Hench (Hench, #1)

by Natalie Zina Walschots

“She thinks we have a shot!” Sweet Greg. Optimistic Greg. Smart but about as perceptive as a lawn chair.

“Do you hate him now?” I thought that might make her angry, but she took the question seriously. Her brow knit, and she thought about it. “I hate everything that made him. I don’t know if there’s enough of him to hate.”

But even if the label on your own feelings doesn’t matter, wouldn’t you want to know how he felt about you?” I tilted my head. “He pulled me off an operating table and rebuilt my brain. He killed people to get to me. “What more could I possibly need to know?”

Supercollider had a great deal in common with a diamond: aesthetically tacky; value artificially ascribed by corporate greed; cultural significance vastly overinflated; and incredibly hard to damage. I’d theorized that the only thing really capable of hurting him would be himself, the way that diamond was used to cut diamond.

“Ask him if he can wiggle his toes,” Keller said over the comm. I audibly gagged. “You’re fucking disgusting.” Supercollider let out a wet moan at my words and I realized he thought I was talking about him. I decided not to correct the error.

“That’s right, girls, tear that motherfucker apart.” He sounded so proud.

I had prepared myself for a lot, for maniacal laughter or complete disbelief or even rage. I wasn’t sure if Leviathan would be grateful or furious, gleeful or too distraught and confused by his confinement to understand what was happening. I made myself imagine the possibility he wouldn’t be conscious. But as he lowered his forehead to touch the floor, and my stomach turned to ice and ash, I realized I was completely unprepared to deal with his raw, unfathomable grief.