Chapter Five

 

Lake sat down at her work table and picked up a dried, gray-white shell of the Mercenaria clam that was harvested in the sandy bottoms of the bay. It had taken some time to realize that the microbiotics needed the natural inhibitor of the clam shell to help slow the rate of absorption into the blood stream, thus reducing the chance of bursting capillaries.

When she’d first been brought to Syon’s house, she’d almost fainted from relief to find that she wouldn’t be staying inside the actual camps. Instead, Syon brought her to a building that had her believing in the stories about pre-Global War mansions. She was still under heavy Elder patrol, but at least she wasn’t behind the camp’s barbed-wire.

Despite herself, despite her best efforts and every logical thought, selfish hope bloomed in her chest. If she were outside the camp, then maybe, maybe Hudson could get to her. Maybe, if he still wanted to, if he thought she was worth it, he would come for her.

When she’d first been brought down to Syon’s cellar and ordered to make him the microbiotics, she’d racked her brain for ways to sabotage the drug. She may’ve given up actively fighting for the Rebellion when it went deep underground, but she was still a Rebel at heart. There was no way she’d willingly give the microbiotics to Syon. His power would know no bounds.

But during her experiments, she realized she wouldn't have to fake the process. The warm water clams, long believed to have aphrodisiac properties, didn't work the same way the clams she’d harvested from Black Creek did.

She’d long suspected Hudson’s land was abnormally rich with nutrients, making his crops the most bountiful in the area. She suspected the same nutrients from Black Creek were responsible for making the clams’ shells different also. She fingered the fine white powder and remembered the first time Hudson had taken her to dig for the river bottom dwellers.

“You have to dig deep. Really get your hands in there,” he said with a smile on his face and a warm light in his eyes.

Lake scrunched up her nose at the hole Hudson had dug in the thick dark mud along the bank of the river in answer.

He laughed, dark eyes doing that warming-thing to her skin whenever he looked at her. “What? Are you afraid of a little dirt?”

“A little?” she shrieked. “I'm knee deep in swamp, and you expect me to put my arm into a puddle of blackish water and fish around for some slimy things? I think we’re way past a little dirt.”

“Hey, you're the one who wanted clams. Besides, these are special clams—Black Creek clams. You know the legend, right? One taste of these clams can bring an old maid to a climax.”

Lake sighed, then rolled her eyes. He looked so good with the sun at his back, lighting the droplets left in his hair by a recent swim, that she ended up laughing. The sound still felt odd to her, but Hudson had a way of making her forget herself. “Just a taste? Really?”

“Well, maybe a bit more than that.” His eyes twinkled, letting her know exactly what “a bit more” meant.

She let her gaze travel down his chest as they both knelt in the deep river mud. His shirt was still wet, and in the warmth of the summer sun, she could see the tan of his skin.

His heated gaze must’ve mirrored hers, and she felt her nipples harden in response under her pale, thin work shirt. His eyes grew dark and lips turned wicked. She knew that look. Knew it intimately.

“No.” She shook her head. “Don't even think about it.”

She tried to get away, but it was too late. He had her on her back; her head nestled in a soft pillow of grass. She swatted at his hand. “Hudson Black Creek, we are not doing what you are thinking of doing, in the middle of a river bank, in the middle of the day.”

He wedged his hips between her legs. A shiver spread up her spine as his hand moved her skirt out of the way to cup her bottom.

“I tell you, it's those damn clams. They do it to me every time.”

 

“So how do you like your work quarters? Is there anything else that you need?”

Lake tried not to be startled by Syon who’d walked up behind her while she was sitting daydreaming at her lab table. But it was hard. There was something about him that made her heart sink, gut tighten, palms go sweaty.

She turned and carefully tried to school her features into something that resembled pleasant. The man, whose home she’d been placed in, and who ruled his household like a spider maintaining his web, stood in front of her, waiting for an answer.

