Page 19 of The Nightmare's Kiss

I wake up feeling more tired than ever. God, I was really looking forward to sleeping in on my first weekend since starting the job, but this is important. So I drag myself out of bed and dress professionally in slacks and a silk blouse, slathering the rings under my eyes with makeup.

Still, when I pull up to the address Dr. Wright texted me, I’m quivering a little.

I didn’t know houses this nice existed in Ash Valley. It’s a beautiful, modern building, all open windows and warm, polished wood, with a perfectly manicured front yard full of pretty succulents and stone steps.

I can’t fight the feeling that I’m out of my league, but I made it this far, so Ihaveto do this. I take a deep breath, fix my hair in the mirror, and climb the steps to the door.

When Dr. Wright opens it, looking casual in slippers and a pair of relaxed culottes, I feel foolish for dressing up in an attempt to impress her. But she greets me warmly and leads me inside, to a house filled with the warm, yeasty scent of something freshly baked. She gives me a brief tour of a gorgeous living room and state-of-the-art granite kitchen before we settle in the dining room. A beautiful brunch twist on a charcuterie board waits for us, holding a spread of mini bagels with cream cheese and lox, scones with jam and whipped butter, and beautifully arranged pieces of fruit.

“Coffee or tea?” she asks, pouring herself a cup of the latter from a pretty porcelain pot.

“I, um… Tea is fine,” I say, since it’s already here. Then I immediately curse myself for saying that, because what the hell? I am not a tea person. The cup and plate clatter a little in my hands as I take them, and I clear my throat. “Wow, this is amazing. You didn’t have to do all this. Seriously, I usually just grab a bowl of cereal on my way out the door.”

She waves a graceful hand. “I like to go all-out on the weekends. I always bake far too many scones. Please, enjoy as much as you’d like.”

It’s hard to eat when I’m nervous. But the first rich, crumbly mouthful of lemon and blueberry scone helps chase away my nerves. And it’s humanizing to watch how thoroughly Dr. Wright enjoys her first bite of one, too, shutting her eyes and humming in unabashed pleasure.

We eat quietly for a few minutes. Once we start to slow down, Dr. Wright wipes her hands on a napkin, sits back, and fixes me with her striking gaze. My mouth goes dry, and I realize, with unfortunate timing, that I am as terrified of this woman as I was the first day she showed up on my doorstep.

“So,” she says. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

I swallow. The scones suddenly feel heavy as rocks in my stomach, my mouth too dry to speak. I wet it with a mouthful of tea and consider what to say. Dr. Wright strikes me as the sort of person who appreciates getting straight to the point, so that’s what I decide on. I clear my throat, fold my hands on my lap, and meet her eyes.

“You told me Subject X-13 isn’t intelligent,” I say.

She blinks at me across the table. “Yes. Continue.”

I pause, mouth open. There were a dozen arguments on the tip of my tongue, but I was expecting her to disagree or challenge me right off the bat, and now I’m losing steam. “I-I… I think you’re wrong. I’m pretty sure it’s trying to communicate with me.”

“Hm.” She folds one leg over the other, rests her chin on a palm. “How so?”

“It responds to my voice.” Shit. I was—am—so sure about this, but now that I’m given an opportunity to try and prove it, I’m questioning myself. It’s making me sound like I have no idea what I’m talking about, even though Ido.

I wish I had notes, though I know that would be a huge breach of Facility protocol. Having nothing leaves me feeling like I’m grasping at smoke, doubting my own memories. “And it… When I put my hand against the glass, it takes a human shape and does the same.” I’m stumbling over my words and can feel color rising to my cheeks as Dr. Wright regards me with an entirely unimpressed expression. I’m getting so flustered that I almost forget my most important piece of evidence. “And—sign language! I’m teaching it sign language. It knows my name.”

She sips her tea and regards me over the brim of the cup. The look on her face is almost disappointed, which gives me a strange sinking sensation in my stomach. I didn’t come here for her approval, I came ready for an argument, and yet… “Are you certain it’s formulating its own sentences and thoughts, rather than imitating yours?”

I bite my lip. I anticipated this question. Iknewshe would probe me to make sure there’s no confirmation bias happening, and I wish I had a better answer, or a better reasoning other than my own intuition. “I’ve only taught it limited words so far. But I feel confident that it’s trying to communicate. And it’s smart. Really smart. It learns so quickly.”

“If good imitation made one intelligent, we would have a very different regard for parrots.” She sounds almost bored. Shame crawls up the back of my neck in a slow heat; I feel like I’m trying to lecture an expert on a subject I’ve just begun to learn. “Is there anything else? Has it spoken aloud? Or communicated in writing?”

“Well, no… But what if it can’t? Just because it’s intelligent doesn’t mean it knows our language or has the same methods of communication that we do. But I… I can feel it, Dr. Wright.” I lean forward in my chair. “Maybe if I were able to go into the enclosure with him—it—even for just a couple of minutes—”

“I’m going to stop you there, Mara,” she says in such a curt tone that I immediately shut up. I expect her to chew me out, but instead she sighs and shuts her eyes for a moment before continuing with a softer voice. “Look. It’s very normal to become attached to one’s subject. To begin reading into its behaviors and seeing thoughts and feelings,” she says. “I’ve been through a similar experience.”

That snaps me out of wishing I could melt into my chair. “You have?”

“Yes.” She clears her throat. For a moment, I’m sure she’s about to change the subject, but then a strange look passes over her face and she says, more haltingly than before, “I had…a close encounter with one of the subjects, when I was only a research assistant. I was briefly trapped in the cell with it. And before I could be extracted, I became delusionally certain we had some kind of bond. That there was an intelligent, conscious,kindcreature locked up in that cell.”

“And?” I ask, leaning forward. There’s a look I’ve never seen on her face before. A new, raw emotion caught somewhere between pain and tenderness.

Her expression shutters. Perfectly smooth again. “I learned my lesson when it murdered several lab personnel in a breakout attempt, using me as a hostage.”

My chair creaks as I lean back. “Oh.”

“Indeed.” She taps her long nails on the table and offers a thin, brittle smile. “So trust that I am not relaying empty words when I tell you: what you’re experiencing is normal. But you cannot entertain such ideas. These subjects are contained here for a reason. They are not human, or anything akin to human. They are dangerous. And while I do not doubt that they have their own animal intelligence, it is nothing like ours, and it would be a mistake to convince yourself otherwise.”

I frown. I hear the logic in what she’s saying, and yet… “I don’t know anything about the other subjects, but I’ve had the impression that no two are the same. So how can we assume that each one is similarly unintelligent or dangerous?”

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