Constance (Constance #1)(98)

He was trying to keep his spirits up, and Con forced a smile at his joke. They limped into the cottage and down the passageway into the complex.

“Okay, you were right,” Peter admitted, looking around. “I don’t believe this.”

They made it to the lab before Peter lost consciousness. His legs gave way, and the best Con could do was ease him to the floor. She sat and cradled his head in her lap. His breathing was a jagged wheeze, wet and labored. The rDog went into a crouch at his feet, watching him with its smooth, eyeless face. Con looked to her aunt, imploring her to help him.

Cabigail stood there deep in thought as if trying to solve a complex mathematical formula. “I’m sorry. There’s really nothing I can do. This is a lab, not a hospital.”

“Then we have to take him to one,” Con insisted.

Cabigail entered her biometrics to unlock a cabinet. “Out of the question. He’s seen too much. But he has a clone at Palingenesis. He’ll be fine.”

Con knew that was a lie. Peter had explicitly told her that he never wanted another clone. She watched her aunt take out a syringe and a small, clear vial.

“What the hell’s that?” Con asked.

“It’s for the pain,” Cabigail assured her. “We can at least make him comfortable.”

Con didn’t believe her. “He was a first-gen clone.”

“I know who he is,” Cabigail snapped, drawing up a dose from the vial and tapping the syringe with a practiced finger. “Now hold him still.”

Cabigail put the syringe between her teeth and knelt to roll up the remnants of Peter’s tattered sleeve. Con continued pleading for him, but her aunt wasn’t listening anymore, her expression distant and resolved. Con recognized it. Cabigail had had the same look on her face standing over Brooke Fenton’s body. Had it been any different when she killed Pockmark and his team? Maybe Cynthia Gaddis had been an accident, but her actions since had stripped away any morality Abigail Stickling might once have had. What lay beneath was cold and cruel and despicable. Peter was destined for the incinerator if she did nothing. Con was certain of that much.

“If he dies, you can forget our deal,” Con said.

Cabigail glared at her niece. “Listen to me, girl. Vernon knows about this place now. That doesn’t give us much time. He’ll be on his way. We have too much to do before he arrives. There isn’t the luxury of saving this trespasser.”

Cabigail took Peter’s arm, but before she could find a vein, Con grabbed her by the wrist. Rather than angry, Cabigail looked simply disappointed. The two women struggled, as evenly matched as two people could ever be. But Cabigail had the high ground, and Con could feel herself losing the battle for leverage.

“Let. Go,” Cabigail commanded from between clenched teeth.

“Stop.”

Cabigail grunted from the exertion, teeth drawn back in a snarl. “This is the only way.”

Peter’s head slipped off Con’s thigh and cracked on the floor. It jolted him back to consciousness and his eyes flew open. Grabbing Cabigail by the wrist and elbow, he twisted her arm back and used her own strength against her, driving the syringe up into her own chest.

Cabigail toppled back, grasping for the syringe.

In one motion, the forgotten rDog leapt, landing on Peter and pinning him to the ground. There was a horrendous tearing sound. A shearing collapse. Peter let out a terrible scream. His legs kicked out once, and then didn’t move again. Con scrambled away, but the rDog paid no attention to her. It assessed its target coldly and trotted away to its master, where it once again crouched patiently.

Cabigail yanked out the syringe and threw it skittering across the floor. Her face turning blue, she began to shiver as if night had fallen and the temperature was dropping.

“What was in the syringe?” Con asked, although she had no doubt it was the same drug that had killed both Abigail and Con’s original. How quickly it did its work when injected so close to the heart.

Instead of answering, Cabigail stabbed a finger in the direction of the nearest cabinet. “I need a syringe and a vial of Klenadone.”

Con went on autopilot and scrambled to her feet, her instinct to help temporarily overriding her fury. She ran to where Cabigail was pointing.

“A green label. Hurry,” Cabigail called out weakly.

“It’s locked,” Con yelled, yanking on the handle. “I can’t get in.”

Cabigail nodded and typed something on her LFD. When she was done, she told Con to enter her biometrics and try again.

This time, the cabinet opened.

Everything had a green label. Con pawed through the shelves until she found the Klenadone. She took it and a syringe to her aunt, who lay on her back, struggling for breath. Cabigail checked the label and nodded, thrusting it back into Con’s hands.

“Hurry,” Cabigail said, voice growing fainter with each passing moment.

Con had never injected anyone before, but she’d just seen her aunt do it, so mimicked the same steps. Tapping was to remove any air bubbles—she didn’t know how she knew that, probably from a movie. Then her eyes fell on Peter’s broken body, and she paused, the syringe hovering above her aunt. Peter was like Con’s father. A soldier. The kind of person that her aunt claimed she was protecting all this for. If her aunt could sacrifice him, who would ever be immune from her ruthless self-interest? Her aunt had spoken so eloquently of the dangers should Gaddis or Fenton gain control of her research. Con realized it was nothing compared to what would happen if Abigail Stickling was allowed to keep it for herself.