quiet because she was uncomfortable. “But these . . .”
She looked down, and Alec moved closer so he could look over her shoulder at the records. Each page contained information about a Creature. Dr. Frankenstein had been very thorough. He included which graves he had stolen from, the dates of each robbery, and any subsequent attempts at reanimation.
The first ten or so attempts were failures on some level or another. No reanimation, one explosion, a couple partial reanimations, and then . . . the first Creature who had survived more than a few hours.
“The original,” Natalie whispered as she ran a finger over the brittle, yellowing paper. She read further. “Destroyed by mob.”
Alec touched her shoulder, though she didn’t seem to notice. She just stared at the page a few more seconds, then flipped to the next Creature.
“Killed by mob,” she repeated, and turned the page.
It ran like that for five or six of her brethren, until April 6, 1758.
The first female version of the monster was written on the page.
“That’s me,” Natalie whispered.
Alec scanned over the page and the details of the graves that had been robbed to create his girlfriend. To “birth” her.
In the notes for where she had ended up, the last line read: Left for America, whereabouts unknown.
“You were the first survivor,” Alec said, impressed down to his soul at her resilience.
Igor seemed to appear from nowhere at Natalie’s elbow, and he smiled. “You were! Victor was very proud of that fact.”
Natalie flinched. “As if he had anything to do with it.”
Igor frowned at the poison in her tone. “Either way, now I can update the record.”
She jerked her face toward him. “Don’t you dare! Leave me as whereabouts unknown .”
He frowned, but she returned her attention to the book and cut off anything else he might have said about the subject.
“Okay, so let’s see if anyone else is poking about.” She turned the pages faster now, not reading any details. “Dead, dead, suicide, killed by mob, killed by farmer, killed by army, dead— Oh, this one was a little slow and fell into a pond after tripping on a rock . . .”
Igor shook his head sadly. “They weren’t all perfect specimens, that’s for sure.”
“So it’s dead?” Alec asked.
Natalie swallowed. “Dead.”
“Shit, there were a lot of Creatures,” Alec breathed.
She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Yes. He was obsessed. Even when he was forced out of one place, he started again in the next. Once he knew the secret of life, of being God, he couldn’t stop himself from continuing to play with it like it just was Play-Doh or a Tinkertoy. He was sick.”
“Not sick,” Igor said, and his tone was hurt. “He wanted to perfect his methods, his experiments.”
Natalie jerked her face toward him. “We weren’t experiments—we were living things.”
She returned her attention to the book, but Alec had seen her face. Monstrous. An expression he rarely saw from her in all her even-keeled control.
“Look,” she said, ignoring the tension. “Here’s another who survived. A male subject. Created once Frankenstein was forced to flee Europe, so he was made in Kazakhstan.” She leaned back. “I had no idea he went so far east.”
“He did, for several years,” Igor explained. “We lived in seclusion, but he could not stop himself from creating. We were chased out shortly after the birth of this one. And when we returned to Europe, we were met with the mob that ultimately killed Victor.” He shook his head.
She stared at the page. “It says this one disappeared into the night during your escape. What happened to him?”
“He was a more advanced version of your father’s work,” Igor said, stepping away from them to pace the small room. “Like you. And he grew to despise Victor. Once he left, once your father was dead, I tracked him for a while. He traveled Europe and must have been able to mask his true identity, also
She looked down, and Alec moved closer so he could look over her shoulder at the records. Each page contained information about a Creature. Dr. Frankenstein had been very thorough. He included which graves he had stolen from, the dates of each robbery, and any subsequent attempts at reanimation.
The first ten or so attempts were failures on some level or another. No reanimation, one explosion, a couple partial reanimations, and then . . . the first Creature who had survived more than a few hours.
“The original,” Natalie whispered as she ran a finger over the brittle, yellowing paper. She read further. “Destroyed by mob.”
Alec touched her shoulder, though she didn’t seem to notice. She just stared at the page a few more seconds, then flipped to the next Creature.
“Killed by mob,” she repeated, and turned the page.
It ran like that for five or six of her brethren, until April 6, 1758.
The first female version of the monster was written on the page.
“That’s me,” Natalie whispered.
Alec scanned over the page and the details of the graves that had been robbed to create his girlfriend. To “birth” her.
In the notes for where she had ended up, the last line read: Left for America, whereabouts unknown.
“You were the first survivor,” Alec said, impressed down to his soul at her resilience.
Igor seemed to appear from nowhere at Natalie’s elbow, and he smiled. “You were! Victor was very proud of that fact.”
Natalie flinched. “As if he had anything to do with it.”
Igor frowned at the poison in her tone. “Either way, now I can update the record.”
She jerked her face toward him. “Don’t you dare! Leave me as whereabouts unknown .”
He frowned, but she returned her attention to the book and cut off anything else he might have said about the subject.
“Okay, so let’s see if anyone else is poking about.” She turned the pages faster now, not reading any details. “Dead, dead, suicide, killed by mob, killed by farmer, killed by army, dead— Oh, this one was a little slow and fell into a pond after tripping on a rock . . .”
Igor shook his head sadly. “They weren’t all perfect specimens, that’s for sure.”
“So it’s dead?” Alec asked.
Natalie swallowed. “Dead.”
“Shit, there were a lot of Creatures,” Alec breathed.
She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Yes. He was obsessed. Even when he was forced out of one place, he started again in the next. Once he knew the secret of life, of being God, he couldn’t stop himself from continuing to play with it like it just was Play-Doh or a Tinkertoy. He was sick.”
“Not sick,” Igor said, and his tone was hurt. “He wanted to perfect his methods, his experiments.”
Natalie jerked her face toward him. “We weren’t experiments—we were living things.”
She returned her attention to the book, but Alec had seen her face. Monstrous. An expression he rarely saw from her in all her even-keeled control.
“Look,” she said, ignoring the tension. “Here’s another who survived. A male subject. Created once Frankenstein was forced to flee Europe, so he was made in Kazakhstan.” She leaned back. “I had no idea he went so far east.”
“He did, for several years,” Igor explained. “We lived in seclusion, but he could not stop himself from creating. We were chased out shortly after the birth of this one. And when we returned to Europe, we were met with the mob that ultimately killed Victor.” He shook his head.
She stared at the page. “It says this one disappeared into the night during your escape. What happened to him?”
“He was a more advanced version of your father’s work,” Igor said, stepping away from them to pace the small room. “Like you. And he grew to despise Victor. Once he left, once your father was dead, I tracked him for a while. He traveled Europe and must have been able to mask his true identity, also
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