I forgot the satisfaction of knowing my new self and becoming who I was meant to be—a manipulative, slightly amoral shit/genius—when at four a.m. a scream and sizzle/zap woke me up. Preparing for the worst was an excellent hobby. Getting the worst was not as enjoyable. Stefan was already at the door with his Steyr 9mm in hand. He didn’t have to tell me to pack. We’d learned last time. You pack before you go to bed for cases like this. “Watch out for the water,” I cautioned. “I can’t drag a crispy, fried brother to the car and our bags too.”
Avoiding the inch or two of water that had seeped under the door, but not unplugging the cord in case whoever was out there had a friend, he opened the door. Half in and half out of the puddle of water, a man twitched convulsively, eyes rolling back in his head. “Well, he’s not dead, but I’m not sure he’s quite alive either,” Stefan remarked.
I raced across the room and yanked the TV cord from the outlet. “Incompetent,” I muttered at myself. “Older buildings had a less safe wiring configuration and their electrical insulation isn’t always up to code if the owners don’t make the investment, which apparently they didn’t.”
“I’m not crying any tears over it.” Stefan lightly kicked the man’s shoe with his own bare foot. “See the gun? That is not a particularly friendly gun. It’s a Russian GSh-18 pistol, made to carry armor-penetrating rounds. It’s what we used to call a nye ostavtye ni odin jiveaum, a ‘take no prisoners’ gun or a Siberian Special.” Lingering long ago from the Stalin years (the History Channel cleansed my palate between movies), some older Russians considered Siberia equal to death . . . or Hell. Many had passed on that sentiment. Stefan’s grandfather had survived Siberia, but to hear Stefan retell the stories, none of his grandfather’s friends had.
“Call Saul. Get your shoes and rat while I check to see if there’s anyone else out there.” He was out the door, bare-chested and barefoot. He didn’t look any less dangerous for it. Five minutes later, the three of us were in the parking lot. The still-twitching guy wasn’t Mafiya despite the Russian gun, which was at least one less problem. He was one of Raynor’s men, loyal beyond his boss’s death—I’d checked his wallet. He had the same crappy fake government ID. He was alive but wasn’t exactly functional. The three of us went back to our rooms, dressed, hefted our bags, and ran back out to the parking lot.
Saul was equally unhappy. His ginger hair was standing on end, there was a sleep crease on his upper cheek, and he was in pajamas—in a way. He saw me wincing and huffed. “This is what you get. If I don’t have a half hour to do it right, I’m not doing it at all. He headed for his SUV, parked several cars from the one we had stolen. Our vehicle had its license plate switched twice over from the fast food place where we’d acquired the Mustang. It paid to take precautions. I started after Stefan when Godzilla jumped off my shoulder after spotting half a discarded Twinkie on the asphalt. I turned, dropped one bag, and caught him in midair to scold him. It was only half a minute, but that was enough time for Stefan to reach for the car door handle.
That was when I saw it.
The lights in the parking lot were dim and old, same as the motel, but I had excellent night vision and it was getting better the more I matured—as were other things. It was good enough now that I saw the oil on the side of the cover over the rear wheel. Fresh and gleaming, two fingerprints of wet amber—as fresh as if someone had just crawled out from under the car but a moment before. And who changed the oil on someone else’s car at four in the morning?
No one.
“Stoipah, no!” I dropped my bags and ran. “Don’t touch the car!”
But it was too late. His fingers had already hooked under the handle. I’d reached him at the same time and tackled him as hard and fast as I could. I might have been frozen when he had fought the man on the car outside Cascade Falls. I wasn’t frozen now. I wouldn’t let myself be again.
The explosion wasn’t huge; only big enough to take out the car and whoever would’ve been standing next to it. We weren’t. We were fifteen feet away, over a scraggly hedge into the other section of the parking lot. The medium-sized fireball behind us heated the air to more than a hundred degrees; the smoke scorched my lungs, but I didn’t care. Beneath me was my brother and although he was wheezing for breath, his face reddened by the heat, he was alive and not tiny pieces spread far and wide for the morning pigeons to peck. “What . . . ?” he said, choking. “How did . . . you know? How . . . did you get us . . . out of range?” It was a good question, considering he had at least thirty pounds on me and all dense muscle.
