"Mila, look at me." I hate to interrupt her, especially since it seems like she is in desperate need of talking to someone about all of this. But her breath is impossibly erratic, and I'm scared she'll have a panic attack. Her eyes settle on mine. "None of this is your fault. That includes her escape. Even if she had been evaluated by a psychiatrist, if she wanted out, she was getting out. Sveta is a very smart woman. None of this is on you," I repeat, trying to make her understand.
I let my hands roam up and down her back in a soothing motion. "There’s no way for me to even begin to comprehend the kind of guilt you feel, but I think I can understand on some level. Mind if I tell you a story?" She nods against my chest. "When I was young, maybe ten, my father was posted in a fly-in-only town. It was a scary place to be.” The winters were insanely long, and there was only one small grocery store. It was a dark place where assistance and resources were limited. I didn’t feel the effects of that, but I saw it in those around me, and it made me ache that I couldn’t do something to help those who needed it. “There were barely any other kids, and we were cattle among wolf shifters. Tensions ran high. But there was this one family that lived on the edge of town. They had a boy about my age and my little sister, and I played with him.”
Even now, I regret not noticing the signs more clearly. I was so naïve, and I let my need for a friend cloud my understanding of what my friend was going through.
“He was quiet and kind, but I knew something wasn't right. It turns out he was being neglected at home. I found out years later, but I always felt like I could have done more for him. Because I had known something was off. I regret not stepping in to help him more. But the fact of the matter is, I was a kid. I didn't understand just what was off about his home life. I didn't have the words of the life experience. It's the same thing for you. You were sixteen when all this happened. You were old enough to understand, but you were too young to have the words and the maturity to fully process what it all meant. You also had to cope with the fact that, for a full decade and a half, your mother was good to you. You couldn't have spoken up, Mila. You didn't know what was going on. And now, as an adult, you can't step in and be the one taking the hits for the things she does. That would be like blaming a victim for getting killed. You can't live with the pressure of this. It will destroy you. I made the assumption that you should be on this mission with me before I knew you were her daughter. Now, I know that you're the expert on Sveta, but if this is too hard for you to witness, that's okay. You can still be helpful at a distance. If you want, I'll bring you back to FUCNA. There's absolutely no shame in that. No one will judge you."
"But I will. I was completely powerless the last time. This time, I have the power and the knowledge to make a difference. I get what you're trying to say, but I have to fix it, T. I have to. I don't know how to exist, how to keep going if I don't. I'm not saying it'll be easy or that I won't need another amazing hug again, but I want to do this. I need to do this."
I study her beautiful face, searching for something, anything that would change her mind.
There's nothing.
Mila is determined to see this through, and nothing I could say is going to change that. If this were any other agent, I would pull them. She's too close to it, but I understand her need for closure.
"Okay, so then let's get her back," I say, running my fingers through her long red strands. “Let's put her back where she belongs. But you need to know that, once this is all said and done, there is no way that I'm letting you carry this on your own. If you need a hug, to vent, something to punch, just ask. We're in this together."
Mila is a strong, capable, intelligent woman. She wouldn't be a FUC agent and a FUCNA instructor if she weren't. Maybe that's why she calls to something deep inside me.
I know that being this attracted to her, too invested in her well-being, is the last thing I should be doing, but I can't help myself.
11
Mila
The drive to Lake Murray doesn't take very long. T-Bone is flooring it. Or, at least, what is probably his version of putting the pedal to the metal. He is going all of ten kilometers over the speed limit.
I have to admit that being in his arms was one of the most comforting places I have ever been. It's not just that he smells fantastic or that his huge muscular arms made me feel safe. It's that he has so much empathy. It's kind of the last thing I expected from a big hulking dude. He's nothing like a bull; he's more like a gentle giant.
My hand is tucked in his on the center console, his thumb drawing circles across mine. I don't want to think about just how right it feels to get any sort of affection for T-Bone.
Not because he isn't my type at all.
Not even because he is an agent from another agency.
But because I shouldn't be entertaining any sort of happy thoughts. I don't deserve them, for one. But mostly, it's not the time to be having soft, gushy feelings about a man.
Not while I'm on a mission.
I'm probably getting confused because it's the first time I've let myself be vulnerable in a very long time. If ever. There is no way I am falling for T-Bone in these insane circumstances.
I keep my eyes on the changing scenery, trying to focus my attention there. The small dirt paths of Lake Murray have been paved, no doubt a sign that this area has become more popular as a vacation spot. My parents loved it so much here; they almost bought this particular property in my first year of high school. It was only a year before my mother was caught.
In the mid-morning sunlight, the lake house looms above us. Most people feel safer during the day when the monsters are hidden away in the shadows, but this is terrifying.
The house's white exterior looks pristine and well maintained. It makes sense. It wouldn't have been in the house that the horrors happened but rather on the property itself. While my dad and I slept peacefully in our beds.
There is a small blue car parked by the cabin, doors and trunk wide open. There are a few dirt-covered boxes piled beside it. That can mean only one thing.
