“What do you want?” Frederick drawled. “Dragons? Spaceships?”
Mikey couldn’t help but laugh. Theaters across the country would kill to put movies right into the audience’s brain, but the only guy who could do it was right here, right now, and offering it to him. “How many playthings you had before now? How fast do you burn through ‘em?”
“Perspicacious,” Frederick mused. Whatever the fuck that meant. “Oh, you are adorable,” he added with a throaty chuckle, and his gray eyes turned toward Mikey. “Yes. We’ll have to work on a few things, but adjustments can be made. It isn’t a problem.” He looked Mikey up and down, then shrugged those broad shoulders of his. “Two. They lasted a few weeks each, but they were dreary. I think you have far more potential.”
Mikey swallowed. “Why?”
“Because you’re a cheat and a liar. You’re a user who yearns to be used, a bundle of contradictions tied up in knots that I could spend years unpicking. It isn’t at all unusual, you know.”
“Huh?”
“This cycle you’re in.” Frederick turned to rest his back against the glass, and slipped fingers into his pockets. “People who lack agency often try to satisfy themselves by taking agency from others. Addicts become dealers, abused children become abusive parents, cheaters beget cheaters. Human beings really are awfully good at passing their pain on to others.”
Mikey wrapped his arms around himself and clung tight. How the fuck was this guy stripping away his outer layers like a goddamn onion?
Telepath.
It all came back to that, didn’t it? And Mikey had to admit to some tiny glimmer of wonder, of awe, that such a thing even existed. Could he walk away from that? Like Frederick said: eight billion people. This was Mikey’s chance at something unreal, something so rare he’d never touch it again.
Something no one else had.
And if he burns through you in a few weeks? What then?
“Then,” Frederick said, “I was wrong. But you’d still be changed, wouldn’t you? You’d still be out of this mess. Honestly, do you want to spend the rest of your days trying not to piss off the wrong cartel while you get raped by cops and sell drugs to junkies who are so wasted they don’t even know your name?”
A shiver rippled through him. It started in his scalp and settled in his gut, and it made him feel sick.
“Mm. Been avoiding the r-word, haven’t you?” Frederick nodded. “Makes it all the more palatable. Sweep it under the rug, pretend that isn’t what’s going on. You even tell yourself it isn’t rape because you’re the one offering, right?” He withdrew one hand from his pocket so he could circle a finger in the air. “Except we both know you get the offer in fast to pretend that you have a choice. You put yourself on a platter like a hog roast because if you don’t they’ll take it anyway, and you’ll get less out of the deal.”
“Fuck you!” He all but screamed the words, but Frederick didn’t even blink. “Fuck you! You think you’re all that, but you’re nothing! You’re just another spoiled fucking rich bitch who thinks he owns everyone he meets! You think you can just swoop in, and act like I’m s’posed to be in awe ‘cause you got a grip of cash and some fucking superpowers, but you don’t know shit! You don’t!”
As the last word left him, he sagged. A sob wrenched through his body and tears made his vision blur. He felt sick to his gut, and all he could do was lean a shoulder to the window and cry like a fucking baby.
Frederick walked away. The asshole actually walked away, and Mikey couldn’t figure out whether that made him want to scream again or chase after him and demand he behave like a human being and not a damn robot. The knot in his stomach twisted tighter, and it blossomed into a wave of anger in the blink of an eye.
Mikey threw a punch at the glass, but it was way harder than his fist, and the pain shot up his arm right to his elbow.
Shit, he couldn’t even crack glass.
What a fucking loser.
“Here.” The smooth British bastard was at his side. Warm hands pressed a cold cup against Mikey’s fingers. “Drink this.”
Mikey wiped snot from his nose and laughed bitterly. “What’s the point? It ain’t real.”
“Ah, but then we delve into the murky depths of defining reality, and that isn’t a conversation you wish to participate in right this very moment. Drink it.”
