“Soldiers,” Quentin repeated.
“Soldiers stronger and faster than any human. And ruthless, disciplined from childhood to obey their leaders without question.”
“Murderers, you mean,” Quentin said, struck with a sudden chill. “Assassins.”
“Quite. When the time came, such specially trained detachments would be sent into the field to remove select human leaders, businessmen whose assets would become our own—any who might conceivably stand in our way. But first we had to learn how to create such a special ‘army.’ Your grandfather, and my father, chose one each of their offspring upon whom to experiment.”
Quentin couldn’t respond. He saw the cellar, smelled the sweat of his own fear and blood. Grandfather…
“They chose their subjects as young children, to allow for the greatest tractability of character. There was a risk that the subjects might be damaged in the attempt, so your grandfather chose you as the most expendable.”
Quentin’s teeth ground together with an audible crack.
“Your instruction was begun when you were a boy,” Boroskov said. “You were to be broken to your grandfather’s will by any means necessary, become indifferent to murder and absolutely obedient.
“You see, my brother—you were meant to be a killer.”
Johanna felt for the seat behind her and fell into it. May gave a soft whimper. Quentin was a statue, staring at Boroskov as if the Russian had bespelled him with his evil.
“You do remember something of those days, don’t you?” Boroskov asked, almost gently. “I see it in your eyes. Your grandfather’s methods were harsh, no doubt, but necessary. I have none of his notes on his procedures, but I can guess what he did.”
“The cellar,” Quentin whispered, as if he didn’t realize he spoke. Johanna rose to go to him, but Boroskov pointed his gun in her direction.
“No. Your usefulness is past, my dear doctor. No more coddling. He is mine, now.”
“You are wrong,” she said. “He belongs to himself.”
“Cling to your illusions if you must,” he said. “You, too, know of his sufferings, do you not? You have discovered many of his secrets. But you cannot imagine what it is like to be one of us. I will be—I am—closer to Quentin than any other living being. For I was my father’s selection as one of the new army.”
Johanna met his gaze and understood. If Quentin’s form of madness had been born in the tortures he’d endured in his grandfather’s cellar, then Boroskov’s came from the same source.
“Yes, my father trained me,” he said. “I did not break. I grew stronger. I saw what had to be done. But somewhere, somehow, Quentin’s instruction faltered. He broke free of his grandfather’s influence in his adolescence, and for a time we believed he was a loss to us.”
Johanna took another step toward Quentin, disregarding Boroskov’s threat. “You are not a failure, Quentin.”
“No, he is not. When he ran from England, from the skirmish his brother won over me, I knew he had begun to recall those things he’d tried to forget. The training he’d rejected. His deep and binding brotherhood to me.”
“No,” Quentin croaked.
“Why deny it? You feel the truth already. Yes, you escaped your grandfather. When you came of age, you joined the Army and went to India. Even then I was watching you, and waiting. I was not disappointed. It was there that your grandfather’s careful work began to bear fruit.” He smiled sympathetically. “Do you remember the time when you single-handedly rescued your men from ambush by the tribesmen? You killed eight of the enemy, they said. They called you a hero, but they were afraid. You were something they had never seen before—a berserker, who did not leave the field until every foe was dead.”
“God,” Quentin said, his face stark with horror.
“The necessary instincts were coming to the fore—to kill your enemies without mercy. But you were undirected. You did not yet have a cause that bound you. You returned to England, and led a meaningless life of pleasure and forgetfulness. But that came to an end when I arrived at Greyburn to challenge Braden.”
“I was a coward.”
“No. You felt drawn to me, to what we shared. You had begun to sense what you were, felt the stirring of your blood at the sight of violence. So you ran. But you could not run from your destiny. It followed you here, to America. My men reported the many times your training rose unbidden, to put the humans in their place.”