Rockwell Agency: Boxset

by Dee Bridgnorth

  Quentin was interested, leaning forward now, his casual demeanor abandoned in favor of listening intently. “Tell me more about that.”

  “She’s got stuff she can do to you,” Jack said, shaking his head. “I mean—she can mess with you. She used to do experiments on me, I swear. I don’t even know what she was doing, but she would collect my hair.”

  Quentin froze for a moment, realizing that he had been right. This Jack in front of him was the original Jack, and the original Whitney had created the schism, then collected Jack’s hair to grow and harvest organs that she could use for other spells and curses.

  It started to all come together for him at once, and he had a mental flash where everything fell into place in his mind. It was clear that people divided by a schism retained many aspects about themselves and their lives in the new world that they went into. Jack was involved with Whitney in both worlds, for instance. Jack had been connected to the supernatural in both worlds as well. Was it really such a leap to think that if Jack was much the same, albeit in different circumstances, and his connection to the supernatural was the same, then Whitney was also …the same?

  Just as the thought occurred to him, Quentin remembered that he had, in the distance, heard the agency door open and close several times. He hadn’t really been paying attention to it, used to tuning that kind of detail out of his hearing. But now as he listened, he realized that there were no voices in the reception area, where he had left the two women.

  Quentin stood, rushing to the door and yanking it open. He ran down the hall, hoping that he would look foolish, as he stumbled upon Whitney and Lydia sitting there in their chairs, silent only because so much was weighing on their minds.

  But when he did burst into the reception area, it was empty. The door to the agency was closed. The lights were all on. Lydia’s phone sat in the chair she had occupied, abandoned.

  Quentin crouched down, covering his face in his hands as frustration and guilt swept over him. He let out a frustrated growl and hit his hand against the wall, knowing that he had made a mistake—a terrible mistake that might end up costing Lydia a great deal.

  “She’s gone,” Quentin said to Jack, who had come down the hall behind him. “Whitney is gone, and she took Lydia with her. Damn it to hell, Jack! Why did I fucking leave them alone together?”

  “Nobody ever suspects Whitney,” Jack said. “Until it’s too late.”

  Quentin whirled on the man, not in the mood for any dark, dramatic sayings. He wanted answers. “Is Whitney—the one that, you know—is she a sorcerer?”

  Jack laughed. “That would be an apt word for her, yes.”

  “No. I mean literally. Is she a literal, real-life sorcerer who puts spells on people? You must know the answer to that—you were married to her.”

  “Like magic?” Jack held his hands up. “Look, I don’t know anything about that, and I don’t want to. I don’t mess with that kind of thing, okay? All I know is that Whitney gets what she wants, when she wants it, and she’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen. That’s the way she is, and she doesn’t care who she hurts, so if she’s got your girl then, yeah, you’re fucked.”

  “Not good enough,” Quentin said, getting in Jack’s face. “Look, what I’m about to say to you isn’t personal. It’s what has to be done. You’re coming with me, and I’m not wasting any of my time trying to make sure that you don’t get lost or run away again. So, you stay beside me, and you do what I say, and if you even think for a moment about breaking either of those rules, then you’re going to find out what it’s really like to be afraid of someone. You think Whitney has the power to get whatever she wants? I have ten times that amount of power, and I’ll use it all to destroy you if you do anything that interferes or delays my ability to get Lydia back safely with me. Do we understand each other?”

  Jack seemed convinced, looking up at Quentin with wide eyes. Quentin stood at least four or five inches taller than Jack, and he was much broader than the financial advisor, or programmer, or whoever this version of Jack was. He couldn’t keep up.

  Something about the intensity with which Quentin spoke must have convinced Jack, because he jerked his head in a brief nod. “Fine. Yeah. I’m with you.”

  “Good,” Quentin said, turning and stalking towards the front door of the agency. He pulled it open, scanning the parking lot even though he already knew it was empty. His ears were now fully attuned to every bit of detail, and he was searching for any hint of Lydia—anywhere. But she wasn’t anywhere around. And, he realized, he also wasn’t getting any glimpse of the future, which he often did get when there was a moment of stress or tension. But nothing came through, and he wondered if he was blocked.

  Was it possible that Whitney was a sorcerer in both Jack’s original world and this one? Of course, it was. In fact, it only made sense that she was. The creator of the schism surely would want to follow her victim into his new world, keeping an eye on him there and harvesting from him the same way she did in the original world.

  His only comfort—and it was a small one—was that Whitney seemed deeply pragmatic. She had taken something of his because he had something of hers, and if she wanted a trade, he would gladly comply. Lydia came before all else.

  If he had another small comfort it was also the feeling that Whitney considered his power a match for her own, because otherwise she would have just taken Jack from him right away and left to where neither he nor Lydia could find them. But she had bided her time, sneaking Lydia away when Quentin wasn’t around. That meant that she knew that he could have stopped her from taking Jack, and if he could have stopped her from taking Jack, then he could stop her from keeping Lydia.

  There was nothing he wouldn’t do to make sure that Lydia was back safe with him. Nothing. Including sacrificing Jack.

