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The Imago prowled beside him. The barrel of the dart gun rested on his shoulder.

I met his arrogant gaze. “Call them off.”

“Oh, I think it’s too late for that.” He reclaimed his chair next to the Drone, who was tapping the blade of his knife against the table.

Roark’s body would’ve been a comforting support against my back if his heart wasn’t thumping so wildly. “Evie, bloody listen to me.”

I rose on tiptoes. The doctor stood behind the approaching aphids, shoulders rolled back, expression vacant.

A crescent of aphids formed around us. Twenty or more orbs locked on the man at my back. I reached behind me. His cassock gaped at his abdomen, the buttons gone. I slipped my arms through the opening and traced the taut muscle around his waist.

“Bloody hell, Evie.” His body pulsated, clanking the chains. “I’m gonna ram Lucifer’s horns up your arse if ye den’ get it moving.”

My growl joined his, but I aimed it at the mutants. The warmth of his skin under my hands felt like a jolt, connecting us, strengthening me. He would live, goddammit, and I let that single thought energize every cell in my body.

The segmented feet froze midstride. A few aphids stepped back. Was I doing that? Holding them?

Their bodies shook with need. Their reverberations jumbled their want with mine.

Without turning, I ran my fingers over the shackles and the hooks within reach. “Who has the key?”

He bucked against me. “Evie, be off with ye.”

“A little busy. The key?”

A ragged sigh. “The wanker with the dart gun.”

No biggie. I felt intoxicated from the energy pouring from the aphids. Their arms stretched, jaws snapping, torsos heaving, but their feet remained glued to the floor.

The doctor walked a cautious circuit around them, studying them, his brows curled in question marks.

Holy hell, they were following my will. I could control them. To what extent? My head felt lighter even as my arms weighed down.

When the doctor stepped around the aphid wall and within kicking distance of me, I reinforced my backbone and my glare. “You said Roark wouldn’t be harmed.”

“I said he wouldn’t be harmed as long as you cooperate.” The doctor raised a pair of manacles. “Hold out your hands.”

I looked over my shoulder. A petition burned in Roark’s green depths. Fight back, it begged.

Without looking away, I spun my heel and punched with my other foot. A twist of my hip sent my leg down a straight line and met the doctor’s arm. The manacles clanked across the floor.

He lifted his eyebrows. I kicked again to sweep his leg. He rolled out of my reach, landed on his feet. The movement forced me to readjust. In that moment, he closed the distance. Through a soft flowing motion of his arms, he held me, locked me and released me. I felt like water in his hands, as if he took my energy, changed it into any form he chose then overpowered it. He was toying with me.

I made a winding strike toward his throat. He shifted his entire body out of range, yet I never saw him move. It wasn’t a discipline I knew. What was my defense if I didn’t know what I was up against? I clenched my jaw, spread my feet—weight distributed for a springing attack—and extended my jab hand just below my brow.

He flanked me. His arm came down. I lunged, but he was faster. His hand chopped my neck like a sword. A stitch burst through my head, dotted my vision. My palms slapped the floor.

Roark’s shouts swelled and ebbed. Cold metal squeezed my wrists. Then I was standing, supported by the doctor.

“To which martial art do I owe my humiliation?”

His arm around my waist tensed and he whispered at my ear, “An ancient one. But your attention is misplaced. How will you save your priest? For now Aiman and Siraj must follow through on their lesson.”

Aiman and Siraj. The Drone and the Imago. Vilely self-titled. Vainglorious, they were, slithering toward us, smirking and whispering.

The Drone raised a hand, fingers bending and unbending. The air stirred, condensed, and the aphids regained the movement of their legs.

Their hum pinched my gut. The doctor’s cold arms pinned mine and the Drone’s chin rose in victory.

I could really use Jesse’s protection right about then, but I’d found the architects of my fucked up genetics. They knew nothing of the abilities I’d gained with it.

My revenge would be intimate.

The human being is flesh and consciousness, body and soul;

his heart is an abyss which can only be filled by that which is godly.

Olivier Messiaen

Roughened stone scratched the backs of my hands. Metal rings protruded from the rock wall, holding my shackles in place.

The doctor’s eyes moved over mine as if he could read me.

“You look entirely too smug,” he said, yanking the slack from the restraints, “for someone in your position.”