He raised the glass to his lips and swigged from it, and the contents burned his throat and stung his eyes. He coughed, then took another mouthful and gulped it down. “The hell is this?”
“Scotch. I won’t bore you with what kind.” Frederick took the glass from him and — with a firm hand to his shoulder — steered him back to the couch. “Sit.”
Mikey fell into the soft leather as the whisky burned its way down his chest, leaving warmth in its wake. He blinked tears from his eyes and stared numbly at the wet snot on the sleeve of his fake suit. He wanted to insist Frederick was wrong, tell him outright he wanted to let cops plow his asshole if it got him off whatever they charged him with. Anything was better than going to jail, ‘cause the moment those guys thought you weren’t straight it was open season.
And maybe if he clung to the lie that he had free will, he could keep believing everyone around him did, too.
He rubbed his eyes and rested his head in his hands. “I’m such a fuckup,” he whispered. “Why don’t you just leave me alone, brah? I never asked for this.”
The weight of the couch shifted as Frederick sat by his side. “Of all the things you never asked for, this is where you draw the line?”
“You’re an asshole,” he spat.
“And you’re stuck in a rut, too afraid to climb out of it. Look at me.”
Mikey wiped his eyes and lifted his head. Not enough to challenge the guy, but enough to see him.
Frederick’s eyes were creased with concern. Of course, there was no way to know whether he meant it or was just putting it on, but he looked like he cared, for whatever reason. Mikey might never know what the guy thought.
“I’m lookin’,” he muttered.
Frederick nodded, and the Hong Kong vista faded away, to be replaced with the white-walled suite at the Palomar, with the familiar San Diego skyline between them and the bay. Still night-time, still lights twinkling on water, but everything was much smaller now. More comfortable. “Think it over,” he said. “Come back if your answer’s yes.”
“And if it’s no?”
“Then you never see me again.” Frederick eased from the couch. There was no glass in his hand. His lips didn’t move, yet Mikey heard his voice clear as a bell.
Mikey’s suit was gone. He was back in the towel.
“There’s a change of clothes for you over there.” Frederick gestured to a table by the door. “Keep the cash Candice gave you. You’ve got one week to make up your mind.”
He gnawed on his lip and watched Frederick’s broad back as the guy headed for the stairs. The asshole didn’t even look back at him, just left him sitting there alone, so Mikey hurried to the table and opened the ballin’ paper bags from fancy stores.
Everything in there fit. From jeans to sneakers, it was all perfect.
He grabbed his stuff from inside the last bag and stowed it all away in soft, plush pockets, then ran from the suite before Frederick could change his mind and get in the way of his escape.
Mikey ran through the lobby and out into the oppressive humidity of the street. He made it three blocks before he found a cab, and once he was in the back he curled up and tried to escape the creeping dread which was crawling over his skin.
If he went home, he’d have customers. Or he might get picked up and shaken down by the cops. Or thugs could stop by to put him out of business permanently. Every day was terrifying. He got barely any sleep because customers came by all day and all night and expected him to be there ready to sell. The cops knew where to find him because he had nowhere else to run to. The cartels knew his face.
He didn’t want to go there. Not now.
Not e
ver.
Not now he had a choice.
15
FREDERICK
“What can I do?”
Frederick remained with his back to the front door of Icky’s little apartment and watched Laurence pace back and forth across the living room, mildly amazed that the American even found enough space to do so in.
“Nothing, man.” Laurence sighed. “He needs cognitive rest, apparently. Like, he can’t even practice piano for two weeks. How’m I supposed to stop him thinking?”
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Frederick said dryly. “He hasn’t done much of it in the past.”
Laurence glared daggers at him, but kept his comeback to a low hiss. “That’s not fair.”
He spread his hands in a conciliatory fashion. “My apologies. Inappropriately-timed brotherly humor, nothing more. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t do anything to help. Even if it’s something so inconsequential as keeping you both stocked with food and drink so that you don’t have to fret over the basics.” Frederick nodded toward the dogs in the kitchen. “Or walking the dogs for you.”
