Page 142 of Red Rooster

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Annabel – Annabel le Strange the baroness! – had told Sasha that it would be best for him to cooperate with the doctors and nurses for the time being. Protesting would only get him chained up tighter, maybe even drugged again, and that if he wanted to earn a little bit of freedom he had to be polite and agreeable.

So though it went against his screaming internal alarms, he sat quietly in his hospital bed and thanked the technician who brought him his next meal. The tech, a skittish young man, startled badly when Sasha spoke, and then managed to scrape together a smile before he fled the room.

He ate every bit of the meatloaf and potatoes he’d been given, because he was hungry, and then set the tray aside on the night table that he could just reach from the bed. He was sitting up against the wall, hands folded neatly in his lap, when two scrub-clad nurses, and a man in black tac gear with a gun on his hip came to collect him.

“Hello,” Sasha greeted, forcefully bright.

“Hello,” the nurses echoed back. They were both women, both middle-aged and maternal-looking. One came to him with a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope, and another brought a penlight to peer into his eyes, nose, and ears, unafraid and proficient.

The guard, though, was on edge. He stood just inside the door, one gloved hand holding a baton – a stun baton; Sasha could feel the faint hum of its electric charge. He stared dispassionately at the far wall, a well-trained, emotionless soldier. To a human, he would have given the appearance of an immovable object. Jaded and unconcerned. But Sasha could smell the ripeness of fear sweat gathering beneath the man’s arms, detect the rapid flutter of his pulse, visible in the side of his throat. Anxiety had a scent, and it filled the room now, rolling off the guard.

Sasha almost felt sorry for him.

He smiled. “I’m not going to hurt anyone.”

“Oh, we know, honey,” one of the nurses said, peeling off the pressure cuff. “Keys, please,” she said over her shoulder.

The guard stepped forward and handed a set to her.

His cuffs were unlocked, all four, and the nurses stepped back. “Okay, if you’ll follow us,” the one with the penlight said. “We’ll go see Dr. Talbot.” She gave him a quick, impersonal smile.

Sasha’s stomach churned with worry, but he tried not to show it as he swung his legs over and eased to his feet. He was stiff and sore, unsteady. He had to grab at the bed’s handrail, and a nurse steadied him with one strong hand on his shoulder.

“Easy now. We can get a wheelchair.”

“I’m fine.” And he was, once he’d taken a few shuffling steps and felt his circulation coming back. “I heal quick.”

“Mmhm.”

They fell into a loose formation as they exited the room: the two nurses shoulder-to-shoulder in front, Sasha after them, and the guard behind, stun baton held across his chest, ready to use.

Sasha was dressed in loose white shirt and pants, socks with rubber grippy bumps on the soles that were, at the moment, necessary. He moved slow, careful little steps that sent aches shooting up both legs and into his knees. He felt like an old man, and nothing like the lithe wolf that he was.

They moved down a white hallway that smelled of new paint and plaster, and then emerged into a cavernous space that looked like a retrofitted wine cellar: stone floors and ceilings, empty sconces that would have once held torches. And a mess of modern wires and computers and lab equipment set up on long tables. He turned his head back and forth, nostrils flared wide, and tried to take it all in. He hadn’t been inside a place like this since he was first turned, and that had been an Americanized Soviet facility. This looked like Dr. Frankenstein’s lab…but much, much more high tech.

The nurses led him to a sturdy, steel-topped table surrounded by wheeled computer monitors and medical carts. A man in a white lab coat sat on a rolling stool, clicking through images on one of the computer screens, the blue light reflecting off his glasses. Sasha recognized his scent, and then, when he turned toward him, his face: Dr. Talbot.

“Ah!” he exclaimed when he saw them, getting to his feet. He wasn’t a tall man, which was probably part of the reason he reminded Sasha of Monsieur Philippe. “There you are. Hello, Sasha, good morning! How do you feel?”

It was so absurd that Sasha wanted to laugh. He’d been darted, drugged, and shipped here against his will. Chained to a bed. He was theirprisoner. And Dr. Talbot acted now as if he was a welcome guest.

Nikita would have snarled at the man – vampire or not. Would have given him a frigid stare and jutted out his chin in defiance.

Just thinking of his friend and packmate made Sasha a little braver. Brave enough to decide that Annabel’s wisdom was well-meant, and that it would be best to cooperate.

“A little tired,” he said, and managed a smile.

“Understandable,” Dr. Talbot said, expression apologetic. “I’m afraid the sedatives we were forced to use are quite strong. It may take another few hours before they’ve been completely metabolized.”

Forced to use. Sasha swallowed and kept his smile pinned in place.

“But let’s not dwell on that,” Dr. Talbot said, still smiling. Like Philippe. “On behalf of everyone here, let me formally welcome you to the Ingraham Institute of Medical Technology.” Pride shone from his face, a visible glow. “It is such apleasureto finally meet you, Sasha. I’ve been reading your files for years – I feel as if I already know you.”

A pleasure. As if this was tea between long-distance friends. As if they’d happened upon one another out in the wide world.

Sasha’s stomach cramped, and he had to swallow again. He thought he might be sick.

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