She hadn't been here very long. Two weeks perhaps? It seemed like an eternity. But if she'd learned anything, it was this man was not one to be crossed. His household walked on eggshells, and she walked around with a jagged stone in her belly.

“Yes, it's fine. Thank you.”

She’d never forget that this man with his dark eyes, and pale, white skin, with his balding head, and slightly lanky frame was responsible for killing Hudson's entire household. And she was sure he would kill more before he met his end.

“You’re crying,” he said.

Lake hadn’t realized and quickly wiped her cheeks. “Bitter-sweet memories is all.”

Syon nodded. “Your husband? Hudson was his name?”

Hudson. His name spoken aloud had the power to grip her heart and cause her breath to flee from her lungs. Hudson, are you alive?

Syon pulled out a stool, but didn't sit. She guessed he liked the advantage his height had over her sitting figure. “How are the experiments going?”

He asked so politely, had treated her with nothing but dignity and respect since she'd been brought here. Didn't matter, her throat constricted as if still caught in the leather noose they used when bringing her here.

“Fine...I...I think I'm getting close.” She hated how weak she sounded, but appeasing her captor was a hard-won lesson she'd learned during the months she’d spent in prison as a Rebel spy.

Syon bent over and examined the white powder she had crushed in her mortar. She watched his fingers—long and bony, nails—short and clean, pick up the powder and rub it between his forefinger and thumb. He brought it up to his nose and inhaled.

“What is the scent? I can't quite place it?”

“Mercenaria.”

“Mercenaria? I thought that was poisonous?” His forehead melted into a roadmap of deep lines. “Interesting ingredient for a medicine of healing.”

Lake shook her head. When covering up deception, it was best to stick as close to the truth as possible. And this truth, this truth didn't matter. She shook her head. “That's the clams’ secretions, not the shell. You have to be careful when separating the two.”

Syon looked up at her, his lips pressing into a thin, red line. “And you've been careful?”

“Very.”

He looked around the cellar that had been converted into a makeshift lab. She tried to imagine what he saw. Concrete walls, a small slit window, a few long tables, a couple glass cylinders, and an ancient Bunsen burner. As far as prison cells went, it was comfortable enough. She was fed regularly and allowed to sleep upstairs in a spare room. Mostly, she was left alone to do what Syon had requested of her. To make the microbiotics.

“So you should have everything you need. There should be no problem.”

“No. No problem.”

For the first time since she’d been here, he was dressed in his official Elder brown robe and hood. If she never saw that robe again, it would be worth spending the rest of her life locked up in this cellar.

“Because I'm sensing a problem. We know that you've discovered the formula for the microbiotics. You have everything a scientist would need.” His palm went out and gestured toward the tables filled with drying herbs and rare fruits. “And yet, no microbiotics.”

Lake swallowed, and then folded her hands in her lap to hide any tell-tale shake.

“I'm concerned.” He reached for her hair and twirled one strand around a thin finger. “And I think you should be concerned also. You'll find, Lake, that I have remarkable patience, and I'm a very reasonable person to work for. It pains me. It really does, to correct those who don't take pride in their work. I take pride in my work. I teach those boys, living in those tents outside, to be men. I expect everyone in my household to take the same amount of pride.”

He released her hair and gently encircled her throat. “There's a new recruit that needs my attention. I can trust you to work diligently while I'm gone?”

He squeezed.

Lake squirmed in her chair as the pressure steadily increased. The stool toppled underneath her as she kicked out.

“I can trust you to do your work, right?”

He was so strong. With one hand, he lifted her up. Her fingers clawed at his.

“I can't hear you?”

“Yes,” she croaked.

He released her, and she fell to the floor.

“I'm so glad that we had this conversation. Now I can go out to the training camp with a clear conscience.”

Lake lay there long after his footsteps up the stairs had faded, and placed a protective hand over her belly. Hudson, where are you? Are you coming?