August 1965

A man hung naked in a padded box, suspended from a nail of glass, his face a rictus of despair.

Of course he was a man. Of course. What else could he possibly be?

In the second glance, however, from the sliding judas-gate of steel in the steel door that divided them, Dr. Channard was reassured. The patient—the prisoner, his inner voice insisted—was indubitably male, well-formed in his body, no sign of malnutrition or injury other than the lesions on his wrists and upper breastbone, and a great black bruise across one temple, fading into garish purple-red of his black eye. The pupil of this eye was greatly dilated, reminding Channard uncannily of the liquid-tar eyes of barn owls. He made a note on the clipboard to have the patient's problematic physical injuries treated—the two bruises on his forearm, wad-and-taped, were from the IV drip and sedative, and were already noted on the form. The slot in the bottom of the door was clogged with the tatty pyjamas and institutional meal-tray lunch that had been left inside the small padded room for when the patient woke, as if the door had vomited them out in disgust.

The nail of glass was only the way the wire-protected light reflected off the patient's hair, clipped close around his skull. He watched the patient watching him, became momentarily self-conscious. "How are we today?" Channard asked, the pattern of unctuous doctor-patient language.

The patient—the prisoner—took a step forward, the look in his uncannily mismatched eyes so fearsome that Channard had to resist flinching back. His foot slipped momentarily in the mess of rejected cotton, bologna, and chocolate pudding. And then he was there, looking out through the mullioned metal grating, no less than a handspan from Channard's face. His face now was pleasant, ironically friendly.

"You will unlock this door and let me go," the man-a man?-said, casually, as if discussing the weather. "You will do this now, and I will attempt to forgive the triple insult done to my person."

There was something about the timbre of the voice, the unmistakable ring of authority, that first provoked Channard to actually lift his hand to the lock, and then clench his keys in anger. He was in charge here. His coveted internship at the Radamanthus had been won by four years of agonizingly careful manipulation and bribery, charm and skill, and this creature, naked and shaven-headed dared to speak to Channard as if he were a child or a servant, or an orderly. Channard tucked in the edges of his superiority more firmly around himself and spoke again to the prisoner in the condescending language that would mark their positions firmly in place. He flipped through pages of his clipboard.

"Perhaps we've had a lapse of memory, hmm? You were brought to the Radamanthus Asylum after an altercation with the police. We will treat your injuries, I assure you—both those of the body and the mind. And then, if you present no danger to society, we will happily set you at liberty. Don't think of this as insulting. Think of it instead as an opportunity."

"The clothing you have offered insults me. The food you have offered insults me. The captivity you keep me in is the greatest insult of all."

Channard added another note, although reluctant somehow to escape that pied gaze. British accent, upper-class London. It was his own accent, clean and perfect as water, rippling slightly only over certain phonemes to give itself away.

"You were naked and dehydrated, and raving."

"So would you be, if you were a captive in an evil country. Raving."

Channard made a note on the chart. Possible Communist or anarchist affiliations? He decided to adopt a more conciliatory tone.

"I'm Dr. Phillip Channard. Do you remember your name?"

The prisoner looked at him, expression dismayed and somehow triumphant.

"Thank you for your name, Doctor-Phillip-Channard."

"Your surname," he demanded, letting irritation inflect his voice.

The prisoner smiled again, backing away into the brilliance of the overhead bulb, stretching his face to it as if to the warmth of the sun. His incisors were prominent, and gleamed like polished bone. "'Majesty.' Forename, 'Your,' Doctor-Phillip-Channard. Will that satisfy?"

Channard felt warm satisfaction uncoil from the pit of his belly. His conscious mind, so regulated, so careful, attributed this to the first gesture towards mutual trust. The prisoner—the patient—was evasive but responsive to questions. But Channard felt something else welling up through his professional and scientific personal. It was a new feeling. It was pleasure, predatory plesaure, the anticipation of a rapist finding a target alone at night. Here, now, he thought. Wait. Know more. He jotted down on the form. delusions of grandeur, ps. schizoid amnesia type II. This initial diagnosis, along with the intake notes, would be enough to hold this creature beyond the regulated 48 hours of observation.

I will hold you, he thought, running his eyes over the creature's pale skin, from the crown of his close-cropped blond head to quiescent amber length of his sex to the limber strength of his arched feet. I will hold you and I will keep you.

"It will not satisfy," Channard said, his tone now gentle, thick with incipient pleasure.

The creature raised his arms above his head, for all the world as if he were bathing in the light. Even his bruises lost their horror in the luster of this elegant stretch, becoming like the patterns on an animal's pelt. Channard noted the lack of hair at underarm or groin.

"Albans, then. Tyto Albans. That will have to do." He finished his stretch with a complicated roll of his forearms and fingers, and was suddenly square-shouldered again, giving Channard a terrifying dagger of a stare before his face relaxed into sadness.

"Tyto. If I offer you fresh clothing and food, will you dress and eat?"

"What choice will I have? Try asking again tomorrow. My despair may outweigh my pride, who can say? And that, Doctor-Phillip-Channard, is the best you shall have from me today."

(Author's note: chapters 1-12 have been updated to include additional material and fix some errors. And please: while keeping in mind this is a horror/suspense story, I still appreciate reviews. If you're enjoying what you read, please let me know.)