Nightingale

Chapter 21 Charges False and Otherwise

As soon as "Washington County Sheriff' popped up on Olivia's caller ID, she knew it was trouble. She still hoped to get in another two hours on the first night's auditions, but took the call anyway.

"Hello," Olivia whispered. Her voice came shaky, and her stomach clenched. Whitney glanced up in alarm.

The girl on stage continued an interesting rendition of Hamlet's "To be or not to be" soliloquy.

"Olivia," Officer Walton said, "could you come down to the Sheriffs Office? We've got a situation. Bron is being detained." His voice was as sweet and oily as honey butter.

Everything inside her warned, "Trap." He plans on arresting me, Olivia thought.

He'd seen her drive her CRV around for years, though she'd never given him reason to run her plates. He knew what kind of car had been involved in the accident last week. By now, he'd put two and two together. She'd hoped that this wouldn't happen. In fact, she realized, some corner of her mind was so afraid that she hadn't completely planned for this possibility.

"All right," Olivia said. She needed to draw out details, to buy time to think. "I don't understand. What is this about?"

"Murder."

Whitney had leaned near, trying to eavesdrop on the conversation. Olivia waved her back, got up and headed out the door. The kids would have to handle the rest of the auditions.

She reached the rear of the theater. "Is this about something that happened back in Alpine?"

Walton liked to gloat. Now he couldn't help himself. "No, it's something that happened in Saint George, just last Friday. We got an anonymous tip—a picture of the killer, sent with a text message. It's Bron all right."

"I'm sure that this must be some kind of a prank," Olivia said. She decided that she shouldn't say much more. "If Bron is being accused of something, doesn't he have a right to face his accuser? I'd like to know who sent this picture." She could hear radio chatter in the background, and highway noise. She realized that Walton was calling from a car. "Can I speak to Bron?" she asked loudly.

"Not now," Walton said.

"I'll be right down. I forbid you to interrogate Bron before I get there. He's just a minor." Olivia wasn't sure if Walton would be a stickler for the law. Probably not.

In the background Bron yelled. "Olivia! I want a lawyer!"

Walton hung up.

Whitney sat near the front of the stage, her mind a blur. She'd seen the caller ID on Olivia's phone. She'd heard Sheriff Walton mention Bron's name, ask Olivia to come down to the police station. Walton had said something about "murder."

Whitney felt numb.

In her pack this morning, she'd found a little folded note. It said simply: "You smiled at the wrong boy yesterday."

The note wasn't signed, but it was so like Justin. He was so jealous of other guys, and something about him frightened her. In fact, she felt her skin crawl, as she turned around and searched through the darkened theater.

Justin was there, seven rows back, his face twisted in a superior smirk that said, "I told you so."

Whitney leaned back in her chair, bit her lower lip. Whatever was happening with Bron, she felt certain that Justin was behind it.

It was just like her fling with Nathan Sweet last year. He'd taken her down to Crave for some yogurt, and the next day at school, all of his tires got slashed.

Two days later, Officer Walton had pulled the boy over and found some Oxycontin in his car. Nathan hadn't been into drugs, Whitney felt sure. She suspected that Justin had framed him, and the charges stuck. So he'd transferred out of the school.

That day, she'd found a note in her pack that said, "You may give your body to others, but your heart will always belong to me."

Something about the note had chilled her to the bone. It was as if Justin sought to claim her, regardless of her lack of feelings for him.

He was always watching her at school—standing down the hall, sitting at a nearby table at lunch, following her when she went to the restrooms.

It wasn't stalking, exactly. At least, when she'd told the police what was happening, they said that there was nothing that they could do legally. But it was creepy.

I should have warned Bron, Whitney thought.

Walton glared at Bron as they sped down the highway. "Shut your mouth back there!"

"I want to talk to Olivia!" Bron said. "I heard her ask to talk to me."

Walton considered, then said, "You'll get that chance." He drove while he peered into the cage in the back of the car.

Bron resisted the impulse to shout "Deer!" just to force the sheriff to watch the road, but Walton didn't seem to have a sense of humor.

Bron felt a tingling in his hands. His sizraels had begun to extend. He panicked.

Sweat broke on his brow, and his throat went dry. He tried to steady his breathing.

Nothing bad will happen. Nothing bad will happen, he told himself. He knew that it was a lie. Terrible things were about to happen.

Olivia shoved her cell phone in her pocket, hitting the school doors at a run. It was full dark, and music played in the outdoor theater. The stage lights, reflecting from the rock walls of the canyon, gave the sky a surreal, bloody glow. The air smelled of popcorn. Strings of orange lights outside the theater reminded Olivia of pumpkins and Halloween.

