Chapter 4: The Artifact Between Them
The air in the Museum of Modern Antiquities smelled of polished marble, bespoke perfume, and ambition. Chandeliers hung like frozen galaxies, their light glinting off the glass cases that held looted gods and purchased histories. Frankenstein stood near a display of Etruscan fibulae, a crystal flute of champagne untouched in his hand, and watched the circus unfold.
Across the grand ballroom, draped in silk the color of a dying rose, Kali Tice laughed. The sound was too bright, too sharp, a glass bell struck with a little too much force. She wore a backless column of emerald green that should have made her look like a jewel. Instead, she looked like a blade. Her date was a man named Alistair Croft, an archaeologist-turned-television-personality with a jawline you could cut yourself on and a tan that spoke of desert digs and studio lights. His hand was a wide, possessive spread on the small of her bare back.
“The serum’s effects are progressing faster than anticipated,” Takeo’s voice murmured, almost inaudible, from just behind Frankenstein’s right shoulder. Takeo was a shadow in a tailored tuxedo, his long purple hair tied back so severely it seemed to pull the calm from his features. “Her neural activity is spiking into erratic patterns. The latest data from our passive scans indicates severe sleep deprivation. She hasn’t slept in 72 hours.”
Frankenstein didn’t turn. He tracked the minute tremor in Kali’s fingers as she raised her own glass. Saw the hyper-focused dilation of her pupils, taking in every detail of the room—the weight of a necklace on a dowager across the hall, the stress fracture in the pedestal of a nearby Grecian urn, the subtle hierarchy in the cluster of bankers by the bar. She was drinking it all in, every radio station at maximum volume, with no off switch.
“She’s burning herself out to ash,” Frankenstein said, his voice flat.
Alistair Croft leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of Kali’s ear to whisper something. She laughed again, that same fractured sound, and tipped her head back in a gesture that was part amusement, part exhaustion, part something like pain. A shard of pure, un-adulterated possessiveness, cold and ancient, slithered through Frankenstein’s veins.
The crystal flute in his hand cracked. Not a dramatic shatter, but a single, clean fracture that zigzagged from rim to stem. Champagne bled over his fingers, cold and sticky.
He looked down at it, mildly surprised. This was… untidy. An emotional spasm. He hadn’t had one in centuries.
“Sir,” Takeo breathed, a question and an alert in one syllable.
“It’s nothing,” Frankenstein said, letting the broken glass be taken discreetly by a passing waiter with a tray. He wiped his hand on a linen napkin. His gaze never left Kali. “The counter-agent. Status?”
“The base compound is stable. The binding agent is still volatile. Another 48 hours for synthesis and purification.”
“We don’t have 48 hours,” Frankenstein said, watching as Kali excused herself from Croft, her movements precise but slightly too quick, like a hummingbird on a stimulant. She headed for a secluded balcony overlooking the museum’s sculpture garden.
He moved. The crowd seemed to part for him, an instinctual yielding to something in his posture, in the cool stillness of his eyes. He intercepted her just as she pushed through the heavy drape onto the balcony.
The night air was a slap of chill after the stifling heat of the ballroom. Kali gripped the stone balustrade, her knuckles white. Up close, the façade was worse. A fine sheen of sweat glazed her temples. The vibrant green of her eyes was shot through with a network of almost microscopic crimson filaments—burst capillaries from the relentless cerebral pressure.
“You look like hell,” he said, leaning against the railing beside her.
She barked a laugh, raw and real. “Thanks. I was aiming for ‘consumptive Victorian heroine.’” She turned her head, studying him. “You’re brooding. I can hear it from here. What’s wrong, Frankenstein? See a relic you couldn’t acquire?”
“I’m looking at one.” He reached out, his fingers hovering just beside her temple, not touching. The hum was a physical vibration in the air between his skin and hers. A buzzing, frantic energy. “Kali, you’re running a fever your body can’t sustain.”
She flinched back from his almost-touch. “Don’t. I can’t… the input is too much. Your hand, it has a… thermal signature. I can see the blood flow pattern. It’s distracting.”
“When was your last treatment?”
“This morning.” She closed her eyes, tilting her face into the breeze. “The usual cocktail. Supplements. Synapse stabilizers. The allergy shot.” The last two words were bitter.
“They’re not allergy shots.”
Her eyes snapped open. They held no surprise, only a weary, confirmed dread. “I know.”
The admission hung between them. The last veil was gone.
“How long?” he asked.
“Since the dinner. I had your wine glass analyzed. Traces of an unknown peptide on the rim. I cross-referenced it with every bio-database, public and… not so public. Found a match in a sealed Union file from the 80s. Codename: Choirboy. Neural acceleration and conditioning serum. Listed side effects: hyper-acuity, manic episodes, systemic collapse.” She spoke in a clipped, rapid-fire monotone, facts spooling out. “Grandmother never meant for me to be smart. She meant for me to be a weapon. A sharp, thinking scalpel. The ultimate corporate asset. No downtime. No emotional fog. Just… perfect, predatory clarity.”
