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“Damn you!” I shouted at the skies. “Damn you for watching and never helping! I curse you! I curse you for ever creating man, only to let him destroy the most innocent among us, over and over and over again!”

Movement drew my attention and I whipped around, certain it was Judge Frankenstein and that he had heard my blasphemy. I lifted my chin, defiant.

But the figure blacker than the night was not my benefactor. I lunged toward him. It was the charnel house man. I would kill him myself, keeping Victor’s secrets, avenging William, and freeing Justine!

Some animal instinct halted my violent intent, and I froze.

It was not the weasel of a man I had encountered in Ingolstadt.

I dreaded another flash of lightning for what it might reveal of the person in the trees watching me. He stood at least seven feet tall, a hulking and unnatural creature. Fear drained my fury.

“What are you?” I demanded. I had seen it before. Was it a manifestation of my guilt? My own wickedness, formed by my mind and projected outward? Was it the charnel house man, swollen to devilish proportions by his evil?

And then, in a flash of purest white, the monster was revealed. This was no creature of my mind’s making. No creature of God’s making, either. Neither my mind nor God’s could have conceived of such a perversion of humanity.

I screamed and turned to run. My foot caught on a root and I tripped, hitting my head on a rock.

Blackness claimed me.

I SMILED AS I awoke, lured from my depths of slumber by the scent I found most comforting in the world: ink and book leather and the dust of parchment.

“Victor?” I asked, starting to sit up.

It was a mistake. Pain roiled through me. My stomach swam, and I froze, lest moving again create a new wash of agony.

Why did my head hurt so? What had—

William.

Justine.

And the monster.

“Victor?” I whispered.

“I am here.”

I heard a heavy tome close. I peeled my eyes open to see Victor looming over me, concern narrowing his features and drawing his eyebrows close to each other. “We keep reuniting over sickbeds. I think it is a tradition best ended now.”

“When did you—”

“Two nights ago. We have had this conversation already.” He took up my wrist to feel my pulse, then placed the back of his hand against my cheek. “Three times.”

I lifted my hand to touch my forehead, but he caught it and held it in his own. “You have a large bruise and a small cut, which, fortunately, I was able to stitch up myself. It should be easy to hide beneath your hair. What possessed you to go running in the woods in the midst of a tempest?”

“Justine.” I tried again to sit up. Victor sighed in exasperation, but propped pillows behind me and helped me get upright. When I had been still long enough for the pain to subside into manageable amounts again, I pushed on. “Ernest thinks her guilty, and your father will not intervene! But now you are here.” I closed my eyes in relief.

Victor was here. He would fix this.

“The evidence is quite damning.” But I could hear in his voice that he did not think her guilty.

“It is entirely circumstantial! She spent the night in a stable to take refuge from the storm.”

“And the necklace?”

I looked up at him without a smil

e. “You and I both know how easy it is to place an object in a convenient location to shift blame onto an innocent party.”