Every muscle in her body tensed. She walked in the dark, wanting to run, but she didn't want to call attention to herself or risk twisting an ankle in the dark. An instant later her phone vibrated. She looked at the caller ID. It was the Mercers. She answered.

Galadriel's voice was hysterical. "Uh, is this Olivia—Mrs. Hernandez, I mean?"

"Hello, Galadriel," Olivia said.

Galadriel began to sob. "Bron's been arrested!" She kept talking, trying to explain, but fell to blubbering. Olivia couldn't understand her.

"I know," Olivia said. "It's all right. I'm sure that it's a misunderstanding."

"Really?" Galadriel asked, suddenly coherent.

"Yes, really," Olivia said.

"How did you find out so fast?" Galadriel sniffed. "I mean, he was just taken in, not ten minutes ago."

That confirmed Olivia's suspicion. Walton was so eager to smirk, he hadn't even taken the time to get Bron into booking.

"Officer Walton called me," Olivia said.

Olivia was in real trouble she knew. The Draghouls would soon be on her trail. Her whole world could come crashing down. There was only a slim chance to save it.

Galadriel began sobbing again, and Olivia asked, "Galadriel, have you told your mother yet?"

"Yes."

That was a nuisance.

"Can you do me a huge favor? Can you promise me not to talk to anyone else about this? Not anyone. I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding, but if news gets out, it could really hurt Bron's reputation. We wouldn't want to do that to him, would we?"

Galadriel hesitated. Olivia knew what she was thinking. She'd want emotional support. She'd want to gossip with her Mends. Olivia was asking her to resist that impulse.

When Galadriel didn't answer, Olivia took a risk, asked, "Do you love Bron?"

"What?" the question caught Galadriel off-guard.

"Do you love him?" Olivia said simply.

The question was premature, of course. They hardly knew each other. But Olivia understood how powerful a teenage crush could hit a girl. Besides, "love" could mean just about anything. Galadriel could love him as a friend, as a human.

"Yeah, I really do," Galadriel said. She couldn't resist the impulse to be a little dramatic.

"Then do this for him: Don't tell a soul what has happened. I'm sure that this will be cleared up by morning."

"Okay...." Galadriel sniffled.

Olivia sighed in relief and thanked her profusely as she hung up. She reached her pickup, fumbled with the keys, hands shaking.

Walton hadn't been able to resist calling Olivia as soon as he took Bron in custody. That might work in my favor, she thought.

It was only a matter of time before Draghouls learned of the arrest. The more advance notice Olivia got, the better chance she had of breaking Bron out of jail, cleaning up this mess.

The Draghouls wouldn't need to rely upon such outmoded media as the local newspaper to find out about Bron's capture. They had access to their own spy network. She wasn't sure what their capabilities might be.

Olivia knew that the CIA, the KGB, and Chinese MSS all had enormous spy facilities. On the internet alone, a hundred thousand Chinese agents worked monitoring email transmissions that they intercepted using "ghost servers." One in every three emails sent in the United States got read by agents in China.

But it wasn't just the internet that was monitored. Satellites using advanced voice-recognition software listened in on every conversation for certain key words.

The average person on the streets wasn't aware of just how closely they were being watched, listened to, studied. But not all of the spies worked for government entities.

The Draghouls' efforts also used sophisticated software. If anything, their spy network was more advanced than the CIA's. Much of the security software developed by private corporations and sold to governments around the world was built by the Draghouls.

All it took to build a spy network was money, and the Draghouls had a nearly limitless supply.

Their criminal empire had flourished from the time merchants first traveled down the Silk Road out of China, smuggling stolen gems and antiques under piles of silk. They'd made a fortune selling blue lotus blossoms to ancient Egyptians eager for a high, and by rigging bets in the Roman Coliseum.

Over the centuries, they'd amassed trillions of dollars.

Nowadays, they made most of their money bootlegging prescription drugs and manipulating global stock markets.

They'd tapped into the communications satellites decades ago. That's why Olivia seldom contacted other masaaks by phone, and why she spoke in vagaries and codes when she did. The Draghouls might well be listening to a recording of Olivia's call with Officer Walton at this very moment, analyzing every word.

If so, the wisest course for her would be to throw her cell phone out the window so that her location couldn't be traced. She could drive away, disappear forever—leave Bron in his cell for the Draghouls, leave Mike to have his brain picked apart for any clues as to where she might have gone.

