by Kim Harrison
Again, she was struck by how ill his suit looked on him. Oh, it was tailored to a high-price perfection, giving where it should and tight where it ought to be, but Bill’s calm exterior covered a cold, calculating cruelty. Some of her patrons had that look as well, but with Bill, there was no understanding of accountability to temper it. It made him into the thug he’d started life as despite his ongoing efforts to cover it up.
She shook her head at the man offering to hang up her coat as she took it off, and Bill smiled as if fond of his little paranoid creation. Bothered, she pushed past him, following the host through the crowd to the stairs. “That’s my girl,” Bill said, a hand finding its way to the small of her back. She’d say he was being a gentleman, but she knew he was checking to see whether she had a weapon she hadn’t pulled on Michael, stymied by her coat now over her arm.
Stim tabs crunched under her feet as she went up the stairs. Colored lights spun, making the smoke at the high ceiling glow in bands of moving red and gold. It was an upscale place. You could order at the table and pay at the table, but real people brought out the drinks, flashing real skin, unlike the holographs on the stage and dance cage.
Unbuttoning his suit coat, Bill slid into the booth made for six, spinning the menu to himself. His Opti ring looked tight on his thick finger as he ordered something. Seeing her still standing, he patted the bench next to him in invitation.
Peri pulled her eyes off her diary and sat down, keeping space between them. It was quieter here, the noise from the dance floor being deflected. Still, the thump from the bass pounded into her, tightening her tension. This was wrong, but she had to know.
“Nothing but the best for you, kiddo,” Bill said, sighing as he set the syringes on the table before them like the carrots they were. “I ordered champagne. Lucky for you, nothing in these will interact with the alcohol, and we need to celebrate.”
Peri set her coat aside. Across the open space over the dance floor, there were booths of partying people. No one was close enough to see the syringes, and even if they could, it was unlikely anyone would care. It was that kind of a place. “What are they?” she asked.
Clearly pleased with himself, Bill settled the flats of his arms on the table and leaned toward her. “Forty years of research,” he said, pulling back when their champagne arrived in a bucket of ice. “Already? I can see why you favor this place. Good service.”
Her jaw had added itself to her list of aches, but the fight was clear in her memory, meaning she hadn’t drafted more than a second or two. That she might be missing chunks didn’t hold the same impact it had a year ago, but still, to remember . . .
The pop of the cork made her jump, and she scanned the place as the sweet amber gurgled into the glasses. She liked the vantage point. Worst case was that she had five minutes before Bill’s people would be coming in the back, replacing the servers and the bouncers, and the building would be his. I wonder what Cam would think if he could see me now, she thought.
“Peri?” Bill prompted, and she took the glass he was holding out. Lip curled, she set it down, not appreciating his clumsy attempt at manipulating her, patently obvious as he tried to remind her of everything she once had: the privilege, the clothes, the excitement, the above-the-law confidence that she’d taken for granted was hers and always would be.
And yet . . . “How does it work?” she asked, hating herself.
His lips curled into a satisfied smile. “The pink is the accelerator. One cc intravenously will chemically destroy the synapses that cause you to forget a draft,” he said calmly, tapping his glass to hers before taking a sip. “You only need to administer it once, but you have to dose yourself up on Evocane first or you’ll have a psychotic episode the first time you draft, and what’s the point of that? Fortunately the Evocane is much easier to administer. Half a cc right in your muscle, like an insulin shot.” He smiled. “I insisted it be easy,” he said as if she should thank him for it.
“Drafters can’t hold twin timelines,” she said, head shaking in denial. “That’s why we forget in the first place.” But if they had found a way to eliminate the memory loss, she’d be dependent on no one. She’d be whatever she wanted to be. I’d become even better at what I’m good at, a cold-blooded killer. Her hands had become fists, and she forced them to relax. “How long have you been able to do this?”
“Successfully? Not long. We’ve been able to eliminate the synapses that prevent an altered timeline from moving from short-term to long-term memory since the sixties.”
