Chapter 63 Lazareth’s Veil
CHAPTER SIXTY THREE
Gregor's POV~
I sat back in my leather chair, a Scotch in my hand, watching the amber of my drink reflect the light of the desk lamp as I sneered through Lazareth’s serum trials. My voice was steel, cruel wisdom cut over years of practiced control, “Valenticia’s a pawn, nothing less.” Behold the Lazareth project – my masterpiece, the weaponization of memory-hole suppression, serum derived from the remains of Subject V, my niece, Valenticia Clawford. Her groping for the antidote, her mother’s sorry heirloom, was the gnat’s hum in my scheming. Fear? Absent. She would never win in a fight against me. I sipped the scotch, the burn in the scotch, and scrolled through documents with coded file names, Lazareth’s data a symphony of power: dosages fine-tuned, trials enlarged, funds wired into shadow accounts. My will did not waver, it was iron, hard -- the world will bend, and Valenticia will break.
Natasha Anderson's report had flashed across my screen, her voice came clipped through the secure line, "Lena's lab- antidote samples, tampered; as instructed. My grin grew, but suspect gnawed — Natasha’s ambition was a viper, coiled and hungry. “Right,” I said, sounding not so, “keep Voss in check. No mistakes.” The pause was minute, and I picked up on it, her tone too sweet and easy, “Yes, Gregor.” I hung up, tapping my fingers on the desk, unease a distant ripple. Natasha was no-nonsense, cutthroat, but a primal, burning longing in her too so much like mine—will she turn? I waved the notion away, looking out into the lights of the capital of Seryne, my crayons, my domain. Valenticia’s interference, her stupid coastal lab raid, was a nuisance, not a danger. She’s a ghost-chaser, I chuckled, my lips curling, the antidote’s instability—neural overload—my insurance against her betrayal.
A memory pricked to life, sharp as a splinter: my aunt Eleanor, Valenticia’s mother, in the library of the Clawford estate, her eyes lit with defiance. “You’re a monster, Gregor,” she’d said, in 1999, her voice a whip, “this serum is going to kill her. I’d laughed, of course, her whistling nothing more than a wasted spark against Galden’s machine, but the sting remained, her bravery a reflection of my baseness. I hid it, jaw clenched and swirled the scotch, its amber bottom a vacuum where feeling went to die. Eleanor and James were a distant memory, my command silenced, their daughter a loose end I’d knot. And family doesn’t mean a thing, I reminded myself, confirming the resolution, but her voice rang like a ghost, a specter hard to dispel.
I glanced at my vibrating phone, violated Seryne databases............... Kane files, What Kane kept there. Rage shot through me, a cold fire, and my glass struck the desk, scotch splattering. “She’s too close,” I muttered under my breath, the words a swear. Elias Kane—the Marrow alias—was a link to Lazareth, my underground labs, the heart of my serum. How dare she? Valenticia, the chip off her mother’s block, was a knife edge to my plans, and I flagged a secure line to Dr. Patel, my chemist-pawn in Seryne. “Patel,” I said in an icy tone, “Valenticia’s sniffing around Lazareth. Feed her lies — poison formulas, break her.” “Yes, sir,” Patel’s voice quavered, “but she’s sharp—” “Do it, or you’re next.” I put down the phone, ironing in my purpose, determination a steel wall between me and her spark waiting to ignite. She’s not Eleanor, I reminded myself, yet there and gone I trembled a whisper – but what if she was?
I paced the penthouse, its marble floor cool through my polished loafers, Seryne’s lights a twinkling web below. Lazareth was my bequest, a serum to dominate the way minds, markets and nations turned, and Valenticia's purpose had been a flaw in its design. I had opened a file, Kane’s patents and my signature lay buried in aliases, a trail I had believed to be eradicated. She’s going too far, I noted to myself, my rage boiling under the top scum, and I splashed another scotch in my glass, the burn gelling my shaking hand. Wait, it was all an illusion, a subversion of the story made up by Natasha’s meddling That gave her some breathing room, but the pasty interrupter from Valenticia was a warning, She’s not alone. Rosanna’s investigator, Marcus, his shadow in Seryne’s alleys, was a pest I’d squish, and Stefan, her lover, a weak link I’d exploit. My mouth curled into a smile, a game rolling in my mind—break her heart, break her spirit.
Marrow’s coded call buzzed my phone, and I answered it, curtly with my words. “What?” His rasp sounded soft, urgent, “She’s decrypting Lazareth, Gregor. The note from the bookshop — she’s nearby.” My fury blazed, a conflagration, and I throttled the phone, knuckles white. Valenticia, I said, you’ll go down. I hung up on her, promising myself I would break her.