by Kim Harrison
Silas sat unmoving, his need to find Peri growing stronger. If he wasn’t there to remind her of who she wanted to be, she would turn to Bill when she ran out of options. In the meantime, Jack would be filling her head with lies, luring her not only with the chance to remember her drafts, but also with some of her past that had been erased.
He looked at Allen and Harmony, knowing his assets lay there, thin as they were. Allen was eager to give a little back if Bill was the end goal, but so bruised and beaten that he’d be little help. Harmony wasn’t a team player—unless the team was doing what she wanted. He’d have to rely on chancy intel and even more chancy follow-through. It would take all of them—and put more than Harmony’s career at risk.
Silas took a deep breath and slowly exhaled; limited options or not, he had only action. “I have to get out of here,” he said softly, and Harmony looked up from her yogurt. “I have to get to Peri before she goes into withdrawal and contacts Bill.”
“Like they’re going to let you anywhere near the door.” Allen licked the pastry frosting from his fingers. “You don’t even know where she is.”
Harmony glanced at their guard and leaned over the table. “You’re kidding, right? Steiner has the Evocane locked up tighter than his daughter’s virginity.”
He stiffened, not liking their disbelief. It was too close to his own estimations. “I have a pretty good idea of where she might be. You going to help or not?”
Harmony flung a hand in the air, letting it fall heavily on the table in disbelief. “Peri Reed just busted Steiner up. Killed three men. My career is over; I’m not killing it twice.”
“Jack killed those three men, not Peri,” Silas said quickly. “She shot two men in the shoulder and ran. That’s all she wants. To be left alone. That was all she ever wanted.”
“Until she met up with Jack and they took off together.” Allen shook his head. “She’s gone, Silas.”
Silas forced his hands flat on the table so they wouldn’t turn into fists. Allen always was one to give up on her. “She’s gone, but she’s not gone back to Bill. And she won’t if she has half a choice,” he added when Allen cleared his throat. “Steiner put her on a kill list because of me,” he said, the guilt bringing his eyes down. “Because I couldn’t figure this out fast enough and she had no choice but to run or be put in his cell, knowing there was only one week between her and dying from withdrawal. This is my fault.”
Harmony was silent. Beside her, Allen shifted uneasily, clearly still hurting. “I told you, I can’t get to the Evocane,” Harmony finally said. “The accelerator, maybe, but not Evocane.”
“I don’t need it,” Silas said, scrambling to find a justification for them to risk their lives to help him get back to Peri. “Bill was right. I can’t duplicate the Evocane, but the more I dig into it, the more I think I don’t have to. She hasn’t been accelerated, so all I have to do is create something that addresses the addictive properties, a substitute to handle the withdrawal. She has no choice. Don’t you see that? Let me give her one.”
“She can have any choice, as long as it’s the one you want?” Allen said bitterly. “Let her go, Silas. Maybe this is who she is.”
Something very close to hatred trickled through Silas. “I’m not turning my back on her again. Evocane or no Evocane, I’m getting out of here. I’m going to find her, and I’m going to keep her alive. Are you going to help me or not?”
“Fine. But I want you to take the accelerator, too,” Allen said as he wiped his fingers on his napkin.
Silas’s lip curled. “To give to Peri? No. It’s poison.”
Allen tossed his wadded-up napkin aside. “So much for choice.”
“The accelerator isn’t a choice, it’s madness,” Silas said.
“And forgetting isn’t?” Allen leaned forward, hunched over his plate. “That hallucination you put in her to cover up your mistake isn’t madness?”
Silas exhaled, putting his hands under the table to hide them.
“You know, if you have it, Steiner can’t force it on the next drafter he finds,” Harmony said, and Silas eased back. He could do that, and it might even be helpful in creating an Evocane substitute.
“Fine. I’ll take the accelerator,” he said softly. “How long until you can get it?”
The two men looked expectantly at her, and Harmony hesitated. “Ahhh, what the hell,” she finally whispered. “A few hours, maybe?”
