her nest of pillows with a book in one hand and either a cat or a laptop on her lap. She will laugh at just about any dad joke or cat meme you throw at her. Alexis is the author of Dragonfate: Dragon's Gold, Dragonfate: Dragon's Flight and Dragonfate: Dragon's Oath. She is also the author of The Felling. The Bone Harp Book 1. Her new series, Fabricated Men, is her current project and passion.

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To Death and Back

Fabricated Men, Book One

By Alexis Steinhauer

*****

Copyright © 2021 by Alexis Steinhauer

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

*****

For the ladies in my family:

Mother, who likes Vash;

Kittie, who likes Artemis;

And Lunabird, who likes being called a lady.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

About the Author

Other Titles by Alexis Steinhauer

Chapter 1

Belladonna

It was raining the night my father left in a fury. I didn’t see him go. I was too busy huddling in my personal bathroom next to the sink, sweating, feeling sick to my stomach from the poison I had ingested that morning.

It wasn’t the first time I had been poisoned, of course – in fact, it was the second time I had been poisoned in a month. My father, Augustus Inveraray, king of our little kingdom of Ainesling, was at his wit’s end trying to solve the mystery of who wanted to end my life. He had set every great mind in our kingdom to the task of tracking down the poisoner, and most of the royal staff scurried about with their heads down, terrified of drawing attention to themselves. The young man who had set my dish before me that morning had been taken to the dungeon; I was later told by my nursemaid not to ask after him anymore.

Our kingdom was small, like I said. Backwater, even, some called us, although our scientific and technological advancements were at the head of their time. We had running hot water in our bathrooms, working telephones, and even cameras that could preserve a photograph of a person on paper forever, as long as you didn’t mind standing still for ten minutes in front of it while it worked its magic. One of the door guards at our castle, a friendly fellow named Herman, had lost a leg from infection when he was younger, and now he walked confidently about upon a prosthetic leg which hissed and clicked gently when he moved.

It was not unheard-of for my father to leave the castle at night, but it was unheard-of for him to go alone, and I admit to feeling more than a little betrayed that he departed while I was so ill, instead of staying to coddle me like he usually did. My father adored me, you see: I was his late wife’s legacy, since she had died giving birth to my little brother when I was three years old, and my brother had not lasted the week.

Legends tell the story of my parents’ romance to this day. Father had been but a humble shoemaker’s apprentice, a bright young man with great ambitions and crazy ideas that rarely panned out, while Mother, Winifred Inveraray, had been a princess of the people. Everyone loved my mother: increasingly fantastical stories of her beauty and her kindness abounded across the kingdom. Mother would often come into town on her own, unescorted, on market days to roll up her sleeves and lend a hand to those who needed it. She loved playing with children, telling stories, and winning at cards – an unladylike pastime, perhaps, but one she excelled at without shame. Half the city was in love with her, and my father was no exception.

One day, on Mother’s eighteenth birthday, there was a grand ball to be held in her honor. Her gown for the occasion had been chosen, and at her suggestion, requests for accessories, shoes, earrings, bracelets, and all manner of accents to dress it up had been sent out to the people of our kingdom. My father was not the only man to submit his work, but when he slipped the gleaming glass slippers he’d designed onto the princess’ feet, they say it was love between the two of them immediately. She wore the glass slippers to her birthday, and then less than a year later she also wore them to her wedding, and my father took upon himself the name Inveraray and all the royal duties of a prince.

My father was overprotective, overbearing, and stubborn as an ox, but I loved him. I wanted him to sit by me and hold my hair back when I vomited again and again into the sink. I wanted him to hold me on his knee and read my favorite book of bedtime stories to me until I forgot how sick I felt.

Instead, Isolde, my nursemaid, came to tell me that he had left the castle in a great hurry, all alone except for his carriage driver. It was raining cats, dogs, and probably badgers too. My ears were stuffed up, but even I could hear the shrieking of the wind, the shutters rattling viciously at the window. I wanted to curl up and die. My stomach cramped terribly. My eyes were hot and swollen, my throat hurt, and I had long since ejected all the food in my belly; now I was just dry retching. I didn’t know where the poison had been. It could have been the porridge, the apple tarts, the fresh-baked rye bread, or even the cold milk I had for breakfast. I didn’t know which food to distrust, but just the thought of eating anything made my stomach heave anew.