Laurence sighed and folded down into an armchair, so Frederick left the door at last and ventured further into the apartment to settle on the sofa.
“Or even just talk?” Frederick kept his voice soft as he crossed his legs.
“He can control fire,” Laurence breathed. His shoulders hunched forward as though uttering those words had relieved him of some burden. “And he wasn’t ever gonna tell me.”
It took only the most cursory of skim-reads to discover that Laurence was terrified of fire, and the cause wasn’t far behind.
Fire. Everything was on fire. Laurence’s voice was hoarse from screaming and smoke inhalation.
The place was going to burn down, with them still in it.
Shit, he hated fire. Too dangerous. Too unpredictable. Too goddamn pretty. Just like the man who had started it.
But Laurence couldn’t leave him here. Not like this.
He held the featherlight body in his arms and screamed for him to wake up.
Frederick placed one hand over the other in his lap as he regarded Laurence. The vision was over three years old, but it haunted the florist to this day. Like the sword of Damocles, Laurence was waiting for the moment when he was surrounded by flames with Icky dead or dying in his arms, and each and every whiff of a fire could potentially herald that moment.
“Tell me what happened,” he murmured.
Laurence drove fingers into his hair and gripped his curls tight for a moment. His thoughts drifted to images of roaring wildfire, of Icky parting the flames like Moses before the Red Sea before he passed out from exhaustion and a concussion.
“He…” Laurence licked his lips and swallowed. “He got to Scripps Ranch and the kids located this woman who was trying to evacuate her dogs and horses.”
Frederick pursed his lips. “And of course Icky is a sucker for animals.”
“Yeah.” Laurence pinched the bridge of his nose and sat back in the armchair, but he didn’t meet Frederick’s gaze. “It was too dangerous for the kids, so Quen went in on his own. He got her to leave, then went back to try and rescue her horses from the pasture, and he…” He calmed three panicked mares easy as anything.
Frederick idly glanced toward the dogs. Icky couldn’t possibly control animals, surely? Because that would suggest some degree of telepathic prowess, and that didn’t fit with the rest of his demonstrable skill set at all. At least Frederick could see a connection between two different forms of psychokinesis, but the images in Laurence’s mind were more than a simple way with animals.
The mares were utterly fearful. Their pasture was on fire. And Icky stood before them and talked them down as though it were child’s play.
Frederick was reasonably sure that a bolting horse took more than a few seconds’ kind words to relax.
“He tried riding one to escape the fire, but he was bareback and they were spooked and she threw him, and he got the concussion from that.” Laurence’s cheeks were pale. “He lost consciousness for a bit. By the time he came round the fire was almost on him, so he ran, and that’s when he started controlling the fire.” He shook his head. “He started out like you said he should, by tearing up trees to try and deprive the fire of fuel, but then he kinda just moved on from that to the fire itself.”
“He’s alive,” Frederick said as gently as he could.
“No thanks to—”
He brought up a hand to stop Laurence, then pressed a finger to his own lips. “I assume Icky is still sleeping?”
Laurence’s scowl was answer enough, but he added, “Yeah.”
“Good. He’s alive,” he repeated. “We must be grateful for that. And perhaps once he is recovered you might wish to educate him on the nature of the wringer he has put you through. But cognitive rest means no arguing before then.”
“Tell me about it.” Laurence snorted. “Goddess, I could strangle him.”
“Welcome to my world,” Frederick said, allowing his dry tone to return. “He is obstinate, self-righteous, hot-headed, and selfish. If you wish to remain at his side for any length of time you must either accept those traits, or force him to change them, and people tend only to change after a near-death experience. This is your opportunity to make him see how his path affects those around him.”
Laurence’s growl was a low rumble, like a distant earthquake.
