Do not let yourself be found, whispered a small voice in her heart. Stay small, stay hidden. Start fresh.
You are Lethe. Forget. Then find yourself again.
“Hey,” Lannes murmured. “Are you okay?”
The woman shook herself. “Yes, I’m…fine.”
He frowned, and she found herself wondering how much of that frown was him, or whether everything was part of a mask. She could not imagine such a thing, not when he looked so real. So human.
His cell phone buzzed. A car charger had been on the floor in the back of the Impala. She had kicked herself when he pulled it free and plugged it into the cigarette lighter. His phone’s battery was nowhere close to being fully recharged, but it was good enough for calls. At least until they were back in the car. “Charlie,” Lannes said into the phone. “Yes, we’re fine. Nearby at Denny’s.”
And then he listened for a long time, jaw tight, staring at his half-eaten sandwich with a distant intensity that made his companion lean forward, watching the tick of his heartbeat in his throat. So real. So damn real.
“I understand,” he said, glancing up. “I need to talk to her first, but I’ll let you know.”
He hung up and was silent. As was she. Letting him gather his thoughts. Until, finally, he said, “My brother found the hotel you were at. It was in the news because of the fire. According to him, the hotel matched up the evacuees to the names on their files. As of tonight, only three people hadn’t checked in with the authorities, and all of them were women. One of the ladies has a Chinese last name, while the other two women are above the age of sixty-five. Same booking, senior rate. You weren’t registered at the hotel.”
“Those dead men in the room with me?” It occurred to her that she had not given Lannes many details of their discovery, but he kept talking as though she had—and if he could look into her mind, then chances were good he already knew everything she needed to tell him.
Creepy. So creepy.
“Police found their bodies. Burned to a crisp, though there were bullets inside them, visible to the naked eye. It was obvious they had been shot.”
She leaned back, remembering the feeling of that gun in her hands, how familiar she had been with its use. Lannes said, “One more thing. Orwell Price didn’t give us his real name. He was born Marcellus Bredow.”
Chills rolled down her spine. She thought of the postcard in the box. “Bredow?”
“She was his twin.”
A sucker punch would have been kinder. “No way.”
“Charlie found the paper trail. Orwell—Marcellus—changed his name in his late teens. Don’t know why.”
She placed her hand on the shoe box. “Any word on a man named Simon?”
“No. And Charlie didn’t know how Etta found us. He asked around, and there’s no…mutual acquaintance that he’s aware of.”
“The gunman? The men in the hotel room where I woke up? Is there any connection there?”
“Not yet. And the manager at that motel where the last attack occurred confessed only to being promised cash if he would find out whether or not we were still in our room.”
The woman forced herself to breathe, wondering briefly if she would have to run to the bathroom to puke up her guts. But the nausea passed, and she slid the shoe box across the table. “There’s a picture in there and a note to Etta from her brother. Marcel, he called himself. Everything seems to be from Indiana. Down south.”
“That’s where she said to go,” Lannes murmured, poking through the box and pulling out the picture. It looked very small in his hand. He frowned, his gaze roving over the faces of the children. He checked the back. “No names, except for ‘Will.’ Whoever he is.”
“Wanna bet one of those boys is named Simon?”
Lannes kept frowning, eyes narrowed. “Marcellus and Etta must be among these children, too. But that leaves three others.” His expression turned even darker.
The woman said, “What is it?”
“Nothing,” he muttered, his finger pressed alongside the half-hidden face of the little boy in the young man’s arms. “Just…a tickle in my brain.”
“I don’t know what that means, coming from you.”
He flashed her a quick smile. “Nothing bizarre. Just instinct.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know. Something about these two.” He tapped the young man and the little boy. “They don’t belong with the others.”
“They look…nicer.”
Lannes flipped over the card. “Will…. Which one do you think he is? The older kid or the baby?”
“Doesn’t matter. He might not even be in the picture. But if he is, consider him another possible target.”
Lannes made a small sound of agreement and placed the photo back in the box. He rummaged through the rest, glancing at the postcard with amusement and a shake of his head.
“So,” said the woman. “South?”
“Etta said to find a dome.”
“Unless she was messing with us. We’re relying on the word of a person no one knows.”
“Sounds familiar.” He flashed her a smile. “Getting anything from that extraordinary brain of yours?”
“I wish.”
Lannes sighed, and glanced around until he saw the waitress. He waved at her, and she swayed over with a little hop in her step. His companion guessed that being waved at by someone who looked like Lannes was not such a bad thing. Even if it was just an illusion—the idea of which made her head hurt. She could not begin to imagine how it was possible.
Magic, whispered her mind. Magic. Something you know.
She rubbed her eyes. The waitress said, “Ready for dessert?”
“Actually,” Lannes said, “we’re touring the state and heard something about a dome. We’re not sure where or what, but—”
“I know what you’re talking about,” interrupted the waitress cheerfully. “You want to head down to West Baden. Just drive through Indianapolis on I-270, then follow 37 all the way south through Paoli. You’ll see signs. Got a new casino down there and everything.”
