Chapter 4

No one came running after me as I stumbled up and out of the stairs that led down to where the Magelore was kept. The bite on my neck fizzled and stung, but the skin he'd torn with his teeth was already healing, smoothing over.

I ducked into my room and stashed the shirt under the bed. Not the best hiding place, but I didn't want to get Pete in trouble.

Not in trouble. I let those words run through my mind as I pulled on another shirt and headed out. I had to check on the others. See how they were.

Cowboy first, he would need a friend right now. He was probably scared.

I peeked into his room through the window in the door. He lay on his belly, arms sprawled out, the back of his shirt torn open. Welts ran over his skin in a perfect zigzag pattern, blood oozing from a few spots. But that wasn't what drew my eye, as much as I was sure he was hurting.

The back of his left pant leg was torn open up to his thigh, and his skin was visible there as well. A pinprick of blood blinked back at me. The same as all the newbies got when they came in. A tracer of some sort.

I hurried away, forcing all the questions from the front of my mind. He would sleep, and I would talk to him later about his stay here.

The brush of something against my skull stopped me mid-step. Like claws tracing up my spine and clamping down on my brain. The fingers in my mind had never felt like this before.

This was someone new and they were digging.

I swallowed hard and then kept moving as quickly as I could without running. Running wasn't allowed here. I would not run. I would not break the rules.

Through the mess hall and to the other side of the facility, I walked with a steady pace, thinking about the dogs that were kept here. Nice dogs. Therapy animals for the most part.

To keep us company and help us heal.

The fingers in my mind tightened suddenly, like long fingernails, and I stumbled against the wall, breathing hard as my vision blanked out for a moment.

What do you really think of the dogs?

The question was sharp and followed by pain that I struggled to think past. Like a migraine that came on in a bolt of bottled lightning.

"Nice dogs," I whispered. "Soothing. They are not my favorite, but they are good for the others."

The fingers eased their grip and I took a breath, sweat sliding down my face. I wiped a hand across my brow and picked up my pace again.

I passed a few other patients, nodded at them. Saw the blankness in their eyes.

What about the blankness?

Another bolt of lightning seared its way down my spine, emanating from the fingertips, and I arched against it, clawing at the wall for purchase as I struggled to form any sort of coherent thought.

A memory came to me. Esther had come in before me, but was still fighting mad when I'd arrived. I'd watched her then, watched her fight whatever had a hold on her. She'd arch back against the wall suddenly, balanced only on the heels of her feet and the back of her head. I'd hold her hand and try to calm her, not understanding.

How many times had I seen her hurt like that? Too many.

Too many times.

The currents beneath the calm waters inside of me spun faster, bubbling up, breaking through the surface of my mind. Whispering that darkness was the answer.

"No." I gritted my teeth against the surge of emotion.

Something tugged hard on my head, and I slammed my own skull into the sidewall.

Tell me your name.

"Fiona." I could give them anything they wanted.

The name of your dog?

"Abe. He wasn't real though."

He was from before. He was from before and he was gone, and I missed him and that was why I didn't get close to the dogs here. I didn't like the idea of losing another.

The fingers in my mind eased, apparently happy with that answer. I lifted a hand to my nose, touching the warmth that trickled from one nostril. I wiped it away and pushed off the wall. My head throbbed and I made my feet move in the direction of the dogs. They had to be fed, just like all the people had to be fed. I could do that.

I could feed the dogs.

And the current under the calm swept around faster and faster, tightening its hold on me. The fingers in my mind couldn't see it, but they would soon enough.

*_*_*

"She is broken, isn't she?"Ernest spoke quietly to Susan. Her eyes were closed, the orbs dancing under the lids faster and faster. She didn't respond to him. "Susan?"

"There is darkness in her. She hides it well, like Esther did. You are not hard enough on her. I think she has you fooled."

Ernest froze in his seat. "No, there is nothing like that in her."

"There is. I will show you."

He closed his eyes and dove into Esther's mind, subtle, careful. Their minds were fragile, and he didn't like how rough Susan and the others were. Gardreel had told him to be careful, so he was, he took his steps through his charge's mind as though it were a precious thing.

Esther's mind was . . . not like Phoenix's. Fiona's. He brushed through her thoughts as she ate. There was nothing to watch, nothing more than the drive to eat, maybe sleep, and a desire to move. But that desire to move slid away. He opened her mind carefully, watching her thoughts slide by. Until an errant one caught his attention. He reached out and took hold of the image that had popped into Esther's mind.

Her hands wrapped around Phoenix's throat, squeezing the life out of her as her body bucked and her green eyes closed.

"I'll fucking kill her!"

"Jesus." He opened his eyes and stared at Susan. She'd never said anything about this to the handler. He would know. He was the supervisor.

His jaw ticked. "Swap back, now."

