Paragon - Book I

Bodies

Serfigue is limp against the cords when she enters the room, his knees dipped in front of his bound ankles and arms taut with the weight of his body. Allayria closes the door with a firm snap, and then pulls the deadlock across it.

She wills herself to stand in front of him, and with an almost steady hand she pushes his head up.

The blood has dried into cracked, red-orange streaks on the lower half of his face and his eyes begin to blink open with the pressure on his forehead. His head dips back again when she lets go, but then Serfigue manages to hold it up, his gaze focusing and unfocusing as it lands on her.

She says his name, trying to muster some steel to it.

"Where's Brezkin?" he asks, his voice thick. "Where did he run off to?"

"He's with the city guards," she answers. "They know."

"Stupid girl," he murmurs, head drooping down again. "Find him or I'll have you fired. You'll wish you were scrubbing pots..."

Nausea sweeps over her and she swallows it back.

"Serfigue," she whispers, peering down into his face.

"Ashbury," he sighs, "it's at Florringham... Florringham..."

Her hand starts to shake as she holds it up, palm facing him.

"Invigorate," she tries, but it doesn't work. Of course it doesn't work.

"Serfigue," she tries once more, "what is the Cerebrum Program?"

His fingers twitch, and she holds up a hand again, questing, but drops it quickly, cold sweat breaking out on her neck and shivering down her spine. It's a tangle of crumpling, fractured pictures in there, memories disintegrating into mush. Meaningless, indistinct mush.

She has this crazy urge to laugh, this demented, helpless urge to just start laughing, but she's afraid if she does, she won't be able to stop and then they'll come in, ask what's wrong, and see. See how thoroughly she's broken him.

Oh god, she broke him.

There's nothing in there any more, is there?

She looks up. The pages in that black book, the chart showing where the Skilling flowed, where in the brain they tried to clamp on metal and rust, seem to flood her vision, and there's the notes, the feverish notes about that Cerebrum Program, and its bloody yield rate.

It is a tiny book of horrors. It had been Serfigue and Brezkin's insurance.

The metal is in her hand and molding into a long, thin knife when she glances down at it. She reaches out, feeling for the thumping heart in his chest, pressing a thumb over it.

She hesitates, staring at his bent head, feeling the heart pump, and then moves quickly, pushing thought out of her head. He doesn't make any noise as the knife slides in, and she holds both hands tightly around the hilt, leaning into the push with her body weight.

Death creeps in with a quiet flutter, hitching in the slow breathing and smothering it in one fell swoop. Her hands drop quickly as it spreads, leaving the body more slumped and motionless than ever before.

She cuts it down from the bindings, unable to bring herself to touch the wrists or ankles as it slides to the floor.

It's done, a voice seems to say in her head, firm and clear. Now cleanup.

Meg looks up when she walks out of the room, and then down to the knife, hanging limply in Allayria's hand.

Allayria clears her throat.