Elation filled him, and his eyes closed in a long blink of relief. He wouldn’t let her be forced into something because he failed. He would find her, keep her from suffering through withdrawal. But what scared him most was Jack, filling her head with the memory of when she was strong, bulletproof, and more vulnerable to manipulation than a two-year-old child.
He would risk everything for her. All Peri needed was time.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
The smooth, lithe arm lying over Bill’s moved fitfully, pulling up and away as Susanne turned over. Bill’s eyes opened at the flush of cooler air on his backside. A faint glow had lit the bedroom, and an accompanying hum came from the bedside table.
“Bill, get your phone,” the woman complained. “I have to be up in an hour.”
Groggy, he rolled to the edge of his bed, dragging the covers with him. She pulled them back when he squinted at the phone to read the name in a faint, holographic print. Jack? he thought, surprised the anchor had gotten himself to a phone already. He hadn’t expected to hear from him for at least a week. Maybe WEFT had believed him and given him some freedom. Idiots.
Eyes closed, he flopped back onto the pillow and thumbed the connection open. “Jack?” he breathed. “It’s five in the morning.”
“I’m with Peri,” came faintly through the line, the sound of water running in the background telling Bill that Jack wasn’t on a secure line. “She pulled me out of WEFT custody.”
“You escaped together?” His eyes flicked open as Susanne flung the covers aside and stomped to the bathroom, her black negligee showing off her pale limbs in the dim light. “Fabulous. Wipe her and get back here. You need funds? Assets?” he asked, watching the light coming in under the bathroom door.
“No, we’re in Detroit. She left without any Evocane, meaning she’s got a source outside WEFT’s walls. Soon as she gets it, she’s coming for you.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Peri had a right to be pissed, but kill him? She was his girl. Swinging his feet to the floor, Bill tugged the sheet to cover himself and turned on the light. “Denier?” he asked, not believing he’d cracked the biologic.
“The arena’s pissant,” Jack said, his sarcasm heavy. “Peri left half with him, gave half to Steiner so he wouldn’t know there was a second vial and tear the arena apart looking for it. Listen, she made me tell Michael—”
Bill tensed as Jack’s words cut off. He stood, sending his hand under the covers in search of his boxers and dragging them out from the foot of the bed. “Jack?”
“Just a sec,” Jack said, and Bill heard the sound of the phone being set down.
Impatient, Bill tugged his boxers on. Fully awake, he went into the living room, shutting the bedroom door carefully behind him. Detroit spread out below him past the newly renovated window walls. The city lights looked bright even under the light-pollution reduction bulbs that Detroit had put in ten years ago. Habit kept him from going closer to the window for a better view, and he stood in the kitchen, impatient.
“Okay, I’m back,” Jack said. “I wanted to make sure she was in the shower.”
“You told Michael what?” Bill asked, not liking this.
“She had a gun to my gut,” Jack said, and Bill’s brow furrowed, not knowing what was going to come out of Jack’s mouth. “She made me tell him that she had accelerated herself and was on her way home. That you were never going to accelerate him. Bill, she’s on the warpath. Looking for a head on a pole. She doesn’t care if it’s yours or Michael’s. Either way, she gets a wi
n.”
Bill leaned against the glass counter, the entire surface lighting up with the home’s security system, TV schedule, email accounts, and kitchen stores. I’m out of wine, he noted absently, then waved the surface off, head down as he thought through the ramifications. “That sounds like something my Peri would do,” he said, proud of her even as it wreaked havoc with his plans. She was angry and wasn’t going to let anyone walk over her. “Okay.” He’d worked miracles with less. “She’s showering, eh? Get her to draft, and when she jumps, scrub her and get her back here.”
“No.”
“No?” It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it, but the last occasion Jack had told him no, his world had gone to hell.
Bill’s head snapped up as the counter lit up again, the security frame a bright red. From beside the door, the locking panel began flashing. In his hand, his phone began to glow as a security text came in. It was the silent alarm, and his frown deepened. “Oh, good,” he said sarcastically, wishing he was wearing something more than boxers. “I think Michael’s here. Get Peri back to Opti, or I’m coming for you myself, Jack. Understand?”
“Bill,” Jack began to protest, and he hung up. The counter dutifully recorded the phone call, then went dark.