Isolde tended me that night while I drifted in and out of miserable sleep. She was a kind woman and deserved all the trust my father placed in her, but I cried for my father anyway, and he never came.

The next morning, they didn’t try to feed me breakfast. At lunchtime they asked if I wanted food, and I shook my head vigorously. At dinnertime they prepared my favorite parsley soup for me, but I poked at it distrustfully and returned it without taking a bite. I asked for my father, and they told me he had not yet returned.

I was nine years old, old enough that people said I was childishly attached to my father. He was equally attached to me. I still kissed him goodnight every night, and insisted on eating breakfast together no matter how busy his schedule was, and he always made time for me. On sunny days the two of us could often be found picnicking in the hills or playing hide-and-seek in the garden. I wasn’t close to any of the children about my age who lived in the castle. My father was my best friend.

He’d never left before without saying goodbye.

Days went by. I didn’t know if everyone else counted them as desperately as I did: there were five days where I didn’t see my father. I had barely eaten anything, I was so afraid of every bite of food they put before me. Only at Isolde’s persistent urging could I be convinced to drink a little sweet tea with lime, or nibble the edge of a crepe or a muffin. They made all my favorite foods, cranberry cookies and roasted goose and those little star-shaped pastries with chocolate inside, but even though I eyed them longingly, I had no appetite. My stomach growled constantly. I didn’t care. I was still recovering from the poison and my stomach churned queasily if I even smelled food, let alone ate any of it.

My father returned to the castle then, after five days of me resenting his absence and making a sullen nuisance of myself. My empty belly didn’t sweeten my temper at all, but when my father came to greet me, I still hugged him fiercely and giggled when he swept me up into his arms.

He was a big, warm man, my father. I would often tease him that he could carry lesser men one under each arm, and that might only have been a slight exaggeration. He had hair that was golden-red like a bush of autumn leaves and he maintained a thick pointed beard like a gnome, above which twinkled the same brown eyes I had inherited from him. His face was craggy and square, all cheekbones and jaw. No one would call my father handsome, but he was to me.

The first thing Father said to me when he had settled me snugly back in my bed, was that he had gone away to find a way to catch whoever was poisoning me. When I asked for details, however, he poked me fondly in the nose and told me it was a secret. No amount of pouting would get him to elaborate, although he eventually promised that if he left me again, he would make sure to stop and say goodbye, at least.

Father coaxed me to eat when I didn’t want to. He worried constantly over me as weeks went by and I lost weight. I had never been a thin, willowy example of a princess: I had grown up loving hearty meals and intense exercise. Father hated that my appetite had been curbed by recent events. He teased and tickled and threatened each breakfast until I had grudgingly finished enough of my plate to satisfy him.

Gradually, I lost my fear of food and began indulging my hunger a bit more – not quite with the abandon I had used to, but with my recovery from the poison’s ill effects behind me, my nine-year-old self began to forget the awfulness of it. There had been no news about whoever poisoned me, even though it seemed that half the royal staff had been dismissed after the incident.

And then, three weeks later, it happened again.

I don’t remember much of it. I was delirious with fever, I remember having nightmares, I remember waking up to terrible chest pains. I remember them shoving a glass tube down my throat while I thrashed and wailed. I remember my father, sweating with concern, alternately pleading and threatening everyone in sight. I remember his giant hand engulfing my little one while he told me it was going to be all right.

And it was all right. Some days or weeks later, I had officially survived. I was told later that this attempt at assassination was the one that almost finished me. Either the poisoner was an amateur who failed often to kill his target, or he was just playing with us by almost, but not quite, causing my death over and over again.

By the time I was alert and able to get out of bed, my father was gone from the castle again. Isolde promised me he had said goodbye, even though I didn’t remember it. I still sulked. I spent days dreaming up angry lectures that I could throw in my father’s face when he returned. I was going to make sure he knew it didn’t count as a goodbye unless I remembered it.

Finally, my father returned for the second time. And this time he wasn’t alone.

This was the day that I met Nightshade.

