Page 68 of The Night Island

“No,” Pomona said, her tone that of someone lecturing a not very bright student. “The reason Gill was so sure you would be dead by now is because you never got the boosters.”

“Boosters?” Luke said.

“According to the logbook, the original Cold Fire protocol was designed to require regular boosters,” Pomona said, still in lecture mode. “They need to be administered every six to seven weeks. The idea was to make certain the subjects remained under control, you see.” Pomona chuckled. “Can’t have a bunch of psychic assassins take it into their heads to get rid of the boss and go off on their own, now, can we? They must understand that would be writing their own death warrants.”

“Well, obviously the protocol is flawed,” Talia said. “Luke is still very much alive, and quite sane.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Pomona said. Feverish excitement sparked in her eyes. “That is a fascinating outcome. I have a theory, but I need to do some more research.”

“What’s your theory?” Luke said, his voice dark and fierce.

“I was given a copy of your file to study,” Pomona said. “You certainly fit the parapsych profile required for the project, but your innate talent was unusually strong, even before enhancement. You were born with the ability to handle a high degree of sensory overload. The Cold Fire serum strengthened your natural talent, but you were able to adjust to the change. This is fascinating. I’m going to need some blood samples and an MRI—”

“Forget it,” Luke said. “Who was the other test subject who was in this lab at the same time I was here?”

Pomona frowned, distracted. “I have no idea. The file didn’t contain that sort of personal information. All I can tell you is that Subject B was considered a success.”

“If that’s all you know, it’s time to put the canister down,” Luke said.

“Why should I do that?” Pomona shot back. “You’re worth a lot to me alive, but I can learn almost as much from you if you’re dead. A proper autopsy will yield a great deal of information.”

“This ends here,” Luke said. “You are not going to use the shit in that canister on me or anyone else.”

The shuddering power of the currents in his voice slammed into Pomona. She reeled back, her mouth open on a silent shriek. She tried to squeeze the trigger of the canister, but she was shaking so hard she could not manage to aim the nozzle.

“You can’t do this to me,” she gasped. “You can’t be allowed to interfere with my work. There’s a Nobel Prize waiting for me.”

“More likely a prison cell,” Luke said. “Time to sleep, Pomona Finch.”

Clinging to the canister with both hands, Pomona turned and staggered into the foliage. The greenery closed around her, as if attempting to swallow her whole. Talia realized that sometime during the last few minutes the agitated rustling of the plants had escalated to a thrashing sound.

A shrill, high-pitched scream sounded in the distance. Horror jolted through Talia. She stared at the doorway. So did the others. The terrible cry seemed to go on endlessly before it cut off with an abruptness that was as shocking as the scream.

“That was Pomona, wasn’t it?” Phoebe whispered.

“Yes,” Luke said, his jaw set in a grim line. “Evidently the herbicide was not enough to save her.” He hitched the tool belt higher on his shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

Talia looked at Phoebe, who appeared stunned.

“Phoebe,” she said quietly. “It’s time to leave.”

“What?” Phoebe pulled herself together with a visible effort. “Right.”

She tightened her grip on the pruning shears and made to follow Luke.

But he stopped at the entrance of the lab.

“This is not good,” he said quietly.

The light in the underworld gardens was an intense acid green now, and the energy level was rising. Some of the plants were whipping about as if tossed on invisible waves. There was a small cluster of iridescent mushrooms less than a foot away from the threshold of the door. Talia was certain they had not been there earlier. An odd tree with long, aboveground roots that looked a lot like legs hovered a short distance outside the entrance.

As she watched, a clawlike vine studded with needle-sharp thorns writhed through the opening. It stretched toward Luke as if sensing him.

He took pruners out of the tool belt, cut off the vine, and kicked the dismembered piece back through the doorway. The iridescent mushrooms got a little brighter.

“It’s too late,” Phoebe said, resigned. “It’s full night down here now. We won’t be able to get out until morning, not without the herbicide.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

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