Bane of My Existence

Chapter 27

Carissa gazed down at her latest subject. She was sedated, eyes shut peacefully, her dark hair falling in rivulets off the operating table. Her skin was pale under the harsh white light hanging over them, as soft as a porcelain doll.  She looked sweet, innocent. . . what else had Victor called her?

Benevolent.

Carissa's grip tightened around the scalpel. Memories of last night flooded through her, of Victor's frantic phone call demanding the passcode to her lab.

She had to step away from her dinner with her maid of honour. She had found a quiet, secluded corner in the restaurant. "My lab is off limits, even to you, Victor." She couldn't risk anybody messing with her work. It was too delicate for the mundane to set eyes on it.

"Your sister is dying! Can you, for once in your bloody life, show a little compassion??"

She moved the phone from her ear and stared up at the ceiling. There was that fucking word again.

Compassion.

That cursed word followed her wherever she went. What did the world know of compassion? It showed her none. Why should she waste her time on a frivolous notion when she could focus on more important things?

Once she found some semblance of calm, she returned the phone to her ear. "Don't use that tone with me, Victor. I only have one sample of Serum Four left. I'm not going to waste it on her. I'm saving it to make another Mutant. She won't survive the transformation."

"It won't," he gritted. His voice was sharp, unyielding. "She's stronger than you think she is."

The anger that flushed through her last night still hadn't faded. It gripped her fiercely, irrevocably, and controlled the hand that held the scalpel.

She never gave Victor the code. He had Echo break into her lab--something she hadn't considered possible--and take the Serum without her permission. She had come into the office this morning to find the solid steel door standing between her work and the feeble minded fools surrounding her had been ripped open. The temperature controlled cabinet the Serum sat in was empty.

Screaming in frustration, she stabbed the scalpel into Juliette's shoulder. She didn't flinch. She might as well be dead, her reaction was so minimal. Her chest rose and fell, the only indication that she was alive. 

How could Victor do this to her? How dare he waste her life's work to save her sister's life?

Carissa ripped the scalpel out then hammered it down into her chest, again and again. Over and over. The wounds healed faster than she could make them. Blood stained her gloves and lab coat. She didn't care. She hated the monstrosity in front of her. Wished she was awake to feel the pain she felt. To know what her very existence did to her. 

Why was Victor so obsessed with her? What made Kinsey so special? She was small, delicate. Weak. Carissa was the one who made a name for herself. She was the one who had to claw her way to the top, who had to shove everyone and anyone out of her way to be noticed. That was what Victor loved most about her. That was why he was marrying her.

The most infuriating part? The Serum worked. Not only had Juliette survived the transformation, she also showed no signs of Turning. She hadn't become a mindless drone like Echo or an irrational beast like some of her other subjects. She was the accumulation of all of Carissa's failures and successes.

She was perfect.

And she had no idea what made her different. How was it that men hardened by war, with bodies trained to endure the cruelest of environments, couldn't do what Juliette had done?

Carissa would find out. For the sake of her career--for the sake of humanity--she would tear Juliette apart piece by piece until she found out what made her different.

◇ ◇ ◇

Damon's mind was foggy.

The bright blurry light above him was disorienting, making it hard to get his bearings. A cold iron chain collar choked the breath out of him and drained him of his strength.

Considering the events before he was rendered unconscious, it was safe to assume he was being held captive. Once his senses adjusted to the light, it was easier for him to deduce just how much trouble he had gotten himself in to.

A thick layer of glass stood between him and his freedom. It must be thick because the creature--his eyes hadn't fully adjusted to see what exactly stood in the cell opposite him--had done quite a number on its glass enclosure and its unforgiving talons hadn't come close to breaking it.

He knew he needed to get up, move around, find a way out of here--but his body was too heavy.

Iron had that effect on Night Folk. Next to Demenirium, iron was the best thing to mess with the magic--even with the infinitesimal amounts inside of shifters. Of all the times to be stuck in his wolf form, however, this time he was grateful for it. The moment Bane discovered his identity, the news would find its way to his pack then chaos would ensue. Many would follow Kalem in his absence. Some would try to take Kalem's place, while others would leave the pack altogether. The Corporation would take advantage and sweep shifter bodies off the streets.

Not happening.

No needle, cattle prod, or scalpel would make him shift.

Not long after he woke up, they started coming in. "Researchers," they had called themselves, but "torturers" was more accurate, with the beating they gave him.

During their first visit, they had taken his blood, some samples of fur, and a claw. The second time they came in, he took his time to memorize their faces. There were two of them, a man and a woman, nothing particularly memorable about them, honestly, aside from being the ones who took pleasure in harming him. He'd remember their faces, though. Once he was out of here, he had a special treat for them.

They left with a clipping of his ear and a tooth.

Damon regained enough strength to pace--as far as the chain would let him, anyway--and let his rage build. He was going to need it. Once he was out, there was no going back. He needed every ounce of hate and rage to steer him and urge him on, to let the wild side of him take over and tear apart every motherfucker he found.

They did this to his brother, who hadn't even turned twenty yet. To his packmates, some much younger than Carter, others far older than Damon. There was no mercy in his heart for any of them. When he was free, this place would burn to ashes at his feet.

First thing's first: getting out of his cell.