by Rachel Caine
“My friend said you run a kind of…counseling service. Support group.” The man pulled in a deep breath, then let it out again. “For those of us who are, you know…addicts.”
“You mean, you need your hit every day or you get very sick?”
“Yes.”
“Uh-huh.” There was a desk in the corner of the room, largely ornamental, but it held some writing paper and a pen, and Bryn quickly jotted down the number on the caller ID and said, “Do you want to meet somewhere and talk things over?”
“Yes.” He sounded relieved. “Yes, I need to talk. Please.”
“Anyplace you feel comfortable that you can get to tomorrow?”
He named a coffee shop she knew, and she wrote it down. “I’ll be reading a book,” he said. “Stephen Hawking, A Brief History of Time.”
“What’s your first name?”
“Carl,” he said. “Carl—”
“I don’t need your last name, Carl. That’s fine. How about ten a.m.?”
“Fine. Thanks. I just need—I need to deal with this, and I haven’t been doing a real good job lately. It’s my family. My wife. It just seems…”
“Overwhelming,” she said. “I know. It gets better when you talk to someone else who can really understand.”
Carl was one of those the government had saved, and kept saving, every day that they provided him with a shot. He probably had the same question Bryn did: how long would that last? Not long, Bryn thought. She wouldn’t tell him that, but she knew the ruthless truth: the government didn’t need these people, other than a key few; they were just excess baggage, and sooner or later, they’d get dumped as the stockpiled supplies of Returné dried up.
These were victims, innocent victims—Pharmadene employees who’d been designated as mission-critical. They’d been “converted”—corporate-speak for killed, then Revived. And now the government was stuck with a bunch of people they couldn’t allow to run around loose and unsupervised because of their undead status…but there were too many to simply, conveniently disappear.
Bryn didn’t fool herself into thinking there was any genuine moral or ethical dilemma involved. Just expedience, risk, and reward.
Word was starting to get out, and Carl wasn’t the first Pharmadene employee to cold-call, looking for answers. Bryn didn’t know how many Revived were out there under the government’s control, and Riley Block wasn’t going to tell her…but this, in a small way, was making a difference.
Though absolutely nobody wanted her to do it. Particularly not Pat McCallister. He thought there were risks—and he was right. She just couldn’t not do it.…She felt responsible, somehow, to all these luckless bastards who had (like her) never asked for this sinister gift of pseudolife, who had to live a lie now.
Her lies, at least, were less personal.
She finished the call and hung up, and turned to find—no surprise—that Pat was standing there silently watching her. She shook her head. “Don’t start.”
“I won’t,” he said, but she could tell by the stillness in him that he wanted to. “Come on. Dinner. Liam won’t be happy if you let his beef Wellington get cold.”
It was so odd that she lived in a house where beef Wellington was what was for dinner. And it wasn’t even that exceptional.
“I need to change,” she said, and kissed him quickly on the way out the door. “Be down in a minute.”
Her room still didn’t feel like hers, exactly, although all her stuff was here, or as much as she’d wanted to bring with her.…She hadn’t wanted the old, cheap pressboard dresser, the secondhand couch or bed, but she’d brought the old armchair she’d always preferred, and her pictures, mementos, books, music, and movies were all neatly ordered on shelves. The room had come with a television, a vast flat-screen thing that probably also made coffee, as high tech as it was, and she was a little scared of it. It had its own curtains to conceal it, so as not to upset the soothing autumnal glory of the furniture and fabrics; they wouldn’t have been out of place a hundred years ago, in this very house.
Her clothes were not great, but they were better than they had been, mainly because she had some grasp now of how to dress for her job. She’d come straight out of the military to her first funeral home job, and wearing a uniform hadn’t prepared her for the challenge of buying suits. She’d gotten some advice from Lucy, the funeral home’s formidable administrator, who’d surely trained with some kind of fashion-related Zen master.
