Blackness greeted me as I woke from slumber. This darkness was the absence of light, not the suffocating umbral blanket from before. It felt less cold, somehow thinner, meager in comparison; a shadow of what had nearly unmade me.

  I surfaced slowly, each layer of consciousness returning with agonizing sluggishness. My awareness flickered to life, a tiny flame struggling, guttering, then finding purchase in reality.

  Pain came first. My head throbbed to the rhythm of Julien bashing me against the wall. My throat, raw from the shrieking flight from the sun.

  And my goddamn hand. The memory of the sun unmaking my flesh with its golden rays flashed behind my eyes, vivid and terrible. I flinched, even in the dark where the sun couldn’t find me. The sun couldn’t find me, but what about the broken hatch? I recalled the light spilling through, liquid gold and deadly. Where had it gone? Was it the next night?

  I inhaled deeply, smelling the air. Smoke, acrid and thick, still clung to me but weaker now, stale and musty. The stench of my own cooked flesh dominated, revolting enough to make my stomach clench. A cacophony of other scents struck, each one crowding in, distinct yet overwhelming.

  I still couldn't control my senses, but this was different. Overwhelming, not obliterating. Progress, however slight.

  The Thirst reasserted itself, pressing its dominance with renewed ferocity. It hadn't lessened. If anything, the impairment of my senses gave it free rein. A gnawing void pulsed deep in my chest, emanating from my unbeating heart.

  Blood, it whispered, a low growl echoing in my skull. Hunt. The vessel is near.

  Lying still, I soaked it all in, agreeing in sentiment but needing to figure out a way. Where was I? Not the cabin’s root cellar. The air felt drier, and the scents I detected came from my body and clothing, nothing more. The scents beyond me were different, reminding me of the battlefield medical tents, but cleaner. Ether, or alcohol? Steel and clean linen? Underneath all that, a familiar smell, earthy and right. A horse? Yes. There had been a horse near here, the scent of hay and sweat lingering.

  Prey animal, warm blood, the Instinct whispered, the voice of a predator stalking prey.

  I tried to push myself up, but my body was leaden, completely unresponsive. Panic rose in me, a powder flash lancing through the haze, sudden and sharp. Powerlessness again, like Julien’s grasp. Where were my weapons? My saber? The Colt, lost in the mud. Vulnerable and helpless, I tried not to despair. To no avail.

  A nearby sound interrupted my thoughts. A soft rhythm, footsteps on loam, then the scrape of metal on metal, the bolt of a lock or gate. The air changed momentarily, a draft of forest scents, pine and damp earth, then calm again. A metal latch clicked, then the sound of a curtain drawing on a metal rod, rings scraping along the rail.

  A low murmur, interested, intrigued. The sound was soft and mid-timbre. A woman, perhaps. Definitely a person. My eyes fluttered open, only partially obeying my desperate commands. Blurry shapes swam in the darkness, then a single beam of light pierced the gloom. I tried to jump away, not wanting to be burned again. That wound, still fresh, ached at the thought with phantom agony. I spasmed, trying to move, desperate to get away from the light. My body twitched a few times. Nothing.

  “Hmmm,” came a voice. Definitely a woman, and close.

  The light settled on me, not searing but nearly blinding. A bullseye lantern aimed directly at me obscured everything behind it, turning her into a silhouette. I tried to cover my eyes, but my arm didn’t respond. Not even a tremble. I could barely feel my limbs. Dust motes danced in the air between us, caught in the beam like tiny stars.

  She stood there, silently observing for several moments. Finally, she set the lantern down, allowing the light to reflect off the wooden walls, ceiling, and the heavy canvas curtain. This was some sort of light-proofed wagon, I reckoned. But why?

  Her face was pale, framed by dark hair pulled back in a neat bun. Spectacles glinted, reflected the light, hiding her eyes from me. I caught a brief glance at my reflection in her spectacles. Bound by leather straps, bolted to wooden planks. What was this?

