“How so?”
“We need to ascertain the reach of Wilson’s organization. Who he interacts with, what influence he has, whether he mingles socially, where his interests lie, whether he has any history of violence or activism, that sort of thing. The more thorough a profile we are able to build of him, the more we will know of his thoughts and goals.” While he already had an agency doing exactly that, he was hardly about to admit it, lest Laurence begin to worry about what else Frederick might be looking into.
Laurence sat back and raised his chin. “Is this why you want Quentin in Kane’s house? To keep him out of the way of the actual investigation?”
He laughed briefly. Laurence was smarter than many might take him for, that was certain. “Of course. He is hardly a subtle man, Laurence. He is a blunt instrument, but he is sufficiently flashy as a distraction. Now.” He reached for the iPad tucked into a pocket by his side and brought it to life, then connected it to the television screen at the front of their compartment so that Laurence could see the news article he had open.
FOOTBALL STAR PLUNGES TO DEATH FROM SCHOOL ROOF.
Laurence’s attention turned to the article. “This is the kid Kane killed, isn’t it?” he said. “Quentin said he was really cut up about this.”
“Mm.” Frederick made it clear he was committing to nothing. “I have done a little digging. I am by no means a private investigator, but by goodness reading law teaches you a great deal about performing research.” There was, after all, no need for Laurence to know the truth of how he had obtained his information. “Kane Wilson has been on the fringes of quite a few of these little tragedies over the years. Apparently he failed to learn after the first gaffe.” His fingers darted across the tablet to scroll the other news items before Laurence’s eyes.
“You think he made all these people kill themselves?” Laurence breathed. “Goddess, just how many are there?”
“Eleven thus far.” Frederick crinkled his nose. “He has rather a taste for it, don’t you think? I would suggest that whatever path we take, we do so beyond his ken, and I’m sorry to say that means not discussing it with Icky. If Wilson gets even the faintest whiff of our digging into his personal affairs I have no doubt we’ll be walking ourselves out in front of traffic in no time.”
Laurence grimaced. “Holy shit.” He gestured to the screen. “What makes you sure these were all Kane?”
“Largely the occasional eyewitness who distinctly recalls Wilson urging the victim to go kill themselves,” Frederick muttered. “The man is about as subtle as Icky. Doesn’t even have a third party do the dirty work on his behalf.” He waved his hand toward the television. “This man is dangerous, make no mistake. He fears no consequence. He has a taste for bumping off his enemies. The only reason I do not urge that we pull Icky away from him is that, for whatever reason, my dear brother has proven immune to Wilson’s power. You and I do not have that luxury. We shall have to take an inordinate amount of care if we are to proceed.”
Laurence rubbed his jaw slowly.
Frederick rested the iPad against his thigh as he waited. The American’s thoughts were all over the place, racing along in a way most at odds with his calm and neutral expression. It was fascinating.
Laurence wanted to kill Wilson. But not with a gun, nor a knife. Not in some refined, humane way, no.
The man before him yearned to rip Wilson apart with hands and teeth, to tear him apart like a frenzied animal and gorge on his entrails.
Frederick schooled his own features every bit as skillfully as Laurence. How ironic that they should both sit here lying to one another without uttering a single word.
Laurence’s composure cracked, and he disguised the urge to fidget by scratching behind his ear before he feigned more interest in the news on screen.
Does this come from Herne too? Does being descended from a god give personality, not just power?
Frederick froze. His breath paused utterly involuntarily, and he had to remind himself to exhale.
What on Earth did Laurence mean? Was he serious? Did he genuinely believe that he was descended from a god?
Did Laurence have proof?
“I can take care,” Laurence said.
“Good.” Frederick had to force his own mind back on track to remember what it was Laurence was responding to, and then he smiled. “We also need to work out Wilson’s weaknesses lest we are forced into a confrontation. It appears that he must issue his commands verbally, yes?”
