Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2) Read Free

edited, of course, during a special Assembly. I’ll be inconceivably more famous when I get you off.” Vestor works his lips in and out as he studies me. “We’re going for youthful innocence,” he says, circling me. “No make-up. Pale. Sad but composed. Pretty, but not beautiful. Don’t want to alienate any female jurors.”  He chuckles.  “The long sleeves hide those unfortunate muscles. Your hair . . .” He runs a hand through it. “We’ll even up the ends. That silvery blond is perfect—angelic. It's a shame they shaved it when you got here, but short like that it looks like a halo.”
    He summons Bigfoot and requests scissors, then snips at my hair to neaten it. “Al-most,” Vestor says, studying me while tapping an index finger against his lip.  “Your expression . . .”
    “What about my expression?”
    “It’s too . . . confrontational, verging on combative, in fact. We’re going for modestly downcast eyes, perhaps a whisper of puzzlement.  You can’t understand why you’re on trial when you’ve done nothing wrong.  Victim!  Yes, we want victim.  Can you give me victim?”
    “No,” I say uncompromisingly. I will not for one minute think of myself as a victim. That undermines my strength and I know I will need to be strong.
    Vestor raises his expressive brows and I think I see a hint of amusement and even approval in his eyes.  “Confused, then.  Meek.”
    I look at my feet in my best approximation of “modestly downcast eyes.”
    “No, not sullen,” Vestor says, sounding annoyed for the first time.  “Hurt.  Think of your friend Halla.”
    Pain lances through me and I look up involuntarily.
    Vestor claps his hands.  “Yes, exactly!  Hold that thought.”
    I glare at him.
    He bustles over and takes me by the shoulders, his face inches from mine.  “This is not a game, Everly,” he says in a low voice with none of his usual affectedness.  “Well, it is a game—theater, if you will—but it is played for the highest of stakes:  your life.  You are on trial from the second you leave this prison.  Your every move, word, and expression will be recorded, studied and evaluated—every eyebrow twitch, every upthrust chin.”
    He taps the offending chin and I lower it slightly.
    “Your test scores tell me you are a very, very bright young woman. Well, you need to dedicate that brainpower to playing the role of injured vic—innocent, and you’d better put everything you’ve got into it because otherwise . . . Trust me when I say execution would look merciful compared to your likely fate if they convict.”  He steps back and pins a broad smile to his face.  “Not to mention the crushing blow to my flawless record. Agreed?”
    I nod slightly and work on looking timid and confused. With my brain worrying at what sentence could be worse than death, it’s not too hard.
    “Excellent!”
     
    I change back into my prison garb since Vestor says he wants my trial outfit pristine for tomorrow. We spend two more hours together and I get another good meal out of it.  The food makes it almost worth being put on trial.  Vestor tells me there will be three pre-selected jurors and a judge who will determine my fate.  He takes me through the process, telling me about the courtroom layout and procedures.  Again and again, he emphasizes the need to guard my expressions.  “Contrition plays well, my dear,” he says.
    “What about when I testify?  What should I say?”
    “Uh-uh-uh.”  Vestor wags a finger. “You will not be called to give evidence. I will present the case on your behalf. That’s my job. Indeed, my calling.”
    “But shouldn’t I—”
    “ You need to believe in me .”
    I have no choice.
     
    I am returned to my cell in what I guess is late afternoon, judging by the sun slanting through the interview room window.  My cell seems even drabber and more sterile than before after a couple of days spent in the presence of sunlight and Loránd Vestor.  I read