  Her gaze bored through me, measuring and dissecting. Intense, curious observation. No fear, only analysis. I had expected revulsion, but she seemed sincerely interested. That terrified me more than anything. She wore the garb of a high-class lady, with the addition of an apron you might see in a butcher shop. Mud splattered and smeared on her clothes, smudges of black soot. Her demeanor was standoffish and reserved, but her inquisitive nature shone through clearly, undeniable in the tilt of her head.

  The snarling in my mind came again, pushing me with primal force. Blood. Drain her. It drove me, and I tried to comply, much to my shame. My head lurched forward, ever so slightly, but that was all I could muster. I tried to croak out some words of defiance, but only a gasp escaped, pathetic and weak.

  “Fascinating,” she murmured, stepping closer. The accent was a mixture, perhaps New England and something else that added sophistication to the words. Her hand, steady and sure, touched my burned arm, prodding gently. I tried to hiss at her, but nothing came out. She leaned closer, examining my hand and wrist critically.

  “Cellular regeneration at a significantly faster rate than hypothesized, even from the site of the solar-induced necrosis. Utterly remarkable.” She was a comely woman, but her calm, expressionless face resembled a painting more than a living, breathing person.

  I tried to speak again, to demand answers, but only managed a choking gasp. The face leaned closer, examining my face, noting the movement of my eyes; a naturalist studying a pinned butterfly. I caught the scent of chemicals again, something pungent. Formaldehyde. From this angle, her spectacles magnified her eyes, quick and quizzical. The blue reminded me of a frozen pond, devoid of warmth. Those eyes weren’t looking at me, the man, Silas Hatcher. They were examining a specimen.

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  “Easy now, sir,” she said, though the tone was far from soothing. “Shock is setting in, and we can’t have you going feral now. I have so much to observe. I can learn so much from you, but I need you to survive long enough for that.”

  Something pricked my arm. I only vaguely felt it. Cold spread outward, tingling in my veins as it traveled through my body, ultimately numbing me. Every bit of progress I’d gained trying to push through the lethargy, pitifully little, was washed away like sand before a tide.

  Fight it, the Instinct pushed, thrashing against the chemical cage. I tried to summon willpower to build a wall against the chemical fog, but it wouldn’t hold. The drug was too fast, dissolving my discipline before I could lock the gates.

  I couldn’t feel my body anymore. Mercifully, I couldn’t feel my hand. The numbness closed in, a tunnel, dimming my vision. Those keen blue eyes burned into my mind before blackness reclaimed me, dragging me down into the dark.

  As before, I came back to myself, layer by layer. First, the cold beneath me. Smooth, unyielding. Metal. A table or a butcher’s slab. The air was cool, but it wasn’t the dampness of the root cellar. Something colder, the kind that settles into old stone and never leaves. The smells reminded me of before, from the woman, but there were more. Dried herbs I couldn’t name, dust, earth, a metallic tang that made me think of blood and steel. I focused on the muffled sounds: a wagon clattering somewhere, and a distant voice.

  Sensation came back to my limbs, slow and agonizing. First, my hand screamed, the fire of each nerve reconnecting to my consciousness, a jolt up my arm. The hard metal table was cold beneath me, and thick leather straps bound me more times than I could easily count. Ominous dread crept through me. I was more trapped than I’d been in the cellar, hiding from the sun. She had me helpless, under her control.

  I’d been helpless before. Libby Prison, January of ‘64. Six weeks starving in that Richmond hell, watching strong men break under the pressure of captivity. But my old friend Sergeant Williams had leaned close one frozen night and whispered words I’d never forgotten: “A captive’s just locked up. A prisoner’s given up.”

  I hadn’t given up then. I wouldn’t now.

  Fear cleared the fog from my brain faster than before. She had drugged and transported me somewhere for some unknowable purpose. Her eagerness to learn threatened my existence. I needed to find a way out.

  My eyes snapped open. Dim light emanated from a lamp mounted on the wall, its flame steady behind smudged glass. High on that same wall, a window draped with thick curtains occluded the light. It was daytime. The sun was a presence; a heavy, oppressive gravity pressing down on the roof, a hostile force trying to crush me through the stone. How long had I been unconscious? How many more times had she dosed me?