Bryn stripped off her doggy-mudded jeans and shirt and put on what was casual evening dress here in the mansion—a dress, which was a little sexy, like for a first date at an upscale restaurant. She added a necklace that she’d been given by her mom years ago, and then picked up the nice watch that Annie had given her as her “first job” present.
I wish…
Bryn stopped the thought, held the watch in her hand for a moment, and then put it on with sure, quick snaps of her fingers.
I’ll find you, she promised the absent ghost of her sister. I will. I swear.
But she had nowhere to look, and nothing to go on. If her sister was still out there, still alive, still waiting, Bryn was letting her down with every moment she didn’t find her. Worse, she was letting down her whole family, who didn’t even know Annie was in trouble.
After a deep breath, Bryn went downstairs for a dinner for which she had, suddenly, very little appetite.
Chapter 3
Bryn had never liked mornings, but she’d usually been an early riser anyway—life in the army did that to you, accustomed you to being out of bed before dawn whether you wanted to be or not. She woke in the predawn light, comfortable and warm, with Mr. French snuggled against her legs on top of the covers. His chin was on her hip, and he was snoring like a little old man and twitching as he dreamed. The room was cool, dim, and soothing, but for a moment it felt…wrong. Early mornings sometimes brought her doubts out of the depths and up to breach the surface. What am I doing here? I don’t belong here, in this house.
Her apartment—cheap and crappy as it had been—had been her own space, but she’d started worrying about not her own safety there, but that of her neighbors. Innocent people, families, who had no knowledge of the kind of knife’s edge on which she lived. She’d woken up with every noise, every car engine, wondering if the government was coming to make her disappear, or worse, if someone else had decided to grab her, experiment on her.…The paranoia (justified or not) had driven her half nuts.
Patrick McCallister had made the offer to give her a room at his mansion—a protected space, safe, controlled, where she endangered no one who didn’t know the score. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to take that last step with him yet, and they weren’t lovers, but she knew she could trust him. And she knew that she wanted to be with him.
But in the mornings, she still wondered whether she’d sacrificed her independence for security.
Then again, she thought, and yawned, the apartment complex didn’t set out a full breakfast, and have coffee going by the time I got up. Which Liam did, every morning. He was an even earlier riser than she was, and he seemed to feel that it was his sacred duty to be sure she had fuel before starting her day. Screw independence. Who doesn’t get used to that?
She didn’t, apparently. She still felt like a guest here; regardless of what Patrick did, or what Liam would excuse, she didn’t feel that she could roll out of bed in her bathrobe and shuffle down to breakfast. No, she had to get up, shower, fix her hair, do her makeup, dress, and then go down. And she was self-conscious about it. Every day, she had the argument with herself about moving out, finding her own space, but every day, the larger part of her wanted to stay.
And truthfully, it was because of Patrick. They hadn’t slept together, but they’d had some fantastic everything-but-skin sessions; she didn’t feel like either of them was reluctant to take the next step, but she did feel that they were both…cautious. And careful not to push. He was waiting on her, and she was waiting on him, and th
at made for an interestingly frustrating relationship, because fairly soon, one of them was just going to seize the moment.
She couldn’t help but think about that. A lot. And she imagined that he did, too.
Down, girl. Time to get up and focus. She had a meeting at Pharmadene today, which she dreaded. And she had to meet with Carl, the Returné-addicted Pharmadene employee, and try to give him a little help and perspective. If she liked his vibe, she’d invite him to the evening group meetings they had once a week…a support group, but even though they jokingly called it Dead Persons Anonymous, it was more about reaffirming their humanity than talking about the inevitable. If he was ready for it, it might be a place for him to turn to release that inner stress and panic that had been building up. The others claimed it helped.
Bryn just liked being reassured that she wasn’t the only one facing this weird, uncertain future.
Bryn moved Mr. French off her (he grunted, snuffled, and rolled over without waking up) and turned the lights on. Getting ready was mechanical routine, and she didn’t do a lot of thinking while that was going on…brain on idle until the checklist was done. Makeup slowed her down a little, because she was still relearning the tricks she’d ignored as a teen and never mastered in the military, but she was ready for breakfast in a record thirty-five minutes, even so.