The fact that she froze in indecision, considered driving the lonely roads to Elko, Nevada, and hiding out in the desert, indicated just how much the enemy terrified her.

But she couldn't run. If I don't try to save the people I love, I'll never be able to live with myself. She had to squash this, and fast.

Bron closed his eyes, imagined an old song called "Free Bird." He had a gift for remembering music. If he concentrated, he could almost hear a song, remember every note, every nuance to the singer's voice. He only had to hear it three or four times, and he had it forever. It was like having an iPod in his head.

The engine roared as the police cruiser raced down the highway.

The band that had sung the song, Lynyrd Skynyrd, had pretty much all been wiped out in a plane crash. Snuffed out and silenced in the dead of night.

Such a loss.

Bron opened his eyes to mere slits. The car bounced as it hit a bump. A purple light sparked in the air.

Bron hadn't meant to do anything. His powers were still untamed. He couldn't help it, but he'd just drained something from Officer Walton.

What happens if I drain too much from him? Bron wondered. Would he just crumple, clutching the steering wheel? Would he faint and veer from the road at seventy miles per hour?

Bron didn't want to find out.

He tried to calm himself, taking deep breaths, until they reached Saint George, turned into the center of town, and rolled into the police station.

It was bigger than Bron had imagined. Officer Walton escorted Bron to a front desk and told the petite receptionist, "I'm going to need an interrogation room here. The prisoner's name is Bron, B-R-O-N. Last name Jones."

The woman smiled at Bron as if she were used to working the counter at Taco Bell, rather than in a police station. She typed his name into a computer, then jutted her chin. "Room three is yours."

Dozens of officers were bustling about.

Walton marched Bron into the back room, keeping him in cuffs, and set him in a hard chair. Walton wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Lordy, I'm tired." He turned to leave.

"Aren't you going to ask me any questions?" Bron said.

"No," Walton smiled. "You lawyered up. Besides, I'm not all that interested in you. You're just a minnow. I'm after the big fish, and you're just the bait."

Walton gave a gloating smile, turned, and left Bron beneath the glaring lights.

As Olivia reached Highway 89, she made a quick call to Father Leery, the only other masaak that she knew locally. She briefly explained the situation and asked, "What should we do?"

"First," Father Leery said, "don't be in such a hurry to get down to the police station. I know you're worried about Bron. By now, I suspect that the enemy knows that someone has been arrested. They'll be coming for him."

"That's why I want to get him out now!"

"It's almost 10:00," Father Leery said. "There will be a shift change at the precinct. Officers will be coming on duty, others will be filling out reports. The place will be busy. The enemy will send an extraction team, but they'll want to wait until things quiet down, to lessen their risk."

Olivia nodded. Father Leery was wise in many ways, and she appreciated having a man with experience in such dangerous matters.

"So what do we do?"

"They'll come for him in the dead of night," Father Leery warned. "Four in the morning would be the safest hour, but they'll be too eager. They'll strike just after midnight."

"Okay," Olivia said. That was only a couple of hours away.

"I'll reach you well before that. We'll take Bron out before the enemy gets there. Don't be afraid. I'm on my way."

"Bring guns," she begged.

Father Leery didn't answer, merely hung up.

Of course he'll bring guns, Olivia thought. But she wasn't sure. He was a man of peace, after all.

Before she could put the phone back in her pocket, Mike called. "Did you hear the news?" he demanded. "Bron's been arrested!"

"I know," Olivia said. "I'm on my way to the police station."

"Okay," Mike said. "We've got to figure a way out of this. I don't believe these charges. I don't think Bron's a killer. He's a nice kid. There has got to be some kind of mistake."

"I agree," Olivia said.

"But we don't have the money to bail him out," Mike said. "I mean, if he goes up on murder, with a full trial? We could lose our life's savings real fast."

She hadn't even considered the notion that she might get Bron out on bail. It seemed a faint hope. No, with the Draghouls out there, she really didn't have any hope at all.

"Don't worry," Olivia said. "I'm not going to put the ranch at risk. I won't post any bail."

"Do you want me to come down there?" Mike asked.

He'd want to make sure that she didn't make a mistake, get emotional and throw away all of their money, of course, but Olivia heard something in his voice: a real concern for Bron.

"This has to be some kind of stupid mistake," Olivia said. "Even if they do offer to let Bron out on bail, the best thing is to wait for a few weeks. The judges don't want to fill up the jails, so they'll keep lowering the bail every week or so, until someone springs for it. The best thing that we can do is to let Bron know that we love him, and wait."

