Chapter 18 #3
I turned toward him, turning my face so I could look between my gloved fingers. I expected to read pity or some sort of condescension on his features, but I only saw concern and tiredness.
Feet approached from my other side, so I heaved myself back to sitting up, looking up at Hart.
“Here, kid,” he said, holding out a bottle of Dr. Pepper. “You’ve got gloves and the mouth bit is hidden by the cap. And it’s sugar, so it’ll help with the energy drain from the magic use.”
He must have been worried about me, because that was more words without swearing than I’d heard from him in a long time. Possibly ever.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the bottle of soda. I wasn’t really a big fan of soda—it’s too sweet for me most of the time—but it was cold and liquid and might actually stay in my stomach now, and that was more important than whether or not I liked the taste of it.
My gloves slid on it.
“You want me to do it?” Hart asked.
I sighed, but offered up the bottle so that he could use his bare hands to open the cap, then hand it back to me. “Thanks,” I said meekly, then took a cautious sip.
It was sweet, with that strange grenadine aftertaste that was oddly addictive. I didn’t immediately have a surge in nausea, so I tried a second sip.
“That okay?” Raj asked me, and I noticed that his hand was still resting on my back. That was fine—I didn’t want him to take it away—just surprising that he’d left it there, even with Hart and the other FBI agents milling around. And how furious he had every right to be with me.
“Jesus Christ, this was brutal,” came Cass’s voice as she walked up, Drew Shao following silently in her wake, although he nodded. “I can’t even—” She broke off whatever she’d been about to say when she saw me. “You gonna be okay, Rayn?”
I shrugged. “Eventually.” I swallowed the saliva that gathered in my mouth. “Probably.”
“You a hugger?” she asked me.
I blinked up at her. “I don’t know?”
“Oh, sweetie.” She plopped down on my other side, then wrapped me in a hug, almost making me spill my Dr. Pepper. Instinctively, Raj gripped my elbow, steadying my hand. I tried to smile at him in thanks over Cass’s thick red-brown ponytail, although I was pretty sure it was pathetic and sickly.
“Agent Hart!” The approaching agent, whose name I didn’t know, was breathless and excited.
“What?” Hart asked.
Cass pulled away from me, pushing herself to standing. “What’ve you got Hal?”
Raj, too, looked over, but he didn’t move, staying beside me, hand still on my back. I was absurdly grateful. I took another sip of Dr. Pepper, a bigger one this time.
“Not sure, but it seems important,” the agent replied.
His eyes—pale blue—were wide and there was sweat curling the blond hair at the nape of his neck.
His mask—standard FBI issue—puffed with the speed of his rapid breaths.
He held up a travel coffee mug, a dark blue matte finish with brass rings around it, the lip of the lid matching in brass.
The other three agents—Cass, Hart, Raj—started at him as though he’d lost his mind.
I actually got it first.
I handed my Dr. Pepper to Raj, who took it almost absently from my hand when I held it out. Then I took off my glove and reached up for the mug.
Hal handed it to me, even as Raj sucked in a breath that I was pretty sure meant he was going to protest.
He’d been looking through this godforsaken place for hours.
Three, four maybe. Trying to find the files that would explain how they’d stripped magic from the unworthy patients here.
How they’d managed to put together a machine that could distill magic from the corrupt and insane and store it for use by those who possessed the wisdom, purity, and aptitude.
It stank of mildew, dust, decay, and the sickly smell of piss, vomit, and fear.
And degenerates.
But he had a job to do—to find the magics that would enable him to drain magic from the unworthy. Those who had contracted the illness that made them inhuman, marking them as lesser, animalistic.
He would create the object.
Then, he would pass it off to Jennings, who would do the deed itself.
I dropped out of the vision with a gasp, my whole body shuddering and a film of clammy sweat on my back and forehead.
“Deep breaths, nice and easy,” Raj murmured. Then he took the mug from my hand and returned it to Hal. “Put that into evidence, log that it’s been touched by the contact psychic,” he said to the other agent.
“You got it, boss,” Hal replied, and I heard feet receding.
Raj held out my glove, letting me slip my trembling hand back into it, and then helped me take another sip of the Dr. Pepper, his hand steadying mine when I shook too badly to hold the bottle to my lips.
And then he just sat with me, occasionally helping me sip, his other hand still rubbing slow, gentle circles on my back.
I took another swallow of the Dr. Pepper, then looked over at him.
Dark eyebrows rose in question over gold-brown eyes, but he didn’t say anything.
I licked my lips. “Jennings,” I said softly.
His whole body tensed. “Jennings?” he repeated.
I nodded. “The killer’s name is Jennings.”