“That’s my girl,” Bill muttered as he yanked the dishwasher out from under the counter. Fingers fumbling, he found the handgun taped to the underside of it and checked the clip. “Keep ’em reacting and disoriented.”
Adrenaline jerked through him as the door exploded inward. Bill dropped at the crack of a rifle, the shrapnel from the granite counter cutting his face.
“Stand up, you son of a bitch!” Michael shouted, and Bill sighed.
“Bill?” Susanne’s voice was clear, and Bill stood when she shrieked, just in time to see her flee back into the bedroom and slam the door.
Michael’s attention swung back to him, steadying as he saw the pistol pointed at him. The ambient glow of the city lit them, and Michael chuckled. Bill calmly took the safety off. “She’s lying,” he said simply.
“Like hell she is.” Michael’s voice was just as calm, and it unsettled Bill. “Jack said you had no intention of accelerating me.”
Pushing Michael into a corner would make the man more unpredictable. The pad by the door had stopped flashing, meaning a response was coming. A bead of sweat ran down Bill’s back, and with a deliberate motion, he set the pistol within his reach. It was doubtful that Michael would draft and risk Bill wiping his memory right down to the day of his birth.
“I’ve never lied to you, Michael. Think about it.”
“You’re lying to me right now.” Michael eased deeper into the living room, dangerous—like a lion. “Jack called me. He took her out of WEFT, you son of a bitch. You don’t need me anymore.”
“He called me, too.” Damn, even his feet were sweating, sticking to the tile floor. “Jack didn’t take Peri. Peri took Jack. She’s running rabbit, and she forced him to make that call in exchange for helping him. She’s trying to kill you,” he said, then hesitated in thought. “Or me. She doesn’t really care. Be smart about this, Michael.”
“Bullshit!” Michael shouted.
Not even looking at the rifle pointed at him, Bill showed his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “Think it through, Michael. I have been transparent about the research. You’ve seen the med wing. Hell, you’ve brought in the retired drafters we experimented it on. Once accelerated, a draft will cause a psychotic episode unless you buffer it with Evocane. That’s it. She is trying to kill you,” he said, his disgust thick in his voice. “And you believe her?”
The boom of gunfire jolted both of them. For an instant, Bill thought Michael had shot him, but it was Michael who fell, hands clasped about his knee. Bill’s gaze shot to the front door. A man thick with Kevlar garments rocked in, shouting. It was Bill’s men, not the police, and anger furrowed his brow.
“I won’t forget this,” Michael moaned, teeth clenched.
Furious, Bill strode from the kitchen, arms waving. “Did I tell you to shoot him?” he shouted at the armed men, feeling his face become red. “What the hell are you doing!”
“Sir.” The man fumbled, lights flashing on the walls from the cars outside. “He had a semiautomatic.”
“Get out!” Bill exclaimed, and then he staggered back when Michael’s rifle went off, the solid boom of it rocking the windows. The Kevlar-coated man was flung back, his head hitting the stone wall with a resounding thud. He fell to the floor, out cold but probably alive. The shouts outside became more demanding.
Flat on the floor, Michael grimaced, panting as he pointed the rifle at Bill. One hand clutched at his knee, the other shook on the trigger. “You lied . . . to me,” he gasped.
It was falling apart, and that pissed Bill off. “I said, stay out!” he shouted at the team clustered around the door. “If Michael wanted to kill me, he would have already!”
At least that’s what he told himself as he shoved the fear down and strode brusquely to Michael. Kneeling, he yanked the rifle from Michael’s grasp, tossing it to the blood-splattered couch. He wrapped a kitchen towel around Michael’s knee and sat him up. “I never lied to you,” he muttered as he tried to be as gentle as he could, thinking it was odd—tending to Michael as if he were a baby when the man had just pointed a rifle at him. “I told you she would try to kill you if you threatened her. This is her way of doing it.”
“Accelerate me,” Michael said, panting as he listed sideways. “Now.”
