Poignant
Pay attention to the names, child. Names mean everything.
Unknown
Cass’ heels click along linoleum flooring as we step through the gaudy entrance of DAEMON New Chicago. It looks like an obsidian obelisk hate fucked a granite counter.
Soulless is another word, if I were being nicer.
I glance down at my own civilian attire and wonder, faintly, how we got to this position. How I went from the brunt of NCPD’s Homicide department to Hiraeth.
It feels odd to be wearing my snug boots and joggers again. To wear this peacoat like nothing happened.
Cass pauses at the reception desk and patiently waits for the harried-looking young woman to look up.
Like most people do, she seems a little thunderstruck by Cass. I have no idea if it’s a product of her power or her beauty. Probably both.
“Ophelia Barretti and associates here for Dr. Roberts,” she says, her accent almost nonexistent as she rattles off her fake name.
The woman swallows and I can see her throat bob a little before she nods quickly and pushes at a few buttons on her keyboard.
“You’re early,” she says, almost to herself. “Early is good. Yes, good.”
I frown at Cass, but she sort of shrugs like this is an expected reaction from a powerful man’s secretary.
“Tenth floor,” she says, gesturing now to an elevator that seems to have melted from the wall. “It should take you up automatically.”
Cass nods and I flash the woman what I hope is a kind smile. Instead of it easing her, it looks like I slapped her.
I follow Cass and we step wordlessly onto the elevator.
Earlier, we’d decided on keeping any conversation business-related. Which really meant not saying anything that could get picked up on camera.
And it meant near silence because we had no business to discuss.
Well, I didn’t. Cass’ identity is linked to the largest of Tempest’s businesses—The Apothecary.
A few minutes later, the elevator opens on a similarly soulless office. The desk at the front blocks access to a secure-looking door where, presumably, Damien Roberts sits beyond.
The receptionist looks up at us, and, unlike the woman downstairs, she looks like she could handle herself in a fight.
A desk plate reads: Francesca Bellamy-Carter, RISE Admin and Senior Receptionist.
“Are you Dr. Roberts’ nine o’clock?” she asks, obviously knowing we are if the subtle once over is any indication.
“Indeed,” Cass answers amicably. “I know we’re early, but I figure Dr. Roberts’ time is valuable.”
The receptionist gives her a grin that doesn’t feel friendly, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. “That it is.”
Something itches at my palms. It’s that weird sensation you can only get rid of by scraping the skin on your teeth. Which makes you look like a deranged weirdo in most settings, especially the DAEMON C-suite.
I close my hands tightly, hoping my shortened fingernails can alleviate whatever the issue is.
It’s like my hands want me to find something. And the only description feels like “unfinished business.”
Cass glances at me, her orange eyes a more muddy brown with the contact lenses.
“Is there a restroom?” I ask the receptionist, doing my best to keep my voice level. The itch feels worse when I look in her direction.
“Behind you,” she says, nodding to a door I hadn’t noticed on the way in.
I nod and pull open the private bathroom, locking it behind me.
My palms sting as I furiously scratch at them. But it just gets worse.
“What the fuck,” I hiss under my breath, rubbing my hands against my joggers, then my peacoat.
“Miss Alice,” I hear Cass’ voice from outside the door, “we are ready.”
Fuck.
I flush the toilet and then run the water for a few seconds before opening the door.
She gives me a “what the hell?” look, but I quickly shake my head and shoot the receptionist a grin before following Cass through the heavy security door.
It gives a weird beep as we pass through it, and a burly security man stops us.
“Remnants?” he asks in a gruff voice.
I look to Cass who grins at him.
“You would expect the largest Remnant hospital system to not be run by the very same?”
That seems to defuse him a little because he grumbles something about “sarcastic ass” as he waves us by.
“I didn’t expect a Reliquary,” I say softly, glancing at Cass as we walk the long hallway to an ugly door on the far end.
“Neither did I,” she says absently, studying the portraits as we pass.
And I see why.
Each look like a carbon copy of the one before, except with subtle changes. Like the Roberts’ DNA was unwilling to create anything but a male with the same face, eyes, and pompous smile as the one who came before.
It’s almost eerie how identical each look. And then we reach what must be the current Damien Roberts.
Cass studies him for a moment, eyes narrowing a little before she lets out a huff of pent-up air.
“Ready?” she checks, turning to me.
“As always,” I respond, staring into the eyes that I’m most definitely in love with. Even if they’re not the orange I’ve come to adore.