THIRTEEN
Spring, 1914
‘Omoara-mă.’
True to his word, Hannibal was there when the boy woke once more. The sounds were familiar; he had heard the phrase before. But he had been studying, and this time, he understood. He set his book aside and crossed the cell to sit on the edge of the cot.
The patient was no longer restrained, but broken bones would keep him still enough. His eyes focussed dully somewhere beyond the ceiling of the cell, reflecting the weak light of the electric lanterns. They were brown, dilated only to compensate for the dimness.
‘I don’t mean to kill you,’ Hannibal said quietly. ‘Don’t be afraid.’
The monster turned his face away, exhausted.
‘No. You have kidnapped and confined me. Conducted experiments. Starved me. There will be more, will there not? More torture?’
