Tory was many things, but naïve wasn’t one of them. “If you have something specific in mind, Agent Briggs,” she said, “just ask.”
Sterling leaned forward. “Could you hypnotize someone into getting a tattoo?”
“That would depend,” Tory replied evenly, “on whether or not the person you were hypnotizing was open to getting a tattoo in the first place.” I thought she might leave it there, but she didn’t. “Hypnosis isn’t mind control, Agent Sterling. It’s suggestion. You can’t alter someone’s personality. You can’t make them do something they truly do not want to do. The hypnotized person isn’t a blank slate. They’re merely…open.”
“But if someone were open to getting a tattoo—”
“Then, yes,” Tory said. “I might be able to implant that suggestion. But seeing as how I value my job and not getting sued by angry audience members, I try to stick to things that are a little less permanent.”
Alexandra Ruiz’s tattoo was made of henna, I thought. Less common than a regular tattoo—and less permanent.
“Can anyone be hypnotized?” The questioning bounced back to Agent Briggs.
“You can’t force someone under who doesn’t want to go.” Tory leaned back in her seat. “And some people are more easily hypnotizable than others. Daydreamers. People who had imaginary friends as children.”
Beside Tory, the lawyer looked at his watch.
“How quickly could someone learn to do what you do?” Briggs asked Tory.
“To do it as well as I do it?” Tory asked. “Years. To be able to hypnotize someone, period? I know people who claim they can teach it in under ten minutes.”
I saw the next question coming.
“Have you taught anyone?”
Tory’s eyes darted toward the lawyer. “I believe,” he said, standing up and gesturing for Tory to do the same, “that my client has indulged your interest long enough.”
Aaron, I thought. She taught Aaron.
The footage cut to static. After a moment’s silence, Lia spoke up. “Every single word out of her mouth was true.”
The real question, I thought, is what she wasn’t saying.
“I want to go.”
I looked up to see Sloane standing in the doorway.
“Go where?” Michael asked her.
“To Tory Howard’s Imagine,” Sloane said. “Aaron sent us complimentary tickets. I want to go.”
I thought back to the way he’d rescued Sloane from the head of security, the way he’d ignored the shoplifting, the way he’d sworn that if he had known about her, things would have been different.
I thought of Sloane’s father telling her to stay away from his son.
A knock sounded at the door. “Delivery,” someone called. “For Ms. Tavish.”
Dean was the one who opened the door. He accepted the box, his expression guarded. I wondered if he was thinking of the gifts I’d been sent once upon a time—boxes with human hair in them, boxes that marked me as the object of a killer’s fascination.
We waited for Judd to open the box. There, against a backdrop of sedately striped tissue paper, was the shirt Sloane had tried to steal.
There was a card inside. I recognized the handwriting as Aaron’s. The message said simply, I’m not like my father.
Sloane stroked her hand lightly over the silk shirt, an expression halfway between heartbreak and awe settling over her features.
“I don’t care what anyone says,” she said softly. “Not Briggs. Not Sterling. Not Grayson Shaw.” She gingerly lifted the shirt out of the box. “I’m going.”
All six of us went. Judd seemed to believe that was the lesser of two evils—the greater of those evils being the possibility that Sloane might find a way to go alone.
As we found our seats, I scanned the auditorium. My gaze landed on Aaron Shaw a moment before he registered Sloane’s presence. In an instant, his entire demeanor changed, from perfectly polished—every inch his father’s heir apparent—to the person I’d caught a glimpse of back in the security office. The person who cares about Sloane.
He made his way through the crowd toward us. “You came,” he said, zeroing in on Sloane. He smiled, then hesitated. “I’m sorry,” he said. “About earlier.”
For a moment, in that hesitation, he looked like Sloane.
Beside me, our numbers expert cleared her throat. “A substantial portion of apologies are issued by people who have nothing to apologize for.” That was Sloane’s way of telling him that it was okay, that she didn’t blame him for giving in to their father, for leaving her with him.