I pushed up to take the weight off his chest and let him recover his breath more quickly. “I saw the oil on the back of the car. Fresh. Someone had been under it. You don’t crawl under a car at four in the morning unless you’re planting a tracking device or a bomb.” The rest? Mmm. There was truth and there was explanation. Sometimes they could be entirely different things and sometimes they could be the same. In this case, they were the same. “Adrenaline. I’m in my prime. Not a geezer like you. I’m stronger than I was three years ago. I work out with your weights.” I didn’t. Exercise was boring. “You’ve seen me.” He hadn’t, but ordinary people don’t recall every detail of every day.
Truth, explanation, and half of a somewhat white lie. I’d tell him the entire truth later, when the time was right, but for now, half an untruth was what I gave him. I felt like hell saying it, but I saved my brother’s peace of mind, for now, and his life, for good, I hoped. That made it worth it. The car burned behind us and I felt a hand pat my back vigorously. “Small bonfire,” Stefan said with a crooked smile; then, apparently his breath back, he pulled me into a one-armed hug so fierce that even a chimera like me yelped. “Don’t do that again, okay? It’s my job to protect you, not vice versa. I’m the big brother. Me. Got it? If I blow up, I blow up alone. You go with Saul if that happens.”
This time when I pushed up, I stood and held a hand down to him. “No.” The sentiment was true and spoken matter-of-factly; I wasn’t going to change my mind.
He took my hand and got to his feet. “Misha, this is not a game. It’s never been a game. You know that. You almost died for me once. If you actually succeed, don’t think I’m going to stick around. I did it for ten years. I can’t do it again.”
I saw him again as he’d once been: the drowning man. I’d given him what I said I wouldn’t: lies. He gave me the truth.
I wished he’d lied instead.
I glared at him, but what do you say to a truth like that? I wasn’t going to not try to save him if I had the opportunity, but after what Stefan had given up, it would be like spitting in his face to say I wouldn’t try to survive if I could. I couldn’t do that—throw away what he’d given me. “If I’m too slow next time,” I said grudgingly, “I’ll go with Saul. But try not to make that an issue, all right? Be more careful.”
He raised his eyebrows at my tone—he was lucky to have any eyebrows at all after the explosion. “I’ll do my best,” he said with a patience his colleague didn’t share.
“You two stop bitching at each other and get over here by the fucking SUV,” Saul snapped from down the row of parked cars, some littered with burning debris. “Your TV-fried friend might not have left only one present.” He dropped to the cracked parking lot surface and crawled under his vehicle. A minute later he returned. “Nothing.” He then checked the engine. “We’re good to go. Now, get in the damn car!” People were gawking out of the doors of their rooms and there was the unhappy wail of sirens in the distance.
Stefan and I threw our bags in the back and obeyed. This nighttime Saul was much more frightening than the day version. Ginger and gray chest hair, combined with his pajamas, a pair of tight purple silk boxers and that was it. He looked like an obscenely horny children’s dinosaur—but lean and quick with ropy muscle. He charged double for wetwork, he’d said. You can’t do wetwork, you can’t kill, if you’re the size of a four-hundred-pound fake prehistoric lizard.
You could have better taste in clothes and pajamas, though. You could have pajamas, period. Was that too much to ask? The color seared my night vision. I couldn’t imagine what it would do in broad daylight. Hopefully he’d cover the boxers up with clothes by then. Godzilla hopped from my shoulder, where he’d returned after the Twinkie incident, to the top of Saul’s head, curled up in the bed-hair nest and dozed off. “There is not enough money in the world,” Saul ground out.
In the backseat, I gave Stefan a visual once-over. He’d hit the asphalt with a lot of force. I knew. I’d been that force. He’d lost his bandage for the cut on his forehead. I’d been the one to clean the dried blood earlier, determine the need for stitches, apply ointment, and bandage it. I was the house vet after all. It was my job. Stefan had complained he could do it himself, but at the same time I could see the pleased look in his eyes. Missing memories or not, I’d accepted I was his brother weeks after he rescued me, but years later, he didn’t take it for granted. Plus I placated him with some cheese and peanut butter crackers while I took care of the wound. The tasty treat worked wonders in distracting cranky turtles, ferrets, and brothers.
