Chapter Six #2
Grayson moved through the small space, taking the time now to do a deeper search.
Someone had obviously been through the apartment at some point.
The furniture had been left behind, including the television on the wall and the screen that partitioned off the bed, but the drawers and closet had all been emptied.
The dishes remained in the cabinet, the top shelves still empty like he’d ribbed Reece about, and the pantry held a handful of staples like dried noodles, sugary vegan cereal and shelf-stable plant milk.
But Grayson had spent a night here too. And when he and Reece had left together for the airsoft course the next morning, his
duffel bag had still been on the coffee table, the comforter and pillow folded on the couch he’d slept on and his toiletries
in the bathroom. Now the comforter and pillow were on the floor, his bag was gone, and the bathroom had been emptied of everything,
even his products—a crying shame when Grayson’s hair was in desperate need of deep conditioning.
He almost could’ve imagined his night here with Reece—until he searched the messy unmade bed and found something familiar
wedged into the crack between the mattress and the wall: the University of Texas hoodie he’d given Reece.
He tugged it loose and held up the wrinkled garment, the memories rising with it. Reece had slept in the hoodie the night
they’d spent here together. Had Reece somehow snuck past the cameras and cleaned everything out, leaving the hoodie on purpose?
Or had the empaths sent thralls, who probably wouldn’t even have seen the hoodie tangled in the sheets?
Grayson set the sweatshirt to the side. Didn’t matter. Either way, nothing surprising about finding the sweatshirt left behind;
probably more surprising he hadn’t found it in the dumpster. Looking for any sign of the old Reece in this new Reece was for
St. James and Dr. Easterby. For people still capable of feeling hope.
Not the Dead Man.
Grayson sat on the edge of the bed. Someone with a typical sense of smell wouldn’t have caught it, but a familiar scent still
lingered on pillowcases.
In the airsoft course’s parking lot, their bare hands touch, Reece’s skin warm against his own.
But Grayson is the Dead Man, and so he has to scramble to catch the suddenly unconscious empath before Reece tumbles off the truck’s tailgate and crashes to the gravel.
He gets Reece in his arms just in time and holds him upright against his chest, the same subtle scent of his hair directly under Grayson’s nose—
Grayson ignored the memory and pulled out his phone; he was here for a reason, after all. He opened the picture he’d just
taken in the parking garage and texted it to Reece. With any luck, it’d piss Reece right the fuck off; that empath deserved
a taste of the receiving end of grand theft auto.
He set the phone to the side and lay back on the bed. He could almost hear their voices from that night here together, like
the ghosts of Past Reece and Past Evan still haunted the studio.
But not only does no one give you credit, you know full well everyone is underestimating you, Grayson had said. And you let them.
I don’t know what you—
Drive like an empath?
It doesn’t matter how people interpret that, Reece had protested, even while he was dodging Grayson’s gaze. All that matters is they drive safer.
But you know they think it means drive like a cute little pacifist carefully following all the rules. Not drive like a professional
joyriding my truck like he stole it—because he did.
Grayson stared up at the crown molding, remembering more of his words to Reece.
That’s right. I’m on to you now. Because I promised you that there’s nothing you can do that I can’t stop, and I’d be pretty
bad at that if I hadn’t learned my lesson about underestimating you.
Reece was right; he was arrogant. And he hadn’t learned his lesson about underestimating Reece at all.
But he’d made Reece a promise, and he was going to do everything in his power to keep that promise—and stop him.
It was fully dark outside now, raindrops pattering against the black glass framing a view of city lights, even the weather reminding him of his night here with Reece.
Normally, Grayson could just ignore memories and they disappeared, but tonight, the voices of the ghosts kept echoing around him, so that even the Dead Man couldn’t forget he was in Reece’s bed.
How can you be so smart and intuitive and yet not realize I need to be the one between you and the door? Grayson had said, as he’d prepared to sleep on the couch instead of the bed, despite Reece’s protests. Oh, that’s right: because when it comes to danger, your common sense pulls a vanishing act.
Reece had blinked in surprise. Did you just call me smart?
And once again, when I’m talking about your safety, I might as well be talking to a rock.
You did call me smart. Reece had lingered at the end of the couch, his gaze on Grayson. And somewhere back around your circus analogy, I think you said I was cute.