Before Aaron could reply, a girl about his age appeared beside him. She wore dark jeans and a fashionably loose shirt. Everything about her—accessories, haircut, posture, clothes—said money.
Old money, I thought. Understated.
After a moment’s hesitation, Aaron greeted her with a kiss to the cheek.
A friend? I wondered. Or more than that? And if so, then what is Tory?
“Ladies and gentlemen.” A deep voice came over the auditorium speakers. “Welcome to Tory Howard’s Imagine. As you prepare to be swept into a world where the impossible becomes possible and you find yourself questioning the very depths of the human mind and experience, we ask that you set your cell phones to silent. Flash photography is strictly forbidden during the show. Break the rules, and we may be forced to make you…disappear.”
The moment he said the word disappear, a spotlight highlighted the center of the stage. A light fog rose off the ground. One second the spotlight was empty, and the next, Tory was standing there, clothed in tight black pants and a floor-length leather duster. She whipped her arm out to one side and suddenly, without warning, she was holding a flaming torch. The spotlight dimmed. She brought the flame to the bottom of her jacket.
My mind went to the second victim. Within a heartbeat, Tory was wearing a coat of fire. With a stage presence far more magnetic than I would have ever imagined, she lifted the torch to her lips, blew out the flame, and disappeared.
“Good evening,” she called from the back of the room. The audience turned to gape at her. The coat was burning blue now. “And welcome to…Imagine.” She threw her arms out to the side, and suddenly, the back two rows were on fire, too. I heard someone scream, then laugh.
Tory smiled, a slow, sexy smile. The flames surged, then disappeared. She stepped through the smoke. “Let’s get started,” she said. “Shall we?”
When most people watch a magic show, they try to figure out how the magician does it. I wasn’t interested in the magic. I was interested in the magician. She wasn’t Tory, not the Tory I’d seen before. The persona she’d slipped into the moment she’d walked onto the stage had a mind and a will and a personality of its own.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, I’m looking for volunteers. Specifically”—Stage-Tory raked her eyes over the audience, as if she could make out each of our faces and read each of our thoughts—“I’m looking for individuals who would like to participate in the portion of tonight’s show devoted to hypnotism.”
Hands shot up all over the crowd. Tory went through, calling people up—a handful of women, an eighty-five-year-old man who punched a fist into the air when he climbed up on stage. “And…” she said, drawing out the word once she had about a dozen volunteers pulled out, “…you.”
For a second, I thought she was pointing at me. Then I realized she was pointing in front of me—at the girl sitting next to Aaron. Sloane’s brother went ramrod stiff. The girl next to him stood up. A couple of seats down from me, so did Michael. When Tory realized Michael was acting like she’d called on him, she rolled with the punches. “Looks like I got two for the price of one. Both of you, come on up!”
“Michael,” I said, reaching for him as he brushed past me.
“Come on, Colorado,” he told me. “Live a little.”
Up on stage, Michael gave a courtly bow to the audience and took his seat. Tory faced her volunteers and spoke to them for a moment. N
one of us could hear what she said. After two or three seconds, she turned back to the crowd and the volume came back up on her microphone.
“I’m going to count backward from one hundred,” she said, pacing the row in front of her volunteers. “One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight. I want you to picture yourself lying on a raft, next to an island. Ninety-seven, ninety-six, ninety-five. You’re drifting. Ninety-four, ninety-three. The further I count, the farther you go. Ninety-two, ninety-one…”
As she counted, Tory went by each of the volunteers. She took their heads in her hands and rolled them back and forth.
The further I count, the farther you go. She kept saying those words.
“Your body is heavy. Your head, your neck, your legs, your arms…” Up and down the row she went. She tapped a couple of participants on the shoulder and sent them back to their seats, then began to describe a light, floating sensation. “Your body is heavy, but your right arm is weightless. It floats up…up…seven, six…The further I count, the farther you go. Five, four, three, two…”
By the time she hit one, the nine volunteers remaining on the stage were slumped in their chairs, their right arms creeping upward. I turned toward Lia.