I lightly touched the cut with one fingertip to assess how it was healing. It was a thin red line, scabbed over, and much better than before. “So?” Stefan inquired. “Add that one to my other one and I look like some grandma’s patchwork quilt, huh?” He didn’t sound too concerned. Scars didn’t bother him. Vanity wasn’t a problem for him.
“Believe it or not, it looks good. Cleaning away all that blood combined with the best prescription antibiotics that can be obtained illegally from Canada”—I shrugged—“it wasn’t nearly as bad as it seemed, and I did a fantastic job—as always. Can veterinarians win Nobel Prizes? Although I’d settle for government disability for the permanent damage done to my eyes by Skoczinsky’s sleep-spandex.”
“I was going to say he hadn’t changed, the smug little bastard,” Saul grunted from up front as we passed a fire truck headed back toward our motel. “But he has. For the worse. Now he’s a smug, full-grown bastard.”
I ignored him. I had to or I would’ve reached up to touch his shoulder and paralyze his vocal cords. While I didn’t have a problem with that plan, Stefan might. Leaning back against the seat, I changed the subject. “How many more men do you think Raynor had?”
“Impossible to know. But not any more, I think, or someone would’ve shot us in the parking lot when the bomb didn’t work. I did leave that one electrocuted bastard alive, though. The smart thing would’ve been to finish him off.” Stefan shook his head and let it go. He’d killed, but he didn’t like it, and I’d never blame him for that. How could I?
“I’m more worried about how they found us,” he continued. “We torched the Institute car. We stole a new one. We swapped out license plates on it. How . . . Ah shit. We didn’t steal Saul new license plates. That mall parking lot was full of cameras. He could’ve tagged us by looking at the security tapes. I didn’t think anyone would go to the trouble, though. Hell, I didn’t know he had more men to begin with. Raynor was acting as if he was off the radar on this one. He may be the only one in the government who knows about the Institute. Jericho was smart that way. But if I had thought he had any more men, I would’ve guessed they’d assume you and I took out Raynor. And Raynor would’ve told them at least enough when he first came after us that they’d know we’d been on the run a long time—long enough to be too smart to steal a car from the same place we’d killed their boss.”
And the motel, cheap and sleazy as it was, definitely had cameras too. They probably made half their income off private detectives buying eight-by-ten glossies of cheating spouses, had a Web site with PayPal, and ran specials on double prints. That would be how the guy and his friends, if he had any, knew which car was ours and which one to plant the bomb under. They would’ve seen us on tape getting out of it. Mr. Fried-and-Crispy would’ve seen it was Saul who’d killed his boss on the mall security tapes, but Saul was nothing more than an inconvenience compared to what I was capable of. “So that guy was either smarter than we think or we’re more stupid than we think,” I said thoughtfully.
“Or just smart enough, Goldilocks,” Saul added. “Now, get this damn rat off my head before I toss him out the window. We have to find a place to dump the truck and get a new one.”
When my fingers brushed his head as I retrieved Godzilla, I made him impotent for approximately a day. He most likely wouldn’t notice and it improved my mood tremendously. “Try for a blue one,” I said ingenuously. “In feng shui, the color blue aids in success.”
Saul snorted. “You are one weird dude.”
Saul had no idea what I was, despite what Stefan had told him. Seeing is believing and he hadn’t seen. That meant he couldn’t accept it, not in his gut where it mattered. He couldn’t truly believe. If he stayed Stefan’s friend, it would remain that way, which was best for everyone all around. It was certainly best for Saul’s continued sexual activity and potentially receding hairline.
