Trinket hurried down to the laboratory so she could warn Booker about Scales' threats, but her mind went blank when she took in the scene before her.
Booker washing his blood-covered his hands at the sink.
And surgical tools lying beside the unconscious Resurrectionist on the operating table.
"Booker, what did you do?" she whispered.
Glancing over his shoulder, Booker's gaze traveled from her to the Resurrectionist and then to the tools. His eyes went wide. Turning off the faucets, he grabbed a towel to dry his hands and quickly approached her.
"It's not what you think, Trinket," he said.
"You told me you wouldn't harm him!"
He held up his hands and closed his eyes as she raised her voice. "Unnecessarily. I wouldn't harm him unnecessarily. And I used ether, so it shouldn't have hurt him at all."
Ignoring his excuses, she stormed over to the table. Nothing seemed to be missing. The Resurrectionist still had all four limbs, and his fingers didn't appear to have been tampered with. His nails were as dirty as ever, but none of them were gone. She continued to examine him closely, searching for what damage Booker had inflicted on him. And then her eyes fell upon a strange lump on his left arm. She shifted it slightly to get a better look and noticed a tiny circle of stitches on his inner forearm.
Eyes wide with horror, she turned to Booker. "What did you do?"
"Trinket, it's not—"
A groan came from the young man on the table. Both her and Booker's attention snapped back to him. Another groan, accompanied by a flutter of eyelids.
Turning on Booker, Trinket gritted her teeth and clenched her fists. She wasn't sure whether she should be angry or panicked. After seeing what this Resurrectionist had done to Emma, images of the revenge he would get on Booker played through her head. But before she could say a word, the young man tried to sit up. The leather holds prevented him from doing so, and it took him a moment to realize they were there. In a sleepy daze, his head lolled to the side, and he squinted at Booker and Trinket.
"Wha . . . where . . . I . . ." He shook his head and blinked several times. Then his unfocused gaze settled on Booker, and his face lit up with anger. "What'd you do that for? I agreed to help you and then you knocked me out again, you cad. What'd you put on that rag? Did you try to poison me? Get me out of these blasted things."
He fought against the restraints, and his forceful movements nearly caused the table to overturn. Booker and Trinket steadied it, but the Resurrectionist refused to cease his thrashing. After a solid minute of swearing and struggling, the aftereffects of the ether got to him, and he vomited over the side. Exhausted from the exertion, he finally lay still, panting and gagging against the reflex to vomit again.
"Well, good morning to you, too, sunshine," Booker said as he peered down at him.
Trinket shot him a disapproving look.
"Whaddya want with me?" the Resurrectionist asked.
"Your cooperation."
"I already said I'd arrange the meeting."
"I know, but forgive me if I don't trust the person who tried to beat me to death with a shovel. I needed a little more reassurance."
Still breathing heavily, the Resurrectionist furrowed his brow in confusion. Booker tapped the young man's left arm, drawing his attention to the lump and stitches. After a few seconds it seemed to register, and when the Resurrectionist realized what Booker had done, his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.
He turned to Booker, terror written all over his face. "What is that? What did you do?" His eyes darted about frantically, taking in the various machines and body parts that surrounded him. "Is it a weapon? Did you plant a bomb inside of me? Are you going to kill me?"
"Calm down, it's nothing that complicated," Booker said.
He paced over to one of the shelves and pulled down a container. Returning to the operating table, he placed the jar on one of the movable workbenches and grabbed a pair of forceps. As he eased the cover off, Trinket recognized the container. Her breath caught in her throat as he used the forceps to pull out one of his carcass-eating beetles. The creature squirmed and struggled against the metal tool, but Booker kept a tight grip on it as he brought it close to his eyes.
"What is that?" the Resurrectionist whispered.
"This? Oh, just a flesh-eating insect," Booker said as he gazed at the creature proudly.
He drew nearer to the operating table, and the Resurrectionist inched himself further away. A cruel smile played on Booker's lips, and Trinket swallowed back her objections as he waved the squirming insect in front of the young man's face.
"These little fellows can deconstruct a human body in minutes," he said, watching with obvious pleasure as the Resurrectionist's eyes followed the movement of the restrained insect. "Seconds if there's enough of them."
