“Well, this is fun,” she said. Using a pencil to pull a silk blindfold from the box of personal belongings, she tossed it toward the far corner of the desk with a stifled gag.
I laid the journal aside and drew out another. “Didn’t he have a cell phone or something? A planner his assistant kept?”
Emily nodded. “We can’t find anything digital. My guess, they’re with said assistant and he’s still out there. Protecting it.”
“I should have waited,” I said. “I should have come with him here, in the center of it all—”
“Back to his lair?” Emily interrupted, holding up a set of black satin wrist straps as she did so.
I felt my face draw up. “Yes. Back to his lair. At least that way I’d have had the chance to find out more, maybe to reverse the sway on everyone.”
“Please,” Emily said while flinging the satin onto her pile, “alone with Morgan was the last place you needed to be.” She reached into the box with her pencil once more, grimacing at a second pair of silken restraints.
I stared at her. “Why did Aern keep that?”
“I don’t know,” she murmured, “but we’re definitely going to have a talk about it.” She tossed the material to the side, and it landed under the dim light of a desk lamp.
“Wait,” I said, leaning forward over the boxes. “Is that blood?”
She leaned closer, the look on her face confirming my suspicion. “That would explain it,” she said, her gaze slowly going over the other items lying in the box. She held up the pencil, gingerly pointing toward a black satin drawstring bag. “So, what do you suppose is in there?”
“You’re the one with the pencil,” I offered.
“Thanks,” she muttered. She picked up a second pencil and held them chopstick style to loosen the string while holding the bag with the barest possible grip of thumb and forefinger from her other hand.
For a moment, she looked relieved, and then, briefly, confused. It didn’t take long to work itself out in her head, and the instant she realized what she was seeing, she looked pure sick.
She was frozen, hand unable to release the horror it held.
“What is it?” I asked, more stunned than concerned. Whatever it was couldn’t hurt us. It was just a box of junk. The real danger—Morgan—was locked away.
She opened her mouth in a choked breath, but no words followed.
“Emily,” I started, but fell silent when I’d moved enough to see the contents for myself.
Each of her reactions made sense then, and my own thoughts followed the same line. But when I finally made it to disgust, I didn’t freeze. Instead, my hand reached out of its own accord, unable to keep from grasping that one last piece of her, even with the awfulness that it signified.
A small shudder escaped Emily when I removed the lock of hair from the bag to lie across the fingers of my open hand. It was so familiar, so perfect ... and so utterly horrible. It was the same soft texture I’d known as a child and I had to resist the urge to bring it closer to my face, to see if it still held her scent. It was a warm chestnut color with the faintest blonde streaks, healthy even as it lay disconnected in my hand. There was no question who the lock of hair belonged to.
And that was what made it wrong.
My fist closed over the bundled strands. Morgan had a section of our mother’s hair. He’d thought she was the chosen and he’d kept this with him, his prize. Terrible images of him leisurely opening the black satin bag while he stood in his room, pressing the lock of hair to his face, inhaling my mother’s scent, tore through me, but they weren’t visions. They weren’t prophecy. They were simply a product of my imagination, too vivid and too real.
I closed my eyes tight, forcing them away.
Beside me, Emily pressed her fingers to the base of her throat. It was the only movement in a now still room. I opened my eyes, bringing the fisted hand to my front jeans pocket. It was not the best option to carry a bundle of hair, but I didn’t want any part of it touching Morgan’s things. Not even an envelope. I would put it some place safe later.
I stared into the box as Emily silently resumed our search. Eventually, I too continued the sorting, but neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say as we stood, side by side. No words except the awfulness of what that lock of hair signified. Morgan had trapped our mother, used her to release powers that could end the world. And she had taken her own life to save us. To save everyone.