We stole another SUV before leaving St. George, hitting a quiet neighborhood where everyone still slept. Then we stopped at several different places—neighborhoods and the 24/7 places like porn warehouses and big-box stores for a stack of different license plates. No more mistakes this time. Then we were on the I-15 to Laramie via Salt Lake City. The sun was coming up. Back in Cascade Falls, I’d be getting up about now, eating breakfast, going to work after stopping down by the river to deliver Ralphy his catered Alpo. The air would be brisk with a cool bite as I’d get a chocolate-cheesecake Danish from the bakery to top off breakfast. I’d say hi to the people I saw and give them the appropriate smile. Sometimes it didn’t feel like the practiced one.
It felt real.
“You know what I miss about Cascade?” I asked Stefan suddenly.
“Everything,” he answered without taking a second to think about it.
“You too?” I could all but smell the paint fumes from his clothes when he’d come home from work—the gingerbread man.
“Me too.” He tapped on the window glass lightly with a raw knuckle. It was an unconscious habit of his. “Sorry I ruined things for us there, Misha. Sorry I lost us our home.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s Raynor’s.”
“There is that.” He tapped again. “And maybe we both got a little sloppy, but goddamn it, I think we were entitled to a little sloppy. That’s what having a home is all about—relaxing. Not being on guard every second of the day.”
“Not that I don’t feel for you guys, but there are thousands of shit-kicker little towns across the country to find a new home in. How about we concentrate on the pack of killer kids roaming the country?” Saul suggested. “What are we going to do when we find them in Laramie? Tranq them on the sidewalk in front of God and everyone, wait around to see if this cure of Mikey’s works, all while the police are arresting us for assaulting a bunch of children and teenagers? Dora the Explorer could locate a better plan than that up her ass.”
My jaw tightened over the “Mikey”—I should’ve taken his hair too—but he was right. We did need a plan to get them away from people and out of sight. “Leave that to me. I’m working on it,” I said.
At the same time, Stefan stated, “We’ll find them first, see exactly where they are and what they’re doing, and then figure something out.”
“I think someone just staged a coup on your ass, Korsak,” Saul commented.
Stefan folded his arms as he wedged himself more comfortably in the corner of door and seat and considered me. “Huh. I think he might be giving it a shot.” He didn’t say anything aloud about my drug-dealing plan that hadn’t gone precisely as calculated or the landing that had caused the cut on his forehead, but the quirk of one eyebrow and the corner of his mouth said it as clearly. But I also thought I saw faith there. Brothers gave you second, third . . . more chances than you deserved. I wasn’t letting Stefan down.
I rolled on my side, used a sweatshirt someone had left in the back as a pillow, and said, “Wake me up for breakfast. I’m starving.” I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep, but instead I planned. Stefan was right in that my plans did need some refinement, but I thought he knew he’d be wrong in thinking any of his would work better . . . not with Peter and the rest of the chimeras. Hence the faith. We didn’t think in the same way that normal people did, because we weren’t normal people. We weren’t people at all. It made us unpredictable. In the end, only a chimera could think like another chimera. And with Peter showing every sign of being more intelligent than I was, I was going to have to work especially hard to do that. We were all brilliant—Jericho’s work had made certain of that, but I hadn’t seen signs that Peter was exceptional above the rest of us while I’d been his classmate. Somehow I’d missed it. He had fooled us all.
Peter, Peter, prisoner eater. . . .
Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater . . . It was a nursery rhyme, we were told. Targets and those between you and your target told them to their children. It was a fact we needed to know to appear ordinary and we were given three examples to memorize, which we did in one reading as required, before moving on to the next subject—how to mimic the neurotoxic effects of blowfish poisoning if you happened to have a target in Japan.
I’d been around twelve then—two years older than Wendy was now. Peter had been close to the same. It was hard to tell in the Institute. There were no birthday parties. The Playground, yes, but no parties . . . not the kind of parties, at least, that anyone outside the Institute would recognize as a celebration. I hadn’t told Stefan that the Basement wasn’t the only place where we were “rewarded” for exceptional work. The Institute knew it was important in raising genetic assassins to equate death with reward. Death equaled reward equaled incentive equaled eager students—a simple psychological loop.
