Bedlam
Page 2
“So you’re just going to fuck me, then leave?” Linx glares at his back.
“This was a mistake.” Alex grits his teeth. “It won’t happen again.”
“You’ve been saying that for weeks.” Linx slips out of bed, getting between him and the door. “She’s not coming back, Alex. We’ve been over this a hundred times.” She places her hands on his sculpted chest. “Your wife’s gone.”
Alex shoves her away, spotting a thick, white glob of his ejaculate oozing out of her, trickling down her inner thigh. His stomach turns.
“Clean yourself up.” He pushes past her. “I don’t want to see you again.”
On his way down the stairs of the cottage Linx shares with her father, Alex reflects on the time that’s passed since Silver’s departure. This foolishness with Linx started as a simple handjob. How it ever got this far, he’s not quite sure, though he’s certain the booze was significantly responsible.
At first, the evolution of the handjob to a blowjob had seemed harmless enough. It created less mess, and he convinced himself that he was just being practical. Things didn’t start to get out of hand until she took her top off and coaxed him to feel her naked breasts. On that occasion, his cock was bobbing between her legs and he came all over her crotch. As he did, she rubbed herself on him, letting the shaft of his cock slide down her drenched crease.
The next time, she hadn’t worn panties. He jerked himself off while she lifted the hem of her skirt and showed him her core, lowering herself till the tip of his cock bumped against her bare flesh.
She was wet.
He came on her needy cunt, spraying his load all over her sex, pushing the head of his cock between her labia to deposit his cream in her heat. The temptation to fuck her was almost too much, and this last and final time, he hadn’t been able to resist.
There’s been no word from Silver, and the silence torments him. She could’ve been captured by the militia, killed by highwaymen, or she may well be in London playing house with Ria, the beautiful brunette who stole her heart within days of their meeting.
For the sake of his own sanity—and his nagging conscience—he chooses to believe the latter.
Reaching the bottom of the staircase, he flings open the front door and comes face to face with Luka, almost walking headlong into his sandy-haired love rival.
“Jesus christ.” He recoils, taking a moment to recover. “What’re you doing here?”
Luka scrutinizes Alex’s appearance, his belt unbuckled and his shirt off. As if that weren’t already suspicious enough, he stinks like sex.
“I might ask you that.” Luka’s jaw tightens. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Why?” Alex tucks his shirt under his arm and cinches up his belt. “What do you want? It’s late.”
“I know where she is.” Luka’s expression stays sour, his green eyes full of disdain.
“What? Who?” Alex pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, too tired to make the obvious mental leap.
“Silver.” Luka grinds his teeth. “Your pregnant wife.”
“So do I.” Alex returns his animosity in equal measure. “She’s in London, screwing her Russian whore.”
“No, she’s not.”
Luka’s voice is etched with pain, and Alex scours his face, noticing the redness in his eyes for the first time: he’s been crying.
Panic spreads through Alex’s core and he flaps his jaw, unable to articulate himself. Beneath the anger and the resentment, and all the bitter words exchanged between them, he never imagined there would be any finality to Silver’s leaving. Ria was a diversion, that’s all. Linx was … retaliation; stupidity; selfishness; an overreaction to his jealousy. He’s yearned for their reconciliation, but now the look on Luka’s face …
“Is she alive?” Alex can barely speak.
Offering him no comfort, Luka hands him an envelope. “See for yourself.”
Alex casts his eyes over the return address: Doctor Elena Lavergne, Bishopsgate Insane Asylum.
Silver’s in the nuthouse.
Five months
earlier …
CHAPTER ONE
Bishopsgate Insane Asylum
The Square Mile
London, Northside, EC2
The Kingdom of Great Britain, 2349 CE
A woman in black stiletto heels mounts a set of wide stone steps leading up to a pair of heavy oak doors with wrought iron, B-shaped handles. The polished top step is inlayed with the word Bishopsgate in twenty-four carat gold.
