The Drafter

by Kim Harrison

  “Jack!” Peri cried as she jerked upright. Pain lanced through her and Silas gasped when she pushed him from her mind and she was again alone in her thoughts.

  Grief-stricken, she stared at Silas as he knelt before her, seeing his pity and full understanding as the memory of Jack’s and her love came cascading back. Jack was dead. Allen had said so. Silas had said the same. She had loved him, and he was gone forever because . . . she’d killed him.

  “Oh God . . . ,” she moaned, pulling her feet up onto the chair and holding her knees to herself. The jolt of shoving Silas out of her mind was a bitter slap, and the black of her traveling clothes shocked through her, her thoughts expecting the white robe Jack had brought from home. Angry, she pushed Silas’s hands away, curling up in the chair and hiding her face. It had been a memory, not a draft that needed fragmenting, and it hurt.

  “Shhhh,” he said, putting his arms around her anyway. “Let it go, Peri. Let it go.”

  “You bastard,” she said between her gasping breaths as the scent of leather grew heady. “You knew I’d remember that.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he said, and she looked up, the lump in her throat hurting. “I’m so sorry,” he added, the knowing reflected in his eyes telling her he’d seen it all, and she hated him for it. “I was trying to bring back your drafts at the airport. I had no idea this would happen. You shouldn’t be able to remember anything about Jack.”

  Peri got a clean breath in, then another. “You’re an Opti psychologist,” she managed. “Are you working for them? Is this some sick way of trying to bring my three years back?”

  He shook his head. “No. I really am with the alliance. I left Opti a long time ago. I don’t believe in what they do. The lies they tell you.”

  Peri dropped her eyes. Her life was a misery. “They don’t allow drafters to leave. Ever.”

  She felt cold when Silas pulled away. “You always have a choice,” he said, and she closed her eyes, the image of Jack swimming up anew. She had only that one memory, but tied to it was three years of emotion. I loved him.

  “That was Jack?” Silas said, awkward as he knelt before her. “Blond hair? Blue eyes?”

  An entire person reduced to a description of hair and eyes. She nodded, thinking it was unfair to remember love but not remember how she had found it or how it had ended.

  Silas rocked to his feet. “This is incredible,” he breathed, his focus distant.

  “Jack was not corrupt!” she exclaimed, not knowing why she was defending him when she herself didn’t believe his innocence.

  “I don’t care,” he said, and when her eyes widened in outrage, he added, “Okay, I do, but, Peri, listen”—he dropped back down and took one of her hands—“you shouldn’t be able to remember him at all,” he said eagerly. “It was a memory knot, and you untangled it, not me.”

  Memory knot! Fear pushed out the heartache. “We’re done here.”

  Scared, she stood, and Silas lurched backward out of her way. Spotting her socks drying on the windowsill, she scooped them up. They were still damp, but they were all she had, and grief hammered at her as she sat on the bed and pulled them on, first one, then the other.

  “You’re okay,” Silas said, shoulders hunched in excitement. “I know Opti has told you that memory knots are like rats fleeing a sinking boat, but they aren’t. It’s just your mind trying to recover something.”

  “Something that might drive me to MEP,” she said, not liking the feel of damp wool.

  “But it was a real memory,” he protested. “Not a draft to be fragmented or solidified.”

  “I know. I was there!” she exclaimed, uncomfortable that he’d seen her depth of emotion.

  “Don’t you get it?” he said, eyes bright. “It was gone. Three years, you said. But if I can help return a memory to you that I didn’t see once, I can do it again. With enough clues, I can bring back everything that happened in that office,” he said, pointing at nothing.

  Peri licked her lips. Jack and she had made love and she’d been happy. One day later, she had killed him. One of them was a dirty operative. Allen said it had been Jack, but what if it had been her and they’d erased the knowledge? Would I feel better or worse if it was me? “You saw Jack. In my thoughts. What else did you see?”

  His eyes dropped. “That you loved him.”

