The Experimental Murders (Elysium #2)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

 Trinket hurried down to the laboratory so she could warn Booker about Scales' threats, but her mind went blank when she took in the scene before her.

Booker washing his blood-covered his hands at the sink.

And surgical tools lying beside the unconscious Resurrectionist on the operating table.

"Booker, what did you do?" she whispered.

Glancing over his shoulder, Booker's gaze traveled from her to the Resurrectionist and then to the tools. His eyes went wide. Turning off the faucets, he grabbed a towel to dry his hands and quickly approached her.

"It's not what you think, Trinket," he said.

"You told me you wouldn't harm him!"

He held up his hands and closed his eyes as she raised her voice. "Unnecessarily. I wouldn't harm him unnecessarily. And I used ether, so it shouldn't have hurt him at all."

Ignoring his excuses, she stormed over to the table. Nothing seemed to be missing. The Resurrectionist still had all four limbs, and his fingers didn't appear to have been tampered with. His nails were as dirty as ever, but none of them were gone. She continued to examine him closely, searching for what damage Booker had inflicted on him. And then her eyes fell upon a strange lump on his left arm. She shifted it slightly to get a better look and noticed a tiny circle of stitches on his inner forearm.

Eyes wide with horror, she turned to Booker. "What did you do?"

"Trinket, it's not—"

A groan came from the young man on the table. Both her and Booker's attention snapped back to him. Another groan, accompanied by a flutter of eyelids.

Turning on Booker, Trinket gritted her teeth and clenched her fists. She wasn't sure whether she should be angry or panicked. After seeing what this Resurrectionist had done to Emma, images of the revenge he would get on Booker played through her head. But before she could say a word, the young man tried to sit up. The leather holds prevented him from doing so, and it took him a moment to realize they were there. In a sleepy daze, his head lolled to the side, and he squinted at Booker and Trinket.

"Wha . . . where . . . I . . ." He shook his head and blinked several times. Then his unfocused gaze settled on Booker, and his face lit up with anger. "What'd you do that for? I agreed to help you and then you knocked me out again, you cad. What'd you put on that rag? Did you try to poison me? Get me out of these blasted things."

He fought against the restraints, and his forceful movements nearly caused the table to overturn. Booker and Trinket steadied it, but the Resurrectionist refused to cease his thrashing. After a solid minute of swearing and struggling, the aftereffects of the ether got to him, and he vomited over the side. Exhausted from the exertion, he finally lay still, panting and gagging against the reflex to vomit again.

"Well, good morning to you, too, sunshine," Booker said as he peered down at him.

Trinket shot him a disapproving look.

"Whaddya want with me?" the Resurrectionist asked.

"Your cooperation."

"I already said I'd arrange the meeting."

"I know, but forgive me if I don't trust the person who tried to beat me to death with a shovel. I needed a little more reassurance."

Still breathing heavily, the Resurrectionist furrowed his brow in confusion. Booker tapped the young man's left arm, drawing his attention to the lump and stitches. After a few seconds it seemed to register, and when the Resurrectionist realized what Booker had done, his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.