  Chapter 28

  Whitney

  Not having a car was only a minor obstacle. Whitney walked with Lydia beside her, unable to resist the spell that Whitney had put on her forcing her to remain silent and move only as Whitney allowed. To the casual observer, they were just two women strolling down the street together. Of course, one—she—was classy and well put together, and the other—Lydia—was a bit of a mess, looking disheveled with long hair blowing in the wind and little, if any, makeup on her face. Plus, she had on leggings. God, leggings. The scourge of the earth, in her opinion.

  But no one would think anything of the pair, given that mismatched couples walked along the street all the time. Whitney got a charge out of knowing that she was in total control of Lydia’s every moment, and nobody had a clue. Nobody knew that it was only by her good graces that Lydia’s lungs continued to draw breath in response to her brain’s instinctive commands.

  If Whitney had wanted to, she could have stopped her lungs, too. But Whitney wasn’t ready to kill Lydia yet, and if she was truly honest, she shouldn’t be so flippant about her ability to just end a life in a moment. Not because she valued Lydia’s life, of course, but because taking life drained so much of hers, and she really had to be very careful about what she expended. She didn’t have all the life in the world to spare.

  When they were a few blocks away from that horrible agency, Whitney flagged down a cab. As Lydia obediently climbed into the back without a sound, Whitney told the cab driver that she would pay him triple if he would drive them outside Baton Rouge’s city limits. She had a hotel in mind that was about forty-five minutes away—the perfect distance to make sure that they didn’t stumble upon any of Lydia’s dragon shifter friends, but still close enough to make sure that she retained her leveraging power.

  After all, Lydia was a mere pawn, as usual. Whitney wanted Jack—she wanted the person that she had put so far under her control for so many years that he hardly even existed independently anymore. It had been so fun and exciting to split his life span in half, sending half of him into another world. There was nothing he could do about it, and the sense of power that had given her was better than the best sex that anyone
could ever have.

  Not to mention he was downright useful. Now she got to harvest from his duplicating body, and she got to live in two different worlds at the same time, controlling her pet from either side. It was brilliant. Just absolutely brilliant.

  Except that it was all falling apart around her, and if she didn’t get Jack back then all of the time that she had invested in him was going to be wasted. Not to mention, she didn’t know what would happen to her if both Jacks died from swapping worlds. She had tied herself to Jack, when she had performed the schism that had launched him into two separate worlds, and she had and followed him into the second world as well, all while remaining in the first.

  Her own lifespan had been divided, too, and without the spells that she was able to create from what she harvested from him, she would die far sooner than she had planned to. She had been keeping herself alive for a long time this way, and she didn’t intend to have her ticket to the equivalent of eternal life snatched from her.

  Yet Whitney knew that even with all of her power, she was no match for Quentin. At least, she couldn’t guarantee that she was. He was resistant to her somehow. Ever since she had arrived, and he had picked her up at the airport, she had been testing him with little spells here and there—just to see if he was susceptible to her.

  They barely had any impact on him at all. It was as though he didn’t even notice. When she had attempted to lock him down the way she currently had Lydia locked down, he had moved about on his own as though nothing had happened. It was infuriating, and not just because it was hindering her ability to get Jack back but because she hated anyone who she couldn’t control—anyone who might even think that they could be as powerful as her.

  But it was okay because Whitney’s power and ability to control had never been just in her sorcerer’s abilities. It was also rooted in her cleverness, and she could see that Quentin had developed a soft spot for Lydia, which was hard to believe, yet it was painfully evident. She might not be able to wrest Jack from him without taking too big of a risk, but she could surely trade him his precious Lydia for Jack. And then everyone could go home happy. Her and Jack and Quentin and Lydia.

  Whitney struggled not to roll her eyes. Lydia was sitting in the back of the cab as they drove out of Baton Rouge, and she couldn’t speak, and there was little that Whitney could do about the woman’s ability to stare. Lydia was staring right at her, mournfully and soulfully, as though she was grieving a tragic death.

  “Oh, stop it,” Whitney said. “I’ve barely been able to tolerate you all these years. You required every bit of acting that I could muster up, and I’m exhausted with you. No more pretending. Look away, or I’ll shut your eyes for you.”

  The cab driver glanced back at them, but said nothing in response to Whitney’s brusque tone.

  Lydia didn’t stop staring at her, and tears began to brim in her eyes.

  Whitney wanted to smack the woman, but she couldn’t very well do that without making this too memorable a ride for the cab driver. So instead she used more of her power, despite the resulting depletion in her stores of power, and began to tug on individual pieces of Lydia’s hair without so much as lifting a finger. All that happened was that Lydia felt the painful sensation—not an unbearable pain, but a constant, nagging, pricking, sharp pain that quickly became torturous because she couldn’t so much as flinch away from it. Lydia’s tears began to fall in earnest, and her face began to redden with the pain she was feeling, along with her anger.

