Author: Megan Shepherd

MY CHEST WAS THUMPING, but not with fear. With a dark thrill that snaked up my skin, pouring into my nose and mouth like smoke. Consuming me. Controlling me.

I wove my fingers between the bars of the monkey’s cage. Father said he wasn’t going to operate on this one. He had a new technique—cellular replacement. He intended to change the monkey from the inside out. But you couldn’t destroy the animal spirit. The monkey would always be an animal.

Would always be in pain.

My thumb slipped to the cage’s latch, a modified version of the door latches Father had designed. The monkey had five fingers, but too small to operate the special mechanism. Anger swelled inside me, building and growing until I thought I would split. My fingernails clicked on the cool metal. The monkey cocked his head.

I threw open the cage.

The monkey exploded out, shoving the cage door with a squeal of hinges that made my pulse race. It dashed over the table, sending the blocks and Father’s tablet crashing onto the floor, and out the laboratory door before the papers had even settled.

I gasped. My body felt so alive, demanding more.

I tore open the parrot’s cage next. The bird cocked its head. I threw blocks at the bars, scaring it into taking flight. Then I set free the pig and the sloth, shaking the cages to make the sloth hurry.

“Get out!” I yelled. It was as though the bits and pieces of animal flesh inside my body had taken hold of me. “Get out of here!” I chased the sloth outside, where it latched on to a post and climbed to the roof. I turned back to open more cages, but my hand paused.

They were all empty. I’d set all the animals free. But my hunger for destruction hadn’t subsided. If anything, it had grown, wanting to free more animals, to do anything to ensure my father would never work again.

I paced the wall of glass cabinets slowly, shaking, savoring my secret thoughts. The glass was so delicate, I could smash through it, let it all rain to the ground. My heart leapt with the thought, hungry for destruction. Sunlight reflected off the glass canisters. The living specimen—the jellyfish-like monster with its gaping mouth—lunged for me inside its glass cage.

I smiled grimly. Before I could stop myself, I threw open the glass cabinet and grabbed the jar with both hands, struggling to unscrew the lid. The squirming thing snapped at me ravenously. I hugged the jar to my chest and tipped the contents onto the floor. The glutinous liquid splashed against my feet as it puddled in the center of the room. The thing caught in the jar’s neck and I shook it loose. It fell to the floor with a squish.

I ground the heel of my boot into the fleshy center of the flopping thing. Something crunched. I dug deeper until I cut the unholy thing in half.

Madness overcame me like a whirlwind. I threw the jar to the ground with all my strength, letting it shatter into hundreds of sharp pieces. I pulled out another jar, this one with a graying heart floating in blood-tinted liquid. The liquid poured out like a torrent, puddling on the floor, the heart coming last, like a heavy and dead afterthought. The smell of the chemical preservative made me light-headed. My lungs burned for air, but I smashed the empty jar to the floor anyway. Dozens more jars of all sizes shone in the light of the lantern, each containing gray, twisted bits of organ. Nearly a decade’s worth of work.

My hands were slick with the viscous fluid. It soaked through my dress. Remnants of animal tissue tangled in the lace hem. I unscrewed the next jar, my fingers leaving wet streaks on the glass. Inside, the aged tissue came off in gossamer sheets like a spider’s web. It was almost beautiful. I recognized what half the jars contained—spleen, large intestine, brain. But then there were ones I didn’t know. Those both disturbed and fascinated me the most.

The floor pooled with fetid organs and slick preservatives as I emptied another jar. I drew the back of my hand across my forehead, leaving a slimy trail. The chemical smell choked my pores. I smiled, reaching for the next preserved organ. Ready to smash its glass case to the ground.

“Juliet, stop!”

Edward appeared at the door, rushing toward me. He grabbed the jar before I could drop it. My liquid-covered hands left dark stains on his shirt as he tried to wrench the jar away.

“Let go!” I yelled. My vision was black with rage. “I have to destroy it!”

“Juliet, calm down! Stop! It’s done.”

The jar slipped from my hands, shattering on the ground. One final act of destruction.

Edward didn’t flinch at the crash. “It’s done now,” he said, breathing hard.

I swallowed, suddenly aware of the slime on my face, the bits of graying organ clinging to my skin. I’d laid waste to the laboratory in a whirlwind of insanity. A trembling panic clutched the back of my brain.

“He could have saved her,” I said. “He thought his work was more important.”

Edward brushed his knuckles against my cheek, wiping away grit and slime, his eyes deep and strong. “You don’t have to explain,” he said.

I swallowed, searching his eyes. Of course I didn’t. Edward was scarred, too. Whatever he had done, whatever he was running from, we weren’t so different. Edward didn’t care that I was a little mad, that I could slip and slide away from reason. Just as I didn’t care what he had done that made him flee England. We both had ghosts in our pasts that let us understand each other on a deep level—a level Montgomery never could. Montgomery might have been capable of wicked things, but he wasn’t wicked, not at the core. No matter how much Father had twisted him, he would always be that hardworking, kindhearted boy who couldn’t tell a believable lie if his life depended on it. Edward and I were cut from different cloth. Maybe we weren’t wicked, but there was something stained, something torn, in the fabric of our beings.

Something warm and wet seeped into my boots—fluid from the specimen jars. Edward’s hand tenderly brushed along my cheekbones. There was something not right about a boy who could survive twenty days at sea and didn’t blink when a half-mad girl covered herself in broken glass and rotting organs.

