[The necromancer, as it turns out, is a veritable master in his repertoire of ways of getting under someone's skin — both figuratively and literally.
When she wakes up, it's in a room that smells like oil and spice; the walls are old wood and the room is lit with lamps fed by oil of all different colors, perched here and there to cast their glow around the dark, enclosed space. There are shelves on the walls, each cluttered with all manner of odd occult knickknacks — animal skeletons, stray feathers, jars of powders, leftover bits of wax and charcoal and chalk. In the center is a table of butcher-block wood, lightly stained. Carved into the floor beneath her is some sort of sigil circle, wide and round with lines made dark by woodstain — saving its creator from drawing and redrawing it again, most likely.
(She figures out what it does, early on. She tries to make a ball of flame leap to her fingertip, and when she does the sigil activates and siphons the magic away. She's yet to figure out where it goes; part of her isn't altogether sure she wants to.)
Here and there, the necromancer stops in himself. He looks similar to the creature they'd fought in the morgue, but not identical; that's not altogether surprising. Infuriating about him is that he seems to love the sound of his own voice, but nothing he talks about seems to have any sort of practical use. Doubly so is the fact that he talks about her like a thing — "it" — and she realizes only belatedly that he either doesn't know or doesn't care whether she's male or female, because to him a Speaker is a Speaker.
(There's blue fabric in one of the jars. Tattered blue fabric stained with blood, and she's not thinking about that either.)
All over, she aches. Aches from the shallow cuts at either side of her mouth, aches from the gashes bitten into her arms. Aches from the knifepoint pricks he inflicts on her when he wants a dash of her blood for something or another; sometimes he binds her eyes with shadows so she can't watch him work, but every once in a while she'll catch a glimpse of what he's doing. Some sort of experimentation with rats.
After a time, he switches to addressing her directly, trying to provoke her into using her magic. He sets candles in front of her and demands that she light them; when she refuses, he leaves bruises on her with his cane. She's not altogether sure how long it does on, before he decides that it's a waste of time to pursue. Soon enough, though, he seems to take a different tack.
He takes down a long roll of paper from his wall — a chart of human anatomy — and examines it often. He sets tracing paper over it and makes marks through it, judging something or another. Only once does he speak to her in the midst of it, as if unable to help himself — something about reaping a good price from the right buyer.
She doesn't know what that means, but it sends a chill down her spine, anyway.
Still, what gives her a slim measure of hope is the fact that Trevor and Alucard are still out there, somewhere. They must be looking for her. They'll find her, sooner or later. She just has to hold out until they do. So she spends her time conserving her energy, lying on her side and letting the ache from a thousand minor injuries wash over her, and waits, to be sure that she's ready when it comes.]
no subject
When she wakes up, it's in a room that smells like oil and spice; the walls are old wood and the room is lit with lamps fed by oil of all different colors, perched here and there to cast their glow around the dark, enclosed space. There are shelves on the walls, each cluttered with all manner of odd occult knickknacks — animal skeletons, stray feathers, jars of powders, leftover bits of wax and charcoal and chalk. In the center is a table of butcher-block wood, lightly stained. Carved into the floor beneath her is some sort of sigil circle, wide and round with lines made dark by woodstain — saving its creator from drawing and redrawing it again, most likely.
(She figures out what it does, early on. She tries to make a ball of flame leap to her fingertip, and when she does the sigil activates and siphons the magic away. She's yet to figure out where it goes; part of her isn't altogether sure she wants to.)
Here and there, the necromancer stops in himself. He looks similar to the creature they'd fought in the morgue, but not identical; that's not altogether surprising. Infuriating about him is that he seems to love the sound of his own voice, but nothing he talks about seems to have any sort of practical use. Doubly so is the fact that he talks about her like a thing — "it" — and she realizes only belatedly that he either doesn't know or doesn't care whether she's male or female, because to him a Speaker is a Speaker.
(There's blue fabric in one of the jars. Tattered blue fabric stained with blood, and she's not thinking about that either.)
All over, she aches. Aches from the shallow cuts at either side of her mouth, aches from the gashes bitten into her arms. Aches from the knifepoint pricks he inflicts on her when he wants a dash of her blood for something or another; sometimes he binds her eyes with shadows so she can't watch him work, but every once in a while she'll catch a glimpse of what he's doing. Some sort of experimentation with rats.
After a time, he switches to addressing her directly, trying to provoke her into using her magic. He sets candles in front of her and demands that she light them; when she refuses, he leaves bruises on her with his cane. She's not altogether sure how long it does on, before he decides that it's a waste of time to pursue. Soon enough, though, he seems to take a different tack.
He takes down a long roll of paper from his wall — a chart of human anatomy — and examines it often. He sets tracing paper over it and makes marks through it, judging something or another. Only once does he speak to her in the midst of it, as if unable to help himself — something about reaping a good price from the right buyer.
She doesn't know what that means, but it sends a chill down her spine, anyway.
Still, what gives her a slim measure of hope is the fact that Trevor and Alucard are still out there, somewhere. They must be looking for her. They'll find her, sooner or later. She just has to hold out until they do. So she spends her time conserving her energy, lying on her side and letting the ache from a thousand minor injuries wash over her, and waits, to be sure that she's ready when it comes.]