  She was silent. That’s all she had seen as well—just enough to hurt her. Fingers slow, Peri reached for her boots. Silas had arranged them neatly by the edge of the bed, right where she’d look for them.

  “We need to get into that office,” Silas said, his voice low but determined. “If we have something to build a memory on, we can find out the truth.”

  When has truth ever meant anything? The zippers of her boots sounded loud as she pulled them up. Her toes were uncomfortable in her damp socks, and she was reluctant to put that woman’s coat on. “That isn’t normal. You being able to fix a memory you didn’t see, I mean.”

  “Not that fast, no, but we do it all the time with new drafters,” he said, sounding like a psychiatrist. “You must have wanted to remember, hence the memory knot.”

  “It was not a memory knot,” she protested, but his head was down over his phone.

  “I need to make a call. I want you to meet someone.”

  Uneasy, Peri reached for the coat. “One of your alliance friends?” she said bitterly as she shoved her arms in. I want to remember that I loved the man I killed? Right.

  Silas hesitated, cell phone in hand as he saw she had her coat on. “Where are you going?”

  She didn’t know, but she couldn’t stay here. Jack was dead, and she could hardly breathe.

  They both turned at the soft knock on the door and the muffled “Room service.”

  “There’s potential here, Peri, more than I’ve seen in five years. At least stay until you’ve eaten,” he said as he put his phone in a back pocket and strode to the door.

  Peri’s stomach rumbled at the thought of food, and she fell back down in the chair, rubbing the blue upholstery and feeling a matted, dirty maroon carpet instead. Where did we make love? What city were we in? She closed her eyes so they wouldn’t well up. She felt drained, exhausted, aching with the knowledge of Jack. There’d been a button under the bed. It was a talisman—she’d felt the pull to it even in the memory. It was probably in her apartment. If she had access to it, she might be able to recover the memory of that night, with or without Jack. That’s why drafters made talismans in the first place.

  “Coming,” Silas said as he moved a chair to make room for a rolling table. “I’ve got a spot by the window,” he said as he unlocked the door and pulled it open.

  Peri’s head snapped up when Silas cried out, falling back to crash into the closet door and slide to the floor. Eyes wide, he plucked a red-fletched dart from his shoulder.

  Allen stood in the hallway, black curls swinging as his dart gun shifted to her. Behind him were three men, the cart with their fries and milkshakes pushed to the side.

  Gasping, she rolled to hide behind the chair.

  “Got her!” Peri heard a man say, and on her hands and knees, Peri looked at the red-fletched dart stuck in her arm. Horrified, she yanked it out, relieved that the thick coat had absorbed its length. She was untouched.

  “How did you find her?” Silas groaned. And then his air puffed out as someone kicked him. The dart was probably a massive muscle relaxant to keep her from drafting and make her easier to catch.

  “Peri?” Allen’s steps were silent on the carpet. “We don’t have to do it this way.”

  “You lied to me!” she exclaimed from behind the chair, then wondered if she should pretend to have been hit. “Jack isn’t corrupt. You are. You and Bill!” But if Jack wasn’t corrupt, that meant she was.

  “We’re trying to help you,” Allen said, and Peri looked under the chair to see his dress shoes moving across the room. Four men, and only a questionable assist from Silas. She desperately didn’t want to draft. She’d le
ft her pen on the bathroom counter, and Peri frowned, glad she was wearing boots; she wouldn’t break her foot slamming it into thick male skulls.

  Peri stretched to reach the tray under the empty ice bucket on the desk. There was a soft thump and Silas groaned. He was still at the door, propping it open by the sound of it. “Get him in the van,” Allen said, and she rose up with her tray, screaming.

  The two men pulling Silas into the hall dropped him to fumble for their dart guns. The third man got a shot off, and she deflected it, howling as she front-kicked his middle, then spun to hit the side of his face with her boot as he conveniently dropped it down within easy reach. His weapon was there for the taking, and Peri yanked it from his slack grasp, dropping to the floor to avoid the volley of darts.

  One scored on her coat, and she left it there as she shot at them. They both jumped for the doorway, falling over Silas and out into the hall.