Chapter 2

My father didn’t arrive to a trumpet fanfare; he snuck into the castle at night like a thief. He was quiet as he sent servants scurrying around, preparing for I didn’t know what, but the subtle activity roused me from my bed. I had never been quick to wake, but I blearily stumbled down the stairs to the entrance hall in my night shift, rubbing my eyes and yawning, eager to see my father so I could yell at him.

What I saw stopped me in my tracks.

Father stood inside the great iron-reinforced front doors, which hung open, and he was quietly directing people to hurry about their duties. He was shrouded in a thick woolen cloak of nondescript color, something so plain and anonymous that I hardly recognized him at first. And he stood with his hand clamped tightly on the shoulder of a smaller figure who also wore a heavy cloak. The smaller person stood close to Father’s side, shoulders hunched and head bowed as if they didn’t want to be seen.

Father! I exclaimed, hurrying toward them, my bare little feet pattering on the cold polished tile.

Bella. My father breathed my nickname when he turned to notice me. He stretched out a hand, palm forward. Stop right there.

I stopped, confused, curious, and just a little hurt.

How are you feeling, Bella? Father asked. His bushy red brows were beetled with concern as he looked me over.

I’m fine! Who is your friend? I looked closely at the smaller figure beside him, trying to penetrate the shadows under the hood with my eyes.

Ah. Father redoubled his grip on the figure’s slender shoulder; I saw the tips of his fingers go white with pressure. You. He addressed his companion. This is Princess Belladonna, my daughter. You already know what to do, don’t you? And with this question, he gave the person a shove toward me, sending them clattering to the ground.

Yes, clattering. The slight figure landed on hands and knees before me, and the sound they made upon hitting the tile floor was the sound of someone throwing scrap metal into a heap. I saw with a surge of pity that the person’s shoulders were trembling. I made to step toward them, but my father stopped me.

Be still, Bella, he commanded, in such a hard voice that it stung me. He usually only spoke so when I had been bad and needed a scolding.

Yet my distraction only lasted for a moment. The figure on the ground raised shaking hands and pulled his hood back from his face, and I stood speechless at the sight of him.

He was a boy a bit older than me, perhaps thirteen or fourteen. His hair was longish and had a distinct wave to it as it hung loose about his pale face. He wasn’t human – as he lowered his hands, I saw that they were made of a dark blue metal, the tips of his fingers tapered to dull points with no fingernails, the joints of his knuckles like the joints of a doll. His face and neck were not metal, but rather skin so white I thought he might never have seen the sun in his life. But his eyes were what captivated me the most.

His eyes were glass, moist and polished, and rolled with a strange blankness when he turned them on me. They didn’t lock onto me like human eyes would have – they simply drifted in my direction and came to a stop pointed at me. The left one was green and the right one was brown. When he blinked, I saw that he had normal human eyelids, but that the eyelashes on them were made of fine copper wire.

The boy was trembling. His mouth was set in a hard, thin line. He stared at me and I stared at him for several seconds that felt longer than they were, before he closed his strange eyes at last and lowered his head. Princess Belladonna, he murmured, placing his hands on the ground and bowing his back in a submissive gesture, as if he were a criminal meekly awaiting the blade.

I flicked frightened eyes toward my father.

He is yours, Father told me gently, coming around to wrap a warm, comforting arm about me. He leaned down and whispered into my ear, He will be your new food taster.

Food taster?! No, Father! My exclamation caused a couple of heads to turn in our direction. Food tasters had not been used by our family for generations. Even I had been told the stories of how inhumane it had been: most food tasters, once poisoned or sickened by the food, were immediately executed to put them out of their misery.

Bella, he sighed. Come with me. He beckoned me with his hand while at the same time going to the robotic boy and hauling him to his feet by the scruff of his neck. Keeping one firm hand around the boy’s upper arm, he took both of us upstairs and into his grand study, a beautiful room with decorative paneling on the floor and heavy green drapes at the windows, where he whispered quick instructions to a maid and then closed the door softly. He led me to a cushioned chair beside one of his immaculate bookshelves, then pushed the boy to his knees again in the middle of the floor and came to stand at my side.

I do not want it known to the public that you have a food taster, Father said soothingly. The boy will be known as your companion instead, since it is common knowledge that you have no friends of your own age. If people ask, tell them that you met him while playing and he is your new favorite playmate, all right? He will have a job as our new kitchen boy. I will tell the people more in the morning.

