How should I know what topics would interest a psychopath? “How did you find me?”
“Aphid messengers. They discovered you a year ago then tracked you in the U.K.”
He communicated with them? Sure, I had a kind of connection with aphids, but I didn’t speak their language. “How does it work? Do you hold biweekly staff meetings with coffee, crumpets and human hearts? Then you sit back and listen in on the pitch and tone of their vibrations?”
The Drone’s smile was oily, slicking its way across the table, thick and heavy and oxygen stealing. The doctor seemed to feel it too if the labored movement of his chest was anything to go by.
“What are your real names?”
The smile dissipated. “Her bold inquisitiveness and shamelessly lifted eyes rub my patience. Yet, I feel compelled to answer. It is…curious.” His fingers traced the flat edge of a paring knife that lay next to his plate. “My name was Dr. Aiman Jabara. And my brother was Siraj Jabara.”
Was? “Why the self-dubbed titles?”
“We renounced our birth names,” the Imago said, “when we accepted our new lives under Allah’s guidance. Our titles are appropriate to our stations.”
Did they realize how insane they sounded? More so when I remembered where I’d heard those designations. The entomology text stated a drone served one purpose: fertilizing the queen. And an imago was some kind of sexually developed insect. They chose those titles because they were appropriate? A shiver chilled the sweat on my spine.
The paring knife glinted under the Drone’s fingertips. I could slip free of the doctor’s invisible chain. Lunge across the table. Use that knife to flay the skin from the Drone’s face. With the slightest pressure, the razor edge would curl away his epidermis and relieve him of his vile attractiveness. But the doctor proved he was faster than me. Would I be stupid enough to try it?
“Let me see if I understand, Drone. You and Dr. Nealy donate your prestigious qualifications to the study of aphids so your brother can control them with blood darts?”
Agitation sharpened his laughter. “You have it partially correct, yet you neglect the crux of our roles. You see, it was Dr. Nealy and I who created the nymph virus and the Imago who delivered it to your country.”
His admission slammed into me, squeezed my lungs. I was dining with the murderers of my A’s.
Clanking and shuffling stiffened the hairs on my neck. The doctor glanced over my shoulder at whatever activity was entering the hall. I followed his gaze.
Roark hung from the wall at the far end. Shredded cassock. Blood soaked curls. Head bowed.
My heart thudded, ripped open, and propelled me over the table. Eyes on the paring knife. My chair skidded. The table creaked. A dish of stacked noodles clattered to the floor. My hands came up empty.
The Drone jumped to his feet and wagged the knife.
Steel bands gripped my legs and braced me upright. I raised my arms and dropped from the doctor’s hold. My knees hit the stone floor.
He bent, reaching, leaving his femoral nerve in perfect range. I rolled to my feet, raised the hem to my thighs, and put everything I had into a Thai round kick.
The line of power from my leg whooshed past him as he side-stepped in a fluid movement, swinging his and whacking me behind the knees. I stumbled and spun away.
Across the room, Roark bucked in his restraints.
I pumped my arms. My outstretched legs ripped through my skirt and closed the distance.
An arm caught me halfway. I pivoted, twined my fingers around the doctor’s nape and pulled down. His body followed. I delivered a knee to his solar plexus. It struck brick as I rammed his gut again and again.
Then I slipped free. It was too easy. In the next second, I knew why. Vibrations plagued my insides. The aphid dam cracked.
I skidded to a stop in front of Roark. Curls clung to the dripping red gash along his hairline. Blood caked his eyes and crusted his gag. Metal shackles circled his wrists and ankles and fastened to hooks in the wall. I yanked the chains. No give. Until I found the key, all I could do was shield him.
My fingers, numb like the rest of me, found the tie on the back of his head. His gag dropped.
He blinked through matted lashes. “You’re as beautiful and fierce as ever, love.”
His lilt was hoarse, pained, but his slow smile sent my pulse singing through my veins. I traced my thumbs over his lips.
Buzzing pitched over my shoulder. I put my back against him. The aphids stalked closer. Why, when they could blur next to me in a heartbeat?
Roark jerked against my back. “You’re gonna have to run. Run, now.”
My body trembled with their hunger. Their pangs scrambled my concentration. But something else was there as well. A strange hesitancy. Did they fear me? My field of vision extended to my captors. The Drone had returned to his seat at the table, the paring knife twirling between his fingers.