"Yeah," Mike said, sounding reassured. "Yeah, you're right. I think I'm going to come down anyway."

She didn't want him there. This looked like it might get messy real fast, so she tried to warn him off.

"Tell you what," Olivia said. "Let me find out what the situation is, and I'll call you later tonight, if I need you. Morning comes early. You go get some sleep."

Olivia drove quickly to the police station, which was situated on a hill above Saint George. She glanced down over the city as she exited the car. The lights were soft and warm. The Mormon Temple, the largest building in the city, was all luminous white and gold, its central spire rising above the sleeping city.

The Sheriffs office was imposing, big and blockish. Dozens of patrol cars parked out front, their bubble lights gleaming in a well-lit lot.

Olivia would have preferred a smaller precinct—something where only one lone dispatcher might be manning the night desk. In her imagination it would be easy to subdue just one officer.

She considered waiting for Father Leery, but she was too nervous. She wanted to see Bron now, to get him out quickly, if she could.

As she walked up the sidewalk toward the doors, she glanced up at the security cameras overhead, and realized that she had another problem: there might be an electronic record of Bron's arrest—video footage, photographs, induction records, dispatch transcripts.

This incident could already be too large to contain, she decided. Maybe I should just snatch Bron and run.

She was trembling as she reached the door. The automatic opener let the doors slide backward, yawning into a dark space.

Like the Greek entrance to hell, Olivia thought. She peeked inside, saw a smiling desk clerk—a petite woman with dark hair. My very own Cerberus.

Olivia stepped inside the building, with its bland beige walls. The place was bustling. Two dispatchers handled the desk, while a corrections officer milled about, processing a dejected-looking drunk. Dozens of officers were finishing up day shift, or coming in for the night.

It was as if it were the busiest time of day. Her heart sank.

It might still be possible to get Bron out.

She imagined that the police would escort her to some kind of interrogation room. With any luck, she might overpower Officer Walton, wipe his mind, and then just walk away.

She went to the desk clerk and announced herself. "Olivia Hernandez, here to see Officer Walton?"

The desk clerk punched a call to line three, spoke softly, and moments later Walton came scurrying from the back, with a female officer at his side. He smiled, his mouth as wide as a bullfrog's. "Olivia, thank you for coming down and making this easy for us. Right this way."

Officer Walton led her down a hall. Through some one-way glass she spotted Bron sitting in an interrogation room, his hands cuffed behind his back, while a lone bulb shone overhead.

Walton led her to a second interrogation room. "Go on in and have a seat," he said, as he opened the door.

She felt certain now that she wasn't here to see Bron. Walton intended to arrest her. She had only one chance to escape. The hallway was empty except for the two officers.

She had never used her sizraels as weapons, but she knew how to.

Normally, a person's mind filters their thoughts, allows them to concentrate on only one thing at a time. But with a little burst of power, Olivia could open thousands of memories at once. The resulting "brain burst" was like an explosion in the mind. The stimulus knocked most people unconscious.

Olivia entered the room, unsheathed her sizraels, whirled, and reached up to tap Walton on the temple.

But Walton responded faster than a fat man should be able to, grabbing her wrist and twisting fiercely, digging the knuckle of his thumb into her wrist, in the bundle of nerve fibers in her ganglia. A throb of pain numbed her arm.

Walton shoved her against a wall and slapped a handcuff on one of her wrists.

He must have spotted the suction cups on her fingers, for he shouted, "What the hell?"

Olivia immediately forced herself to relax, retracted her sizraels. They were worthless anyway. The ganglia in the human wrist was a pressure point used by martial artists, but attacks to this spot were doubly effective upon masaaks. Olivia's whole arm was numb with pain.

Walton seemed scared now. Frightened people are often mean. He slammed her against the wall again for good measure and twisted her other arm up into the cuffs. For a moment he stood huffing, trying to catch his breath.

He grabbed her cuffs and pulled them back and up, so that the metal cut into her wrists, as he examined her fingers. The suction cups were gone. By now he'd be wondering what he thought he'd seen.

"Well," he said after a moment, confusion evident in his tone. "I think I'm going to pile 'resisting arrest' and 'battery' on top of all the other charges."

Blair Kardashian had been listening to a police scanner in his hotel room when a message came over the radio. "This is car 7, Officer Walton. We have a 10-82, suspect in custody, on that freeway incident last Friday. I'm bringing him in for questioning."

"That's a 10-4," the dispatcher said.