On the nursery rhyme day, Peter had asked the Instructor if it wouldn’t be better to kill several other people in the target’s entourage along with the target by using imitative blowfish poisoning to increase the authenticity of the diagnosis. I had thought the same myself. I couldn’t help it. It was a logical and effective way to throw off any signs of foul play. But I hadn’t said it; I’d only thought it. Peter wasn’t like me, however. Peter was a good, enthusiastic student, and he said it loud and proud. That brought him a reward and the rest of us a chance to watch and see what we were missing by not trying as hard as Peter.
In the exercise yard our class gathered to watch Peter enjoy his prize. It was a homeless girl, a runaway—a teenage prostitute I’d guessed, then. Targets were frequently with prostitutes. It was a fact we needed to know.
She was fifteen at most, this girl, but to a chimera, whether it was man, woman, or child made no difference. Age and sex didn’t matter when all you saw was an objective. That was all Peter saw. I knew, because I remembered his smile. He had perfect white teeth—we all did. The attractive were less suspicious than the unattractive. Jericho had made that clear. Targets were all prejudiced in one way or another whether they knew it or not, and a negative reaction to the unsightly was a universal one.
As ugly on the inside as he was attractive on the outside, Peter, with his perfect smile and bright, happy eyes, didn’t look like a threat, not to a runaway snatched off the streets by silent men, shoved in a van, and brought to a place that looked worse than any prison. None of us would look sinister to her as we stood in a wide, loose circle around her under a hot Florida sun. She’d cowered on the dirt, crying. I remembered the trails of clean pure skin under the trails of her tears. The rest of her face was covered with thick makeup, her hair bleached blond with black roots, and her eyes . . . They kept animals in the Institute labs, starter projects for the extremely young. Some of them were dogs. I remembered their eyes. Hers were the same: soft, brown, and dumb with terror. When she saw Peter leave the circle and walk toward her, she lunged at him and shoved him behind her; both fell on their knees. She hadn’t been attacking him. She’d been trying to save him.
“Little boy.” She’d been sobbing so hard, I’d barely been able to understand her. “They took me, those bastards.” She meant the guards who stood farther outside the circle, passive and watching. “They took me just as they took you. What do they want? Did they hurt you? Did they. . . .” She had swallowed. “Did they touch you? All of you? Oh God, will they rape me? Will they hurt me?”
Peter’s smile had never faded. “No,” he’d said, running a fascinated hand through her hair. Then he’d kissed her cheek, the same way as we’d seen in movies. That was all we knew of affection, what we’d been taught to fake. “They won’t hurt you.
“But I will.”
And he had. He’d killed her, the lost girl with no name. He took his time too. When he was done, there wasn’t any part of her body he hadn’t toyed with . . . except two. He’d shut down her kidneys, he’d filled her lungs with blood, he’d torn her liver into pieces, he’d twisted her intestines into knots, he’d squeezed her heart with an invisible hand over and over until, after four heart attacks, she had finally died. But her brain and her vocal cords he had never touched. He’d made sure she remained conscious and aware throughout it all and he’d made sure she could scream. She had felt all the pain, all the terror, not a second wasted to oblivion, and she had screamed until her throat bled, spraying blood with every cry. The entire time she had spent dying, Peter had chanted softly over and over, “ ‘Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn’t keep her. . . .’ ”
I hadn’t thought Peter was smarter than me, but I’d always known he was more ruthless. His heart and soul belonged to the Way of the Institute if not to the Institute itself, and he’d not take any cure willingly. The sun was bright behind my eyelids as the memory ended. I felt my fists clench, my joints complaining with the pressure. He wouldn’t take it willingly, no, but he’d take it all the same. I’d make fucking sure of that and I’d remember those terrified brown eyes when I gave it to him.
Peter, Peter—it was time for you to be my reward.
Breakfast was drive-through. I didn’t mind. The more greasy and loaded with sugar and salt, the better I liked it. Lunch was drive-through too, or to-go, rather. It was a ten-hour drive from St. George to Laramie and we were making it a straight shot, but while much of me was superhuman, my bladder had yet to show signs of being of more than earthly origin. I had to piss the same as anyone else. We took turns, with one in the bathroom and two to stand watch. I didn’t think it was necessary. If Mr. Fried-and-Crispy we’d left back in the motel parking lot improved enough to jump up and tear ass after us, he had nothing to go on now. No license plate number. No description of the car. But I’d heard “better safe than sorry” so many times in the past three years that it could’ve been my middle name.