T-Bone is already pushing the speed dial button on his phone and requesting all available backup at our location, including an ambulance to help us deal with my mother’s case of the Foamies.
"She's here," I whisper as soon as the car rolls to a stop. My hand is going for the handle while I brace myself from the sun’s rays.
"Mila, hold on, we can't just barge in. Let me call this in." T-Bone puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me while his other hand goes to his phone, his fingers flying over the screen. "We need a plan."
"A plan? She's there, and we grab her and bring her back. There's your plan."
I rush out of the car, making my way toward the car, covering my face with my hood. The sun burns my skin, makes my eyes water, but I push through.
"Mila?" My mom walks around the corner of the house. Her clothes, which cover most of her body, are covered in dirt. Her graying hair is trying to escape the baseball cap she has on her head to shield her from the harsh sun. Her face is ashen, and there's a thin layer of sweat across her skin. She looks emaciated, white residue stuck to the corner of her mouth. She is definitely sick. It’s definitely the Foamies, but there’s something else, too. If I had to put money on it, I’d say she was injecting that blood we found in her cell into her body. She probably gave herself blood poisoning.
My mother blinks rapidly, her brow furrowed as if she isn't too sure if she's seeing me. She drops the very dirty, very small box from her hands and takes a few steps forward. "You should be in bed, Spooky. It's way past your bedtime."
"Mom?" Her words aren't making sense. I shouldn't be surprised, but the tone of her voice is one I've heard so many times I can't help but feel pulled in by it.
"Go find your father and ask him to read you another bedtime story to get you to sleep. I have to go to work." She kneels down to pick up the box, but when I don't move, she narrows her eyes. "Are you really my Mila?" Her eyes are lined in red, another clear sign that she ha
s the Foamies.
"She's hallucinating, " T-Bone warns, treading carefully toward me. "Take a step back."
I shake my head at him and gesture for him to go. Reluctantly, T-Bone backs away, heading toward the back of the property. Oscar Trow could very well be around.
A random memory pops into my head as I watch my mother struggling to look at me. It was my sixth birthday, and no one from school came to my birthday party because it was at night. I was devastated, but Mom brought me to a drive-in, and we watched two old horror movies. She had held me all through the double feature, not because I was scared, rather because she knew I needed to be held. Comforted. That's who my mother was.
Not this sickly raving lunatic standing in front of me. Not the woman who had been described during the lengthy trials.
"Mom." I can't even keep the pleading out of my voice. "You need to come with me. You're in danger."
She looks around, looking for a threat, her eyes so like mine darting around.
"No, no. Oscar is my friend. He won't hurt me."
"Mom, the danger is inside of you. You're sick. You have the Foamies."
"That's not possible." Her hand goes to her forehead, checking her temperature. "I don't have a fever."
The glassiness of her eyes and the trembling of her hands betray her. She is definitely running high.
"Mom, I think that you might have given yourself blood poisoning. Did you experiment on yourself while you were in prison?”
“It had to be done,” she answers haughtily, giving me a glimpse of the woman she was before.
“You need iron-fortified blood. Come with me, and I'll give you the medicine you need to get better."
My heart feels heavy as I speak, dragging me way down. Because I can give her all of the iron-fortified blood, and I can give her all of the antibiotics in the world, but there is no fixing her homicidal streak.
"Mila, you don't understand. We are so close to a breakthrough. We'll be able to fix all of the diseases in the world. People won't have to age. The answer is in the blood."
"Okay. That's fine. You can keep doing your work if you just come with me."
It's a lie, but I'm banking on her being gone enough to not clue in. I’ve heard all of her reasoning before. It didn’t make sense to me then and sure won’t now.
"No." She screams like a small child in the throes of a temper tantrum. "I can't stop. I'm so close. I just need a few more samples. A few more test subjects."
"Mom, you hurt people because you’re sick. You need to follow me so we can give you help."
Her eyes darken, and she narrows them in a way that has me taking a step back.
"There are always sacrifices to be made in the name of science," she growls at me, flipping on a dime.
I flinch, inhaling sharply at her cold, senseless words. Standing before me for the first time is Sveta Markov, notorious serial killer. In all her sociopathic glory. She no longer bears any resemblance to the woman who raised me. I don't know her at all. I knew that the second she was arrested, but seeing her like this is an entirely different thing.
Even when I was speaking with her, researching my master's thesis, she wasn't this cold. At least then, she was apologetic. There is no trace of that now. I don't know if it's the fever talking or if she was putting on a show all those years ago.
It's not like she doesn't know how to act. To pretend. To manipulate. She did it for years while she was playing wife and mother.
"I think the time for civility is over." T-Bone's voice is pitched low, only for my benefit.
"One second," I beg. I take a step toward my mother, willing her to listen to me. There is nothing of my mother in her eyes, but still, I can’t give up. I have to believe that I can get to her. “Mom, please come with me.”
And just like that, her eyes go impossibly colder again.
