Page 63 of Devoured

Helena Wolfe.

The name clicked. Dr. Alan. Varnar. They’d mentioned her in that hellish session.

Her jaw cracked as she rearranged it into something resembling a smile.

“But I couldn’t stand sharing him. Those other girls he’d bring into his office, the way he’d touch them, focus on them... That attention was supposed to be mine.”

The air around her shimmered like heat.

“So I started collecting them. Their faces, to be precise.”She dragged her fingers along her cheek, where someone else’s skin hung loose. “I’d wear their faces when I visited him. He liked the variety, you see. Different girls, different screams, but always me underneath.”

She laughed, and somewhere in her throat, glass tinkled. “Eventually he got bored and fed me to this place. But you know what? I like it here. Down here, I’m every face that matters.”

Her head tilted at an impossible angle. “I got word he likes you too.”She giggled and raised a shard of mirror. “Why don’t you give me your face? I wanna try it on.”

She was insane. Completely, utterly mad.

I had to run.

I feinted left, then dove right, trying to get past her to the stairwell, but she was already there, blocking my path with unnatural speed.

“You think the Executioner cares about you?”My own laughter echoed from her ruined mouth. “You think you’re special? He’s just intrigued. Eventually he has to give you to the Judge. That’s his job. His duty. His purpose. Don’t think you’re so special he’ll stray.”

She circled me, murmuring in Latin: “Dolor purificat. Sanguis mundus facit.”

Those words. I had heard the cultist saying those words.

Pain purifies. Blood makes clean.

The ancient motto of this cursed place.

Her claws slashed across my shoulder, mirror shards extending from her fingertips. The pain was immediate and blinding, three deep gouges that burned like acid. Blood ran hot down my arm, dripping off my elbow. I spun and kicked. My bare heel slammed into her knee. The joint gave way with a wet pop. She stumbled, screaming through her broken jaw as her leg bent sideways. A shard fell from her hand, clattering against stone.

I stepped back and accidentally landed on it. The glass bit into my heel, sharp enough to make me gasp.

“Fuck!”I dropped to one knee, more from the shock than the cut. I grabbed the shard and yanked it free, tossing it aside. A thin line of blood welled up, but nothing compared to my shoulder. Still, I forced myself upright and ran. I had to.

“You can’t run forever,”she cooed in my voice. “I know everything about you, Zahra. Every secret you’ve hidden. Every nightmare that haunts you. Every moment you wish you could forget.”

But she was wrong about that.

She could mimic my voice. Reflect my image. But she couldn’t read my mind.

If she could, she’d know I wasn’t trying to run anymore.

I was leading her.

Toward the maintenance cart I’d seen earlier, abandoned near the elevator bank. The one with the scattered tools. I had seen some pliers, and a heavy wrench.

“You know what your worst fear is?”she asked, circling. “It’s not him. It’s not this place. It’s that you like it here. That you’ve found exactly where you belong.”

“Stop!”I screamed, and the walls shook.

She looked around, delighted. “Venit Sponsa Doloris.”She grinned. “The Bride of Sorrows comes.”

“I must get you to the Judge,”she announced.

She lunged, fast, stuttering like broken film.