“I want a taco.”
I was slumped in one bright orange plastic booth with my bag in one hand and a giant Mountain Dew in the other when a hand tugged on my jeans. I was alert—bathroom bodyguard at top form—so I’d seen the kid come across the floor toward me. I hadn’t known what he was doing and I hadn’t known he was going to latch on to my leg. Children weren’t like adults. They weren’t as predictable. They hadn’t gone through all the stages of psychological development that would mold them into the final product. Children were like cats: You didn’t know if they’d bite you, piss on you, or purr. Or demand tacos.
“Taco!”
My hand tightened on the bag; I admit it. I liked food, maybe more than anyone alive. We all have our weaknesses. “No,” I said automatically. If he wanted a taco that badly, I’d give him a dollar to buy his own, but my tacos were my tacos. I’d already claimed them and imprinted on them like a baby duck on its mother.
He scowled, his small face twisting and turning red. With blond hair and an oversized head, he looked about three, but he hit as if he were age eight at least. His hand smacked mine hard and then he tried to wrestle the bag from it. His skin was warm against mine, too warm. “Taco!”
“Oh my God, I am so sorry.” A woman, presumably the mother of the budding Antichrist, rushed over and grabbed him around the waist to pull him back. Her hair was blond too, her skin tan, and she weighed about a hundred and five pounds, which could be why she was unsuccessful. He hung on tight to my hand and shirt, and this time the scream of “Taco!” almost shattered the window and door glass of the fast food restaurant.
Three booths down, Saul, now dressed in more than purple spandex, had buried his face in arms folded on the table and was shaking with not-so-silent laughter, the bastard. The mother pulled again and this time managed to pry the Satan spawn off me. Chimeras I was used to. Normal children who also had the ability to maim and terrify were a new experience. “Sorry, sorry,” she apologized again as he began kicking rapidly at her legs. “He has tonsillitis and it’s making him cranky. He’s having them taken out tomorrow morning.”
I edged out of the booth, my bag of food and my Mountain Dew cautiously hidden behind me. “He doesn’t have tonsillitis.” The screaming became louder. “My father’s a doctor,” I lied without compunction. “I’d have him rechecked before they do surgery.” Again the screaming notched up. She appeared confused, forehead wrinkling, and I tossed a bit of convincing logic to go with the rest. “If he can scream like five hundred demons from Hell, the little shit, I think . . . my father would think if he did have tonsillitis, it’s cleared up now.” That was when I found out where the kid learned to kick so ferociously.
In the SUV, I sulked and nursed my wounded pride. The bruise on my shin from the woman’s shoe would be faded already and on the verge of disappearing altogether, but my temper remained dark. The little monster deserved tonsillitis. Too bad. I should’ve left well enough alone. Saul was yukking it up in the backseat while Stefan tried and failed to look sympathetic behind the wheel. “Why did she do that?” I mumbled around a mouthful of chili cheese fries. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” I’d actually done something right. I’d saved Damien from an unnecessary surgery. I missed my movies, but thanks to that kid there was one I wouldn’t miss. All that boy needed was a tricycle, because he already had Satan in his corner.
“You called her sweet little baby boy a demon from Hell. Worse yet, a shit. Moms don’t like that.” Stefan swallowed his laughter in to the most unconvincing cough I’d ever heard.
“I did not.” Okay, yes, I did call him a shit, but not a demon. “I said he screamed like a demon from Hell. I didn’t say he was a demon from Hell. He’s Satan at least. I was assaulted by the Omen and you have no pity at all, do you?” I frowned.
“You faced down the Russian mob and the Institute and you can’t handle a toddler?” Stefan grinned. “How much pity do you think you deserve?”
Finishing the fries and with the tacos long gone, I decided now was a good time to talk to someone less judgmental, in addition to one with no knowledge of the attack of the evil taco thief. What was I anyway? Meals on Wheels? His mother had money and taco-buying ability. Obviously she had no foresight or spirit of preparation in the face of the purely sinister demands of her own child, but it wasn’t as if anyone could hold me accountable for that.