On either side of the doors, two large white pillars are covered with spirals of powder blue roses, and walled gardens sprawl to the left and right of the imposing red brick building, which was erected on the site of the first Bethlehem Hospital—a fact proudly announced by a blue metal plaque above the front doors.
Known by most as Bethlem—or, less fondly, as Bedlam—the old hospital was London’s first lunatic asylum, and the current building honors the history of the land it was built on by providing comprehensive mental healthcare to Northsiders.
The woman in the stilettos makes her way across the tiled lobby. The walls here are decorated with pictures celebrating the hospital’s successes and advancements in the field of mental health. Above the awards and the newspaper clippings, the hospital’s name and slogan stand proud:
Bishopsgate Insane Asylum.
For the care and control of the feeble-minded.
Stopping briefly at the front desk to collect any letters and memos that have accumulated for her, the woman raps her glossy red fingernails on the oak counter, contemplating how long it’ll be before she needs to make an appointment for her next manicure. In the mirror behind her, she checks her overall appearance, from stockings to jacket, making sure no underwear lines are visible beneath her skirt.
Black to match her stilettos, the mid-thigh-length garment clings to her derrière, accentuating her womanly curves. A white blouse and black jacket complete the outfit, a small silver brooch fixed to one of her lapels.
A phoenix.
She adjusts the dainty brooch, accepts a handful of letters and internal paperwork from the receptionist, then carries on up the staircase to the right of the lobby, following signs to the female ward.
Her medium-length black hair is parted deep at the side and curled into free-flowing finger waves that bounce on her shoulders, the lighter side tucked behind her ear. It frames her heart-shaped face, drawing attention to her elegant jawline and full crimson lips.
Creases beside her emerald eyes and at the corners of her mouth betray a woman who’s approaching fifty, but doing so gracefully, and with the considerable aid of certain viral enhancements in her blood, responsible for reducing the effects of aging and stalling its inevitable encroachment.
Without slowing her pace, she flicks through the small bundle of envelopes in her hands, not at first hearing her name when it’s called.
“Doctor Lavergne,” a male voice repeats, louder on the second try. “We’ve got a new one I need you to sign off on.”
Doctor Elena Lavergne checks her watch; she can spare a few minutes.
“What is it this time?” She tucks her mail under her arm and straightens the wide cuffs of her blouse, twisting her monogrammed gold cufflinks so that they’re perfectly aligned. “Depression? Attempted suicide? Or something a little more exciting?”
“A foreigner.” The man—a clean-shaven young medical doctor in a long white coat—leads Elena into a brightly lit examination room. “I’ve already given her a full medical work-up, but I need you to sign her admission paperwork before I can do anything more.”
Used to having many of her patients come to her off the streets—any tramps and vagabonds considered too mentally infirm to be sent to the workhouse—Elena’s pleasantly surprised by the appearance of the woman lying prone on the hospital bed in front of her.
She’s clean.
She’s well-dressed.
She’s beautiful.
A white button-up shirt is rolled up to her elbows, a waistcoat fixed over it, her hands resting limply by her sides. Elena scoops up one small but strong hand, scrutinizing the short fingernails. Feeling something rough on the woman’s palm, she turns the hand over, baring a nasty, ragged scar.
She traces her fingertips over it, her interest then drawn to another, far more suspicious scar on the woman’s inner wrist.
“That’s not what it looks like,” the male doctor reads Elena’s mind, offering her an x-ray film of the foreigner’s wrist.
Elena holds the film up to the light, squinting at a small rectangular object lodged under the woman’s skin. “What is it?”
“A microchip, it looks to me.” The doctor readies a tray of medical equipment, including a scalpel. “Want me to remove it?”
Elena nods, handing him back the film, continuing her inspection. “Is there anything else I ought to be aware of?”
“Only this.” The man peels open one of the woman’s eyes, revealing her bright violet irises. “Black market virus.” He releases the eyelid. “And she’s pregnant.” He pauses for effect. “With a Delta child.”
