Free The Hunchback Assignments by Arthur Slade Page B

couldn’t tell where it was coming from.
    “
Hrrts id …
”
    His throat was parched and his head throbbed. Shadows passed in front of him, but his eyes felt too sore to keep open. He shut them tight.
    “
Monnm. Mere mere. Id hrrts. Missshus Feeenchley, help. I hurt.
”
    So. It had been his own voice. He tried to touch his lips, but couldn’t move his hands.
    “You are in much torment,” a woman said flatly. She had an odd accent. “Do you want your mother?” Modo opened his eyes in anger, only to be blinded by a bright light. “I—I have no mother.”
    “That is rather sad.” Her face came into focus. It wasperfect and pale, like the Greek goddesses in the paintings Mrs. Finchley had shown him. She had determined blue eyes, and tightly braided red hair. She straightened up and stepped back a few feet. “You gave yourself a severe blow.”
    At once Modo remembered fleeing Fuhr and striking the door. He couldn’t recall anything after that. He tried again to lift his arms, then realized his wrists and ankles were manacled to the thick wooden chair upon which he was slumped.
    “Count your lucky stars that you’re still amongst the living,” the woman said, studying him. With a start he wondered if his transformation had lasted. He’d never been knocked out while in this state. Blood pounded in his ears. He tried to touch his face but only rattled the manacles. He searched the woman’s expression for any hint of disgust or revulsion. Finding none, he concluded that he had maintained his form.
    “You are too curious, young man,” she said. “Curiosity can lead to fatality.” She chuckled as though she’d been terribly clever.
    He could now make out the gaslight, magnified by tin reflectors, directed at his face. He couldn’t see anyone else in the room.
    “Wh-Where am I?” he asked.
    “I will ask questions, you will answer. I am Miss Hakkandottir. Now you know my name, tell me yours.”
    “It’s Mo—Mr. Peterkin. Robert Peterkin. What do you want with me?”
    There was a flash of metal, then pain raked his right cheek. He screamed and strained against the manacles.
    “I ask questions, you answer. It is a simple arrangement. Do you understand?”
    Modo nodded, blood dripping down his face. Red stains spattered across his white sleeves.
    “Now, Mr. Peterkin. Under other circumstances, I would be patient, perhaps even hospitable, but there is no time. You have infiltrated our organization, so I need to know: Who employs you?”
    He couldn’t tell them about Miss Featherstone. Chances were that she knew little, if anything, about the true nature of this society and he was certain they would do her harm.
    Modo ran his sandpaper tongue around the inside of his mouth. His forehead was sweating. “An uncle,” he said, “of one of your members. Of …” He struggled to remember the names on the list. Mr. Socrates had made him work hard on his memorization skills, but he was failing nonetheless. “Sax-Romburg,” he said.
    “Saxe-Coburg,” the woman corrected. She tilted her head inquisitively, a flattering angle that made her more beautiful. Except for her eyes; they were reptilian. She rarely blinked, which Modo found most disconcerting. “But you originally enquired about Mr. Featherstone. Are you lying to me?”
    Modo shook his head quickly, twitching in anticipation of another blow. “No. No. I was simply trying to throw you off the track of my employer, that was all.”
    “How did you know Mr. Featherstone was a member of our society?”
    “Mr. Saxe-Coburg is a friend of his, or so I assumed.”
    Her eyes burned into his. “So the Royals hired you?”
    “Yes, an uncle. Renald. He’s overprotective, by his own admission.”
    “Renald. The name isn’t familiar to me. And I know all of them.”
    “He lives in Bonne.”
    She tapped her temple with her finger. Modo shook his head and looked again. Could it be? Her hand was made of metal, each digit cut in such a way that her fingers