Chapter Thirty-two

Leary likely had Farren followed. Still, he drove like a traveler out of Hell back to Atlanta after the fifteenth call to Morrisey went to voicemail. Where was he? Had someone gotten to him already?

No way did Morrisey know his true origins. No way. For one thing, he simply wasn’t deceptive enough or gave enough of a damn to hide anything. He’d be in-your-face with the news. But… an icy little voice whispered in Farren’s ear. What if he knows and is playing you for a fool?

Then Farren would handle the aftermath when he had to, not a moment before. He frantically dialed Arianna’s cell phone. She probably wouldn’t be at her desk at this hour.

Arianna growled, “It’s mid fucking night. This had better be good.”

Middle of the night? How long had Farren stayed at the little cabin talking? He checked the car’s clock. Fuck. Four forty-five a.m., and he still had miles to go. “Is Morrisey at the complex?”

“The hell if I know. The only guys I keep up with after hours are either on my couch playing video games, or I have to crawl over them to escape before they wake up.”

No time for unwanted visuals now. “Please check. Now!”

Arianna switched from annoyed to professional. “Okay, let me get to my computer. I’ll call you back.”

Farren’s heart raced as he waited. He hit the car’s phone button on the first ring. “Talk to me.”

“He’s not here. Checked out after work, didn’t return. There are two agents watching his off-site apartment. He arrived there around eleven and hasn’t left.”

“Thanks. I owe you.”

“You sure as hell do! A bottle of the good stuff.” Arianna hung up.

Farren drove to Morrisey’s apartment, ignoring the men in the car parked at the curb. Maybe Morrisey turned the ringer on his phone off and even now slept soundly in his bed. He wasn’t supposed to be here at all. Until training ended, trainees were supposed to stay at the compound. For reasons. A matter for another time. If Farren found Morrisey safe, he’d ream him out later about breaking rules.

Again. Yeah, Farren had encouraged rule-breaking once, hadn’t he?

He scaled the steps to the third floor and banged on the door. Then banged some more.

A gray-haired woman stuck her head out of the apartment next door. “Be quiet!” she snapped. “Y’all kept me up all night with your wild party or whatever you did over there. Now pipe down before I call the cops.”

Wild party? All night? It was only five-thirty a.m. Farren whipped out his badge, giving the woman his best cop face. “FBI, ma’am.” She eased back into her apartment, slamming the door.

Farren turned the doorknob of Morrisey’s apartment. Open. Morrisey was a paranoid son of a bitch. He’d never leave his door unlocked.

Farren considered drawing his gun. No. For this, he’d need power. He eased the door open, one hand up and sparks flickering around his fingertips. “Morrisey? You home?”

The scent of herbs smacked him in the nose. Travelers.

Wild party, Farren’s ass. Splinters of what might have once been the coffee table covered the floor, while shards from a broken lamp littered an end table. Either Morrisey tied one on and fell, or there’d been a struggle.

An oil painting of an attractive man seated on the couch playing a guitar sat sideways on the floor. Morrisey’s couch. Though Farren hadn’t noticed this painting before and had only seen crime scene sketches so far, he recognized Morrisey’s work.

The kitchen opened onto the living room but wasn’t a mess. Farren forged ahead down a short hall. No one in the bathroom. He crept toward what must be the bedroom. He’d not made it that far on his last visit. “Morrisey?” he called. Nothing.

The door stood partially open. Farren toed it the rest of the way. The room lay in shambles. Clothes everywhere. One dresser stood at an odd angle. The covers lay by the bed.

Farren closed his eyes, cleared his mind, and employed a recently acquired talent he’d never told Leary about. He opened his eyes, looking for traces of travelers. He didn’t sense Morrisey at all, but two—no, three—travelers had been in this room last night.

He stood in the wake of one image, crossing the floor to the bed, lifting an object, knocking into the dresser.

Down the hall and into the living room. Dropping whatever he held, breaking the coffee table. Something hitting the lamp. Farren mimicked carrying someone in his arms. If he carried a person through the living room, their foot could have easily hit the lamp.

The lamp crashed to the floor, startling the traveler, who dropped the body onto the table. Another traveler screamed, clouting the first upside the head. Lifting the burden.

Going out the door. Why couldn’t the nosy neighbor have peeked out then? Of course, witnessing a crime might have caused her death.

Farren repeated the process for the second traveler, and the third—the one who’d done the hitting. All in male bodies. All had been in host bodies long enough to pass for human.

What did they want? Had someone else discovered Morrisey’s past? Why the hell hadn’t the men watching the apartment seen anything?

Acid rose in Farren’s throat. Maybe they hadn’t wanted to see. The only good traveler is a dead traveler he’d heard more than once. Only one person suspected Morrisey, unless Leary shared his theory.