Blair leaned close to the speakers, waiting for the dispatcher to ask the identity of the subject, but she didn't bother.

Night was on, and the air was filled with end-of-shift chatter. Beyond that, someone had just called in a major accident down on the Arizona border, and emergency vehicles and police were rushing to the scene, so news of Walton's arrest got lost in the excitement.

Blair picked up his cell phone and considered calling his master.

His acolytes were out doing grunt work for the dread knights, watching store parking lots. It was a menial task, but someone had to keep watch: masaaks are nocturnal by nature. Darkness makes them feel safe, concealed. So the dread knights had reasoned that their quarry would most likely wait for full darkness to run their errands. They'd need to eat sometime. So each major grocery store in the area had one Draghoul guarding it.

The fact that Blair was relegated to listening to a police scanner was humiliating. The dread knights were hindering him from finding his quarry. Using memories they'd stolen from him, they insisted on conducting their own search, hoping to win their master's reward when they caught this pair.

It wasn't fair, Blair knew. But the dread knights were not known for being fair.

Why should I let them have the honor? he wondered. Why should they gain a reward?

Though he was growing old, Blair was far more capable than others imagined. He kept physically and mentally fit. Over the years he had gleaned a great deal of information from various fighters—Navy SEALS, Army Rangers, and the like. Killers all.

So he slipped into his new Mercedes and drove to Harmon's Grocery Store. There he found Acolyte Riley O'Hare in the parking lot, keeping the store under surveillance. Blair pulled up to Riley's car, rolled down his window, and said, "Get in." The acolyte knew better than to ask why.

Half an hour later, Blair had gathered all four of his acolytes. It was nearly 11:00 by the time he reached the police station. An officer was just leaving. Civilian cars crowded the parking lot. Too many.

Blair huddled behind the driver's seat. The acolytes in the car did not speak. They'd been trained to remain silent.

"All right, my little nightingales," Blair said. "It's time to go to work. You know what to do."

"Is this a wet op?" Riley asked.

"Yes," Blair said. "Prepare to get bloody."

So, Olivia," Officer Walton said, "our tipster tells us that a woman in a white Honda CRV was driving when the attack on the highway occurred. Would you like to tell us what happened?"

He bent his ear, as if Olivia might whisper. A female officer sat at his side, sprawling in her chair, with a bemused expression—the look that a child might have on her face when she's getting ready to tear the wings off a fly.

Olivia bit her lip and simply waited. It had been more than an hour since they had cuffed her. She needed a drink, but dared not ask. "I want my lawyer," she said for the tenth time.

"You and I have been friends for a long time," Walton said. "You're a good woman. The kids down at your school love you. So I've got to say, these accusations sound downright crazy to me. I've got to wonder what really went on?"

Olivia tried to keep calm. With every second that she waited, it increased the likelihood that the Draghouls would come. Yet she couldn't tell them the truth. She'd contacted Father Leery, but it would take some time for him to reach the precinct. She had to hope that he'd make it, that he'd be able to do something.

"I told you, I'm waiting for my lawyer," she warned Officer Walton.

He circled, scratched his head. The female officer leaned back in her chair, looking bored.

"Was it some kind of road rage?" Walton asked. "Did these folks do something to you? Were you afraid of them? I mean, if it was self-defense...."

A soft rapping came at the door. The interrogation room door opened, and the desk clerk poked her head in and whispered, "Her lawyer's here."

"Well," Walton said, clearly annoyed, "the more the merrier."

Olivia breathed a sigh of relief—until the Draghoul from Best Buy strode into the room, grinning like a skull.

"Watch out!" she shouted to Walton. "He's not a lawyer!"

She threw herself backward, hoping to break her chair, but merely landed on the floor.

Officer Walton whirled and reached for his gun, just as the Draghoul touched his temple. Walton spasmed so hard he was thrown into the air. He bounced off the wall, fell, and began to convulse and growl.

Stunned, the female officer tried to pull her gun as the old Draghoul leapt. He grabbed her head, jerked to the right. Neck bones snapped. She sagged to the floor.

The Draghoul turned to Olivia and flashed a baby-killer smile. "I love to see a woman in cuffs."

Bron sat in his chair, beneath a bulb that beat at him. Though it gave little light, it seemed to exude a great deal of heat, enough so that he found sweat dripping down his armpits, beads of it twisting down his nose.

He wondered if the government had special bulbs made just for interrogation rooms. With all of the examinations that the military made of Iraqis and Afghans at places like Guantanamo Bay, he imagined that they probably needed such bulbs.