  “I’m trying to help!” Allen shouted, hands upraised.

  “Yeah, right,” she said, then threw the gun to Silas. He caught it like a field agent, and she smiled, eyes fixed on Allen’s as there was a sudden commotion in the hallway, then silence.

  “And don’t come back!” Silas shouted, making her smile even wider.

  “How did you find me?” Peri asked, watching the man who’d tried to shoot her as she moved closer to Allen—and Allen backed up, hands upraised and eyes wide under his curly black hair. His long face was even longer in alarm. “How?” she barked.

  Silas found his feet and leaned heavily against the doorframe. “We have to go,” he panted.

  She held out her hand, and he threw the gun back. Allen moved while it was in the air, and she went after him instead, letting the gun hit the floor.

  “You lied to me!” she exclaimed, arm going numb as Allen blocked her punch.

  “Just . . . listen,” Allen pleaded, and she planted a vicious side kick on his knee.

  Mouth open in a silent cry, he went down, clutching it. Peri back-kicked the guard grasping for the dart gun, then she reached for Allen’s arm as he shakily went for whatever was in his belt holster.

  “No one lies to me,” she snarled, and broke his fingers. At least three.

  Allen crumpled, white-faced and staring at her in shock as he cradled his hand close.

  “We have to go,” Silas said. “Now.”

  Peri hauled Allen up by his shirtfront and pushed him against the bed. “I couldn’t have killed Jack,” she said, shaking inside. “I loved him.”

  “Peri . . . ,” Silas breathed from the doorway. “Please.”

  She spun away, adrenaline pounding through her as she kicked the dart gun farther from the guard. Snatching up Silas’s coat, she tucked a shoulder under his armpit. They staggered into the hallway and the door shut behind them with an absurd click.

  Damn it, I forgot my pen. Peri took a breath—looked one way, then the other. Silas was heavy, and they had a long way to go. “That’ll work,” she said, leading him to the rolling table. She went to push everything off it, and Silas snatched a frosted glass just before it hit the edge. She felt sick as dishes crashed to the floor. A door down the hall opened, then quickly shut.

  “You’re hungry,” he breathed, clearly hurting as he carefully levered himself onto the table. “God bless it, what are they putting in their darts? Here. Drink it in the elevator.”

  “Thanks.” Peri got the cart moving. “Please tell me you have your wallet.”

  “Yep.” His head was bowed, one hand on his middle, the other clutching his coat.

  The wind from their passage shifted her hair. She felt good, even with the ache of Jack in her. She was doing something and she wasn’t alone. “Did I draft?”

  “Nope.” He looked up, sweat on his brow. “You’re kind of scary, you know that?”

  Peri felt a twist in her, part heartache, part unknown. “Saving her anchor’s ass is what a drafter does,” she said. “It sort of makes up for the coffee-in-the-morning thing.”

  He laughed, choking it off when his face pinched in pain. Peri’s smile faded.

  Jack . . .

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Charlotte’s premier mall had an astounding amount of weekend traffic. The food court was just inside the two-story-tall window entry, and Peri liked that she could watch the main entrance and the central convergence of the three wings at the same time. And whereas Peri would’ve preferred a quieter spot to get lost in while they regrouped, there was food and potentially some clothes. She’d told Silas he was a genius for suggesting it even though the thought to go to the mall had occurred to her, too.

  No need to tell him that, though. Not after he’d bought her dinner. Watching his thick fingers spin through the at-table ordering pad with the dexterity of a fourteen-year-old had more than surprised her. The way he’d flirted with the server on skates bringing it out had set her back. Even the simply prepared but flavorful rice and fish he’d ordered had gone a long way toward reassuring her that she was not going to die today.

  That was an hour ago. Across the way, the two-story arcade popped and whistled, and as Silas bargained with the man at the nearby phone kiosk, she watched four guys with military cuts on the live-play deck, battling aliens with a team from South Africa. She wasn’t sure how she knew they wouldn’t be able to get off-planet without the keymaster who lived in the swamp, but it was all she could do not to go over, jump on the interface, and tell them. Jack, maybe? she thought, tarnishing her good mood. Had she really killed her anchor? Did he really shoot me first?

