Chapter Four
CHAPTER FOUR
From: Holt Traynor [email protected]
To: Beau Macy [email protected]
CC: Vivian Marist [email protected]
Subject: Empath found murdered in Vermont
It hasn’t hit the news yet, but it’s just a matter of time. There’s no way to keep something like this quiet. If AMI wants to make a statement, I’ll have my secretary reach out.
Vivian Marist felt the pressure change in her ears as the Stone Solutions corporate jet started its descent into the Seattle area. She set her wineglass on the table as she smiled at Empath Initiative Director Traynor, who had just put his phone away. “Stone Solutions does appreciate EI giving AMI a little warning about this empath murder,” she said.
They’d chosen to sit in the grouping of four seats that flanked the built-in conference table at the rear of the plane. In the leather recliner to Marist’s left, Victor Nichols was on his own phone, ignoring the window and the lights of Seattle’s outskirts as they came into view.
Traynor shrugged. “You made a persuasive argument,” he said. “And you’re right; we can’t keep it quiet forever. AMI is going to find out anyway, and it hurts nothing if we’re the ones who tell Beau Macy.”
Marist nodded. A murdered empath risked stirring up public sympathy, and AMI and Stone Solutions both would need to be ready to counter that. “It hurts nothing, and it keeps AMI friendly toward EI,” Marist said. “AMI has got quite a lot of sway in Seattle, you know.”
“Believe me, I know,” Traynor said dryly. “And it’s only gotten stronger since what happened to Cedrick and Senator Hathaway.”
On her left, Nichols tapped away at his phone. “I still don’t understand what happened in this city last month.”
Traynor snorted. “And you don’t like anything you don’t understand.”
“If that was the case, Victor wouldn’t like empaths,” Marist pointed out.
“You said it, not me,” Nichols muttered.
She laughed. “Beau was just telling me they’ve had more police officers enroll in AMI since November. I sent Victor here the list.” The air pressure was building; Marist reached for her purse. “Quite good news, isn’t it? How nice it would be to have more allies of the, shall we say, alpha persuasion? Law enforcement, military, special agents, that kind of thing.”
On her left, Nichols looked up. “Too many scientists at our meetings for your tastes?” His tone had a sarcastic edge; the man was a scientist himself, after all.
“Jacobs has been with us this week, he’s FBI,” Traynor pointed out.
“Perhaps we include him more often,” Marist said, trying to bury the eagerness in her voice. She withdrew a small pack of gum from her bag. “I’m simply saying we could use more real muscle, to protect people from empathy. You were a general, Holt; I’m sure you agree.”
She wouldn’t have said that around a public roundtable and Traynor wouldn’t have publicly agreed. In the privacy of the jet, however, over the last of his whiskey and crème br?lée, he smiled wryly. “I don’t disagree by any means,” he admitted, drawing a side-eye from Nichols. “Though you’re not going to get much more alpha than the Dead Man.”
“Untenably so,” Nichols said. “Fascinating, how much he’s been altered by empaths, and yet unlike others, he continues to survive.”
Marist schooled her distaste off her face, but it was one thing to talk about the empaths like science experiments gone wrong. Agent Grayson, however, had been a normal child, changed against his will by his own sibling.
Marist held out the gum to Nichols, who straightened and took a piece. When she offered it to Traynor, he shook his head. “Landings don’t bother me.”
He’d also picked one of the rear-facing seats at their table, seemingly unbothered by motion sickness. Perhaps in his army days, he’d spent time in planes of all sorts.
“Speaking of Seattle and empaths and Evan...” Marist hesitated. This was going to be a delicate question. “Do we really agree the wisest course of action is to ignore a potential threat posed by Reece Davies?”
“It would be the height of foolishness to ignore any potential threat,” Traynor said flatly. “Evan is entitled to his opinions and of course EI gives those opinions a lot of weight, but he and I have diverged on this issue.”
“And does he know that?” Nichols said.
“He’ll figure it out,” Traynor said.