If Ariel wasn’t online, I’d see if there was any suspicious rash of deaths in Laramie, other than the ones I’d already found dated last week. There hadn’t been any more yet, but with Peter and the others there, and according to the Institute’s GPS tracker they were, it was only a matter of time. I grabbed my laptop and opened it as I tipped back the cup for the last swallow of Mountain Dew. I loved caffeine almost as much as grease and sugar. Stefan took in the sight and drawled, “Greek Gods live on Mount Olympus. Geek Gods live on Mountain Dew.”
“Drug dealer, pilot, ex-assassin-in-training, genius, geek, and hot.” I didn’t bother to gift him with a glance. “Can you claim that many talents?” I started typing and hacked into the nearest secure WiFi. The free, unsecured kind didn’t last past the parking lot of the coffee shop or bookstore that hosted it.
“That is damn talented,” Saul said from behind. “Maybe I should think of hiring you as a subcontractor. God knows I make no moral judgments. I make money. That’s it. Things are much simpler that way.”
“Simple in the way you assisted Stefan in liberating me from a heavily guarded, virtual fort at the risk of your blindingly horrific neon shirt?” I asked as I zipped through a firewall, typing on. God knew I couldn’t forget that shirt.
“It was a lot of mon—You liked that shirt?” I turned my head to see him give a pleased grin and then change it into a scowl as he finished his excuse. “It was a lot of money. It had nothing to do with saving your polysyllabic ass. It was only about the money. It’s never about anything but the money, you brat.”
I dismissed him, saying, “You’re lying. Your voice is half a pitch higher, pupils slightly dilated, you touched your collar twice, and you said never—never means at least once if not always. I could go on. Would you like me to?” Saul had a soft spot to have done what he did, one beyond his friendship with Stefan. I wondered what it was. I didn’t ask, but I wondered.
I also didn’t give him a chance to reply. Instilling fear in your subject at first opportunity ensures better behavior faster. In this case, better behavior would be Saul no longer annoying me. “Besides your refusal to admit morality, we could talk about your extreme womanizing. Overcompensation and denial so blatant it should require little comment, except to you perhaps.” I studied him intensely. “Psychology is a hobby of mine. I could produce some notes for you to study. They might assist in your personal development. Except for your love of spandex. I can’t comment on that. It’s too horrifying.”
“He’s shitting me, right?” Saul directed the question to Stefan with more than a little desperation.
“Oh, I very well could and you would never know it,” I answered placidly, before Stefan had a chance, and returned to my computer. “I could give you an Oedipal complex in less than three minutes if you want to put it to the test. In six minutes I could turn you into an agoraphobic germophobe with profound hoarding proclivities. Those last two aren’t easily combined, but I have faith I could pull it off. It’s up to you.”
“Yeah, thanks, but I’ll pass,” Saul muttered; then, more softly, in hopes I couldn’t hear, he added, “Brat.”
“Grown men can’t be brats.” I sent Ariel an IM. “We can be bastards, though. Do you like your hair, Saul? And your ability to semi-please women with your equally semi-erections? Do you want to keep those?”
Ahhh, and there it was.
Silence.
The next hour remained blessedly quiet. Ariel wasn’t around and Laramie hadn’t suffered any clusters of peculiar if natural-appearing deaths for eight days, the same as when I’d looked into it yesterday. Five heart attacks, six aneurysms, and four people who abruptly fell over dead with no cause determined. It had all happened last Wednesday and it reeked of Institute tactics. Leave no sign behind . . . unless your owner wanted to send a message. Peter and the others were following training, but they’d stop soon. Where was the satisfaction in having all that power if you couldn’t get the recognition—the fear—it deserved? There would be more deaths and they would become more and more bizarre and obviously unnatural. There would be more wings of blood when Wendy cut loose—flocks and flocks of them. She, without any help at all, was perfectly capable of wiping Laramie off the face of the map. There would be red, red wings as far as the eye could see.
Fly away, bird. Fly away no more.