“Leave that for me to decide.” My lips brushed his jawline, tasting him, drowning in him.
The laboratory door rattled. I jerked at the unexpected sound. The hinges groaned, and mottled sunlight poured in as the door swung open.
Montgomery’s hold tightened on my waist. I could have gotten off the table, could have acted like we there for the injection, but it wouldn’t have made a difference. Father had already seen enough.
He came in and closed the door behind him.
Thirty-seven
FATHER APPROACHED SLOWLY, HIS footsteps echoing in the silent room. Suddenly the laboratory looked menacing again. It was all sharpened metal and glass and ink diagrams of horrible things. Montgomery’s fingers twisted in the folds of my skirt.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Father said. His black eyes gleamed like the glass specimen jars. “Just like a dog. You tell it not to do something, and that’s just what it does.”
I curled my fingers around the edge of the table, angry enough to rip it in two.
“I warned you, Montgomery,” Father said coldly.
Montgomery didn’t answer. His fist tightened in my skirt.
“He’s not yours to command,” I snapped. Montgomery shot me a wary glance, but I ignored him. “You’ve treated him no better than a slave.”
“I treated him like a son.”
“You used him. He was just a boy when you dragged him here.”
Father’s eyes were burning coals. He paced along the wall of cabinets, peering at me like one of the specimens. “Stay out of this, Juliet. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“I started the kiss.”
“You’re a female. You can’t control yourself.”
“The hell I can’t.” I pushed off the table, swinging my fist. He dodged it easily and boxed his elbow against my ear. Montgomery moved like a flash, throwing my father against the wall of cabinets. A pane shattered and glass rained to the floor. I screamed and covered my head. Somewhere in the chaos, Father pulled a pistol from his jacket. He aimed the barrel at Montgomery’s chest. Montgomery started forward anyway.
He was going to take a bullet for me.
“Stop!” I yelled.
He froze. His breath came as quickly as my own. Father dabbed his mouth with the back of his shirt cuff. It came away spotted with blood. He waved the pistol at Montgomery. “Over there,” he said, his voice creepily calm. “Against the wall.”
Slowly, Montgomery stepped back. Once he was far enough away not to lunge, Father grabbed my wrist and dragged me to the operating table. “You’ve proven my point,” he said. “Do you know how they control a hysterical woman in the sanatoriums?”
“Let me go!” I yelled. I slammed my shoulder against him, but he was solid for such a thin man, and I was still weak from my fever.
He dug the pistol’s barrel into the back of my head. “They lock her down before she can harm herself.” His free hand worked the buckle of the closest manacle. He threaded my wrist through and tightened the buckle, so hard the metal bit into my skin. Something clicked into place. A lock.
“I’ll be back to deal with you,” he told me. I lunged for him, but the manacle kept me chained to the table.
“Don’t leave her here alone,” Montgomery entreated. “The beasts got in once. If they come again, she won’t be able to escape.”
Father grabbed Montgomery’s collar and dug the gun against his temple. “I told you,” he said, only a tremor of anger in his voice as he dragged Montgomery across the cold floor. “They’re harmless.”
Mad. He was mad.
“Let him go!” I yelled. I tore at the manacle, but it held strong.
They vanished into the rectangle of morning sunlight.
If he was mad enough to think the beasts harmless, he was mad enough to take Montgomery outside and shoot him. I twisted my wrist. Clawed at the manacle. It didn’t give. I studied the manacle and found a small black opening on the side for a key.
I might be able to pick the lock. If I just had . . . yes, the surgical tools. I fell to the floor and reached as far as my shackled wrist would let me. Scalpels, forceps, needles—they littered the floor out of reach. I slid out my toe as far as I could, but I was still inches away.
“Blast!” I yelled. I jerked on the manacle. The chain clattered—the sound of my imprisonment.
I crawled to the desk. My fingertips just grazed the brass drawer handle. I cursed and tugged on the chain. It was twisted. I scrambled to my feet and spun around, twisting the chain the other direction. A straightened chain might only give me an extra half an inch, but that was all I needed.
I reached again for the drawer, and my middle finger barely wrapped around the handle. I pulled it open, hoping for a letter opener or a pen. My stomach sank. Files—dozens of them, meticulously labeled, packed tightly. The laboratory was filled with countless sharp objects, but all I could reach was a cabinet filled with useless paper.
I slammed my fist on the files. Montgomery might already have a bullet in his skull. Maybe Father would kill me, too. Then again, maybe not. There were worse things on the island than dying.
The sweat on my hand smeared the ink on one of the files. I wiped my hand on my skirt and looked at the word.
Balthasar.
I slid out the file. Inside were pages of notes in tight, controlled handwriting. Sketches. Medical diagrams. Notes on behavior, appetite, origin of the bear and dog he’d been made from. Careful recordings of the exact procedure Father had done five years ago.
I read it quickly. Five-fingered, it said. Passable appearance. Still unable to replicate Ajax’s procedure. Suitable for household service.