  It was an enjoyable way for Whitney to pass the time on the road, and she leaned back in the corner formed by the backseat of the car and the door, getting comfortable and resting her head on her hand, as she watched Lydia. Eventually she started deciding which hair to pull next, yanking harder and harder. Still, all that Lydia could do was let the tears slide down her cheeks. She was completely immobilized. Whitney wished that she could talk to the woman and tell her exactly what was in store for her and just what a fool Lydia had been all of these years, but she couldn’t talk freely with the cab driver there.

  So, she waited with no small amount of impatience until the driver pulled up at the hotel that she had already researched on her way down here. She had suspected that she would need just such a hideaway. She paid the cab driver triple his fare and suggested to him, with a smile, that he not tell anyone about their little transaction.

  Then she forced Lydia into the hotel lobby without laying a finger on her. She forced Lydia to stand there as she checked in under another name, and she forced Lydia into the elevator that would take them to the fourth floor, where their room waited. She had gotten the nicest one the hotel had to offer, not because she cared about the luxury, and certainly not because she wanted Lydia to be comfortable. She just figured it would be the furthest away from anyone else’s room, and she liked her privacy.

  They got out at the fourth floor, and Lydia walked ahead of Whitney down the hall, moving at Whitney’s direction. Whitney could feel that her power was starting to fade, which only served to make her angry. She was angrier than she was worried, though, despite the fact that she was running low on her stores that would replenish her power. It never occurred to her that she wouldn’t get Jack back in time to harvest more from him. For the moment it just annoyed her to feel any weakness in herself at all.

  She took it out on Lydia, releasing the woman from the spell on her the moment she closed the hotel door behind them, but then immediately turning on her and getting right into Lydia’s face.

  “You will not make a sound,” Whitney hissed. “You will not attempt to get away. You will do nothing other than nod and thank me for every little thing that I offer you or ask of you because it is only by my grace that you are even drawing breath right now. Do not test me because there is no challenge I will not meet. Right now, you are more useful to me alive than dead, but I could do just fine with you dead as well. Do not forget that for even a moment.”

  Lydia stumbled back, instinctively trying to get away from Whitney, who was about the same height as her but seemed to somehow tower over Lydia. “Why?” Lydia whispered, shaking her head. “Why? Why would you do this? Why?”

  Whitney raised her hand, slapping Lydia across the face. “I said not a word. Sit down and be quiet. I’ll tell you what I want you to know and nothing more.”

  When Lydia didn’t move, Whitney raised her hand into the air and sent a gust that knocked Lydia over onto her back, sprawled on the bed. It was a pointless use of her power, and Whitney knew it, but she wanted Lydia to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was in charge.

  “Stay there,” Whitney said, walking around the room and inspecting the amenities. There were two beds, both with rich purple coverlets and stark-white pillows. The paintings on the wall were ornate, and the carpeting was plush. There was a large TV and a sitting area with a table and soft chairs. There was a fridge, and a microwave, and a display of various menus that they could order from. It was hardly high-end but it wasn’t too shabby either, and Whitney took a seat in one of the plush chairs, putting her feet up in another and taking her purse off her shoulder. She’d had to abandon her suitcase in Quentin’s car, but she still had her most valuable things with her: her wallet, phone, and her elixir.

  Pulling the bottle out of her purse, Whitney took a long draw of the foul-tasting but power-giving liquid. She knew from the way the bottle felt that it was only about a third of the way full. It was enough to keep her going, if she was careful—and if she stopped giving in to her urges to torment Lydia.

  There were other ways to torment Lydia, anyway.

  Whitney put the bottle back in her purse and set the bag aside, turning her cool gaze on her intended victim. Lydia had sat up on the bed now, and she was still staring at Whitney. Always staring.

  “You’re wondering so many things,” Whitney said, crossing her long legs and smoothing down her slacks with her slender fingers tipped with royal blue polish. “We have time, you know. Quentin will know that we’re g
one by now, but how will he find us?” She tapped a finger against her chin. “I wonder, I wonder, I wonder.”

  “Why?” Lydia asked, repeating her earlier, unanswered question. “Why are you doing this? Any of this?”

  Whitney studied her fingernails now, trimming a bit of excess polish with the edge of her thumbnail. “Because I can. There doesn’t need to be any better reason than that, if you ask me. And you did ask me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Whitney rolled her eyes. “I’m not telling you everything, Lydia. If Quentin gives me Jack, then I’ll let you go back to him, all safe and sound.”

  Lydia frowned, looking skeptical. “You will?”

  Well, she probably would, Whitney thought. There wasn’t really any reason to give her back once she had Jack, but she just didn’t think that Lydia was worth depleting her power so completely. She supposed she could kill her the old-fashioned way and just shoot her or slit her throat, but Whitney almost liked the idea of knowing that Lydia was out there in the world, aware of how powerful Whitney was, and how easily she could kill her at any moment. That had a nice, torturous ring to it.

  “Of course,” Whitney said, unconcerned with whether or not it was a lie. She didn’t waste any time worrying about things like honesty. That was for people who didn’t have her power.

  Lydia didn’t say anything, clearly unsure how to feel about that revelation. She didn’t trust it, and even if she did, it meant sacrificing Jack for herself. Whitney knew that Lydia was fueled by some altruistic sense of friendship that, frankly, Whitney had no time for.