Elena flashes him a look of confusion. “You’re sure?”
The doctor nods. “Should I inform Doctor Montgomery, ma’am?”
“Not yet,” Elena mumbles absently, turning her attention to the woman’s belly.
The white shirt has ridden up a few inches, exposing the soft flesh of the woman’s abdomen, the tail end of another scar peeking out beneath.
Elena reaches for the hem of the shirt and tugs the fabric up to the underside of the woman’s breasts, exposing the extent of the scarring.
“What happened to you?” she muses, dragging her fingers along the length of the scar, wondering what could’ve caused it.
The woman’s skin is warm to the touch, her breathing shallow but regular. Elena presses a hand flat against her ribcage and runs it downward, counting ribs, feeling the muscular contours of her body.
“Is she hurt?”
The doctor shakes his head. “Sedated.” He consults the woman’s chart. “The Metropolitan Police were called by some border guards who caught her trying to enter the Northside illegally.”
Elena holds her hand out for the chart. “Any personals?”
The doctor fetches a small plastic bucket filled with everything he removed from the woman when she was brought in: some military dogtags; a hunting knife; a wedding ring; and a Chimera talon.
“Where do you want ‘em all?”
“I’ll take them to my office.” Elena signs the chart, officially accepting this brand new curiosity into her care. “I’d like to learn more about her.”
She returns her eyes to the bed, bringing a hand to the unconscious female’s face, moving aside some strands of long blonde hair that have escaped from her ponytail.
Aware that her touch is lingering, she pulls back, collecting herself. “Complete her citizenship,” she orders the doctor brusquely. “When she’s stabilized, send her to me.”
The doctor nods, strapping the woman’s ankles and wrists to the bed with padded leather restraints before preparing a needle.
On her way out, Elena helps herself to the plastic bucket containing the confiscated personals, pausing in the doorway to ask, “What’s her name?”
“Ella Cross, ma’am.” He sticks the needle in the crook of the woman’s right elbow, injecting her with a bluish liquid. “The Met said she’s a mettlesome little wench.”
“Jolly good.” Elena takes one last look at her new patient, watching her muscles tense and flex against the restraints, the injection working already. “I could use a new project.”
CHAPTER TWO
Elena fidgets anxiously in her leather wingback chair, gripping and releasing the arms, expelling her tension on the taut, squeaky fabric. She can feel that her heart rate’s elevated, though she’s not sure why. She’s welcomed hundreds of women into this institution, and there’s no reason why this patient should be any different.
Upon hearing footsteps in the hallway outside her office, she forces herself to relax, clasping her hands together in her lap. When a knock sounds and the door opens, the woman from the examination room is thrust into the room by an orderly.
Now wearing standard Bishopsgate inmate attire—blue scrubs with a white long-sleeve t-shirt underneath—her appearance is markedly different, her feminine curves hidden by the baggy cotton, her wrists bound by handcuffs.
“Ella Cross to see you, ma’am,” the orderly announces.
“Silver,” the foreigner grumbles at him. “Are you deaf? Or just chronically stupid? I told you to call me Silver.”
“Right you are, mate.” The orderly chuckles. “And you can call me Prince Poppycock.”
“Oh, yeah?” Silver glowers at him. “How about ‘asshole’ instead? As in ‘fuck you, asshole’.”
The orderly raises his arm, as if to backhand her, but he never gets to swing.
“Don’t!” Elena barks at him from her chair. “Not unless you want a formal reprimand, you violent little shit.”
The ferocity of her words sends the orderly scurrying back into the hall, and has Silver intrigued. Once alone, the two women stare at one another in silence, Silver fixated on—and fascinated by—the demure-looking woman with the stern mouth who’s dwarfed by the leather chair she’s sitting so primly in.
Eventually, “Who the fuck are you?”