“I shall arrange groceries,” Frederick continued. “It’s the least that I can do. I think perhaps taking the dogs out would give you a little space. Maybe you can scream at the ocean while you’re out and about, too. Some people find a good yell remarkably effective. Why don’t I pop over in the mornings and watch Icky so you can get some fresh air?”
He picked up on Laurence’s feelings of guilt and frustration, his helplessness and anger, and waited for the man to speak.
“I can’t ask that kinda involvement of you, man. You’ve already stayed longer than you meant to.”
Frederick waved his fingers to dismiss the argument. “I’ll speak with the office and explain the situation. They’ll understand. I can work from here as easily as I can from London. All they want me to do is sift through emails and fact-check case files anyway. There’s nothing I cannot do online.”
Laurence wasn’t to know, of course, that Frederick had already determined to remain. He had investigators tailing Wilson and his cronies, he needed more time to root through Laurence’s memories and uncover data, and there were matters with Brennan to attend to.
That last item on his list was pure indulgence, and he should not have succumbed to his interest in the drug dealer, but the more he dug around inside Brennan’s mind the more his resistance crumbled. And frankly why shouldn’t he have something entertaining to pass the time with? Life couldn’t be all work, work, work or one would go completely mad.
“If you’re sure,” Laurence said. “Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome. Why don’t you go for a spot of fresh air now? I have some time. I can sit with Icky.”
Laurence eyed the door to the bedroom as his guilt resurfaced, chased by the yearning for some weed. “I can’t.”
“You can. At least for a few minutes.” Frederick shrugged. “Let the dogs go to the loo, hm?”
Shame and need warred within Laurence for several seconds before he caved in and sprang to his feet. “Okay. Thanks. I won’t be long, okay?”
Frederick raised his hands. “Take all the time you need, dear boy. We aren’t going anywhere.”
IT WAS a sight that hit him far harder than he had anticipated. A sight he never expected to witness again in his lifetime, and one he grew increasingly convinced that he should never have seen in the first place.
Icky was in bandages again.
Frederick stood at the end of the bed and let out a deep breath.
His twin’s head was wrapped up, mostly around the forehead, so that his inky hair stuck out from the top like the cr
own of a pineapple. His already-pale skin was like paper, pasty and lackluster. Frederick was struck by how thin and frail Icky looked, tucked up in bedsheets which only emphasized how scrawny he was. All this time away from home and Icky hadn’t managed to gain a single pound, it looked like.
If Laurence’s half-formed theories were correct, then it all made sense: Icky’s poor eating habits, his alcoholism, his terrible school performance, his black-outs, his variable temperament… Frederick had only read a handful of child abuse cases during the course of his time at university, but the effects on each and every victim bore certain similarities, and applying his adult knowledge to Icky’s childhood behaviors only served to reinforce Laurence’s suspicions.
But now Icky was an adult, and he should be beyond all these hospital visits, these periods of convalescence.
Frederick grit his teeth until he had defused his own anger, then stepped around the bed and sat with care at the edge. He reached for Icky’s hand and squeezed it, then remained there in silence as he watched his brother’s chest rise and fall.
How many more times would they be here, with Icky recovering from injury while Frederick looked on, helpless?
He looked to the long, spindly fingers in his hand, then lay them down with care and stepped away from the bed.
Wilson would pay for this. And perhaps, if Frederick played his cards right, Icky could benefit from Frederick’s revenge.
He smoothed out the bedsheets to erase evidence of his presence, then retreated to a seat by a dresser instead. There he could wait until Laurence had returned, and he began to fire off emails on his phone.
It was time to find out who owned the house that Wilson’s entourage lived in.
16
MIKEY
The banging in his head wouldn’t go away. It sounded like a fist on wood.
“Mikey? C’mon, man, don’t hold out on me like this!”
Mikey groaned himself awake. The banging sharpened, grew more defined. He rubbed his face, but the noise wouldn’t stop, so he rolled out of his cheap-ass bed and stumbled across the busted carpet.
Reeve of Veils (Inheritance Book 4) Page 10