Bron decided that he would simply endure—the heat, the boredom, the silence. He'd been in the room for a long time, and no one had come to speak to him. No one had offered a drink, or asked him if he needed to relieve himself.

It was part of their strategy, he decided. This was how they hoped to break him down.

They'd come for him in a couple of hours, the interrogators, when he'd been up all night and all day. They'd let his own fear work on him.

The problem was, he didn't really fear the police. Bron had long ago learned to turn off his feelings, not just for others, but for himself. Worry, fear, fatigue—if he concentrated, he could ignore them all.

He heard a scrape at the door, and a plastic card swiped through the outside lock. He expected Officer Walton, but instead a teenage girl entered the room, a pretty brunette. She walked toward him with a strangely mesmerizing gait, her hips rolling gracefully, her back straight and poised.

She smiled. "Good to see you, again, Bron."

He didn't remember seeing her before, until she was nearly upon him—the young woman from Best Buy!

A shout died on his lips as she reached up and touched his temple. He saw the flash of sizraels, felt an electric spark, and his vocal chords went soft. He wanted to yell a warning, call for help, but he had forgotten how.

He stared up at her, mind blank with horror.

"You don't remember me very well, do you?" she asked. "But I remember you!" She tilted his head up and looked into his eyes. "I remember our time at the group home, that football game we played on Thanksgiving, what, six years ago? Riley gave me the memories."

She tilted his head up, examined his jaw, and smiled. "Yep, you're Bron Jones, all right. Now you're ours, little nightingale. So let's take a peek at those nasty old memories you've got rolling around in that skull."

She stood just in front of Bron. His heart was already racing from fear, but the nearness of her set it thudding to a new beat. He could smell her perspiration, her perfume. She wasn't just pretty. Her face was flawless. She wore a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt, and he couldn't help but notice her curves. She smiled teasingly. "Oooh, you're going to go into musth soon! You'll be needing a mate. Wouldn't it be cool if I was your first? Would you like that?"

She smiled, leaned near, with eyes as dark as a fawn's. Despite his fear, he found himself wanting her, and as she placed her hands up on his skull, she did it tenderly, caressing him. She splayed her fingers out, so that they cupped each lobe of his brain, and then softly touched his eyes.

He closed them. "Don't worry," she said. "I don't want to hurt you. You're one of us now."

She leaned forward, and her warm breath stirred the skin of his face, played through his eyelashes. She kissed his lips.

I'm not going to tell you anything! he wanted to say, but his tongue couldn't have been any more numb and useless if a dentist had shot it full of Novocain.

His mind exploded. It was as if a thousand memories surfaced at once, bursting like fireworks:

Mr. Bell driving him to Tuacahn.

Olivia showing him to his room.

The Mercedes flipping as it rolled.

Bron handing Olivia the caltrops.

Galadriel huddled in the back of a police car.

Purple fireworks exploding from his fingertips.

His heart pounding in terror as he discovered his sizraels.

Playing the guitar.

Watching lightning arc across the sky.

Oreo-cookie cattle.

Figuring out how to flush the toilet in his room.

Mike giving him a grin.

Whitney's gorgeous teeth.

The little Stillman kids, all sneaking waves goodbye.

Everyone that he loved, everyone that he wanted to protect, all flashed through his mind at once. Every secret thought, everything he wanted to conceal, all that he held sacred came out of him in an instant.

It was like being raped, he knew, at some primitive level. He'd never felt so sullied, never imagined that he could feel so violated.

And this is just the beginning, he thought. They'll take whatever memories they want from me, dispose of my friends. Olivia's mind would be wiped, but not before she was forced to reveal the contact information for any other masaaks that she knew—Father Leery, her family, the Weigher of Lost Souls.

Bron realized that their little community was like a terrorist cell, but once it was discovered, everyone in it would be laid bare. Olivia's people, the Ael, weren't just in hiding from their enemies, they were in hiding from themselves. How much damage would come from Bron's capture, he couldn't begin to calculate. Dozens of Ael might get rounded up, hundreds!

In another room, there was a popping noise, like firecrackers going off.

The girl lurched back, her eyes going wide, startled. She didn't bother looking toward the sound of the gunfire. She was startled by him. You can't have my friends! Bron wanted to scream, but it was too late. She already knew where Olivia lived.

"Oh, my god," she said. "You're a dream assassin!" There was wonder in her voice, or something more akin to awe, and excitement. She began to breathe rapidly as she backed away, and then she shouted. "Blair, Blair, get in here!"

A moment later the old man from Best Buy entered the room. "We've got a dream assassin!" the girl said.