But-

No, he cut me off. No buts. I will tell the people that he is hired as a kitchen boy, and that I allow and approve of him being your companion. I do not expect you to be real friends with him, but you must not act afraid or hostile while people are looking, do you understand?

Father-

No-

Father-

Bella!

"He’ll die!" I screamed, kicking my legs in a tantrum. I don’t want anyone to die! Father!

Father’s eyes hardened, then gentled. "Bella. I fetched him in particular to be your food taster because he cannot die."

My eyes widened.

He is a Hybrid, Father explained patiently. He was a defective human being when he was born, so he was given away by his parents to be fixed by science. Most of his body has been modified or replaced by machinery. He is resistant to most poisons, so even if he finds poison in your food, he will be fine afterward.

My lower lip trembled as I thought of this boy suffering what I had recently suffered, just so that I would be safe. Will it hurt him?

No, sweetling. No. My father’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. So I want the boy to stay with you at all times, all right? He exists to keep you safe. I’m having Adrianna prepare the room adjacent to yours for him, so that if anything happens to you he will be able to deal with it. Do you understand? I’m trusting you to him. If you need anything – a glass of water, a lamp, a window to be closed – I want you to call him for it instead of Isolde. He will be your personal servant. If you see any suspicious people around, I want you to stay close to him.

All right, I said slowly. "But he can’t food-taste, work in the kitchens and follow me around all day, can he?"

He will manage. The glance my father sent to the boy was less than friendly. It confused me. Clearly my father did not like the boy, so why was he telling him to stay with me? Usually my father censored my relationships in the extreme; in his eyes, no one was ever good enough to be my friend.

The boy met my father’s gaze evenly, seeming unintimidated, but I could still see that his hands, folded neatly in his lap, were trembling. My heart went out to him. I hopped down out of my chair and, to my father’s obvious surprise, approached the boy.

I tried my most winning grin. Are you cold? I asked. He didn’t even look at me, but lowered his eyes and his head so I couldn’t see his face very well.

No, Princess. His voice was not quite human, either: it had a little bit of a whirring underneath it, a vibration that was barely noticeable.

What’s your name?

His gleaming fingers curled together ever so slightly. I do not have a name, Princess.

I looked at my father, appalled. He grimaced. The boy has lived in a laboratory for a long time. He was given a designation: they called him Number 713.

That’s awful! I’m not calling you that. I squatted down at the boy’s side and my father stiffened, clearly displeased, but I ignored him. What can I call you? Is there anything you want to be called?

No, Princess.

"Well, my name is Belladonna."

He flinched visibly and his eyes flew to my father. I am very sorry, he apologized hastily. No, Princess Belladonna, I have no preference as to what you call me. I will respond no matter how you address me. Please forgive my rudeness.

That’s not what I meant. If we’re going to be friends, then I want you to use my name. You can call me Belladonna. Or . . . Donna. Yes. My lips tugged upward with satisfaction. Call me Donna. It had been what my mother called me. Some of the staff still told me how my mother would smile when she said my name, but no one ever dared to call me Donna for fear of sounding overly familiar.

My father clicked his tongue disapprovingly. Bella, I told you, you don’t really need to be friends. He is not human. He is a machine who will do as he is told, nothing more.

But even if we’re not friends, it will sound more convincing if he uses my nickname, right? I glared stubbornly at my father, annoyed by his hostility toward the boy. The sight of the boy had frightened me at first, but contrarily the more my father displayed disfavor toward him, the more I wanted to keep him. So I turned back to the boy and repeated, Call me Donna.

He still kept his eyes respectfully lowered rather than look at me. Yes, Princess Donna.

Just Donna. I stuck out my tongue at the noise of protest my father made. I can’t say we’re friends yet, but I want to try, don’t you? I’ve never had a real friend before. I held out my little hand toward him, a boyish gesture expecting a handshake. I think it’s going to be fun!

The boy hesitated, his green and brown eyes flicking up to my face for the barest of moments before he looked across at my father again. I didn’t know what kind of communication they silently exchanged, but after a second he raised his hand tentatively and placed his fingertips against my palm. It was an odd gesture, not quite a handshake. It looked as if he’d read about shaking hands in a book and never tried it in real life before. I’d expected his fingers to be cold, but the metal was gently warm from having rested in his lap.