“And the dome?”
“I’ll let you be surprised,” she said, smiling mysteriously. “Wasn’t called the ‘Eighth Wonder of the World’ for nothing.”
Then she asked if they wanted dessert, which they did not, and she left the check.
“Well,” said the woman, “I guess we have a destination. What little help that is.”
“The question is, do we go?” Lannes dropped several twenties on the table to cover the bill. “My brother offered you a safe place to stay until we understand what’s happening.”
“A hidey-hole, you mean.”
“Something like that.”
“Wouldn’t do any good, would it? That…thing…that comes into my mind can find me anywhere. It might even be listening to us now.”
Lannes frowned, rubbing lines through the condensation on his glass. “I could try to check. Get a sense of just how…compromised you are.”
He made her sound like a nuclear weapon. “You can do that?”
“I can,” he said quietly. “I’ll have to touch you.”
She felt the weight of his conflict as well as her own. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that. Doesn’t it bother you?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means…” Lannes stopped, sighing. “It doesn’t matter what it means. It needs to be done.”
Yes, she thought, and then leaned back, marveling at the fact that she felt nothing but acceptance for what should have been considered a truly odd conversation.
“What?” Lannes asked suspiciously.
She shook her head, grasping for words. “I can’t believe I’m listening to this as though it’s normal. I keep telling myself I’m crazy, but I’m not, am I? The world is just…”
“Strange,” Lannes finished. “Infinitely strange.”
“Yes,” she replied. “I don’t ev
en know what you are.”
He hesitated, apprehension rocking through his eyes. She took pity on him and said, “Tell your brother thank you, but no. I won’t run. I won’t hide.”
“Okay,” he said, so easily, with such acceptance, she was unsure whether to laugh or cry.
“You don’t have to come with me,” she said. “It’s not your fight. No reason for you to risk your life.”
“It’s my life,” he told her, leaning in. “And you need me. You need a friend. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
“How could I?” she muttered. “Jesus. Who am I?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “No matter what you call yourself, no matter who you were, you are brave and strong. And you’ll always be that woman to me.”
She stared. Lannes looked like he wanted to say more, but he glanced away and carefully pulled out his keys. He pushed the shoe box back to her. “Come on,” he said gently, with what she imagined was pain his eyes. “Time to run.”
Run, whispered her heart. Run.
She managed to hold it together long enough for them to get outside. It was cold, but the crisp air felt good in her lungs and calmed her stomach. She had no coat, so she stood close to Lannes while he unlocked her door. Though she breathed deep of the night air, she was grateful for his warmth.
Just as he was about to turn from her to walk around the car, she grabbed his arm. Her hand sank through the illusion of cloth and touched warm skin. He went very still even when she moved close, craving with all her heart for some small comfort to ease the loneliness crawling through her soul.
She pressed her cheek against his arm. Less than a hug, more than a caress. It felt so good, touching him that way. It was like medicine for her aching heart.
“Lannes,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he breathed, big and solid as a mountain.
“You’re right that I need a name,” she said. “Call me Lethe.”
“Lethe.” Her name sounded like an echo from a fairy tale when he said it, and when she closed her eyes, she could imagine them in a dark wood instead of a parking lot, and beyond them, the wind and the stars, and the wolves closing in.
And in the heart of the wood, a mysterious creature, a man or monster, protector and fighter.
And lonely. So lonely, she thought, instinctively. Living a life of masks, never able to be yourself. Always afraid of discovery. This was something she was beginning to understand.
His hand closed around her arm, and for a moment she felt as though his mind—his heart—was open to her, and it felt like a gaping wound, torn and perilous and anguished. But he did not say a word, and a moment later pulled away. She kept her head down, the loss of his heat a painful thing, and slipped into the car. As he walked around to the other side, she glanced out the window.
She saw a crow watching them. It was perched on the roof of a truck parked beside the Impala. She imagined a flash of gold in its eyes, and then the bird flapped its wings and flew away into the shadows.
It felt like an omen. Of what, she did not know.
Lannes got in and started the Impala’s engine. “Ready?”
“Run,” she murmured, and closed her eyes.
Chapter Twelve
It was 1950, and Lannes was twenty years old the first time he left the island in Maine. It had been under cover of darkness, in the back of an old car, rattling down a dirt road on a moonless night with Frederick at the wheel. His friend hardly knew how to drive, and he certainly was not supposed to be using his father’s car for joyriding through the wild back roads of Maine, but Lannes had been stir-crazy and wanted to see things.
What he had found was a small town filled with golden lights, and men and women walking down narrow streets, together and apart. He had heard laughter and listened to jingles on the radios playing through open windows, and after Frederick ran into an ice cream shop for cones, the two of them sat together eating chocolate and vanilla, dreaming of the places they would go when they were older.