He’d finished three glasses of top-shelf whiskey with his dinner and seemed to be in an honest mood. Maybe it was a good time for another, even more delicate conversation. “Evan makes a lot of people nervous,” Marist said casually. “Never you, though.”
“He’s unsettling, I can admit that,” Traynor said. “But it’s hard to be afraid of someone you knew back when he was just a college student who felt EI needed to mind their own business when it came to his little brother. Victor, you remember Evan before he became the Dead Man, don’t you?”
Nichols grunted. He’d drunk nothing but sparkling water and a cup of black coffee, which was still half-full and sitting on the table in front of him. “I remember a lot of people the way they used to be.” He folded his arms. “My entire job is, after all, running a facility for empaths who aren’t quite themselves anymore.”
“Evan was different then,” Traynor mused, almost to himself, as if he hadn’t heard Nichols. “A good kid, even if he had no respect for the authority of the Empath Initiative.”
“Prototypical empath sibling, from the metamorphosis to the attitude,” Nichols said. “That little brother he was so protective of was a parasite.”
“That’s still technically just one theory,” Traynor said.
“Is it, though?” Nichols said. “When you consider Agent Grayson’s prior behavior, the way he insisted on defending his brother?”
“Evan might have done so. The Dead Man certainly didn’t,” Traynor said, with an edge.
“Whatever the cause, some people do feel Evan’s inclination to protect the empaths hasn’t changed,” Marist said carefully. “Look at this mess in Seattle, the way he’s making conditions around Reece Davies—”
“No.” Traynor abruptly and firmly shook his head. “When push comes to shove, Evan will do whatever it takes to save people from corrupted empaths. We all know what he’s willing to sacrifice and how far he’ll go.”
Marist pursed her lips. In the seat next to her, Nichols shifted.
Traynor shook his head again. “The Dead Man is the best weapon we have ever had against the empaths. And Evan’s devotion to the job is not up for debate.”
Marist let her gaze drift to Nichols and found him looking at her. She gave the tiniest shrug. If Traynor was thinking about Grayson’s past, he wasn’t going to listen to any concerns about the priorities of the present, whether they were brought by Stone Solutions or Polaris.
And at the end of the day, Agent Grayson was still the Dead Man. Still absolutely unique and absolutely necessary.
She smiled at Traynor. “Of course, Holt,” she said. “There’s no cause whatsoever for debate.” She turned to Nichols. “I’ll have my assistant arrange your flight to Prince Rupert for the morning.”
“No need.” Nichols’ gaze was on Traynor now. “For the moment, I’ll be staying in Seattle.”
Liam’s old bed was a lot more comfortable than Jamey’s couch—some kind of fancy pillow-top-foam-gel-who-the-hell-knows thing that would have put most people right to sleep. Unlike Jamey’s too-quiet house, the bar on the ground floor of Reece’s new building served up constant noise, Friday night revelers whooping as they left, cars honking as they picked up passengers.
A few months ago, Reece might have welcomed all of it, but tonight his stomach and chest hurt from anxiety, and thoughts crowded his mind so loudly he couldn’t find peace.
They don’t know they’re in danger.
That you can hear their lies.
They don’t know what you did to Cedrick Stone.
He forcefully rolled over onto his side. He’d pushed the folding screen out of the way so he could see the lights he’d left on under the kitchen cabinets, which gave the studio a soft glow. At least Jamey’s house had had Jamey in it. Now, he was alone, no potential for the phone to ring with a new gig for the SPD, and no one to celebrate Friday night with. Not that it mattered what day of the week it was; he had no friends or job expecting him anywhere, not tonight or tomorrow or Monday. It was just him, the only empath in Seattle now, with more empty days ahead.
And that was how it needed to be. He knew the truth about himself now; that no matter how hard he tried to cling to his pacifism, there was another side to him. And no one else should be put at risk.
His gaze went from the kitchen to the couch, then up to the television mounted on the wall.
Can’t even handle a toy gun anymore.
Because you almost shot Evan.
He abruptly sat up, so hard the bed frame creaked. Insomnia won this round; he wasn’t going to fall asleep anytime soon if his thoughts had gone there .