Blood coated his hands, and Bill levered himself up and back to sit on the edge of the cushy chair. A weary chuckle slipped from him, and he waved the guards away with a red-stained hand. “You’re not going to draft to fix this, are you?” he said, thinking it had to be getting close to Michael’s ninety-second ceiling. “It’s your lack of trust that holds you back. And now you’re going to let fear keep you out of the game of bringing her down. Michael, this is why I wanted to accelerate her first, not you.”
“I wouldn’t be weak if you accelerated me!” he shouted, so pale Bill wondered how he wasn’t passing out.
“No, you’d be dead,” he said, reaching out to push Michael upright again.
Michael lurched forward, falling into Bill and sending them both to the floor. Bill took a breath to laugh at Michael’s obstinate temper tantrum, but it exploded from him in a wash of pain. White-hot agony ran down his side, and he hit the floor, staring at the ceiling as his hands clutching his neck were suddenly slippery and warm.
The bastard slit my throat! he thought, not even having felt it happen.
Flat on his back, Bill stared at the ceiling. Panic, new and unreal, washed through him in time with his pulse as his blood ran out and his brain began to falter.
Michael stood grim and bloody above him, blotting out the light as the rifle exploded again and again. The scent of gunpowder threatened to make him cough, and the cries of his men filled his ears. And through it all, Michael fired with an ease that belied his pale face.
Goddamn it, he’s shooting up my entire house.
And then it was silent except for Bill’s pained gasps. He jerked when a heavy hand gripped his throat, stopping the outflow. His sight grayed when Michael leaned over him, his eyes hard. “Now, old man,” Michael breathed heavily, “tell me the truth.”
The fucking cretin was insane. But he’d known that. “I-I did,” he rasped, sucking in air as if he were drowning.
“Are you sure?”
Bill spasmed as Michael eased his grip and a soft warmth flooded over their hands pressed to his neck. “Draft!” he choked out.
An ugly smile crossed Michael’s face, and he pressed down, ending the flow. “The truth.”
He wouldn’t remember anything when the draft ended, but if Michael wasn’t satisfied, he wouldn’t draft at all. “I have,” Bill said. “She’s trying to kill you!”
Michael leaned back and the light struck him. “I think she’s trying to kill you,” he said. With a sidewa
ys smirk, he let go.
Bill shuddered, gasping for air as his body thought he was drowning. He killed me. The son of a bitch killed me, he thought, and then the pain vanished with a sideways twist of déjà vu.
Michael had drafted, and Bill’s oxygen-starved brain floundered as it tried to cope until, with the sensation of breaking ice, everything flooded back with a crystalline certainty.
Bill groaned as time reset. He staggered, finding himself again behind the counter. His pistol was before him. His hand flashed to his neck, not the weapon, and his attention jerked to the door. “Don’t shoot!” he bellowed before his men could come in, his arms raised. “Goddamn it, the first person who shoots Michael is going to get my foot up their ass! Get out. Get out!” he shouted, and Michael, who would remember both timelines until they meshed, smiled.
Still resonating with the fear from his narrow miss, Bill held a hand over his neck. Michael had drafted over his ninety-second ceiling. Twice as far as Peri had ever managed. “How long have you been able to do this?” he whispered, still shaking.
Michael smiled like the devil himself. “Ask them to leave.”
Bill left the handgun where it was. “You heard him. Get out!”
The door was busted, but they backed off. Michael sat on the pristine couch, cradling his rifle, and Bill came closer, anger pushing out the fear. The little prick had tried to kill him.
“So what are we doing, Michael?” he said, feeling vulnerable in his boxers.
Michael took a pen from the coffee table and wrote on his palm. Leaning back, he took his rifle in his hands. His smile said he thought he was in charge. “There’s a way to keep you from scrubbing me when I snap out of this.”
Bill sat across from him. The absolute whiteness of his hands after the bloody gore of them was riveting. “Yeah?” he said, tired.
“Yeah.”
Bill looked up at Michael’s swift motion, not even getting a cry out before the butt of the rifle hit him square on the temple.
He woke up flat on the floor, his face pressed up against the thick pile carpet. It was silent except for a soft, feminine whimper, and he levered himself up, wiping the drool from himself.