Page 170 of Alchemised
She was so used to hearing of necrothralls being aggressive, she hadn’t considered that they could be concealed, waiting.
It came towards her, and her heart lurched into her throat. A pulse in her temples began, throbbing like a drum, a burn of pain across the side of her neck—
Don’t think about it.
The necrothrall paused and pulled up his sleeve. Painted onto his arm was the same stylised symbol for iron that was on the doorway of the tenement.
This necrothrall belonged to Ferron. She’d almost forgotten that he was a necromancer. The sleeve slipped back down as the necrothrall gestured to the left.
Knowing the necrothrall was Ferron’s didn’t make it easier to voluntarily follow into the bowels of the Outpost.
Her heart was pounding inside her chest as they reached a door that blended into the wall. The necrothrall produced a small key and unlocked it, revealing metal stairs that descended into the belly of one of the factories.
There were dim electric lights that flickered unsteadily overhead. They entered a boiler room—the passage was cramped—then went through another locked door into a more spacious hallway. There was a large door, and as they approached, it swung open from the inside. The door was thicker than the length of her forearm, as though it were a bank vault.
Through the doorway was a large room filled with decadent furniture, chandeliers with glittery prisms dangling, and Ferron—drinking.
The indulgence in the room felt grotesque.
The walls were covered in heavy luxuriant drapes and murals. There were rows of decanters and bottles lining a wall. One section of the room had a seating area with ornate side tables, a large sofa, and chairs. On the other end was a mahogany desk and chaise. Everything was ornate, with the kind of craftsmanship that cost a fortune.
“There you are,” Ferron said, drawing her attention away. He was wearing only trousers and a white shirt with half the buttons undone.
She was used to seeing him always fully dressed, layered in his defensive shell of a uniform, and while she’d stripped him to the waist twice now, both occasions had been for medical purposes.
The room they were standing in did not feel professional. Despite his haggard state, Ferron—Kaine, she mentally corrected—looked oddly striking, as if she’d never seen him in the proper environment before.
“What is this?” she asked, stepping cautiously into the room.
The necrothrall didn’t enter, instead stepping back and closing the door, which sealed with a heavy reinforced thud.
“A panic room,” Ferron said. “My grandfather had it built during a strike a few decades ago. In case of emergencies.”
“I can’t imagine why they’d want to hurt your grandfather when he clearly spent his money on such reasonable things,” she said, glancing at the three crystal chandeliers hanging overhead.
“A mystery indeed.” There were several fingers of liquid in his tumbler, but he knocked it all back in one gulp.
She looked at him sidelong. “You know, you could take pain relief in those quantities, if you’re going for numbness.”
“No fun in that,” he said, hand trembling as he poured himself more. “Alcohol only dulls things for a few minutes. I prefer poison when I really want to feel intoxicated. Generally, it lasts longer, and some poisons have very interesting side effects. I thought you might disapprove, though.” He sighed. “Given the current atmosphere in the Outpost and the fact that I have no desire to lie upon a kitchen table ever again, I thought this location made more sense.”
Helena nodded, not sure if she was offended or grateful that this was not where they usually met. She probably would have panicked if she’d initially arrived in a place like this.
She dragged one of the spindly-legged side tables over and refused to worry about scratching the polished surface as she pulled out her supplies.
Ferron knocked back the contents of his second drink and straddled a chair backwards, unbuttoning his shirt. Before she could help him, he twisted his shoulders to pull it off, stifling a low gasp of pain.
“Did you feel any better?” she asked, placing her bare hand against his arm. He flinched away. His skin was unnaturally cold. No fever, though, which she hoped was a good sign.
He didn’t answer.
She cleaned her hands with a dilution of carbolic acid and unwrapped the bandages as carefully as she could until there was only the gauze over the wounds. She used a saline irrigation and tried to lift one, but it stuck. Kaine jerked, his body shuddering.
“Fuck! Don’t—!” His knuckles were white where he was gripping the back of the chair.
She snatched her hand back. “I have to get the gauze off.”
“Do you really?” He pressed his forehead against the chair back, breathing raggedly.
