Praetorian Rising, стр. 62
"I don't know you," Camille hissed, glancing behind her to locate Theo and Charlie. She could barely make out their distant shapes, as they lunged and twisted wildly against the growing number of Chimera surrounding them.
She had a nagging desire to run in the opposite direction of the stranger standing coolly in front of her, but she held her ground. She wouldn't give in to her fear; Theo could hold his ground a little longer, and Camille was sure Charlie could too.
"I assure you we most definitely have met. You haven't fully recovered your memories yet, have you?" The man peered at her with a sharp intensity that went to the depths of her bones, grating against her calm reserve unrelentingly.
Camille couldn't help but return his stare through the heavy rain, desperately trying to push away the images now clawing to the front of her mind. His voice she did remember. A slow serpentine memory slithered from the depths of her past to the forefront of her mind, and she pressed it away with sharp distaste. "You know nothing about me!" Camille said, her tone clipped and unyielding.
"The memories we share will return in time, sweet dove," he said slowly, looking her up and down with bemusement.
"Wait..." Camille said with sudden recollection, though not from her past. "You're Metus Craven," Camille snarled. Jacob and Brian had talked about the green-eyed King Regent, the man in charge of the throne in the High King's absence. She couldn't remember a single memory, but she did know who he was, and her stomach coiled like a mass of slithering eels at the realization.
"Ah yes, so you do know me. Bravo—I knew you would. I do prefer King Regent though, my dear, if you don't mind," he said, pausing for dramatic effect. "I'd hope a person like myself would make an impact on your memories," Metus said with a satisfied grin. His confident tone struck an irate nerve in her body, and any weakness his surprise appearance had inflicted on her extinguished instantly. "It's been a year and some moons since I last saw you, yet so little has changed. You look so much like her, you know. Even after the grueling lessons, I put you through. You have her eyes."
Camille went into a Praecollection so fierce and charged with pain and agony that her knees almost buckled beneath her. A sharp ache surged from her neck to her extremities, and she felt the floating sensation of death just out of reach. She begged for it, longing for the pain to be over.
Grasping at her neckline, she searched for the source of pain but felt only her rain-slicked skin and heated blood pumping furiously beneath the surface. Another tiny fissure opened through the wall of her mind, and a surge of memories spilled forth, as fresh and vivid as though they'd happened the day before.
She glared at the man now standing just a few feet away from her. Crippling images assaulted her: gleaming metal tables laden with sharp needles, blades, and surgical tools, the entire room sterile in its whiteness, nothing out of place. The cold bite of metal resting against her neck, draining almost every ounce of life she had. She could practically smell the bitter stench of disinfectant—it had been her prison, her tomb, her own personal hell.
"It was you," she choked out. "You helped the High King keep me captive in Alpha Quarter!"
She barely noticed the flush of blood racing beneath her cheeks and neck, the tingling pricks of heightened energy emitting from her fingertips down to her toes. Every molecule within her sizzled with rage at a capacity she'd never felt before. It was addicting, intoxicating—and she didn't want it to end.
"Captive? Such a strong word," Metus said, his lips turned downward with a slight shake of his head as though bewildered by her reaction. "I saved you from imminent death. And look at us now: swords at the ready and preparing for battle," Metus crowed over the screaming wind.
"I was nothing more than an experiment to you. You stole me from my Praetorian duty; you tortured me!"
"I was trying to help you control your power, Camille! You misunderstand me, even now. I only want to help you."
"Help me?! You're sick—you and that vile monster you call a King!"
He shook his blond head, hair slicked back to the curves of his skull by the torrential downpour. To many, Metus would appear an attractive man, his face pleasantly round but not overly so, his brow line straight, his nose a little slope into a slight upward turn at the end. His posture was stern like he had a steel rod for a backbone, his shoulders yanked into place, emitting an air of confidence Camille wasn't sure he had the right to demand. A slight smirk lifted the corners of his lips, but she felt it was an act: he was afraid of her.
"Let's just calm down first," Metus said, voice brimming with fake sweetness. "It's good to see the rumors of your location are true, obviously, as you're standing here before me."
"You've seen me, so I suggest you leave before I add your carcass to the growing pile of dead Chimera." Camille pointed the end of her sword straight at Metus's chest to support her threat.
His eyes widened at Camille's deadly display of anger. "You think you're the only reason I'm here?"
"Camille!" rang out a deep