Laurence nodded. “Yeah.” His eyebrows climbed. “You’re suggesting his victim needs to be able to hear them to obey?”
“You’re rather bright, aren’t you?” He smiled to Laurence. “Yes. Can he control someone who cannot hear his words?”
“How would we work that out?” The florist cracked his knuckles like a boxer preparing for a fight.
“Well. You can see the future, can you not?” Frederick tilted his head. “Are you able to ascertain the outcomes of what-if scenarios?”
Laurence stared. “You want me to try and see a future that might not even happen?”
“Dear boy, I should hope that every future you witness has the potential to be averted, otherwise what is the purpose of such a gift?”
“I…” Laurence swallowed. “I dunno if it can work that way.” He paused and rocked his jaw, then nodded. “But I can sure as hell try.”
Frederick shelved concerns over this Herne business. He could dig around for that at his leisure. Right now was his opportunity to witness Laurence’s power in action, and that had to take priority. He wove his consciousness around Laurence’s own, coddling it in an embrace as cold and brittle as a one-way mirror, and all but abandoned his own body entirely.
Laurence had no way of knowing how intimately he was observed, but to Frederick it was like wearing the American’s mind and body as though it were nothing more than a change of clothes.
All he had to do was watch and wait as Laurence began to imagine a variety of potential scenarios.
Laurence was baiting his own gift, taunting it with falsehoods as though it were so fixated on fact that it wouldn’t tolerate Laurence’s imagination. Like a school nerd, Laurence’s gift stirred to life, eager to prove him wrong, to show off how clever it was by revealing the truth to him.
And then, without warning, the screams began.
9
FREDERICK
He heard screams. So many screams.
There was no mistaking the location. Every high school looked the same. Corridors, lockers, glossy floors. They weren’t usually this full of screaming kids, though.
The fashions looked early 2000s. Some of the girls had dyed the underside of their hair darker and wore hoop earrings. He saw a couple of guys in tartan fedoras and there were way too many faux hawks and popped collars going on.
Of course, there was also way too much screaming.
Laurence followed the flow to the main doors and outside, where the screams were a hellish din. He slipped past — and through — the kids who were here back then. It was easy. He wasn’t here. Not really.
He smelled the blood before he saw it. It was almost overwhelming, like a tin roof that had baked in the midday sun. There was more, too, beyond the blood. The rancid stench of half-digested food and of bile. The gross odor of fecal matter.
He heard retching.
The children stopped in a wide circle around the thing which had drawn them all here. Some had thrown up already.
The blood was everywhere. Like a balloon filled with it had been dropped from above, it all radiated outward from a single point. Some had traveled up the school’s outer wall and was drying fast in the California heat. The pool of it on the asphalt was too deep to dry so fast, though.
There were other things in the blood. A finger. A lump of meat. Goddess knew what else.
The body in the middle of the pool had ruptured with the impact. Laurence couldn’t even make out a head in all the mess.
He convulsed. His stomach sp
asmed, and acid burned the back of his throat. It stung his eyes.
He pulled back from the scene, desperate to escape it.
Was he still in the vision? Where was he?
He coughed up fluid which tasted of vomit, and spat it out. Or was that Laurence? Whose body was he in right now?
Did he even have his own body? Was he anyone other than Laurence?
“Stay here, Wilson!”
“Yes, sir.”
The man who hurried from the office was in his sixties. He wore a gray suit, nothing fancy. Probably the Principal.
The teen in the chair watched the adult leave, then rose from his seat and walked past Laurence to the window. He peered down.
A smirk touched his lips.
“Score!” he breathed.
His eyes lit up with a slow, almost disbelieving glee.
Laurence coughed again, and projected vomit all over the limousine’s carpet.
Frederick jolted free of the American’s mind before he could spiral into the same reaction. His gut roiled in sympathy, and the acid reek of bile didn’t help any. It took all his will to pull his mind out of Laurence’s, to sever the connection and give him his own body back.