She licked her lips, watching the bubbles rise in her untasted drink. “They went mad.”
“To the individual,” Bill said, seemingly to be truly regretful. “But as most of them had come to Opti mad to begin with, it was written off as a failed therapy. It was most vexing, I understand, so they shelved it until Evocane was developed to arrest the hallucinations and accompanying paranoia.” He touched the syringe with the blue drug. “It stops it dead in its tracks. Keeps you sane.”
“I won’t be your tool again,” she said flatly, and Bill’s exuberance dulled.
“You are vulnerable, kiddo,” he said as he set his glass down. “Always have been, even with an anchor at your side to bring your memory back. You know it. I know it. Frankly, I don’t blame you for abandoning us. We failed you.”
She swallowed hard, not wanting to admit the ugly truth behind why she’d run. “That’s not why I left.”
“No?”
Her hands clenched when he reached behind his suit coat and took her diary out from an inner pocket. It was all she could do to not rip it from him when he flipped through it, stopping at a random page. “ ‘He says I forget nothing,’ ” he said, reading her words aloud. “ ‘That it’s still there, just the way to recall it derailed, and if I follow my instinct, I will never go wrong. But seeing him mourning the loss of Summer, even now, six months after she passed, maybe it’s better to forget.’ ”
She could hardly breathe as he closed it and tossed her soul carelessly to the bench out of her reach. “Vulnerable,” he pronounced. “But no more, Peri. Let me give your freedom to you. Lying to you was a mistake. You’re smart enough to handle the truth. But this?” He touched the waiting syringes. “You want this. It’s your choice.”
“Choice?” she barked out, her anger sparking as she recalled how they’d wiped her year after year, concealing that she was working for a corrupt man under the guise of a government-run organization. “You have no right to talk to me of choice.”
“Don’t you get it?” he said suddenly, a flicker of his anger showing. “There’s no longer a need to scrub you. Ever,” he said, his eyes riveted to hers. “I want you to remember. Everything and always. You can work with someone or alone. But you will work for me. I have your memory, Peri. Right . . . here,” he said as he set his hand possessively on the two syringes.
I don’t want to come back. I don’t want to have to kill out of necessity. “Keep it,” she said. “We’re done here.”
She stood, jerked to a halt when Bill caught her. Peri looked down at his hand’s meaty thickness about her thin wrist. She knew from experience she couldn’t pull free, but a quick jab to his eye would get him to let go. Bill knew it as well, and still, he was there, holding her.
“Do you think me stupid?” he growled, hunched as he dropped his benefactor mask. “That I’d send my men away if I wasn’t sure? Let you walk free when I could have you in cuffs, tied to a chair? Stop being foolish,” Bill said, his voice settling in her gut, heavy and unyielding. “I have what you want, Peri Reed. I’m giving it to you. Why are you being so stubborn?”
He let go, and she rocked back, catching her balance. “Sit down,” he demanded, and she did, heart pounding.
“I’ve seen you with your clientele,” he said as he took up the blue syringe, gauging the amount of liquid in it. “Breathing in their power like a drug, pretending to be that small thing.” He was scornful, and shame pricked at her because it was true. “
You’d like to pretend you walked away from us, your morals washed clean. Rescuing the daughter of the head of the alliance?” His gaze went to hers, holding it. “Everyone believes you lured Opti into a trap so the alliance could hopefully end us, but we know it was a lack of action that made that decision. You didn’t tell the alliance we were coming. That’s why I trust you. Am I wrong?”
Her silence was answer enough.
Bill nodded, his expression empty. “We’ve made progress in the year you’ve been on leave,” he said as he took the blue vial out of his pocket. “I understand your desire to work without an anchor. Fair enough. It must be intolerable for someone so proud to be reliant upon another.” He flicked the cap off the blue syringe, and it clattered on the tabletop. “Now you won’t have to,” he said, filling the syringe to the half cc mark.
Breathless, she froze. Oh, God. He was offering her everything she ever wanted. But Opti used anchors to control drafters. If they were taking them out of the equation, they must have something else now, something more secure that wouldn’t be swayed by love, or fall asleep, or simply forget. Something that came in little blue and pink vials, maybe.