We gazed at each other for a few seconds until he looked down again, withdrawing his hand and tucking it protectively back into his cloak. I noticed with interest that he had stopped shaking.

I think the sudden tap on the door made all three of us jump. My father moved to open the door, spoke briefly with the girl on the other side, then brought in a tray with steaming mugs of tea and cocoa upon it. He set the tray upon a fancy side table, poured milk from a dainty little pitcher into a mug painted with yellow daisies, gave it a brisk stir and handed it to me.

I took it from him, only to look doubtfully down at the cream-of-brown surface of it. It was cocoa, and it smelled sweet and hot and wonderful. I wanted desperately to taste it, but I wanted more desperately not to be poisoned again.

Give it to him, instructed Father. He will make sure it’s safe for you.

I hesitated. I looked at the boy, who, unsmiling and making no move to take the mug from me, said only, Please.

I honestly didn’t know if he was asking me to give it to him or asking me not to, but I held out the mug of cocoa and he took it in both hands, his metal fingers clicking lightly against the ceramic. He raised it to his face and gave it a slow sniff, then blew the steam gently off the top of it and put his lips to the edge, taking a long sip. Both my father and I watched him intently. I felt very uncomfortable, knowing that if there was poison in the cocoa, the boy could suffer or even die right here, on his first night in the castle.

The boy handed the cocoa back to me and shook his head. I can detect nothing, Princess Donna, though if you want to be absolutely sure, you should wait at least ten minutes before drinking the rest.

Why?

He blinked once, slowly, and I thought he was confused by the question. If it is a slower-acting poison, I will not feel the effects immediately, Princess Donna.

When he is testing your meals, we will have him eat first by at least half an hour, said Father. I scowled.

You mean he’s supposed to be my friend, but he won’t even eat with me?

Bella-

That’s not fair! I hate eating alone! It was true: my father was only able to eat breakfast with me, rarely any other meal, because we were both so busy every day. I hated sitting down to a great big table all by myself, having servants circling around me, waiting and watching if I needed anything but never really sitting down to chat or exclaim over the flavor of the food with me. It was so lonely. I felt like an ant under a magnifying glass, and so I had taken more often to having my dinner sent up to my room, where only Isolde – my nursemaid and probably the only person I would call a normal non-family friend – was present to tend me.

Suddenly, a new thought occurred to me and I spun to face the boy. Do you eat every day? I mean, do you di-di-di-

Digest? My father suggested, amused by my struggles.

Yes! Do you digest food like regular people do?

The boy dipped his head. In a manner of speaking, yes, Princess Donna.

In a manner of speaking?

I . . . He appeared to hesitate. Very little of my body is flesh and blood, Princess. I can digest food like regular folk, but I do not need to eat every day for energy. I fuel my body in different ways.

Donna, I corrected him, and watched as he winced again.

I am very sorry, Princess Donna, I-

Just Donna, I interrupted with a flare of irritation. And I’m not angry with you, so stop groveling. Just call me Donna.

My father glowered. That is inappropriate, Bella. Someone of his station should observe formalities everywhere he can.

His station is unique, though! He’s my friend. I smiled and plunged my hand down under his cloak, capturing one of his hands in both my own. His hand was heavy and much larger than mine, even very large for a boy of his size. He appeared startled by my actions. I held up our hands together for my father to see. See? Friends already! Right?

The boy’s complexion seemed suddenly grey, but he was looking at my father rather than me. Your Majesty, I didn’t-

It’s getting late, said my father abruptly. Bella, off to bed with you, now. I’ll send Isolde to you shortly. If you need anything tonight, let me know. I will take care of him. He gestured sharply toward the boy, walked over to the door, and opened it expectantly.

Reluctantly, I let go of the boy and went to my father. I haven’t decided what to call him, I protested, but only mildly: it was late, and having been reminded of that fact, my eyelids were growing heavier by the second.

Decide in the morning. Goodnight, sweetling. Father pulled me in for a hug and kissed the top of my head before shooing me gently out the door.