"Quiet," Blair said. "The wet-work isn't done."

At that instant, gunfire popped again—three shots in rapid succession, then two more, then one. Then a hail of bullets. Cries of pain arose, and moans, and wet thuds as bodies smacked the floor.

Down a hall, someone shouted, "Clear!" From far ends of the building, two more voices called out, "Clear!"

"All clear!"

Blair smiled. With grizzled hair cropped close, his face seemed to be little more than skin stretched over a skull. Yet there was brilliance in his eyes, and something more, limitless cruelty.

"Don't be afraid, Bron," he said. "I feel like we're old friends, after all those hours playing videogames in the group home."

It was creepy, the way that these perfect strangers all spoke to him so personally about the good memories they shared.

"Yes, we're going to be great friends. There's nothing to worry about, Bron. You're very valuable to us. You'll be the Shadow Lord's favorite. Anything you want, will be yours—the finest cars, the most beautiful women. I'm going to make you a promise: we won't hurt you. We won't hurt anyone that you love. Instead, we're going to welcome you into our... family."

What if I don't want to go? Bron wanted to say, but he knew the answer. His wishes were of no import.

Bron's hands tingled. They were still cuffed behind his back. He knew that he had leeching abilities, and now he wondered if he could use them. He tried to extend the suction cups on his fingers, but he had forgotten how. He tried to draw the will from his captors, but felt only empty inside, and lost.

"Now," Blair said, "we're going to go to the car and drive away from here. Let me help you up." Blair took Bron's arm and pulled him to his feet.

Bron stood, feeling numb and empty, as Blair went into the other room. He returned moments later, bringing Olivia. Her hands were cuffed behind her back.

Bron had never seen such terror. Her wide eyes darted back and forth, and her entire body trembled. Her breaths were so shallow, she was gasping. There were red marks on her forehead from sizraels. She'd obviously been interrogated already.

Bron's heart went out to Olivia. He wanted to save her, but could think of no way to do it.

"Come," the old man said. Blair didn't brandish a weapon. Yet his commanding tone said that he would brook no argument.

The girl asked, "Aren't we going to call this in?"

"Not yet," Blair said. "Let's get them to a secure location."

With hands still cuffed behind his back, Bron was marched into the hall. A policewoman lay crumpled on the floor, blood pooling beneath her back.

Bron walked into the police department's main offices, saw two Acolytes carrying long-barreled pistols, with laser sights.

The desk clerk was slumped in her chair, apparently unconscious. Another officer appeared to be dead on the floor, his head askew. In another room, two officers lay bleeding.

Riley O'Hare came from a back room and announced, "I've pulled all of the security footage, and scrambled the audiotapes of the police logs." Riley wore gloves.

Blair added, "I've read through the memories of Walton and the others. We'll need to visit a couple of the officer's homes, if we're to clean up."

The girl added, "Bron has a friend, Galadriel. We'll need to wipe her—and Olivia's husband."

The old man nodded wisely, half-closing his eyes. "Very well. Let's get to it, people."

He marched to the precinct doors, and Bron followed in his wake. Bron considered running, but there was nowhere to go. Blair's grip on his arm was too powerful, too sure.

The pressure plate activated. Doors slid back.

A man stood in the doorway in front of Bron, wearing a Harley Davidson jacket and a motorcycle helmet. Beneath the jacket, Bron discerned a black shirt and a priest's white collar. Before Bron's captor could so much as blink, the priest whipped his hands up to Blair's temple.

At Bron's side, Riley shouted a warning and pulled a pistol.

Bron saw his chance to save Olivia. Blair's followers had taken his memories of how to talk, but they hadn't taken his memories of how to wrestle. He lunged sideways, shoving Riley with all of his might, throwing him off balance. Riley's hands flew up by instinct, to protect him from a fall, as Bron knew they would.

A single bullet flew wide, hitting the plate-glass window of the entrance. Tinted glass shattered in a hail.

Before Riley could regain his balance, the priest leapt into action, sending a roundhouse kick to Riley's face.

Olivia had thrown herself backward, hitting one of their captors—the young woman—in the face. Blood spattered from the girl's nose, rained down upon the floor. But the girl leapt forward with the determination of a cornered animal.

Bron leapt in the air, grabbed her legs with his own, and twisted, throwing her off-balance and pulling her down. The girl slammed to the floor. Her gun skittered away.

Bron adjusted his grip on his captive, clasping her chest, as she struggled to rise. He knew he wouldn't be able to hold her long, but he kept her in a scissors lock, trying to squeeze the air from her. She pushed his legs down, so that he only had her stomach, and tried to squirm free.