“Your skip-hops were impressive,” Bill said as he pushed her sleeve up to expose the hard muscle of her shoulder. “You were never one to sit idle. I won’t let you need, Peri. I promise.”
It’s addictive? she thought in horror as he framed her shoulder with his thick fingers. And that, of course, was the control. They had only to withhold the maintenance drug and she’d do whatever they wanted. She wouldn’t be a god. She’d be a tool, a piece of ammo. Whoever held the source of that blue liquid held the power, not her.
“Welcome home, Peri,” Bill whispered, that needle descending.
That stuff was not getting into her. Peri’s breath came in smoothly. Reaching, she grasped the neck of the bottle of champagne and swung it. Bill pulled back, but she’d anticipated it, and the bottle hit him square on the side of the head, right where she wanted.
Bill’s startled jerk collapsed to nothing as his eyes rolled back and he slumped, syringe clattering to the grimy floor. Pulse fast, she eased him down on the long bench. Leaning, she grabbed her diary before sending her hands into his pockets, looking for a weapon, cash, anything, since they’d confiscated what she’d walked out of her coffee shop with.
No one even noticed, and as her fingers rifled through Bill’s pockets—taking the wad of cash from his wallet before dropping the flexible metal case on his chest—a myriad of emotions flooded her, all shoved to the background to deal with later. They had a cure. It would make her perfect but would turn her into a slave. This is so bad for my asthma, she thought as Bill groaned and reached for his head.
Pissed, Peri grabbed his hand in a submission hold, bending until he grunted, his eyes flashing open. She had to lean in with all her weight. His wrist had been broken more than once. “Listen to me, old man. Listen real good,” she said when he focused on her in anger. “I don’t do this anymore. Now, I’m going to walk out of here. You can either watch me go or try to find me again, but the first will be cheaper, cleaner, and have the same result as the last. Got it?”
Bill’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she’d seen him angrier than this. She added a twist to his wrist, and pain pulled his expression into a snarl. “You’ll be back, Peri. You are my best. I’ll wait for you, but not forever. You don’t have forever. You’ve only got a week.”
Ticked, she slammed his head against the wall to knock him out. Heart pounding, she stood and looked down at the dancing people. Even now, no one had noticed them. I’m not going to be his weapon. But the chance that she might remember her drafts was irresistible, and after a second of indecision, she leaned under the table, grimacing at the tacky floor as she retrieved the syringes and recapped the Evocane. Taking the blue vial as well, she stuffed it behind her shirt, where it made a cold, hard spot against her middle.
Grabbing her journal, she turned and walked out. “Anchor in a can,” she muttered, the crash of adrenaline making a nauseating slurry. Conflicted, she held her arm to her middle, pressing the vial to herself. A part of her wanted to inject them both that very second. To remember her drafts would free her, make her dependent on no one. But the chance she might be hooked on a maintenance drug for the rest of her life, a slave to whoever held its source, was too great.
Silas, she thought. He could tell her if it was true. If it was safe.
You’ll be back resonated in her mind, and she stifled a shudder, even as she felt the pull.
Never.
CHAPTER
FIVE
“I told you to stand down.” Bill’s voice was soft, heavy with irritation as he stood with his back to Michael, his feet in the sun streaming in over his rented office space, hands clasped behind his back as he looked out over Detroit. “You did exactly what I told you not to, and now you have a cracked rib and a possible concussion.”
Michael shifted in the worn chair, trying to find a position that didn’t cause his chest to ache. Bill no longer had a government-funded med wing to send him to, and he wasn’t about to take anything over-the-counter that might interfere with his ability to draft. The heat from his finger wasn’t registering on his phone’s screen, and he pressed harder. “I’m fine,” he muttered, distracted.
“Fine isn’t task-ready,” Bill said caustically. “I told you to give us a shot.”