The Resurrectionist swallowed hard, his gaze trained on the beetle. Booker retreated to the workbench and leaned against it, holding the forceps aloft. He nodded at the young man's arm.
"I put one of these in your arm."
The Resurrectionist's eyes went wide as he craned his neck to look at the lump on his arm. Trinket's skin crawled at the thought of one of those disgusting creatures being inside of someone's body.
"Dormant, of course," Booker continued. "At least for now."
Pushing himself away from the workbench, he walked about the laboratory, gesturing with the forceps.
"I need to be sure that you won't run off without holding up your end of the agreement. See, that insect is dormant right now, but in two days' time, it will awaken from its hibernation." He paused and turned his eyes to the Resurrectionist. "Hungry. And when it realizes that it's surrounded by human flesh, it will begin to feast. It'll start with the fat and muscles in your arm and then move deeper into your body. Veins, tissue, organs. It will eat everything it can get its little mandibles on."
Booker teased the insect's twitching antennae. It squirmed and flailed its tiny legs in an effort to get free, but Booker had a firm hold on it.
He snapped his attention to the Resurrectionist who was watching him in horror. "All while you're still alive." He lowered the forceps and headed back to the workbench, returning the beetle to the jar that housed its brethren. "It will be excruciatingly painful. You'll watch helplessly as your body collapses in on itself and you begin to bleed through every orifice."
Trinket covered her mouth and turned away, afraid she would retch from the mere thought of such a fate. The poor Resurrectionist gagged, but his stomach was empty from his previous ether-induced sickness.
"I've done all this to ensure that you will be quick to make arrangements with your peculiar client," Booker said, securing the top onto the jar. "As soon as you have done as you've promised, I will remove the insect, stitch you up, and send you on your merry way. How does that sound?"
Though still swollen and red, the Resurrectionist's eyes were wide. He stared down at the lump in his arm. For a moment, Trinket thought he was going to gag again, but instead, he turned back to Booker and nodded slowly.
"Deal," he said.
Smiling triumphantly, Booker loosened the restraints. The Resurrectionist moved to leap off of the table, but Booker grabbed hold of his wrist and gave him a cold stare.
"Don't try to cut it out yourself," he said calmly, his words laced with caution. "If you do, the creature will awaken and think it's under attack, causing it to burrow into your flesh. It takes a professional's hand like my own to properly remove it. Understood?"
The Resurrectionist took a quavering breath and nodded. Booker released him, and he bolted for the stairs. They could hear him jiggling the doorknob. Booker rolled his eyes.
"Don't pull it off, it's locked," he called after him. He shook his head and made his way up the stairs, muttering, "Blasted genius, this one."
As Booker let the terrified Resurrectionist out, Trinket leaned against a workbench and covered her face, trying to rid herself of the images he had conjured up in her head. When she heard him descending the stairs, she stood up straight and set a fiery glare on him. He froze and fell back a step or two when he caught the ferocity in her expression.
"Trinket, please—"
"What were you thinking? How could you do that to a person? What if he does try to remove it and it eats him alive? I—he—ahh!"
Twisting her fingers into her hair, she clutched at her head, unable to stop the visions of that young man being devoured by a monstrous insect. For all the terrifying things she saw on a nearly daily basis, this particular thought sent her into fits of repulsion. Eaten alive? What an agonizing way to go. She wouldn't wish that even on her worst enemy.
"Trinket, please." She felt Booker's hands on her shoulders and was poised to shake him off. "It's not true."
The crawling sensation on her skin stopped, and she opened her eyes. Booker was standing before her, his mouth drawn up into a hesitant smile as he watched her. Untangling her hands from her hair, she lowered them slowly to her sides.
"It's not?" she said.
He shook his head and turned to the jar of beetles. Removing the top, he dipped his hand inside and pulled it out to reveal several of the insects crawling around on it. Trinket drew back, her heart pounding in her throat as she imagined Booker being devoured. But nothing happened. The beetles did not bite him or burrow into his skin. She looked up at him, confused.
His smile grew more confident. "They mostly eat dead flesh," he explained. "And if they did decide to feast upon a living body, it would take far more than a small jar of them to accomplish that task, never mind one by itself."