Is Michael faking it? I raised an eyebrow at Lia, hoping to get an answer, but her concentration was fixed on the stage.
“You’re on the beach,” Tory told her hypnotized subjects. “You’re sunbathing. Feel the sun on your skin. Feel the warmth.”
Their faces instantly relaxed, smiles crossing their lips.
“Don’t forget to put on sunscreen.” Tory’s voice was light and silky now.
I couldn’t help snorting as Michael began rhythmically rubbing pretend sunscreen all over his biceps. He flexed for the crowd.
“Now,” Tory said, walking up and down the length of the stage. “Whenever you hear me say the word mango, you will come to believe that you have just passed gas. Loudly. In a crowded room.”
It was five minutes before Tory said the word mango. Immediately, all of the hypnotized subjects started looking distinctly uncomfortable, except for Michael, who gave an elaborate shrug, and the girl who’d been sitting with Aaron, who took a step forward. And then another. And another.
She walked straight to the edge of the stage, her head bowed. Just when I thought she might walk off the front, she came to a sudden halt.
“Miss, I’m going to need you to take a step back,” Tory called.
The girl lifted her head. Her light brown hair fell away from her face. She stared at the audience, her gaze piercing. “Tertium,” she said.
One of the stage lights shattered and popped.
“Tertium,” the girl repeated, her voice louder, more piercing.
Tory was trying to get her to back up, trying to wake her up, but she couldn’t.
“Tertium.” The girl was screaming now. Behind her, the rest of the hypnotized subjects stood perfectly still. Michael broke away from the others, his eyes cogent and clear.
The girl raised her hands to the side, palms out. Her voice lowered itself to a coarse but powerful whisper that hit me like spiders crawling down my spine. “I need nine.”
The girl’s eyes rolled back in her head. She collapsed. Tory leapt forward. In the row in front of us, Aaron pushed his way to the aisle.
The curtain came down. An uneasy murmur spread through the audience. The people around us had no idea what had just happened. They had no idea what it meant.
You.
Need.
Nine.
The thought came to me in pieces. I forced air into my lungs.
“Nine.” Sloane’s voice somehow managed to reach my ears through the dull roar of the crowd. “Tertium. Tertium. Tertium. Three. Three times three—”
“Please remain in your seats,” a deep voice commanded over the loudspeaker. “The show will resume momentarily.”
Judd took one look at the potential for chaos and jerked his head toward the nearest exit.
“What about Townsend?” Dean said as we pushed our way through the crowd. “He’s still onstage.”
Judd deposited us safely in the hallway. “I’ll go get Michael,” he told Dean. “You stay here and watch the girls.”
That got a substantial eyebrow raise out of Lia. “I do hope my dowry is large enough to attract a virile man,” she told me wistfully. “I’m so very helpless on my own.”
Dean was wise enough not to reply.
Once Judd was out of earshot, Lia lowered her voice. “So are we all thinking that either Aaron’s little girlfriend is our killer and she just had a psychotic break, or that our killer somehow hypnotized her into delivering that message?”
I nodded. After a second or two, Dean agreed. “Yes.”
“Tertium again,” Lia commented. “You think our guy considers that his name?”
Tertium, I thought. Meaning the third time.
The third time. The third time. The third time.
I need nine.
“It’s not a name,” I told Lia. “It’s a promise.” I turned to look at Sloane, to get her read on the numbers—but she wasn’t beside me. I whirled, doing a three-sixty.
No Sloane.
Lia cursed, then slammed back into the theater. An instant later, Dean and I were on her heels. Sloane was usually easy to spot, but in a crowd this large, the best I could do was follow Lia and think, Sloane came here to see Aaron. And the last time I saw her, she was talking about the numbers.
That meant that she was either trailing after Aaron or she’d gone straight to the source of the numbers. The girl. Either way, she was probably—
“Backstage,” I yelled to Lia, struggling to keep up with her as she pushed her way to the front of the auditorium. Two bouncer-types were positioned on either side of the stage. Lia leaned forward and whispered something in one of their ears. The man paled and stepped aside, allowing us to pass.