“Laurence! Oh, God!” He fought to get into the minibar and extract a bottle of cold water, then tore the cap off and thrust it into Laurence’s hands. “Here! Take this!”
Laurence groaned and swigged from it, then swirled it around and spat it straight out. “Fuck,” he croaked.
“Christ.” Frederick hunted for a box of tissues and thrust those at Laurence, then jabbed the intercom. “The hotel, fast as you can.” He clutched at the edge of his seat while Laurence swigged more water. He had to breathe through his mouth, but that didn’t do away with the sight of the mess between their feet. “All right,” he said shakily. “No more of that, apparently! I’m sorry.”
“It’s—”
Laurence broke off. His dark eyes lost focus, and horror crawled across his features.
It looked as though his gift wasn’t done with him yet. Frederick hesitated.
Did he need to look? He could skim without diving in fully, watch without completely immersing himself in Laurence’s existence, but if he was just going to watch Wilson kill again was that something Frederick wanted to see?
Would he have an opportunity like this again?
He sighed softly and watched Laurence’s vision unfold.
Wilson looked around sixteen, maybe seventeen. A weedy little thing still, that hadn’t changed. He had acne now, but not much, just a couple of spots on his chin.
The boy that loomed over him was the archetypal school bully. Short hair, ridiculous muscles, and a posse of clones with the popular girls at the back.
“Yeah?” The boy shoved Wilson hard in the chest. It made the far smaller boy slam against the corridor wall. “Pretty sure I’m gonna enjoy smearing your white-ass face all over this wall, Wilson.”
Wilson wheezed for breath. The amusement left him, evaporated in an instant. Seething hatred twisted his features.
“Pretty sure,” he gasped, “your buddies are gonna enjoy beating you to death.”
Confused silence descended. A couple of the girls chattered among themselves.
“Huh?”
Wilson turned to the boy on his left. “Kick the shit out of him,” he hissed, “until he stops breathing.”
A nervous laugh rippled through the crowd, but before it came to a natural end the boy threw a punch at Wilson’s assailant and it landed against the jock’s nose with a sickening crunch.
Wilson turned to his right. “Help him.”
Laughter turned to yells.
Yells became screams.
And Wilson slipped away.
The vision faded, and Frederick withdrew as Laurence began to dry heave.
“Oh, Goddess,” Laurence whimpered. “Stop. Make it stop!”
Frederick didn’t know how exactly he was supposed to fulfill Laurence’s request, but the poor boy had seen enough, so Frederick drew one arm back and then whipped it forward. His open palm connected with Laurence’s cheek so hard that it stung like a wasp, and Laurence howled in pain. The florist waved ineffectively at him, and the bottle of water fell to the floor. The car halted, and a brief glance to the windows showed that they had arrived at the Palomar.
“Stop, Laurence!” Frederick barked his order like a drill sergeant, and he gripped Laurence’s jaw, holding him still. “Are you with me now?”
Laurence hiccuped. “Where are we?”
“I have to get you inside and to the lift with minimal fuss. Are you about to yell again? Be sick again?”
Laurence crinkled his nose.
That would have to do. Frederick released Laurence’s jaw and slid arms around him instead. “Let’s go.”
He heaved Laurence out of the car. The boy may have lacked his own bulk, but he was hardly a lightweight, and Frederick swept into the shade of the hotel lobby without sparing a glance to the doorman. The faster he made it to his own suite the fewer eyes would be on them, but just to be safe he ensured that most eyes turned away as they passed.
Once he had Laurence in the elevator, he propped the boy against the far wall and pinned him there with a hand to his shoulder as he jabbed the button for the penthouse.
Laurence groaned. “I should’ve known.” His body shivered, and his skin was pasty beneath his tan. The boy was dropping into shock. “Fuck, I should’ve known.”
“Known what?” Frederick gazed into his eyes, and frowned with worry.
Laurence let out a weak, humorless laugh. “I never see the good shit.”