  No longer hungry, Peri set down her chopsticks and broke open the fortune cookie. It was stale, the sweet biscuit flat as she snapped it between her teeth and read the fortune. The heart is stronger than the intellect, she mused, wadding it up and flicking it across the table to land against Silas’s empty cup.

  Yeah, okay, she thought, watching Silas with that salesman, his very clothes flashing logos and discount codes. Since leaving the hotel, Silas had been silent and brooding, but he had bought her dinner. Sighing, Peri looked at the plastic knife before slipping it into her empty boot sheath like a child’s promise—heady with intent but weak on follow-through.

  Finally Silas shook the man’s hand, a new bag in his grip as he wove impatiently around three giggling girls dressed in full Japanese schoolgirl charm, their green hair matching their swirls of face paint designed to thwart facial recognition scanners. Not a bad idea. A phone would be great, but she wasn’t leaving without new underwear—even if she had to steal it off a mannequin—which might be difficult seeing as they were all holographic simules.

  “Better?” he asked as he sat down and shook his head at the three girls now singing what had to be the latest Hatsune Miku single at the top of their lungs. The interactive mannequins within their earshot began to sing along, the simules’ attire shifting to something the tweens might buy.

  Peri crumpled up the nearly useless napkin and dropped it on the leftover rice. “Very much so. Thank you,” she said, meaning it down to her still-damp socks. “It was a little heavy on the lemon, but not bad. They probably added it after cooking instead of before. It’s an easy mistake to make.”

  “Since when do you cook?” he asked, almost laughing.

  Affront flashed through her and her eyes came back from the dusky parking lot. “I cook all the time,” she said, embarrassed to admit that she didn’t remember cooking anything, but clearly the knowledge was there. Sandy had once suggested she explore her new kitchen as a way to relax. Clearly she had. But why had Silas assumed she couldn’t?

  He shrugged contritely, and not liking the silence, Peri said, “Mind if I borrow your phone and get some underwear?”

  “Sure,” he said, his attention caught by the flashing ads on the servers bussing the tables, fast on their in-line skates. “Your sweater is looking a little tired, too. Can I see your phone first?”

  “My sweater?” She looked down at it, not believing what he’d just said, and his n
eck reddened.

  “It’s, ah, not very practical,” he amended, and she slurped the last of the orange juice from the glass of ice in a sound of disbelief. “Phone, please?”

  “I ditched it in Detroit,” she said sourly. I’m not supposed to cook and my sweater is a little tired? It’s Donna Karan. But, on second thought, he was right about the sweater.

  “Really?” He took a glass phone out of the bag and pushed it to her, the purchase apps lighting up as it found the table’s ordering system. “Good thing I got you a new one, then.”

  Suddenly feeling grungy, she reached for it, wishing he’d gotten a smartphone instead. This new glass technology was fun, but her learning curve was shallow. At least she knew how to turn it on. That Silas was with her brought a weird mix of guilt, gratitude, and discomfort. “Thanks,” she said as she took her SIM card from her wallet and flipped the phone over. “I’m still going to need your phone. If I tap my bank, they’ll know where I am.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, is that from your old phone?” She nodded, and he held out his hand, his expression both irate and relieved. “May I?”

  She handed it over, shocked when he snapped it in two. “Hey!” she shouted, then lowered her voice, not liking that people had turned. “You can’t track SIM cards,” she said as he dropped the broken card into his empty cup. “That was my only link to my past three years!”

  “Opti gave it to you?” he asked, voice as angry as hers.

  Ticked, she slumped into her chair, her new resolve to stop snapping at Silas being tested. She didn’t have much left, and he’d thrown it away as if it had meant nothing.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Silas said as her peeved silence grew. “I know the names and numbers were important, but don’t you have a diary? Every drafter I’ve met does, hidden somewhere.”