He’s pretending to fit in, just like I pretend. And he was good at it—better than me.

I curled my hands into his shirt. “What happened to you?” I whispered breathlessly. “What are you running from?”

For a moment his gold-flecked eyes flickered, and he knew I wasn’t referring to his overbearing father. I meant what he truly ran from—the source of his deep-seated scars. He shook his head, almost violently. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll go back to London and none of it will matter. It’ll just be you and me. Juliet . . .”

I knew what he wanted to say. He loved me. He loved the half-mad, filthy girl standing in a pool of formaldehyde. But he would come back to his senses once we were in London. He’d hide his scars, as he was so good at doing, and find a girl like Lucy—sweet, rich, sane. And that’s how it should be. Besides, I’d already made my choice. Montgomery.

But then why did I still think about the cave behind the waterfall? Why did my thoughts slip from Montgomery’s face to Edward’s late at night, in the instant before sleep overcame me?

“Montgomery,” I said, though my throat caught. I supposed I’d hoped that saying his name would evoke his spirit and help ease this heart-clenching tension. “Montgomery’s coming back, too.”

Edward’s jaw twitched. His fingers found my waist, pulling me closer until our bodies were touching. The preservatives seeped into his clothes, binding us together. But he didn’t let go. His eyes were dilated, black as night. “I want to tell you something. . . .”

I shook my head forcefully. I didn’t want him to say he loved me. Because I had recognized a little of myself in him. Too much. And it terrified me.

I put my finger over his lips. “Father’s taken the dogs to the village. He’ll find Montgomery. We’ll go back to London and we’ll never speak of this place again.”

IN MY ROOM, I peeled off my stained dress and shoved it between the iron bars of my small window. The island could have back the mud and the salt and the sweat. I washed the burning chemicals off my face and hands and pulled on the old muslin dress I’d worn when I arrived on the island. I didn’t want Mother’s fancy things. I wanted to feel like myself again.

A chill crept up my back as I bent to lace my boots. That odd sensation of being watched. I whirled to the window, but there was nothing. A familiar smell hung faintly in the air, though—wet dog.

“Who’s there?” I said.

The tip of a boot peeked out from the cracked door.

“I see you,” I said. “Come out.”

Balthasar shuffled forward, peering through the crack. Eyes still human, not regressed like the others.

I threw my hands to the buttons at my chest, doing them up quickly. “What are you doing here?” I snapped. Had he watched me undress? He retreated as though I’d struck him, and I felt a wave of remorse. Balthasar wasn’t a leering beast. He was innocent as a child.

I eased open the door. He was holding the wooden box from the laboratory that contained my new batch of serum. “I’m sorry. I’m not cross,” I said.

He shyly handed me the box. “I wanted to bring you this.”

I took it, feeling guilty. “Thank you.”

His big hands, empty now, plucked nervously at his pockets. “I also wanted to ask you . . . wanted to ask . . .”

I jerked my head towrd the room. “Come inside.” I tried to listen, but my head raced with what needed to be done. I set the box on my dressing table. We still had to fill the jars and waterskins. Find something to use for shade. A weapon would be handy, a pistol or a knife. I dug through the trunks, looking for the shears. Where had I left them?

I glanced at Balthasar, who shifted his weight back and forth. “Yes? Ask me what?”

“Take me with you,” he said. “Take me to Lon-don.”

My hands closed over something hard and sharp between two dresses. The shears. But just as quickly, my fingers went slack. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“Montgomery says you’re leaving the island. You and the other . . . five-fingers.” His lip trembled. “I’ve got five fingers,” he said, holding up his hand. “I’ve crossed the sea. I’ve been to Lon-don. I can pretend. Like actors in a play, Montgomery says. And I will help you. You’ll need a servant.” His mouth broke into that odd panting smile that meant he was nervous.

I leaned on the dresser, closing my eyes. He’d clearly spent some time composing this request. It was true that he could pass for human—a mutilated, deformed man whom people shrank from in the streets. But that wasn’t why I hesitated.

The reason was because I was terrified of taking Balthasar—or any of Father’s creations—off the island. Father’s brilliant and horrible discoveries had to stay lost on that small bit of land in the South Pacific, exiled with him, never to leave.

Balthasar was still smiling. He was so hopeful it broke my heart. I stared at my reflection in the fractured mirror, knowing I hadn’t the strength to tell him the truth.

“Promise you’ll tell no one?” I asked. I hated myself for lying. Destroying Father’s laboratory had been simple, but a single lie to this dog-faced beast made my stomach heave. He nodded enthusiastically. I swallowed, trying to keep the bile down. “You won’t be able to tell anyone about this place. It will have to be a secret.”

He nodded again vigorously. “Like actors in a play.” His hands clamped together.

I looked at a spot just over his left ear. It made the lie easier. “Then you may come.”

His face broke into a genuine smile. He scratched at his nose, trying to hide his excitement. My heart tore, just a little, right along the ventricular septum.

I shoved the shears into my pocket. “But we aren’t going anywhere if Father doesn’t find Montgomery.” I cocked my head, wondering if Balthasar had any sense that his master had been taken. I placed my hand on his hulking shoulder, wondering how to explain. “Some of the islanders took him. I don’t know where. I want you to be strong, no matter what happens. Not to worry. Can you do that?”