Yet Farren had also heard the term “corpse fucker” for those who were intimate with travelers. That part might’ve been easier to figure out if anyone had been watching Morrisey.

Farren spent a few more minutes searching the apartment, hope falling by the second. Someone had taken Morrisey. At least they appeared to have taken him alive. Since they carried him, he must’ve been incapacitated.

Some clothes in the closet couldn’t have belonged to Morrisey. Too small, and not his style. The partner who’d left, then died? The button-down shirts appeared to have been untouched for some time.

Morrisey hadn’t thrown them away.

Empty liquor and beer bottles littered the apartment. For a moment, Farren’s brain urged him to stay here and clean up the mess. No, he couldn’t. He had to find Morrisey. Biting back anger, he dialed Leary.

Leary picked up on the second ring, not sounding in the least like he’d been woken from sleep. “Leary.”

“Where have you taken him?”

“Farren? Taken who?” Leary couldn’t be faking the confusion. Farren, not Austen. Leary rarely used Farren’s first name, another sign of their failed relationship.

“There’re signs of a struggle in Morrisey’s apartment, and he isn’t here.” Farren wouldn’t tell Leary what he’d seen. No need to tip his hand by showing more of the talents he’d gained during his experience as a human.

Some gained only after his subconscious tried to bond with Morrisey.

For a moment, Leary said nothing. Farren pulled the phone away from his ear to ensure the call hadn’t disconnected.

Leary finally spoke after an unnervingly long silence. “I didn’t give any orders. If he’s missing, we’re not responsible.”

Fuck. Blaming the task force allowed the illusion of Morrisey being okay.

“Don’t touch the apartment,” Leary continued. “I’ll get a team over there, see what we can find. Are you sure he’s missing?”

Oh, the nosy neighbor was going to love having a forensics team over here.

“He’s not answering his phone. As many times as I called, if he could, he’d have picked up and yelled for me to leave him the hell alone. He’s also not at the compound.” A possibility occurred to Farren. “Boss, let me call you back.” He disconnected and tried Morrisey’s number again.

Ringing sounded from the back of the apartment. Farren tracked the sound to the bed. The phone sat in the back pocket of Morrisey’s blue jeans, lying on the floor, along with Morrisey’s wallet, a handful of coins, and an old receipt. The fraying and faded ink suggested the paper rode in a washing machine a time or two.

Farren called Leary back. “Everything’s here.” He paced through the apartment to the front door. “His wallet, cell phone…”

“I’ve dispatched a team. Wait and share what you know. ETA fifteen minutes.”

Farren hung up. Nervous energy wouldn’t let him be still, but he dared not touch anything lest he somehow damage valuable evidence.

He’d been urged to see Morrisey as the enemy a few hours ago. Morrisey wasn’t an enemy, though. In his heart of hearts, Farren believed. They’d started off as reluctant partners, suspicious of each other, but their trust had grown, hadn’t it?

Farren wandered around the bedroom. Clothes everywhere, an empty coffee cup. A brochure depicting a resort in the Bahamas. Not the kind of adventure Farren thought Morrisey might plan for himself.

Pictures on the dresser caught his eye. An older man and woman with a younger version of Morrisey. All smiling. Morrisey wore a cap and gown. Graduation? His adoptive parents?

Another photo showed a more mature and broadly smiling Morrisey, arm wrapped around a handsome blond man—the man from the oil painting. Without the photographic evidence, Farren wouldn’t have believed Morrisey had ever been so happy.

Parents dead. Lover dead. Farren knew the feeling. Turned out they shared even more in common. They’d also both lost a home. To be totally honest, Morrisey might have lost three sets of parents. Did he know?

Farren meandered to the window, looking out over a vacant lot ringed by trees. In early fall, the leaves were probably gorgeous, in colors of red, yellow, and gold. Like everything else, leaves lived and died, to be replaced by more the next year.

Now, in June, the straggly tree outside the window sported leaves. Did Morrisey often stand in this spot, enjoying this view? Where was he? They hadn’t bonded, not really; still, Farren closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Maybe he imagined the scent of Morrisey in the room, or maybe the scent lingered from the sheets and clothes. The scent took on a dank odor, the room beyond Farren’s eyelids darkening. Cold swept over him. Damp. Dark.

Hungry. Morrisey was hungry. And thirsty. Anger tingled along Farren’s nerves. His own or Morrisey’s, he couldn’t say. Wherever he was, Morrisey didn’t want to be there.

Farren homed in, straining to see in the darkness. Closed eyes.

Those eyelids flicked open.

Revealing amber fire.

Morrisey.