Olivia saw his predicament and dropped on the girl, crushing the air from her lungs.

The last of the Draghoul acolytes rushed from a back room, pistols in hand.

Bron never saw the priest draw his own weapon—just heard a shot. The young Draghoul reached up and grasped his neck. A dart stuck there, a bit of white wool at its end.

The young man touched it, then his eyes rolled and he crumpled.

The priest rushed into the room. The young woman gained her feet and tried to attack with her sizraels, but the priest's helmet foiled her. She couldn't reach his head.

The priest threw the girl against a pillar so hard that bones cracked. The girl stood there for a moment, stunned, out on her feet. The priest grasped her skull.

Almost instantly she flew into convulsions, her eyes rolling back, spittle rising from her mouth.

The priest held her gently as he let her sag to the ground, and then crouched above her as he looked for others. "Is that all of them?"

Olivia nodded wildly.

He stood for a moment with one hand upon the girl's forehead, almost as if he were feeling for a pulse, but Bron realized that he was reading her memories. "They've already cleaned the police logs for us, taken down the security cameras. But there are a couple of officers that know that you were picked up tonight, Olivia. We'll have to clean them. And we'll need to wipe this place of prints—any room that you entered."

The priest got up, took a key-card from their captor, along with some normal keys, and unlocked Olivia's cuffs. He grasped Olivia's head for a moment, like some old-time street preacher bestowing the gift of the Holy Ghost, and Olivia's mouth flew open.

"Thanks," was all that she said. She rushed back to the interrogation offices to wipe any prints.

The priest grabbed Bron's skull and held him for a moment. Bron felt something inside him click.

"I can talk!" he said.

"And you can use your sizraels now," the priest added. He unlocked Bron's cuffs.

He knelt over the old man, Blair, and just held him for an instant. Bron saw vivid blue lights pulse at the priest's fingertips.

"What are you doing?" Bron asked.

"They can't be allowed to remember that we were here," the priest said. "I have to clean their skulls out, sanitize them."

"Of everything?" Bron asked.

"By tomorrow," the priest said, "this man won't know his name, his phone number, or how to put on his socks."

"You'd do that?" Bron asked.

"They're lucky," the priest said. "I could make their hearts forget how to beat."

Olivia returned, making a final visual inspection. "I count fourteen dead police officers, and one dead civilian." Her voice was ragged with shock, regret.

The priest went from Blair back to the girl.

Olivia erased the third boy, then finished up with Riley. He was lying asleep at Bron's feet. Suddenly his eyes flew open.

Olivia suggested, "Go to your car, sit inside, and wait for us." Riley stared at the ceiling blankly for a moment, got up, and ambled out the door, as if he were a zombie.

Olivia did the same with the girl, and soon all of the Draghouls had wandered from the room.

"What are you going to do with them?" Bron asked. He could think of nothing worse than finding your mind wiped—having no memories, being unable to speak, to dress. "Kill them?"

The priest looked to Olivia, as if to ask, "Is he really that stupid?"

Olivia said, "No, Bron, we won't kill them, if we can avoid it. We'll convert them."

"Convert them to Christianity?" Bron asked.

The priest gave Bron an odd look. "You could say that, I suppose. I'll empty them of memories, and then insert my own. I'll turn them into copies of me."

"We'll 'possess' them," Olivia explained. "Think of your memories, your consciousness, as software. We'll just pull out all of the old programming, all of the faulty stuff, and replace it with something better. When we're done, the possessed are called poppets."

"I can't believe that you'd do that," Bron said. "It sounds so ... vile."

"It's not so bad," the priest said. "You'd be surprised at how quickly the poppets begin to differentiate, develop their own personalities."

"Bron," Olivia said. "What do you think they planned to do to you? At the very least, they were going to take all of your memories. They could turn you into a child, make you forget how to open a door. They could put you in a room and make you forget that there's a world beyond it. Keeping you captive would be nothing. They could keep you dumber than a cocker spaniel. Or, if they wanted, they could wipe out your mind completely, and fill it with one of their minds, one of their personalities. Their Shadow Lord would have done that, made you two people with one mind, one heart, one goal. Just one night with the enemy, and you could become the enemy."

Bron's face must have been a study in shock. The priest smiled. "It doesn't hurt them, Bron," he said. "I should know. I was one of them, once. I was one of the Draghouls, a Dread Knight. I served the Shadow Lord for three hundred years."