HE ALL BUT dragged Laurence into the suite and upstairs to a spare bedroom, and once Laurence was in the bathroom Frederick removed the florist’s ruined clothes and contacted the concierge for replacements. Alas, nothing he owned would fit. He was far too broad for his shirts to fit Laurence, and his pants would fall off the boy in no time.
He left everything from Laurence’s pockets lined up neatly on the bed, and then disappeared into his own room to bathe, lest any of the mess had spattered onto him. He didn’t wish to check. A shower would do away with the god-awful stench which seemed to pervade the air.
It wasn’t enough.
Good God, he had read some of the worst trial case evidence put before a jury during his studies. He had seen meticulously-taken forensic photographs of the most brutal of murders. The sheer wealth of evidence the police would collate before handing off to prosecutors was remarkable, and included not only hundreds of photographs of both the crime scene and victim but also thousands of pages of transcribed witness statements, interviews with suspects, and other evidence such as receipts or in many cases the murder weapon itself.
It was a matter of simplicity to regard each and every photograph as a fragment of data. Every line of blood, every fragment of bone, each lump of brain matter, the spilled urine and feces from a bowel no longer under conscious control were merely pieces of a puzzle, an intellectual puzzle which when assembled in full would reveal whether the suspect was guilty. The skill of the prosecutor was to convince a jury of the patterns present in the cold collection of facts.
But he had never in his life witnessed a murder in progress. And now he had done so twice.
So had Laurence.
He scrubbed himself clean, in no hurry. He needed time to calculate how best to deal with this experience.
Should he erase his own memories? Ah, but therein lay the trap, did it not? If he did so, he would follow his desire to understand Laurence’s gift yet again, and who knew what Laurence might see next time?
Had they danced this dance already?
Frederick placed his hands against the shower wall and allowed the hot water to run down his back as the suspicion niggled at him. Had he tried to observe Laurence’s gift before, and found it too distressing to retain?
No. No, he had vowed never to tinker with his own mind. He had to hold to the conviction that he would never do so, no
t under any circumstance, lest he grow paranoid and begin to doubt even the most innocent of thoughts. He could not have made himself forget, because he wouldn’t ever have allowed himself to go that far.
There were lines he had drawn in the sand, long ago. When he first truly realized what it was that he could do, the power he wielded so easily that it came to him as readily as breathing, he recognized that with such awful power came equally dire temptation.
He could have whatever he wanted.
“But you can anyway, Morty.” Mother’s eyes were bright with amusement.
Frederick huffed at her. “Not like that.”
“Does it matter how?” Her slender shoulders issued the lightest of shrugs. “Wealth, breeding, connections, respect, or telepathy. One way or another you will always have whatever you want. It’s facile, really.” She used the pruning shears in her gloved hand to gesture at the wall of roses which stood between them and the house. “Nothing worth having is come by with ease. If you use your power to twist people into what you want them to be, it will bore you.”
He folded his arms across his chest and eyed her. “Did it bore you?”
A wave of exhaustion clouded her eyes and dipped her shoulders, and she turned from him to clip a few leaves from the hedgerow. “I thought that marrying your father would give me peace.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I cannot read him. Not now, not ever. His mind has always been closed to me, and I thought—” She stopped, then shook her head.
Frederick reached out and rested a hand between her shoulders. If he stretched fingers and thumb apart he could almost reach both of her arms. “I can’t either,” he admitted. “Or Icky, or Nicky. They don’t block me, not like you do. It’s as though they aren’t there at all.”
She laughed without humor. “You know your father. He absolutely will not be influenced.” She sighed. “I have three wonderful sons. I don’t regret that.”
“Then what do you regret?”
She snipped a furled rosebud from the brambles, then swore softly as it fell to the ground, and she tucked her pruning shears into the pocket of her apron. No words escaped her as she pulled her gloves free and stuffed them away with the shears. When she was done she straightened and pulled her head up high, then turned to face him.
Reeve of Veils (Inheritance Book 4) Page 6