Downstairs, Liam was laying out the chafing dishes in the small dining room. He had all her favorites ready—bacon, low-cholesterol eggs, bagels with cream cheese, orange juice, and, best of all, free-flowing coffee. She didn’t know what Liam made his coffee with, but it had to be magical sparkles and crack beans, because it was the most delicious stuff she’d ever tasted. She was on her third cup when he sat down with his own breakfast.
“Nice to see you this morning,” he said, and took a sip. He liked his coffee black, and she’d never seen him eat anything at breakfast except the occasional soft-boiled egg. Although he never wore what she would have described as butler clothes, he was definitely well dressed at all times. Even now, he was rocking a petting-soft sweater vest that matched his steel blue eyes and graying hair. “Is there anything else you need this morning?”
“No, and if I do, I’ll get it,” she replied, and flashed him a smile. “I know where the kitchen is.”
“Horrors,” he said drily. “Next you’ll be wanting to do your own laundry.”
“I already do my own laundry.”
“Appalling.”
“Good.”
Liam tapped delicately at the shell of his egg and removed the pieces. “May I ask what your schedule is today?”
“Only if I can ask yours.”
“Then let me phrase it another way: do you expect to be home for dinner at seven?”
“As far as I know,” she said. “I’ll call if I have to change plans.”
“That would be helpful. You are being careful, are you not?” Liam knew everything about her current not-dead status; Patrick had seen to that, on the excuse that Liam knew everything anyway that went on under this roof. She still wasn’t entirely comfortable with that, but the horses were well out of the barn on that one.
“I’m taking my medicine on time,” she said. “Thanks, Mom. And I promise not to pet stray dogs or talk to strangers with candy, too.”
Liam sent her a quelling look for that particular snarkiness. “I mean it sincerely,” he said. “I sometimes worry you don’t take enough care of yourself.”
“I do nothing but take care of myself.” She sighed. “And if I ever forget, I’m sure you’ll call to remind me, Mother Hen.”
“Eat your breakfast,” he said, and smiled. “I’m only looking after the McCallister Trust’s investments.”
The McCallister Trust had bought the old Fairview Mortuary and repaired it after the fire, and in effect, she worked for him, as he was the trust’s administrator…which was a head-spinning turnabout, when she took the time to analyze it. The trust also paid for Manny’s research on Returné that kept her shots coming without relying on the government supplies, so in pretty much every sense, Liam held her life in his hands.
And made her breakfast. It was all very emotionally confusing.
“Liam,” she said, and licked a bit of jam off her fingers, “why do you do all…this? I mean, you’re the trust administrator. You’re not actually the butler here. If anything, Patrick works for you.”
“I enjoy routines,” he said. “My father worked in this house, and I’ve been on staff since I was fifteen years old. The fact that the late Mr. McCallister decided to entrust me with the family’s assets instead of his son does not require me to stop doing a job at which I’m actually quite expert.” He was quiet for a moment, then met her eyes squarely. “This is Patrick’s birthright. His father was cruel to him. It doesn’t mean that I need to continue that cycle.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” he said. “I do it because I wish to do it. And that’s all there is to say.”
It might have led to an awkward silence, but Liam, after a brief pause, asked Bryn what she thought about replanting the gardens, and she was grateful for a change of subject—so grateful, she even got enthusiastic about bromeliads. After her meal, Bryn walked Mr. French, then headed for work.
On the drive, she called ahead to the office. “Lucy? Hey, girl. I don’t have any appointments, do I?”
“Clear schedule this morning,” Lucy said. “You’ve got that afternoon thing at Pharmadene.”
“Then I’ll be in the office after lunch.”
“Please tell me you are off to some romantic rendezvous with hot Mr. Pat.”
“It’s not a romantic rendezvous,” Bryn said.
“Then tell me you’re not picking up a dead person, because it is way too early for that.”