  The dim light was enough to see my new prison. A stone cellar, lined with obsessively organized shelves. Books, glass jars filled with murky liquids, unknowable specimens covered one wall; on another hung charts and diagrams depicting strange, profane anatomies drawn and stitched together, writing around the margins in a cramped, meticulous hand. A thick wooden workbench littered with burners, tools, and other devices belonging in a hospital. A small forge, cold but well stocked with coal and strange metal ingots, occupied one corner.

  This place wasn’t a jail cell or a cellar at all. It was the laboratory of a heretic. And I was strapped down on the central table, waiting for the vivisectionist to return.

  Footfalls on wooden stairs echoed behind me. No door or exit in my field of view. She had to be approaching. Clever, knowing that a prisoner should be denied knowledge of their captor’s comings and goings. Her shoes fell more softly than her boots before, but my senses were on high alert, tracking every sound.

  Circling me, she came into view. Despite the dim lighting, I saw her clearly. She looked younger than her voice suggested, probably a little younger than my thirty eight years. She wore a severe, practical dress, black, made for function over fashion. Her hair remained pinned back, out of the way. Her spectacles perched on her nose, exaggerating her intelligent blue eyes, piercing and missing nothing. She came closer, and I noted her fingers were stained with ink or some chemical substance, but otherwise she’d cleaned away the mud and grime of the road. She carried a small tray. On it, a syringe and several vials, their contents unknown.

  She stopped beside the table, set the tray down beside me with a soft clink. She observed me dispassionately, neither hostile nor benevolent. Detached, analyzing everything she observed. Her gaze lingered on my burned hand, studying it as before. She was tracking the micro-tremors of my recovery, counting the seconds between my shallow, unnecessary breaths.

  She began checking the straps binding me, but I interrupted.

  “Wh...who are you?” I managed to rasp out, my voice barely a whisper. The razors that had taken up residence in my throat continued their work, shredding with every wheeze.

  “Dr. Adelaide Foss,” she replied immediately, not showing the least bit of surprise that I’d spoken. She picked up the syringe, then looked back at me. “I am a physician, formerly of Zurich by way of Massachusetts, and currently of Cinder Creek,” she said, the last bit with undisguised disdain. She didn’t offer more. She didn’t care for my obvious distress.

  “What did you do to me?” I croaked, pulling at the straps to no avail. I didn’t want her to inject me again, but I’d have no choice in the matter.

  “Administered a sedative, of course,” she said, tapping the syringe with a practiced hand. “In addition, I supplemented the course to manage the initial agonal phase of the transformation. Crude, but quite effective. I am limited in my ability to treat you, based on the resources at hand.” Her matter-of-fact manner of describing my horrifying death and continued existence was similar to how other doctors discussed the common cold.

  "You've seen this before," I said. It wasn't a question.

  “Captain Hatcher, based on observational data and preliminary test results, you exhibit all the classic manifestations: accelerated cellular regenerative properties, severe photosensitivity resulting in necrosis of the flesh, pronounced development of the canine teeth, in addition to the presence of foreign sanguinary markers in your system,” she said in a clipped, professional tone. She paused, letting it set in.

  “The presence of foreign what?” I asked, filled with anticipation, half knowing what she was talking about. Transformation? I didn’t know what she meant. She had to know more, but the woman was miserly with her words.

  She smiled a small, thin smile. That smile held no warmth, only the satisfaction of a scientist whose controversial theories had just been proven true. Horrifyingly, spectacularly true. She was the cat that ate the canary.

  “Markers, Captain,” she said, reiterating the word coolly. Her voice lowered, laced with chilling intensity. “Of the Affliction. You have the blood curse. You are the first specimen I’ve been able to study in a quasi-living state.”

  She flicked the syringe, the needle glinting in the dim lantern light.

  “You, sir, are the proof I’ve been seeking,” she said, her eyes boring into me. She looked on the verge of mania but held it in check. She leaned closer, her lips next to my ear, my head unable to move.

  Her voice, barely above a whisper, was filled with delight, determination, and something darker that reminded me of myself.

  “And now, you are my patient.”