Only, Frederick had gotten older faster than Lannes, and had gone away to college. Lannes had remained behind, learning from books special-ordered and delivered to the island, devouring pictures and words, dreaming big. Working hard to cast his illusions so that he could hide and pretend to be one of the many.
Which he did, eventually. But by then things had changed again. Frederick had a life—a new girlfriend, a career as a writer, human friends he enjoyed spending time with. A hard realization for Lannes, but not a bitter one. Wistful, maybe.
And though he knew his brothers would go with him, Lannes had decided to travel alone. On the island he had never been alone, except with his kind. He had wanted something different.
Something different. That seemed so innocent now. Seventy years of his life, always dreaming big, and the witch had stolen that desire to do more, be more. Had bent it, almost broken it. Had made him afraid to venture beyond rock and ocean and old trees.
Only Frederick had been able to pull him away.
And now this woman.
He could hardly believe himself. Throwing his heart, his life, to the wolves—lost in a journey not his own. Nor could he be certain of his own motives, though he knew one thing for certain: even if the woman had no clue what he was, even if she had not shown one iota of care for him, he would still be helping her.
That she did have some inkling and had not run—indeed, she had suggested the almost inconceivable possibility that she liked him as something more than a resource—was more than he dared contemplate.
Lannes thought, perhaps, he would rather face the witch again than the risk that he might be wrong.
You are a pathetic bastard. But he glanced sideways at the woman and felt her resting in his mind, a warm presence, and he considered that there were worse things than being desperately and distractedly wretched.
He drove for more than two hours. The urge to keep moving was overwhelming, as was his need to go south. He had felt that way since leaving Orwell Price’s home—as though there were lines hooked into his spirit, drawing him in. His kind was sensitive to energy in all its forms. But the ability to sense it was not usually accompanied by compulsion.
The fact that this was a compulsion complemented by the words of a dying old woman was of great concern to him.
More than twenty minutes south of Indianapolis, in a town called Martinsville, he found a Wal-Mart. The parking lot was huge, and he pulled into a distant corner, tucked away from the bright lights. It was very dark out. His companion was asleep, but as soon as the radio turned off—Eric Clapton was interrupted in the middle of a slow riff—she opened her eyes and sucked in a long breath that was mostly a yawn. She squinted at him, rubbing her eyes, and looked so young and fragile that it was hard for him to believe the danger she posed, both to herself and others.
Lethe, he thought.
“Why are we stopped?” she asked blearily.
Lannes swallowed hard, his hands still tight on the wheel. “I thought this would be a good place to…do what we discussed. Checking your mind.”
“Oh,” she said. “Of course.”
“I don’t think we should wait,” he said. “Just in case.”
“I know.” Her mouth tightened into a faint frown. “I don’t like this. I don’t have much left that’s private.”
“And the mind is the last sanctuary,” Lannes murmured, thinking of his father’s stern lessons in ethics and propriety. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to endure such violations.”
She frowned. “You’re not including yourself as one of the perpetrators, are you?”
“Is that how you feel about me?”
“No,” she said. “I just don’t like you reading my mind.”
I can’t help what I hear, he wanted to tell her. But even if I could, I wouldn’t change a thing.
Not now. Not after what he had felt from her in that bathroom: her hunger for him, her desire. It was staggering, arousing, and the most shocking reaction to him that he
had never imagined. Only a lifetime of ingrained habits—his own damned fear—had kept him from doing more, filling his palms with her curves, tasting her mouth and her hot, wet, scent.
Remembering was nothing but misery. Lannes was still hard. He had no idea what it was like for human men—that was one topic he and Frederick had managed to avoid—but once aroused, it was incredibly difficult for a gargoyle to defuse the situation. Touching himself was an option, but he hadn’t exactly been swimming in time or opportunities to be alone. Not to mention, there was a chemical imbalance that would ensue.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, lamely. “If it makes you feel better, I can’t sit here and listen to your thoughts. Only touch allows me to go deeper.”
“So all those other times you touched me—”
“No,” Lannes cut her off. “I didn’t touch you because of that.”
I touched you because I care about you. Because I want to protect you. Because I want to rip off your clothes and see you naked.
He was suddenly grateful for the illusion. Heat suffused his face, partially due to shame. Feeling awkward, he said, “I wasn’t listening to you all that time. I promise you that much.”
“Okay,” she said softly, her gaze far too perceptive. “What do I do?”
He let out a breath he did not know he had been holding. “Just relax. Take my hands.”
She started to, then stopped and scooted closer across the seat. Her scent was clean, faint with soap, and with her hair pushed back, it was easier to see more of her face. His heart started thudding faster. He could not believe he was doing this. She had already seen too much of him.
And what would I do? Strip those memories from her?
He held out his hands, and she placed her palms against his. His hands resembled baseball mitts in comparison—huge, brown and leathery. And that was just the illusion. Everything about her was incredibly delicate. Her wrists felt as fragile as silk. He was afraid of hurting her.
“Just relax,” he whispered.
She smiled. “You first.”
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