Grayson breathed in the familiar scent beneath him.
Yeah. He had said that. And that hadn’t changed, even if Reece had.
From downtown, Reece had gone back to Owens’s mansion. Cora had met him there, and Alex had joined not long later with a new
thrall in tow that Reece recognized from the Seattle police force.
“Officer Kosler.” Alex added in an aside, “He pulled me over for speeding. It didn’t go how he expected.”
Reece stared at Kosler, a storm of emotions in him. For fuck’s sake. Kosler hadn’t even liked him; why should Reece care if
he was Alex’s thrall now? “I didn’t get to thrall Wayne Smith today,” he said, trying not to look closer at the emotions.
“We still don’t have the fucking codes for all the glove materials.”
“Because Evan was at AMI today,” Alex pointed out. “We’ll find Smith tomorrow.”
I should be able to handle Evan, Reece started to say. Just like I should have been able to thrall Smith, or thrall that woman at the store today, or maybe just not fuck up absolutely
everything I do.
But before he could get the words out, Cora said, more urgently, “Come look at this.”
Reece and Alex moved closer to the built-in table in the kitchen. By unspoken agreement, this space had become their war room.
Probably an odd choice when Owens’s mansion also had a study and a formal dining room, both with bigger tables, but maybe
even corrupted empaths were automatically drawn to the social spaces of a house, where people would be most likely to congregate.
The list Eton and Pelham had written of textile deliveries was off to one side. Cora had Grayson’s laptop open, the flash
drive sticking out the side. She was staring at a spreadsheet, her expression very dark.
Alex gestured down the hall. “Go find the man in the bedroom and guard him,” he said to Kosler, who eagerly disappeared down
the hall. He then slid into the booth seat across from Cora. “What is it?”
Cora gestured to the flash drive. “I found a glove materials supplier list to cross-reference with the delivery list, then
wanted to pinpoint all cities with empaths. Except I found this.” She turned the laptop around and pushed it across the table, in front of Alex. “Nothing we do will ever come close to the
sick and twisted minds of these fuckers.”
Reece leaned down too, peering at the spreadsheet.
“I’ve seen this,” he said in immediate recognition.
“In the R he slammed down on it before it could escape his control.
Cora’s voice had gone tighter. “This version has some extra columns.”
Alex pushed his glasses up his nose, peering at the spreadsheet as he slid the bar along to show more data. Reece leaned closer.
Suggested Approach, the next column was titled, and there was more writing in the box next to Jamey.
Leverage St. James’s enhanced strength and healing to prolong the process, potentially inducing a more powerful corruption
in Davies—
“Jesus Christ,” Alex muttered. “Is this—”
“Suggestions for how to torment our loved ones to see how it would twist us?” Cora said. “Yes. And it goes into more detail
in the next columns.”
“You’re fucking kidding.” Reece could barely hear himself over the ringing in his ears, could only just sense Alex’s and Cora’s
matching rage over the fiery burning of his own skin. “Stone Solutions came up with this?”
“Maybe, or maybe these columns were added by Victor Nichols from Polaris,” Cora said in disgust. “Seems like his style.”
“And here’s my row.” Alex tapped the screen. “Whoever came up with this shit, they must’ve been compiling these ideas for
a while, because the scientists at the bunker actually tried a couple of these suggestions on Evan—”
Reece shoved away from the table. He heard his name but ignored it, hastily retreating from the kitchen before his anger could
escape and set off the new thrall—or worse, the neighbors. He scrambled down the hall into his bedroom and slammed the door
shut for good measure.
They didn’t get their slimy hands on Jamey, he reminded himself as he leaned against the door, blood pressure so high he could barely think. Stone Solutions, Polaris, those creeps who had Alex in Texas—they didn’t hurt Jamey.
That was true.
But they had hurt Evan.
Fresh fury was coursing through him, fists clenched so tight they hurt. Reece forced himself to take a breath. Held it. Let
it out, more slowly. Did the cycle again. And a third time, until the rage threatening to boil over had finally receded to
a simmer.
He slid down, all the way, so he was sitting on the floor, his back against the door, still breathing slow and deep like therapy
had taught him ages ago for his panic attacks. He would get himself under control. He would. He had to.