Chapter 36
Frankie
For as long as I can remember, I never knew what to call the man who created me. Was he my father? My creator? Something else entirely? All I know is that I went from nothing but a thought to a sentient being. In the process, I was gifted with an intelligence that surpassed those around me and an impenetrable body.
Not even a knife to the heart could kill me.
Now, I sit across from my father—my manufacturer?—in the small kitchenette I share with Mason, Vin, Jack, and Hux. He languidly sips from the porcelain teacup while his sharp eyes assess me.
Frankenstein is a sinewy man. Nothing significant about him in the slightest. His hair is beginning to gray, the wispy strands shorter on the top than the sides. A fine, pointy mustache rests above his thin lips, and his eyes are wrinkled with age—not from smiling or laughing. I don’t think I’ve seen the man laugh once in his life. His tan shorts contrast greatly with his plum-colored button up that seems a few sizes too large. The fabric swallows him whole.
Currently, his knee is bouncing with agitation as his eyes flitter from my face to the window and then to the closed door.
As well as being the top scientist in the world, he’s also a paranoid maniac. Living for centuries will do that to a person.
“You wanted to talk?” I ask curtly, glaring daggers at my own cup of tea. I have no intentions of actually drinking the liquid. Frankenstein made it himself, and anything that he creates is immensely dangerous—a tree that is being cut down, just waiting to fall and demolish everything in its pathway.
“Are we safe?” Frankenstein queries, jumping to his feet to survey first the windows and then the kitchen itself. He opens up every cupboard and places a strange, silver device on the swinging wooden doors. No doubt, it’s one of his newer inventions designed to track for both spells and listening devices.
As I said before, Frankenstein is a paranoid bugger.
Instead of answering, I allow him to sweep every nook and crevice of our quaint kitchen. Only when he’s satisfied that there’s no one lurking in the closet does he sit back down across from me. He eyes the teacup warily—almost distrustfully—as if someone put poison in it during the few minutes he was away.
“Safe. Yes, safe,” he mutters to himself as he grabs the porcelain cup, tips it over, and stares intently at the engraved initials of the artist on the bottom. Hot tea cascades over the edge of the table and hits his lap, but he doesn’t even blink at what I’m sure is a blistering sting.
“What did you wish to discuss with me?” I level him with a glare capable of freezing fire. I’ve always been a cold, unfeeling man. For the longest time, I thought that was all I was capable of being. After all, I’m nothing but an experiment brought to life by a burst of lightning. Only Violet is capable of unthawing the ice surrounding my heart, leaving me feeling warm, and at the same time, bereft. That impassiveness has been my defense mechanism since I was first created. It feels odd to have it suddenly chipped away from me, baring the man underneath. The man I hadn’t known existed.
But around my father, I’ll remain cold. I’ll remain the uncaring, apathetic piece of meat he created in his image. If he knew the truth, that my very genetic makeup was beginning to alter because of the mating bond, he’d lose his shit.
Experiments aren’t meant to find their mates, aren’t meant to fall in love. We’re fated to wander this world as nothing but a machine for the monsters to use and discard. Human consciousness trapped in a body capable of withstanding time itself.
“The beasts you created for the first game were remarkable,” I say at last, knowing that flattery is one of the only ways to breach his crazy mind. As expected, he sits up straighter and preens under my praise.
“I spent all year working on them. I see you met a few…” He nods towards the corner of the room where one of his creations stands sentry. For some reason, I haven’t been able to shake this monster. The centaur chose to remain in the arena, but the hounds and the man with no face followed me. I have no idea where the mutts disappeared to, but the man remained with me, delegating himself as my servant and protector. I sense no ill intent from any of them, so I’ll let them be. For now.
“Yes, well, I have you to thank for that,” I reply, refilling his now empty cup. Without allowing it to cool, he brings it to his mouth and chugs it, brown liquid dripping down his chin. I just barely cover up my expression of disgust. “He seems quite fond of me. No doubt, he recognizes pieces of you in me.”
Frankenstein waves away my words, grabbing the entire teapot and drinking straight from the nozzle. “You, my dear boy, have done great work as well. I’ve seen those Violet Dracula dolls and—”
“Those Violet Dracula dolls?” I interrupt, my muscles bunching. I’d thought we eliminated them all. Those sex dolls have been nothing but a nuisance, and I know they’ve hurt Violet as well. I can’t even imagine what she has gone through with the knowledge people have used those dolls for both pain and pleasure. It makes the ice in my stomach turn to molten lava, seconds from bursting and igniting this entire fucking world on fire.
“Why, yes.” His brows cinch together in confusion. “You sent one to my office just the other day.”
“I did no such thing,” I protest immediately, adamantly. When his brows raise even higher, I work to moderate my volume. “I believe there’s been some mistake. We’ve chosen to…discontinue that line.”
I don’t bother correcting him by saying Mikey—Merlin’s dead son—was the one to create those dolls.
“Ridiculous!” Once more, he waves his hand as if he’s trying to eradicate my words straight from the air. “They’re my top seller. So far, our company has sold over one thousand of those dolls.”
Ice sludges in my stomach as his words register. My hands grip the edge of the table until my knuckles are white, nearly translucent.
“Your company decided to make more of them.” Though it’s not a question, Frankenstein treats it as one.
“Oh, yes. It’s good business. Good business.” He bobs his head eagerly, extending a hand as if he’s encouraging me to celebrate with him.
“She’s innocent, Frankenstein,” I manage to grind out through gritted teeth. “A child should not pay for the crimes of their parent.”
“Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.” With a burp, he drops the teapot back onto the table and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Money is power, and Dracula is money.” His shrewd eyes narrow, and I suddenly feel small again. Small and vulnerable, like a forlorn child desperately wanting to please his father. “You care for this vampire?”
“No,” I spit out, and I leave it at that.
Frankenstein nods his head once more, turning the cup around and around in his hands.
“A lot is planned for the second game.” His head whips up to pierce me with an unreadable look. Just as quickly, he ducks his head and begins to hum softly beneath his breath. “It’s going to break you. Break your little vampire. Break the entire monster world.”
“What are you talking about?” I sit up straighter, my mind processing this new information. Magically, Frankenstein is prohibited from giving me any details about the next two games. He’s quite literally enchanted not to.