“–and from what I can tell, he’s very old and powerful. What do you think you can do all by yourself?”
There was just enough glow from the phone for her to see a muscle in his jaw twitch. He said, “Valerian’s been locked up for a long time. You’ve seen his clothes – a long time. I’m younger. I’m smarter. I’m not worried.” But his voice wobbled. “When did you see him last?” he asked, growing suspicious. “I don’t like this.”
“Tonight. In my dream.”
“I’m starting to wonder if I ought to be jealous of this guy,” Lanny said.
“No,” Trina and Nikita said together, and then stared at each other.
“You shouldn’t talk to him; he’s dangerous,” Nikita said.
“So are you,” she returned, “so is Lanny.”
“Ouch,” he muttered.
“I’m in a whole houseful of dangerous people right now. I’ve spent my career interrogating dangerous people. If Valerian can help us – and he helped me tonight – then we’d be stupid not to accept it.”
Nikita’s gaze dropped to the table, his blue-gray eyes glimmering like quicksilver in the gloom. He took a deep breath and looked, to her eyes, tired suddenly. The Great Patriotic War was long since over, but he still carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’d had only Sasha to worry about for a very long time, and in they’d blundered and given him a whole new pack to fret over.
“What is the address in Queens?” he asked, accent thicker, now. “I want to leave soon.”
There was no point arguing with him anymore. “Will you take Sasha?” Trina asked, as Lanny texted the address to him.
“No. I’ll leave him here to watch over all of you.”
“Then who’ll watch over you?”
His smile was tight. “Rasputin could talk his way into any room, and so can I.”
11
Farley, Wyoming
The first night in Farley, she dreamed of the Institute. Its white walls, and white floors, and white ceilings, and the white lab coats of the doctors. She dreamed of the heavy scent of bleach that always permeated the air, and the measured voices of the doctors and lab techs, one rising every so often in sudden excitement. Of the hard table beneath her back, the lights in her eyes, gloved hands pushing her thighs apart, and the cold air chilling her skin.
“Sir, this one’s ovulating.”
“The first one to do so?” Dr. Fowler’s steps clipped across the tile, hurried, thrilled. “Excellent.”
Men standing over her, smiling down not at her face, but at her body, at what it could offer them. Cold hands, cold implements, and it hurt.
A week later, she saw the first bright red drops of her own blood pattering onto the endless white stretch of tile. They’d taken something from her – the mask going over her face, gas filling her lungs, unnatural sleep taking hold of her – but hadn’t left anything behind. Not that time. They’d educated them all, tutored them with the finest materials – Dr. Talbot’s idea – and she’d seen the nature documentaries. Females ovulated, and they were bred, and they gave birth to offspring.
That was when she ran away.
Only, in her dream, she couldn’t run. In her dream, they put the cuffs around her wrists which sent electric shocks through her body, the pain arcing like lightning through her veins. And they dragged her up onto a table, and the lights blinded her, and the scalpel came down, and no, no, nononono–
She woke with a start.
The sheets were on fire.
Just two small places, right beneath her hands, but it would spread, she knew. “Oh no.”
Rooster stood by her bed, a damp towel in his hands. “Here, move,” he said, almost gently, and he patted out the flames, plunging the room in darkness once more.
It was the dark of the wee hours, a few wan stripes of yellow from the streetlamp falling in through the half-closed vertical blinds. The room smelled like a freshly-snuffed candle.
Red pushed her hair back off her face, found it damp with sweat at her temples. Her hands shook. “I’m sorry,” she said, and groaned. “Ugh, I ruined another hotel bed. I’m sorry.”
Rooster sat down on the edge of his own bed, elbows braced on his knees, leaning toward her. “Hey, it’s not that bad. I bet we could find some sheets to buy here in town and replace them ourselves. No one will even know.”
She gave him a lopsided smile that he probably couldn’t see in the dark. She could only just make out the shagginess of his hair and the breadth of his shoulders.
Raw from the nightmare, she allowed herself a moment to feel really, truly guilty about what she’d done to Rooster. She’d followed him the night she escaped because she’d known he was a warrior – all the sad, shuffling people who came for treatment were – but also because, unlike the others, he had something angry and knife-sharp in his eyes. So many had looked hopeful; had been calm and composed, holding their partners’ hands and nodding along with the doctors, content to read magazines in the waiting room and wait their turn. But Rooster had bristled with anger, his gaze darting, assessing, looking for threats. Not frightened, but wary, like a cornered animal. And in all the nature documentaries she loved, it was the cornered animals who struck first.
But now his life was nothing but one long, strategic retreat. He could never rest, never settle. Never fall in love, or have children, or make friends. He distrusted everyone, and liked them even less.
That was her fault. And then she couldn’t even keep from scorching hotel sheets.
During the day, she wouldn’t have said it. But now, held close by the dark, shaking from another nightmare, she gave voice to a question she already knew the answer to, just to let some of the frustration out before it started to boil. “Why won’t they stop hunting me?” she asked. “They have all the others. Why can’t they just let me go?”
Rooster sighed and moved to sit beside her, his strong arm going around her shoulders and pulling her into his side. He gave her the same answer as always: “’Cause you’re just too special.”
She wiped at her eyes with unsteady knuckles. “You don’t have to keep doing this. You can let them have me.”
His arm tightened. “Maybe you should go back to sleep, ‘cause you sound delirious.”
“I’m serious–”
“So am I. They can’t have you. I won’t ever let that happen. Okay? Never.”
But what about you? she wondered. What about your life?
12
New York City
Lanny eventually came back to bed just before dawn; she felt the air mattress give beneath his weight. But he made no attempt to speak or touch her, and she drifted off before she had too much time to lament this strange distance between them.
When she woke, daylight streamed through the windows, and Lanny was gone. In fact, everyone seemed to be gone.
She sat up, blinking, and saw that the other air mattresses had been neatly made up, blankets folded, couch cushions plumped back up.
Colette sat at the kitchen table, dreads pulled up into a topknot, sipping from a cereal bowl-sized mug. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” Trina got to her feet, self-consciously tugging at her rumpled clothes, and made her way to the kitchen. Colette had been kind enough to loan her some yoga pants and a silk robe to sleep in, but she didn’t relish the thought of putting yesterday’s outfit on again this morning.
“There’s tea,” Colette said, “and I started the coffee maker. I always got the impression cops lived off coffee.” She said it kindly, smiling.
“We do,” Trina said, and poured herself a massive cup. “Do you know where the guys went?”
Colette’s smile was small and pleased. “I’ve been meaning to reorganize and deep clean the basement for ages. It seemed like a good job for a bunch of restless hands.”
Trina snorted. “And they went willingly?”
“I let them know it would be in their best interest if they did.”