Dark Craving: A Watchers Novella by Veronica Wolff Page B

sort of voice. “The oldest ones are papyrus. Made from reeds grown in the Nile Delta. Now that was a fascinating era—would that I could’ve seen it firsthand.”
    I go to the table and run my hand along them. “Which one?” I repeat in a snarl. I’m running out of time.
    “Remove your hand, if you please,” he snaps. “The oils of human skin are very damaging.”
    My fist curls around the nearest scroll. It bears drawings of fruits and birds that don’t seem relevant to me, and so I squeeze and toss the crumpled ball into the trash bin. “That’s what I think of your papers. Now tell me where you keep the information about my family.”
    “Savage,” he mutters. With a nod to his bookshelf, he says, “As you wish. My most prized scrolls are in the safe.”
    I’m a prized scroll? The secret of my lineage just got bigger. I go to the bookshelf and run my hands along the sides of the wood, seeking a hidden button or lever. I’d watched him open the secret panel from afar, when I staked out his office. “How does this work?”
    “Shall I show you?” The words hiss in my ear. Dagursson. Somehow he’s gotten free, though it wasn’t without cost—the metallic scent of his own blood clings to him.
    “Cut yourself, did you?” I try to spin, but he’s at my back, his talon fingers curling into my shoulder.
    I hear the shick of metal—my urumi unfurling. He flicks his arm out, cracking it like a whip. The steel makes a dreadful singing hum that reverberates through his office. “What a treat,” he says with delight. “They say the urumi is difficult to use, but I’m not finding this so hard at all.” He shakes the blade out at his side and steel nicks the tops of my shoes, slicing the leather where it touches. I must’ve stiffened under his grip because he says, “Shall we play together, you and I?”
    “Back off,” I say, reaching once more for my power. And for a moment, I do feel it, in my blood, buzzing where his hand touches my body.
    “Oh,” he chirps. The bastard is toying with me. “Your talents are impressive indeed, Ronan. But I fear you’ve miscalculated. Sadly, you’re just not powerful enough.” A burst of cold emanates from his grip as he slams my chest into the shelf. Books topple around us, and the smell of mildew fills my sinuses. “Or maybe it’s just your intellect that’s lacking. It was very stupid, your coming in here. I believe I’ve been right all along to think that Charlotte got all the brains in your family.”
    “I told you not to say her name.” I summon another burst of power. Enough to twist my body and propel myself away from the bookshelf, slamming a heel into his knee.
    He loses his grip on me for a satisfying instant but is back on me immediately, angrier than ever. He spins me around, slamming my face into his books. “Temper,” he growls. His hand is bitter cold on my neck. I feel the bones of his thin fingers, his razor-sharp nails, seeking, probing. He slides his thumb down along my shoulder, finds a spot, and presses hard. So hard it feels his nail might cut through my clothes, through my skin.
    I try to flinch away. I want to open my mouth, but I can’t make a sound. I’m paralyzed.
    “That’s right,” he says, oozing a satisfied sigh. “They call this the baroreceptor reflex. Fascinating thing.” He presses harder, and my vision dims. “If I were to hold this pose longer, you would eventually black out and die. But that’s no fun.”
    I find myself swept into the chair where I’d just had him minutes before. He sat me down with my chest facing the chair back. He sweeps the urumi around my waist, binding me to the wood. “This is such an elegant little weapon,” he says. And then he tears off my sweater, my shirt.
    Blood is slowly pumping back into my brain. The chair back is padded, and its red velvet plushness against my chest is so out of place, it jars my senses fully alert. My eyes skitter across the room, looking for ideas, for a