He got out of bed. There was a lamp only a couple feet away, on the living area’s side table, and Reece flipped it on, then reached for the hoodie that was draped over the couch’s arm. He slipped it over his shoulders and zipped it up to his chin, like the soft fleece inside could somehow surround his thoughts too, a constant reminder against his skin that he hadn’t pulled that trigger, that Grayson was alive.
Rain had started up at some point, soft taps against the window edged with a louder staccato from the flecks of sleet, which left translucent specks of white on the black glass. He grabbed his phone from where he’d left it on the coffee table and flopped onto the couch, pulling his legs up under him as he opened his most recent text chain with Grayson.
Reece: Well, if zombies aren’t your type, who is?
Grayson: Backseat drivers.
Reece’s lips grudgingly twitched. “Dick,” he said out loud, but it sounded a little bit like an endearment. It helped, pretending he heard Grayson in his head when he read his texts, the memory of that low drawl loosening some of the tightness gripping his chest.
He leaned back into the cushions, the sleeves of the Texas hoodie sliding down his hands as he scrolled through their messages. Reece really didn’t have any business asking about the Dead Man’s type, but it sounded like Grayson wasn’t dating at all. Maybe he couldn’t, because he was the Dead Man and supposed to be all spooky and classified. But how would that be fair? Grayson wasn’t dead. He deserved to be able to try to meet someone if he wanted to, same as anyone else.
Whoever it was Grayson would want to meet. Normally Reece could guess someone else’s tastes in partners, but the Dead Man was still an enigma in too many ways. Maybe he went for people who were tall and hot like him. Stoic and rational. Poised. Polite. Able to watch an R-rated movie. After all, it wasn’t like anyone had short neurotic pacifist on their dance card.
Reece scrolled further back through their texts.
Reece: I mean, you do date or whatever, right?
Grayson: Think that depends on what you mean by “whatever.”
Well, Reece hadn’t meant line dance . But it didn’t matter if Grayson was celibate or railing half the East Coast; the Dead Man’s sex life was also none of his business. Even if Grayson did have sex, and even if his type miraculously included anxiety-addled empaths, they couldn’t touch each other. Grayson wouldn’t want to touch Reece anyway.
Reece would just be glad they were friends; he wasn’t sure how he’d be surviving these days without Grayson in his pocket.
He raised his hand to send a message, then lowered it. If Grayson was on the East Coast—and Reece was ninety-nine percent sure he’d gotten that guess right—then it was going on four a.m. He had the same sensitive hearing as Jamey and a text might wake him up. Reece could wait.
He glanced at the coffee table, where his box of anti-anxiety arts and crafts still sat where he’d left it. He owed Grayson a hat. He had some rainbow yarn and crochet hooks—maybe he should practice some half-double stitches. Put on the song Grayson had sent him, let the Spanish take his brain south, somewhere the nights and people were warm.
But as he was reaching for the box, an email notification lit the screen, from another gibberish sender. Reece pursed his lips, then opened the email.
We are always watching you.
Reece frowned. Was this the same jerk from earlier? It was easy to send hate to targets you imagined were weak, to those you didn’t expect to fight back. Nothing brave about punching down.
It was a creepy email, but no one could be really watching him. If they were, they wouldn’t be trying to scare him with stupid emails. This coward would be way too chicken to mess with Reece if they had any idea what they were really up against—if they knew what he could do.
He reached out toward the message, but the sleeve of Grayson’s hoodie slipped down over his hand again, blocking his fingers.
Reece stared at the hem for a moment, the fleece inside the sleeve soft against his bare fingers, light as a ghost but taking him back to the moment he’d gotten the hoodie, in the warm cab of the big black truck after Grayson had taken Reece’s side against the world.
He blinked hard, then shook his head.
It was good the email’s author didn’t know how dangerous Reece was now. They’d be terrified of him, and he didn’t want to make anyone feel scared. Obviously he didn’t want that.
Still, he’d gotten a similar message twice now, and maybe he should tell Jamey, or even Grayson. Once it was a reasonable hour and he wasn’t going to wake them up.
He swiped the notification off his screen and reached for his crafts.