Page 95 of The Diamond in the Rough

This boy had only gotten worse the longer he’d been here. He couldfeelthe magic surging in the child. Feel it rebelling against everything they did to rip out the foul earth-magic.

The family wouldn’t have minded, even considering what the little monster had done, if only the magic had been clean.

The doors to the treatment room opened, and the patient was wheeled in, strapped down even though he was still ostensibly human.

He strapped the machine to the patient’s wrists and ankles, took the charcoal and drew the sigils on the pale, thin chest.

Breath gasped in and out. Those dark, unnaturally black eyes wide and filled with hate.

He was doing his job.

But this one. This one he enjoyed stripping the power from.

I jerkedout of the vision and hit the doors hard, running blindly.

I sat on the step,sobs ripping through me, my chest aching and air difficult to draw into my lungs. There was just… too much. Too many thoughts that were too painful to even consider.

The little monster.

Me.

I knew whose memories the last set had been. Not Dr. Garraway’s—I was pretty sure I’d never met him in anymeaningful way. Dr. Rhett Protheroe. He’d been right. I’d hated him. I’d hated everyone who had subjected me to their so-called treatment, but I’d hated him more than most.

I shuddered, my body remembering what it had been like on the other side of that memory. Nausea surged, but I didn’t move.

I’d already thrown up everything that was in my stomach, including most of my stomach acid. It had gotten to the point where I was ignoring both the nausea and the convulsions designed to purge my stomach, since there wasn’t a point in even trying to bring anything up anymore.

But I’d hit my limit.

I justcouldn’tanymore.

And the second my butt had hit the wood of the back steps leading out to the now-overgrown and neglected yard, I completely lost control. I’d run outside, mostly dry-heaved off the edge of the porch, then collapsed on the wide set of stairs, the mask I’d barely had time to rip off at my feet in the overgrown dead grass.

I was folded in half, arms crossed over my thighs, face on my arms, trying to keep from having to look at anything. I knew there were still agents moving around, searching, trying to find anything else that might link Tranquil Brook to either Roderick or Phillip Dagget or to the mysterious other Garraway to the institution. Or which might provide us with a possible name of our killer.

I had tried to help.

But I couldn’t take it anymore.

I became dimly aware that there was a hand on my back, heavy and a little warm, gently moving in slow circles. There was a big, warm thigh pressed against mine.

“The fuck is going on, Raj?” I recognized Hart’s voice. “He okay?”

“Of course he’s not okay, Hart,” came the snapped response from next to me. “He just touched half the shit in this damn asylum. Can you even fuckingimaginethe hell he’s been through today?” Raj sounded angry.

I hoped he wasn’t angry with me. I couldn’t take it if he were angry with me. More angry, anyway.

I couldn’t stand one more person—past or present—yelling, screaming, cursing, crying. Not one more. My lungs constricted, and I struggled to gulp in more air.

“Shhhhhh.” I felt the hand moving across my shoulders. “You’ll be okay, Rayn. I know you’re not now, but you will be.”

“Here.” Hart’s voice again.

“What the hell are—Oh.” I felt him move away from me, making me shudder involuntarily. But then the hand was back. “Rayn,” he said, his voice soft and gentle and very close to my ear. “Hart brought your gloves. Do you want to put them on? You can be done touching things for the day.”

I couldn’t make myself lift my head, but I turned it, weakly holding out an arm.

“Watch your sleeves,” Hart said from behind us.