I sulked briefly in the hallway, but wandered back to my room anyway. I decided not to wake up Isolde. I could tuck myself into bed.

I had made it halfway back to my bedroom when I remembered my untouched cocoa. My stomach rumbled as if on cue. A quick flash of annoyance with myself woke me up a bit. I turned on my heel and hurried back toward my father’s study, dodging the occasional distracted-looking servant as they walked to and fro in the subtle illumination provided by a few gas lamps on the walls.

When I approached the study, I heard a sound that gave me pause. My father was shouting – no, not shouting, exactly – he was snarling, low and furious. I still had his gentle goodnight ringing in my ears, so the contrast was quite jarring. I froze in the hallway for a second, nervous to go to the door and attract my father’s wrath, but I was also too curious not to try. I didn’t even care about my cocoa anymore; I just wanted to know what was going on.

I crept on tiptoes to the door, which was shut. I could hear my father’s muffled voice on the other side, but I couldn’t tell what he was saying. I lifted the latch on the door very carefully and gave it the slightest push, and it opened just a few silent inches on smoothly oiled hinges. When I saw what was inside, my hands flew to cover my mouth in alarm.

My father stood holding the robotic boy by his wrist. The boy’s body hung limply from my father’s raised fist, his head bent, his feet hanging so the tips of his toes barely brushed the ground. He wasn’t struggling. My father was shaking him by his wrist and spitting anger into his face.

-dare you?! I heard my father say. I warned you to behave!

I’m sorry, Your Majesty, said the boy, sounding numb of emotion.

Is that all you have to say for yourself?!

I’m sorry. I beg your forgiveness. I deeply regret my actions, Your Majesty, and I will not be foolish enough to repeat them.

My father shook him again. "That’s not good enough! If you had any idea what I’m risking by taking you in, boy . . . Now, if my daughter tries to be too familiar with you, I want you to politely push her away. None of this ‘Princess Donna’ nonsense. If she tries to touch you, you make up an excuse for her not to. Tell her you have a contagious disease that is spread through physical contact. Do not touch my daughter. Do you understand?" This last he delivered in a deadly whisper that I could barely hear. The boy nodded, a bit desperately.

I do, Your Majesty. I will not hurt the princess, I swear.

You will not lay your filthy hands on her, growled my father, as he wrapped a thick hand around the boy’s throat and turned to smash his body into the wall. The boy’s body clanked against the stone wall pitifully. He closed his eyes, his breath hissing through his teeth. He still made no move to resist.

I will not lay my filthy hands on her, Your Majesty, the boy agreed emotionlessly. I swear to you.

I couldn’t see my father’s face from where I peeked through the crack in the door. There was a short silence while my father contemplated the boy’s words; then he suddenly dropped him like a hot iron. The boy crumpled to the ground in a heap, choking on the sudden rush of air that was allowed into his body. My father watched him as, slowly, like a well-trained dog who was obedient even after being kicked, the boy gathered himself up onto his knees and bent his body into a deep bow. I realized that the boy was kissing both of my father’s boots, as if it was a thing that was expected of him.

You had better do your job and do it well, boy, said my father icily, "or I will kill you, and it won’t be as painless as you’re hoping it will be. You stay here until someone comes for you, do you understand?"

I jumped when my father moved, afraid of being discovered, but he headed for the side door to take a shortcut through the library. I breathed a sigh of relief. I realized that my feet were freezing on the tile and my knees felt weak from shock. My hands were shaking, so I clasped them together and breathed deeply several times to calm myself. I would have to ask my father tomorrow what he meant by all this.

It was a strange sound that drew my attention out of my thoughts and back to the boy in the study: it was an odd, arhythmic ticking sound, the kind I imagined a clock might emit if it was coughing. The boy was hunched over and hugging himself, hiccupping slightly while somewhere in his body a machine clicked and clacked. It took me a few seconds to realize that he was crying.

I pushed open the door before I had time to think and flew to the boy’s side, wrapping my arms around his neck. He gasped and froze, making a small noise of protest in his throat. Princess Belladonna, please let go of me, he wheezed. I felt him raise his hands as if to peel me off, but then he dropped them helplessly without touching me. You cannot touch me, Princess, he babbled desperately. "I am infected with a