Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(38)

I don’t want it at all.

I’m not sure it matters whether it’s neat and tidy or smeared. Still, I hold stiffly and stare straight ahead, my gaze flying blindly over the tiles in the ceiling, blurring with tears.

“Easy now. Relax,” he continues to murmur.

There’s a faint clicking sound and then pain. Red-hot.

It slices into my neck and feels like someone is garroting me. For a moment, I think my head is being severed from my shoulders.

The low droning buzz grows louder, thicker. Like a drill. The instant injection of tiny, vibrating ink-filled needles arches my torso up from the chair.

A shrill movie scream spins through the air, and I realize it’s me. The sound is nearly as startling as the sudden pain. I never knew such a sound could exist inside me.

My body forgets his instructions to relax as the ink bleeds into me. Spasms ripple through me as currents of ink are injected from countless tiny needles deep into my flesh.

“Almost done,” Andersen croons. “Just a few more moments.”

His hand on my head bears me down, holds me still as the imprinting is happening, and I go from a girl who can walk the streets like a normal person to a monster recognized by all.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers ..................................................................



* * *





(Agency Interview)


AGENT POLLOCK: So you’re saying she struck you, son?

ZACHARY CLEMENS: Yes, but she was angry. . . . I hurt her . . . said things— VICTORIA CHESTERFIELD: She was totally out of control. I—I was afraid she was going to turn on me next. You should have seen the look in her eyes.

AGENT POLLOCK: And you, Zachary? Did you fear for your safety, too?

ZACHARY CLEMENS: I wouldn’t say that— VICTORIA CHESTERFIELD: Well, he’s a guy. He’s bigger. I was very afraid. I thought she was going to hit me, too. I’m still afraid of her and what she might do.

ZACHARY CLEMENS: Tori— VICTORIA CHESTERFIELD: What, Zac? You want me to lie? You may not want to say how it really went down, but I can’t pretend. You still want to protect her out of some misplaced sense of loyalty, but I’m trying to protect the world from her.

AGENT POLLOCK: Thank you for your concern, Victoria. I know coming forward can’t be easy.

VICTORIA CHESTERFIELD: You have no idea. She was my best friend. It’s like she died. She was here one moment and now she’s gone. Only I wish she had died. At least others wouldn’t be in danger then.

AGENT POLLOCK: We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. Davina Hamilton won’t hurt anyone else.





FOURTEEN




I HARDLY REMEMBER AFTERWARD. IT’S ALL A BLUR. Movements and words I can’t process.

The collar clicks free. Andersen rubs some kind of ointment on my neck and wraps it with clear plastic and then covers it with gauze. I lose sight of the ceiling as he helps me sit up and gives me two aspirin.

I don’t want to sit up. I just want to sink back down with my eyes closed and never get up. Never open my eyes again.

I watch Andersen’s lips move, catching only a word or two. A phrase. Enough to know that he’s giving me aftercare instructions, but I just can’t process. I just don’t care.

Webber takes my arm and I’m moving, walking, my feet barely skimming the ground.

Soon I’m back in the van.

I don’t bother with the buckle. I slouch to the side and lie on the seat, staring sightlessly at the back of the driver’s side seat, my body limp, my limbs merely appendages that don’t even feel like they belong to me . . . and I dimly wonder if that was aspirin he gave me or something else.

I lift a shaking hand to my throat, touching the soft gauze there. Tears well in my eyes, blurring everything around me, washing my world in water.

I sniff, refusing to cry. At least not until I’m alone in my room. No witnesses. I won’t break down in front of Pollock. It’s strange that I can still cling to pride now. Imprinting should have stripped me of that. I jam my eyes closed and hold them that way for a long while, not opening them again until we’ve stopped in front of my house.

We’re not even to the front door before it opens and Mom charges out. “What happened?” She wraps an arm around me just as my knees give out. She struggles to keep me from falling.

Pollock hands Mom a piece of paper. “Aftercare instructions to avoid infection.”

Mom glances from the paper to me, the whites of her eyes red as she gazes at my neck. “You had no right. . . . You’ll be hearing from my attorney—”

Pollock angles his head sharply, looking up at my mother who’s got at least three inches on him. “Go ahead, Mrs. Hamilton. Waste your time and money. Get your fancy lawyers. They’ll tell you that we had every right under the Wainwright Act. Your ‘angel’ committed assault. The agency is well within its authority to have her imprinted.”

“Mom,” I croak, my throat muscles crying out at the effort. It hurts to even speak. “I want to go to my room.” I look at her, compelling her to listen, to drop it, to take me away from these men. It doesn’t really matter anymore. It’s done.

Her wild eyes scan me, and I know she’s trying to decide the best thing to do. As calm and accepting as she’s been . . . this happening to me has pushed her over her limit.