Bryn laughed. “See you soon, Luce.”
“You know Joe’s gonna ask me where you are this morning.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know. Good luck with that.”
“Boss! Don’t you hang me out to dry!”
“Tell them I had to meet with a vendor off-site and I’ll be in after lunch.”
There was a short silence, and then Lucy said, all traces of humor gone, “And will I be lying to him?”
“You know, I think I’m having a bad influence on you,” Bryn said, and cut the connection. Lucy didn’t try to call back, thankfully, and Bryn felt only a little guilty. What Lucy didn’t know would ensure that Joe didn’t decide to helpfully drop in on her meeting this morning with Carl, who was probably nervous enough to bolt if he imagined he saw anyone watching him.
Coffee Jack’s was doing—as usual—brisk business. Doorman Dave saw her parking and got up from his table to swing the door open and hold it for her. “Top of the morning!” he told her with absolutely insane cheer, and gave her a sunny smile. Doorman Dave didn’t work for the shop; he was an elderly African-American man who was just here every morning with a giant cup of coffee and nothing to do. This was his hobby—meeting people, chatting, and…opening doors. He’d been doing it for years.
“Morning, Dave,” she said, and gave him as optimistic a smile as she could. “So, anybody new this morning?”
“Ah, you know, couple of dozen walk-in-and-outs.” He gave her a surprisingly sharp look. “Are you here to meet the nervous fella?”
“Dave. You know I come here all the time. I’m a regular.”
“Yeah, but you never asked if there’s anybody new.” He nodded inside. “Back table, in the corner. He’s drinking unleaded. That’s probably wise, since he’s jumpy as a cat in a dog factory.”
Bryn glanced at the coffee in Dave’s big hand. “You need a refill?”
“Could do with one,” he said, and his smile, if possible, got even brighter. “You spoil me, Bryn.” Dave greeted hundreds of people every day, but he remembered every single name. It was amazing, really.
“I’ll order you one up,” she said. “Thanks, Dave.”
He winked at her and let the door fall shut behi
nd her. She ordered herself a cappuccino and Dave’s regular poison, and chatted for a second with the counter staff (necessary at Coffee Jack’s, which was the most chatty place she’d ever visited) before looking around for Carl.
Just as Dave had said, there was a pale, nervous man in a suit sitting at the back table in the corner, next to the notice board. He was watching her, and took a quick swig from his cup and stood as she came over. “Carl?” she asked. He nodded, and she slid into the seat opposite his. “Good to meet you.”
He nodded and sat down. He had the look; Bryn would have recognized it even if she hadn’t had the heads-up from Doorman Dave. There was a certain haunted expression in the eyes that she still saw traces of in her own mirror. If Dave still worked at Pharmadene, he was likely one of those lower-level employees who’d gotten his death-and-rebirth courtesy of a corporate memo. Bryn’s murder and Revival hadn’t been pleasant, but at least there had been a point…unlike with these poor bastards, who’d just worked in the wrong cubicle, for the wrong company. And now, like her, were saddled with an addiction that was as onerous as it was terrifying.
“I heard about you from Chandra in the research labs,” he said. “She said you’re…like us. But you don’t work for the company.”
“That’s right,” Bryn said. She tried the cappuccino, and as usual, it was amazing. “I was what you might call a lab rat. I got the shots before anyone at Pharmadene did.”
“So you understand.…” Carl hesitated, shifted his coffee around without drinking it, and finally burst out with it. “The government brought in counselors, you know. We’re supposed to talk to them. But I don’t…I don’t trust them. Any of them. I want to get out of this, and get my family out of it. Get free.”
“I don’t blame you,” Bryn said. “But it isn’t that simple. You can get free of Pharmadene, at least to a certain extent, and if you want, I can help you do that, but this isn’t a situation that gets any better. It’s maintenance. Scenery can change, but every day, the shots have to happen, forever. Once you reconcile yourself to that, you can start to deal with it.”