“You know what they called me?” Mom’s voice is high pitched, so high it makes my teeth chatter. “The Bloody Doctor, a nod to Elizabeth Bathory, the Bloody Countess. That’s what they called me. Like I was some kind of crazed lunatic who killed all these young virgins to bathe in their blood. That’s not even historically accurate.”
I open my mouth to argue with her, but a shadow comes up from behind my mother.
And that’s when I see it.
A gun pointed directly to my chest.
12
Mila
It doesn’t take me very long to figure out who the armed man is. It’s Oscar Trow. I put my hands up defensively and look straight into his eyes as he comes into the light.
He’s in his early forties, with a bit of a gut, a wide red nose, and a balding head of pale yellow hair. There’s an ashen quality to his skin, and I’d bet anything he has also taken to injecting foreign blood into his veins.
“You’re the daughter.” His voice is raspy with surprise, the gun still aimed at me. His eyes move to T-Bone, and his face breaks out in a disturbing smile. “Do you know that story? The one about Elizabeth Bathory?”
I swallow loudly, my heart racing in my chest. Having a weapon pointed at you is never the right time for a history lesson.
With my hands up, I can’t reach the gun I have strapped to my hip. And it’s not like I want to whip out my weapon at this precise moment. I don’t intend to shoot anyone. I also have very little field training. After I was done with the basic six months training at FUCNA, I went directly to the lab. It’s not like my aim would be true, and I don't actually remember how to deal with this situation. No one is trained to come face to face with my mother.
It doesn't help that Mom takes a step toward Oscar. She's on his side. The man pointing a weapon at her only child.
T-Bone looks as cool as a cucumber, his face calm, though his shoulders are set wide and at the ready as he rounds the corner, right beside me. I really hope he has a weapon hiding in those ugly cargo shorts of his.
"The Bloody Countess." T nods, engaging Oscar. "Isn't she that countess who killed over six hundred people, all her female servants? Wasn't she one of Bram Stoker's inspirations for Dracula?"
"Do you actually think that it happened that way?" my mother asks, the hysterical edge back to her voice. She hates the comparison between her and Elizabeth Bathory.
In fact, the entire time she was on trial, she kept interjecting into the court proceedings, raving that both she and the countess were being vilified. She was held in contempt of court and then eventually flat-out removed from the room during her own trial.
"Honestly?" T-Bone answers. “I've never spent much time thinking about the validity of it."
"Turns out," Oscar said, "she was a very rich, very powerful countess in Hungary. She was also a widow in the early 1600s with all of this land and money. Her accuser was none other than her cousin, a political enemy. It was all a lie. She didn't kill six hundred people, and she didn't bathe in their blood. It was all done to vilify her."
"Has Sveta been maligned?" T asks, still completely collected.
"Of course." Oscar's hands are shaking slightly, no doubt a symptom of blood poisoning. He’s been injecting himself too. "Sveta is a genius. She's found the answer to aging and disease in the blood of the young. If we can harness it, pull it from healthy donors, then we can eradicate all illnesses. We could all live forever."
"So, she didn't kill hundreds of people?"
I can't help my sharp gasp at T-Bone's question. It's a dangerous thing to ask a deranged man who is pointing a gun at me.
Although now the gun is aimed between T-Bone and me. I don't know if it's because Oscar has lost focus or if it's because he doesn't know which one of us to shoot first.
"She did. But that's the price to pay for brilliance. She shouldn't be locked up. She should be celebrated."
"Interesting," T-Bone volleys back. "And so were these test subjects willing participants?"
"No, but—"
"There wasn't enough blood from the volunteers," my mother interrupts. “I needed it all. I needed to drain them dry
to get all of the life force in the blood. The formula wouldn't work without it."
Apparently, when she was in the very beginning of her mission to cure all diseases, she did get a few volunteers to donate blood. A couple of them testified at the trial. But it soon wasn't enough. It didn't take long for science and magic to get confused in my brilliant mother's head.
"Do you know how they killed her?" Mom asks. "The Countess was bricked into a single room of her castle, where she died. That's what they were doing to me... Locking me away in a single room, just like the Countess. The walls were closing in on me, Mila. I was going to suffocate."
Oscar shuffles closer to Mom and whispers something into her ear. His eyes go from me to T-Bone and back again. Mom's face falls, and she shakes her head.
"Mila," she says, "is it true that you want to put me back in jail?"
"I want to give you the help you need, Mom. You need medicine."
"So it's true then..." she whispers.
Oscar hands her the gun. "You have to do it, Sveta," he says to her. "Think of the blood we could collect. Shifter blood. From a young bat. I bet this is exactly what we need to finish the formula."
If I thought it hurt when my mother was arrested, that was nothing compared to this.
She takes the gun and points it directly at me.
My mother's hands aren't even shaking as she aims a weapon at her only child.
I let out a breath, accepting this realization. I always wondered if I would have grown up to be one of her victims. I guess I have my answer.
Bat and the Bone Page 6