Biting her lip, Trinket took a step closer. She watched as the beetles explored Booker's hand, their antennae quivering with excitement. Though still disgusting, they appeared harmless.
Turning her eyes up to him, she swallowed. "So the one inside the Resurrectionist—"
He shook his head. "There's no beetle inside of him."
Her eyebrows knit together. "But the lump—"
Booker brushed the beetles back into the jar and closed the top. "Not a beetle."
Swallowing, she braced herself for the answer to her next question. "Then what did you sew into his arm?"
He turned and leaned against the workbench, crossing his arms over his chest. "An eyeball."
Not the response she was expecting. And yet she wasn't completely surprised. "An eyeball."
"Yes, I thought a stone would be too obvious, and none of my mechanical parts would pass for a beetle. But an eyeball is organic and round."
Sucking in her lips and closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. "And where did you acquire this eyeball?"
"Wotton, of course."
Her eyes shot open at his matter-of-fact manner. "Mr. Wotton? His eyeball?"
While she was horrified, Booker looked confused. "Yes?"
"Why do you still have his eyeballs?"
"Well, I only have one now. But I thought they might be useful at some point, so I tossed them into a jar to keep them nice and fresh. Wouldn't have predicted that this is what I would use them for, but you never can tell in this line of work."
Leaning against the operating table, Trinket let out a long breath and shook her head. "I can't believe you sewed an eyeball into his arm."
Booker pushed himself away from the workbench and joined her at the table. "He's not one to be trusted, Trinket. Even though he agreed to help me, I knew he would either bolt or betray me the moment he was free. So I had to give him a reason to stick to his word." He grasped her wrist gently. "I didn't hurt him unnecessarily. Please don't be angry."
She shook her head again, composing herself as she turned to face him. "I'm not angry. Just shocked." She gave a tight smile. "It's fine. I understand. At least it wasn't actually a flesh-eating beetle."
Flashing her a grin, he moved to the workbench and tidied up. "A flesh-eating beetle would be remarkable, though, wouldn't it? Imagine what one could do with such a thing."
She really didn't want to imagine.
"So were you able to cancel the request without any trouble?" Booker asked as he returned the beetle jar to its shelf.
"Yes. You already had several offers, though."
He smirked. "I told you, I'm well-loved."
"Not by everyone," she mumbled. The memory of Scales in the Clocktower surfaced, having been pushed into the back of her mind due to the beetle debacle. "Scales."
Nearly dropping the jar, Booker turned to her. "What about him?"
"He was at the Clocktower. He cornered me, threatened me, and . . ."
Booker's stare was intense as he waited for her to continue. Scales' words played over in her head, and she recalled what Booker had said earlier. About a weakness. About keeping her safe so that his weakness could not be used against him.
Her heartbeat skittered as a thought began to form. A wonderful but terrifying thought.
"Trinket?"
Booker's voice pulled her out of her head. He was watching her carefully, his eyes wandering back and forth. They were filled with concern and panic. It was a look she had not seen in him during the first few months after they had met. But now it appeared on his face more and more often. And always when he believed she was in danger.
"What did he do?" Booker asked, taking a step closer.
Shaking from her head the thoughts she was not ready to deal with just yet, she focused on the present moment. "I think he was trying to kidnap me. Or something to that extent."
His expression turned wild, and he looked like he was about to bolt up the stairs. But then he seemed to remember that she was here with him, safe and sound. "But you got away?"
"Yes, thanks to Daphne."
"Daphne?"
"Indeed. There's far more to her than meets the eye. Her skills fit right into our questionable activities."
Though he nodded, Booker clenched his hands into fists as he stared off at the wall. "I'm assuming he knows about Dirty Nails?"
"Yes, he did mention a guest."
He cursed and hit his fist against the workbench. "I hope we didn't send our lead straight into his hands."
"He seems like the type of person who can take care of himself."
"True. We can only hope, I suppose." Heaving a resigned sigh, Booker dusted off his jacket and nodded towards the stairs. "I did promise you some sleep. Might as well take a few hours to rest while you can. I have a feeling the next day or two will prove to be rather exciting."