Tired of Bill’s griping, Michael looked up from deleting old emails. Watching Bill try to be professional was a riot. The large man’s Bronx accent showed when he got pissed, and though he might eat imported chocolate and drink expensive wine, Michael doubted he could tell them apart from Hershey bars and Budweisers. “Have you got a new anchor for me yet?” he asked, allowing a hint of his annoyance to show. Ron had been an insult. Buying a cup of coffee with his phone? If Peri hadn’t killed him, he would have. The low skill level of available anchors said more than the fifth-floor office and reduced resources that Bill was on the skids, trying to make it work and find a way back to his lost power. And for that, he needed drafters.
Bill’s hands clenched, then released as he turned, and Michael hid his smile behind a quick rub under his nose. He could tell it was all Bill could do to not grab his phone out of his hand and throw it across the room. Egging the man on had become Michael’s favorite pastime.
“We’re having trouble finding someone who complements your profile,” Bill said.
Michael continued to delete emails, knowing it would piss off Bill even more. “Translation,” he drawled, stopping himself just before touching his sore nose. “You can’t find anyone with enough balls for the job. You know what? That’s fine. I won’t need one after you accelerate me.”
Striding to his desk, Bill yanked open a low drawer and set a heavy bottle thumping down upon it. “I agree Ron wasn’t optimal, but you have to start trusting your anchor.”
“Please. The man was a joke.” Still focused on his phone, Michael sent out a text to a woman he hadn’t seen in three months. “I don’t want another anchor. I want the accelerator.” Michael’s lips curved down as an old jealousy rose, thick and cloying. “Giving it to her wasn’t the deal.”
“Deal? The deal was it goes to the best,” Bill said, pointing at him with his empty shot glass. Expression twisting, he set the shot glass down and took a swig right from the bottle. “You were off your game, Michael.”
Bullshit. Michael’s eyes narrowed in anger. “You interfered. Darted me. Took me out of the equation. And now you expect me to be all scotch and cigars with you? I’m not buying into this. Give me a reason, or I’m taking a vacation. Right now.”
Bill scrubbed at the bridge of his nose.
“How many drafters you got, Bill?” Michael asked, knowing the few still at large were lying low, like he should be. But he liked it too much. This was who he was, and anything less felt dead.
When Bill looked up, his frustration was safely back in check, but Michael could see it, simmeri
ng just under the surface. “I like you, Michael,” he finally said, and Michael stifled a rude snort, knowing “like” had nothing to do with his sitting in Bill’s office. “I’m not going to risk your mental health until I know it’s safe, and you’d better hope to God we get your guinea pig back, or you’ll never be accelerated.”
“Good story. I’d stick with that.” Head down, Michael went back to his messages. He’d thought Bill would have written her off once she’d run again, but the man was obsessed. He always had given the ladies preferential treatment. Peri Reed would have to be dead before he’d get advanced, and Michael wasn’t that patient.
“Will you put that bloody hell thing away. I’m talking to you.”
Sighing, Michael rolled it up and tucked his phone into a front pocket. “Yes, Dad.”
“You are a bloody hell piece of work,” Bill snarled, his accent becoming worse as the alcohol took a stronger grip. “I won’t risk you until I have more assurance it’s not going to rot your brain in the long term.”
“I got news for you, Bill. I’m not going to die in a bed.”
“We still don’t know if the maintenance drug remains effective in the long term.”
“Just admit you’d rather give it to her.” Michael tapped his fingers on the worn fabric of the chair, unsure of what to do with his hands now that his phone was gone. He knew he sounded petulant, but he’d refused his pain meds, and his chest hurt every time he breathed.
“It’s not ready, you’re not ready,” Bill said, and Michael’s eyes narrowed, an old anger surfacing. “We wait.”
“You want me dependent on someone else,” he prompted, his breath going shallow when Bill’s silence told him he was right. He sat up, slowing when his ribs ached. “I read her file. I know what you did to her. Wiped three years of her memory to keep her useful. Gave her a false one. Twisted her into an obedient bitch who’d die for you. I’m not letting you do that to me.”