Page 18 of Alchemised
“You knew him?” he asked, his fingers and rings digging into her skin.
She tried to pull free, but the necrothrall escorts held her in place as Crowther leaned in, closer and closer, drawing a deep breath, and a thick purple tongue flicked out as if he meant to lick her.
She recoiled, but he was close enough now that she could make out details. There was a slight yellowing in his sclera and faint patterns of dark veins beneath his vaguely clouded eyes. His skin was powdery, smelling strongly of lavender.
This wasn’t Crowther.
One of the Undying was wearing his corpse.
On the rare occasions when they couldn’t regenerate anymore, so grievously wounded in battle that their immortal bodies could no longer heal, the Undying could move themselves into their necrothralls instead. It was why the Resistance had called them liches.
It was an imperfect solution; even when maintained, the bodies rotted slowly around them and lacked the regenerative qualities of the near-impervious originals. Helena suspected this was why Morrough was so interested in transference—the method had the potential to allow the Undying to move into living bodies instead.
The lich using Crowther’s body drew back. He looked at her again, a strange expression sweeping across his face.
“I know you,” he said softly.
He gripped her face, twisting her head so that light fell on it from different angles. His eyes were crawling over her skin as if looking for something. He grabbed one of her hands, the dark heavy rings digging against her bones, shifting the manacle and sending a shock of pain down her arm. He looked at her fingers and then back to her face.
The necrothralls did nothing.
Was this the High Reeve?
“Yes. That’s her.” Stroud had appeared, her voice much softer than Helena was accustomed to. She looked irritated at the way Helena was being manhandled but seemed reluctant to protest. “She’ll be ready soon.”
The lich gripped Helena by her hair, his expression twisting as he leaned in again, a hungry, desperate look in his eyes unlike anything she’d ever seen on Crowther’s impassive face.
“I’ve seen her somewhere.” He gripped her tighter, shaking her so hard that her head snapped back. “Where did I see you?”
“This was the Holdfasts’ pet, Guildmaster. You probably saw her at the Institute.”
The lich’s face contorted with contempt at the mention of the Holdfasts, and he let go, abruptly losing interest. Now he looked angry, a deep purple rising along his neck, mottling his face. “I expected more than this. I was told this assignment was something special.”
Stroud sucked at her teeth. “Appearances are not everything. You can tell the High Reeve she’ll be ready for him soon. Now, you wanted to see the preparations for the chambers.” Stroud gestured towards the lifts. “I intend to begin with a test batch very soon to see how quickly we can get things started. The interest has been almost overwhelming. I have dozens of applications, and the announcement is still weeks away.” Stroud gave a nervous laugh but caught herself, clearing her throat as she pressed her hand against a panel on the lift. “It’s been difficult to determine the most promising combinations. I’ve taken what I can from the hospitals’ records. The guilds’ archives are quite useful, too, truly ahead of their time. But you’re the only one who produced exactly what we’re hoping to replicate here, so I’m very eager for your insight.”
The lich’s expression grew stony despite the praise. The lift arrived, and he and Stroud were gone before he gave an answer.
The necrothralls nudged Helena forward. She released a slow breath. Not the High Reeve, then. It was a relief that the first reanimated body she’d recognised had been Crowther, one of the more detached members of the Council, and not someone she’d known well.
She looked up and flinched at the sight of the only portrait that hung in the corridor.
The Tower used to be full of art and decorations, lined with portraits of significant alchemists who’d studied or taught at the Institute. Now there was only one, and it depicted a sallow, sullen-looking man with a large forehead and heavy chin.
The name ARTEMON BENNET was hammered into the plaque beneath it, with two dates below, spanning more than eighty years.
Helena remembered with visceral clarity the reports associated with that name. Once the Undying had established a strong position in the city, they put out a call for all the vivimancers and necromancers in hiding to join their cause, setting up laboratories where such supporters could explore their powers, freed from the oppression of the Faith.
When Resistance fighters weren’t simply killed and reanimated into necrothralls, they were sent to those laboratories as research subjects. Artemon Bennet had been the head of New Paladia’s science and research departments. It was reported that he had a particular interest in experimentation on alchemists.
The only good thing about the portrait was knowing that Bennet was somehow dead.
Another walk was finally coming to its end. Helena still struggled with breathing deeply, a habit ingrained by the stasis tank’s limited oxygen and worsened by the necrothralls’ stench. Her head was growing light, vision threatening to blur. Her footsteps began to falter.
The necrothralls gripped her, not letting her slow. Her feet began to drag across the floor.
A strangled gasp jolted her to alertness.
“Marino?” A dark-haired girl in a wheeled chair was passing her. She was gaunt, almost collapsed in on herself, but she straightened, leaning forward as her eyes fastened on Helena’s face. She had scars like Grace’s, and there was a blanket over her lap. She wore the same manacles around her wrists that Helena did. She was being pushed down the hall in the direction of an operation theatre that Helena had vaguely noticed was open.