“My name is Doctor Elena Lavergne.” Elena pushes herself up from her chair and crosses the room. “I run the female ward here at Bishopsgate.”
A doctor? Silver gives herself a once over, studying her unusual clothing, picking at her scrub top and wiggling her slippered feet.
“So this is a hospital?”
“Of sorts,” Elena answers vaguely.
Dissatisfied with that response, Silver’s eyes flit around the room, skimming over several framed educational certificates on the wall, one of which identifies Elena as a clinical psychiatrist specializing in cognitive neuropsychiatry.
She scowls. “Am I in a nuthouse?”
“Only temporarily,” Elena assures her, standing just out of arm’s reach. “Until your citizenship documents arrive.”
“Great.” Silver keeps the scowl. “And how long’s that going to take?”
Elena shrugs. “About a fortnight.”
“Speak English.”
“Two weeks,” Elena translates herself, never having encountered someone from such a distant continent before.
“And will I be handcuffed the whole time?” Silver holds up her wrists.
Elena pulls a small key from her jacket pocket. “Not if you promise to behave.”
Silver raises an eyebrow. “I’m not promising you shit.”
“Your choice.” Elena pockets the key.
Unfazed, Silver maintains eye contact and steps forward, moving calmly and deliberately into Elena’s personal space.
Not sure if Silver’s going to get physical with her, Elena stands her ground and controls her breathing, fighting the urge to back away. Determined not to show any weakness, she searches Silver’s eyes for malice or aggression, but finds her bold new patient infuriatingly difficult to read.
As Silver reaches a hand toward her face, fingertips grazing her cheek, Elena’s breathing becomes heavy. She half closes her eyes, keeping perfectly still, not knowing if she’s about to be kissed or choked.
Neither happens.
Instead, Silver plucks a bobby pin from her hair.
Confused—as well as marginally, strangely, unnervingly disappointed—Elena feels Silver’s hand slip away. She looks down at the pin, paying close attention as Silver bends it out and pulls off the plastic
grip, using that end of it to release the handcuffs.
It’s over in under a minute, and when she’s done, Silver offers the bent pin back to the mystified doctor, who reflexively holds her hand out to receive it.
“Thanks, Doc.” With a self-satisfied smile, Silver dumps the pin and handcuffs into Elena’s upturned palm, pats her padded shoulder, then strides over to the sofa and flops down into it. “Now, what did you want to talk to me about?”
Momentarily dumbstruck, and faintly shaken, it takes Elena a few seconds to gather herself. Abandoning the useless handcuffs and bobby pin on a side table, she retreats to her leather chair.
“Since you’re going to be staying with us a while, it seems only right that I should get to know you.” She picks Silver’s medical file off the coffee table and examines her x-rays, pulling out one of the films for a better look.
“I’m not really in the mood for chitchat.” Silver checks her wrist for an invisible watch, scratching at a fresh bandage there.
Paying no note to that, Elena selects another film and gives it the same scrutiny. “Internally, you’re quite the mess.”
“Not everywhere.” Silver waggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Wanna see?” She pings the waistband of her blue scrub pants, trying to inject some levity.
Elena carries on as if deaf to the taunt, making sure Silver knows she can’t be so easily derailed. “You have a titanium ribcage, knee, a reconstructed shoulder, and scar tissue throughout.” She tucks the film back in the folder. “So you’re a soldier?”
“Nah.” Silver shakes her head. “I’m just really, really clumsy.”
Elena fishes a pair military dogtags out of the plastic bucket of personals by her feet. “Hunter General,” she reads from the tag. “Ella ‘Silver’ Cross, almost thirty-five years old.”
“Congratulations.” Silver fidgets with her bare wrist, rubbing the spot where her father’s dogtags are usually tied. “You can read and count.”
Elena drops the tags back into the bucket and picks up Silver’s hunting knife, tracing her fingers over the inlayed silver Ella Cross symbol on the black hilt.