Susan didn't open her eyes. He snapped his fingers in her face and her eyes popped open. "What?"

He took the token back from her, a silver set of angel wings hung off a leather thong, and he handed back Esther's token.

The gun had felt unnaturally heavy in his hand, and it shivered in a way a solid object shouldn't. But they'd stuffed it so it couldn't speak any longer. Thank God for that. He was glad to be rid of it. Made for killing and possessed by what could only be a demon, judging by the way it talked. Who in their right mind would want a weapon to speak, of all things?

Susan kept blinking at him as if she didn't quite grasp what was happening. Maybe because he'd never really spoken to her this way before. As if he were the boss. He stood. "I'm checking on her in person. And I'll be reporting you for not treading carefully in their minds. Esther is beyond shattered."

She gasped and her eyes filled with tears. "Please don't! The boss already hates me."

Ernest paused as he stood and stretched to his full height of four foot ten, a veritable giant among the three of them. "No, he doesn't hate you. He hates me."

He had no idea if that was true or not. He just needed her to stop crying. He wasn't good with tears. He didn't understand them.

With the token back in his hands, he reconnected quickly with Fiona. Her thoughts were solid, all about helping Peter and the new one, the cowboy. She wanted them to trust her.

How could Susan have not seen the truth that she truly wanted what was best for those around her? She'd never fought, and for that Susan wanted to punish her? Just like Susan had wanted to punish poor Esther. It made no sense to him.

Ernest paused and held out his hand to Susan. "Give me Esther's token back."

That vision he'd seen concerned him. He would hold both women's minds and keep them both safe.

Her jaw dropped. "Are you serious?"

"She is completely broken. We don't need you on her. The only thing left in her is a strange hatred of Fiona, which is completely unnecessary! I'm in charge here, remember?" Which he wasn't entirely sure of, he only knew that he had to take the gun away from her. Something in him whispered that he had to help Phoenix. She needed him.

"The boss told me to leave it." Susan bowed her head. "He said to let her keep hating Fiona, but to keep it in check."

Ernest shook his head. "That makes no sense. Why would he do that?"

Reluctance written in every move of her hands, Susan gave him the foul-mouthed gun. Whoever had thought of putting a soul into a weapon had one sick mind. No doubt it was an abnormal trick of the worst kind.

"I do not know," Susan said.

"Well, I am going to find out," Ernest said, his voice a sharper tone than he'd ever used.

He tucked the gun under his arm and headed for the door.

The door slid open and he stepped into the bright white hallway that was part of the techs' facilities. Sparse and smelling of disinfectant, the place was cold. He hated it.

Without a pause, he headed for the elevator that would take him to the lower levels where the patients were kept.

Human doctors bustled about in the upper hallway, taking notes on clipboards, and for the most part not even noticing him.

He was in the elevator and going down before he could think better of it.

But after spending a year inside her head, he couldn't help but feel like he needed to see her in person, before . . . well, before the boss came back. Gardreel was going to do something. He was going to use her for something, and Ernest didn't want her hurt.

Was that why Gardreel had kept Esther's mind full of hatred toward Fiona?

As strange as it seemed, he thought of Fiona as a friend. Maybe his only friend. Almost as if she'd known he'd been there in her mind and had accepted him.

"Foolish, you are being foolish," he muttered to himself as the elevator trucked along, then coasted to a gentle stop at the bottom. They had to keep the abnormals tucked beneath the rest of the world for everyone's protection, but being this many levels down with them was unnerving. He swallowed hard, the door slid open, and he stepped out into the space.

Two guards turned toward him. "Short stack, what are you doing down here?" The guard on his left spoke with an accent that hinted of swamps and humidity, of voodoo and sweat-filled nights. Of demons. Ernest shook his head. Foolish.

"The boss asked me to check on two of the women," he said, once more pulling up to his tallest height.

The other guard grinned. He was newer, and there was a lecherous bend to his lips. "Check on them, hey?"

The first guard, George, leaned across and smacked the new one. "Never talk to them like that."

"You called him short stack!"

"I didn't imply he was going to fuck one of the inmates, dumbass," George said.

Ernest flushed red, because he hadn't realized that was what the other guard was implying.

"I won't be long. Ten or maybe fifteen minutes." He managed to get the words out without choking on them, but barely. Sex with an abnormal? That would be . . . an abomination of the highest order.

It struck him again that he was being foolish in coming down to this level. Why did he feel the need to check on her now, after all this time? Did he just want to see her in person before she was taken away? Or was part of him worried the boss had the truth of it—that he'd been duped and would pay the price?

Yes, that was the core of it. He was good at reading faces, but in person, not across a screen. He would look her in the eyes and see the truth of her soul, and that would be that.

He would see once and for all that Fiona was exactly as he thought she was, and not the monster Gardreel and the others believed.