I truly did not want to know what Lia had told him, but I had to admit that her particular skill set definitely had its uses.
Backstage, I spotted Michael crouched near the girl, who was sitting up now. Judd stood behind Michael. Sloane wasn’t with them. That left one likely option.
“Find Aaron,” I said, “and we’ll find Sloane.”
“You son of a bitch.”
I turned, just in time to see Beau Donovan slam Aaron Shaw up against a wall. Aaron had three or four inches and a good thirty pounds on Beau, but Beau came at him like he was completely unaware of that fact.
“I found Aaron,” Lia said.
Aaron threw Beau off him. Beau skidded backward on his heels, then came at Aaron again. This time, a small blond blur stepped in front of Aaron.
Sloane.
Dean lunged forward. He hated violence. He avoided it at all costs because he could never be sure that he wouldn’t wake up one day and like it too much. But if anyone laid so much as a finger on Sloane…
Aaron stepped in front of Sloane a second before Beau collided with her. Dean latched a protective arm around Sloane’s waist and pulled her back. Beau shoved Aaron again, and Aaron snapped and surged forward. They both went down. Within seconds, Aaron was on top and unquestionably in control. Beau’s gaze locked onto Aaron’s face with intense hatred.
“What is your problem?” Sloane’s brother spat.
In answer, Beau resumed his struggle for the upper hand. Aaron held him in place, the way a wolf might pin a pup.
“My problem?” Beau said. “My problem is you. You bring your little high-class, never-worked-a-day-in-her-life girlfriend here? To my sister’s show?” Beau didn’t give Aaron time to respond. “You think that you can treat people like they’re nothing—”
Beau surged again, and this time, he ended up on top just long enough to land a solid punch to Aaron’s jaw before security swarmed them. The guards pulled Beau off of Aaron—a little harder than necessary—and then looked to Aaron for instruction.
“Allison is not my girlfriend,” Aaron said calmly. “She’s just a f
amily friend, and I was as surprised to see her here as you were.”
“I doubt that.”
Aaron and Beau turned in unison to look at Tory. She was still dressed in her costume from the show, but she was fully herself again. No muss. No fuss.
Nothing can hurt you unless you let it.
“You’re the one who called her up on stage,” Aaron told Tory. “What the hell were you thinking, Tory?” He paused. “What did you do to her?”
“She didn’t do anything!” Beau struggled beneath the security guard’s hold. “You probably set the whole thing up, you sick son of a—”
“Enough!” Tory shouted. Beau stilled. Tory dragged her gaze from him to Aaron, and her eyes hardened. “I want you both out of here. Now.”
The now seemed to be directed at the security guards.
“Sir,” one of them told Aaron, visibly uncomfortable with the words exiting his mouth. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Aaron’s eyes never left Tory’s face. “Tory, let me explain.”
“You don’t need to explain.” Tory’s voice was emotionless, but there was steel underneath. “Our relationship is strictly professional.” She looked around at the audience they’d gathered—including Sloane, Lia, Dean, and me—and her voice hardened. “It always has been.”
“You heard her,” Beau told Aaron, his eyes hard.
“Don’t.” Tory rounded on Beau, her voice cracking whip-loud through the air. “I didn’t ask you to do this, Beau, and I am done cleaning up your messes.” She swallowed, and I got the sense that sending Beau away was even harder for her than ending things with Aaron. “Leave,” she said, her voice lower. “Now.”
Without waiting for a response, Tory turned back to the stage and started yelling out directions for the stagehands. “Get a doctor up here for Ms. Lawrence. Then call the head of security and inform him that we have a situation. I want this show back up and running in five minutes.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Agent Briggs knew how to make an entrance—in this case, with his badge held high for everyone to see. “Special Agent Briggs, FBI,” he said, his voice carrying. “I’m going to need to ask you all some questions.”
All In: (The Naturals #3) Page 13