“And now the weapon is overheating,” Frankenstein said softly.
“Now the weapon wants to sleep,” she whispered, the defiance finally draining away, leaving pure, unvarnished terror underneath. “But it can’t. The static… it’s not static anymore. It’s a scream. A thousand voices, all mine, all screaming at once.” Her breath hitched. “I’m scared, Frankenstein. I’ve never been scared of anything inside my own head.”
Before he could respond, the drape swished open. Alistair Croft stood there, his handsome face a mask of charming concern that didn’t reach his eyes. Those were calculating, scanning the scene.
“There you are, darling. You vanished.” His gaze flicked to Frankenstein, assessing, dismissing. “Everything alright?”
“Fine, Alistair,” Kali said, pulling the tattered remains of her persona around her like a shawl. “Just needed some air. Mr. Frankenstein was just leaving.”
Croft’s smile was all teeth. “I should hope so. This is a private event.”
Frankenstein pushed off from the railing. He didn’t look at Croft. He looked only at Kali, holding her desperate, fractured gaze. “Remember what I said. About being the station manager.”
He turned to leave, brushing past Croft. As he did, he caught a scent clinging to the man’s tailored lapel. Not cologne. Antiseptic. And underneath it, the faint, metallic tang of the silver neural gel.
Croft wasn’t just a date. He was Union. A handler. Here to monitor the asset.
The revelation was a cold stone in Frankenstein’s gut. He didn’t pause.
Inside, he found Takeo by a monstrous Baroque tapestry. “Change of plans,” Frankenstein said, his voice low and devoid of all its earlier casual warmth. “The archaeologist is Union. He’s here for her. We accelerate. I want the compound ready for initial trial in 12 hours.”
Takeo’s eyes widened slightly, but he gave a short nod. “The risks—”
“Are mine to manage. Prepare the west lab. I’ll bring her.”
“Sir, extracting her from a Union operative, in public—”
“I won’t be extracting her,” Frankenstein said, his eyes scanning the room, planning trajectories, disruptions, blind spots. “She’s going to collapse. And when she does, I’ll be the only one with the means to help. Even her handler will have to allow it. Get the car ready at the service entrance.”
He melted back into the crowd, a polite smile on his face as he exchanged meaningless pleasantries with a curator. His focus, however, was a laser. He watched Kali re-enter on Croft’s arm. Watched her forced smile. Watched as she took a fresh glass of champagne from a tray and drained half of it in one go, a futile attempt to dampen the screaming in her skull.
It happened during a toast.
The museum director was droning on about philanthropic legacy. Kali stood, swaying slightly. The glass in her hand began to vibrate, ringing a tiny, high-pitched chime against the others held by the guests around her. Her eyes lost their hyper-focused sheen, going distant, then blank.
She didn’t crumple. She simply went rigid, a silent statue, before her legs ceased to support her. She dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.
Chaos erupted. Gasps. The shatter of glass.
Alistair Croft was there instantly, catching her before she hit the floor. His face was a professional mask of alarm, but his hands were clinical, checking her pulse, peeling back an eyelid. Frankenstein was at his side a second later.
“She needs a hospital,” Croft snapped, his handler persona fully engaged.
“She needs a specialist,” Frankenstein countered, his voice cutting through the babble. He knelt, his fingers pressing to Kali’s neck. Her pulse was a frantic, bird-like flutter against his skin. “This is a neurological event. I have a facility. My car is outside. Now.”
Croft’s eyes locked with his. A silent war transpired in the space between heartbeats. The Union man saw the cold certainty in Frankenstein’s gaze. He weighed the spectacle, the risk of a public hospital, the questions. The asset was malfunctioning. The mysterious school administrator offered a discreet solution.
“Fine,” Croft hissed. “But I’m coming with you.”
“As you wish,” Frankenstein said, gathering Kali’s limp, burning-hot form into his arms. She was terrifyingly light. “But you’ll wait in the car.”
He carried her through the parting crowd, past the stunned dignitaries and the flashing phone cameras, a bridegroom carrying a broken bride. Takeo had the car idling, the back door open. Frankenstein laid Kali across the leather seats, her head lolling.
Croft tried to climb in after her. Frankenstein’s hand shot out, barring the door. “The front. With my associate.”
“She’s my responsibility,” Croft growled.
“And right now,” Frankenstein said, sliding in beside Kali and cradling her head to keep her airway clear, “I am the only thing standing between her and a cerebral hemorrhage. Get in the front, or walk.”
The door slammed. Takeo met Croft’s seething gaze in the rearview mirror for a second before pulling away from the curb, the museum’s bright lights fading into the dark, hungry night. In the back, Frankenstein stroked the damp hair from Kali’s fevered brow, his other hand already pulling a slim, pre-loaded syringe from his inner pocket.
“Hang on,” he murmured, his voice for her alone. “The station manager is coming on duty.”