The Gender Game 5 (The Gender Fall)(74)

Meanwhile, Desmond’s predatory voice continued in the earbud, “I see Ms. Bates has encouraged your overinflated opinion of yourself. No matter. Even though you haven’t led me back to your camp, there is still a reason I have approached you today. There’s still a lesson you need to learn.”

I took a few cautious steps away, not wanting Desmond to hear Thomas tinkering around. I also avoided Ms. Dale and Owen. We needed to be more spread out in case the boy flew into action. And I needed to keep her talking.

It wasn’t hard, because I already had more questions than I could hold in. “A lesson? Was that what all this was about? The empty file cabinets? The rows of murdered corpses in tents? Did you just… put all this out here so you could teach us ‘a lesson’? Is that what all these deaths were for?”

Desmond’s voice grew, if possible, even more gleeful. “Why, Viggo, of course not. The Matrians already had an accumulation of bodies that had very little to do with you, all things considered. And the camp was here before. Since the Matrians don’t care particularly how these men are disposed of, I just used the resources available to me. Then it was simply a matter of waiting for your merry band to sniff out injustice and come swooping in to save the day… I’m actually kind of glad that you ended up there, of all places. It’s by far the best of the surprises I’ve left for you.”

“There are more places like this?” I felt my mouth actually hanging open. The sheer scale of Desmond’s plan was devastating. “There are more… traps?”

“Telling you would spoil all the fun, wouldn’t it?”

I took that as a yes to my question. Had Thomas figured out how to listen in on this yet? This conversation was growing more and more infuriating.

“All right,” I said through my teeth. “Since it’s clear you’re not going to stop on this train of thought, what was that about a lesson?”

“A lesson. One of endurance. You see, you and your little Violet have merely been a nuisance up until this point. A fly in the proverbial ointment—disgusting, buzzing pathetically around, but ultimately ignorable.”

I shook my head—was that an echo?—only to realize I was hearing Desmond’s voice piping through something behind me. I shot a glance at Thomas, who grinned. He’d managed to hack the frequency, like I’d hoped he would. I noticed Ms. Dale and Owen moving closer, eager to hear the other half of the conversation they had been missing out on.

“And then the palace happened,” I said, following Desmond’s train of thought. “Tell me, did Elena shed a tear over the loss of her little sister? How was her speech? I bet it was suitably heartfelt and filled with overused clichés.”

The woman’s voice in my ear soured the slightest bit. “You’d better watch your tone, Mr. Croft. Otherwise this conversation will end before I have a chance to explain its purpose, and you will learn, in terrible and frightening ways, how much I can hurt you.”

“What do you want, Desmond?” I asked, struggling to keep my tone neutral. I hated this feeling—the feeling I was a mouse with a cat crouching directly behind me, set to attack.

She sighed, a heavy, disapproving sound coming through the speakers. “You really do have poor conversation skills.”

“I’ll work on that.”

“I very much doubt you’ll have time, Mr. Croft. Not that you don’t have a future, mind you. It’s just already filled with unimaginable torment. You haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of what the queen and I are capable of doing.”

“Like with the boys?” My eyes were trained on the subject in question. He was still breathing heavily.

“Clever man. And, yes, the boys. Did you know what amazing specimens they are? They really are impressive. Their strength and stamina are off the charts. Take the boy who followed you, for example: he ran forty-eight point six miles without stopping. I could order him to keep running, too, and he would do it. He would do it until he dropped dead, his tiny little heart unable to cope with the strain.”

I had no immediate answer to that. I took in a sharp, biting breath, red flashing across my vision, realizing my fists had clenched so hard my nails dug into my palms. I ground my teeth together and risked a glance over to Owen and Ms. Dale. Ms. Dale was already moving toward Dr. Arlan—I could almost see her plan forming. I turned back to the boy standing before us, his eyes empty, his chest heaving, as Desmond continued.

“I could make him fight you, you know. Have him take you all on. I’m not sure how he’d fare against you and Ms. Dale in his condition, but I’m betting it wouldn’t matter. The strain alone would probably end him. Should I do that, Viggo? The young man’s heart-rate is well above the norm, even after standing idly for a few minutes. Should I make him fight you until his heart explodes?”