Coincidentally, Jode knew Darien, Connecticut. He’d yachted there or something, so they talked for a little while about that, which was adorable. Rich people comparing notes on their country clubs and summer homes always warmed my heart. Bastian and I sort of just listened like paupers.
I did some sharing of my own. A little about Anna. A little less about the Army. Not much, though. I felt claustrophobic and edgy. Not like myself. I knew it was still the aftereffect of Ra’om and Samrael in my head. We’d left them behind, I was pretty sure, but the nightmares stayed with me. My only defense was staying awake, which I did until I couldn’t. When I did sleep my mind ran a loop of my dad falling off that roof. Samrael’s arm around Daryn. My mom grieving. Anna losing her mind.
Brutal. A brutal, brutal loop that never lost its power. It gutted me every time.
If this was a taste of what the Kindred wanted to do to people, a whole realm built for this kind of abuse and torture …
I had to stop them.
We needed to get that key back where it belonged.
CHAPTER 45
The door opens and Beretta appears, flooded by the light from the hallway, a new bulb in his hand.
Cordero stares at me in the semidarkness as he steps inside and removes the old bulb, replacing it with the new one. The lamp goes on and she’s still staring at me.
He is still staring.
It.
Malaphar.
Now that I know, I can’t see how I missed it before. The concentration in those black eyes isn’t human. The way Malaphar has scratched and rubbed at his hands and knuckles. I had thought it was a habit but it’s not. It’s the tick of a demon, taking on the shape of a body that’s just a little too small. And his death reek. He made a good attempt at masking it with perfume. Now it’s so strong. It’s blatant.
I don’t know how to think of him. It’s Malaphar, but I still see a woman in front of me. It’s him, but it’s her.
Cordero. I need to think of him as Cordero.
No change, Blake. Or he’ll know.
“You were giving me such an immersive first-person perspective,” Cordero says once Beretta’s back in his post by the door. “Now you’re summarizing. Getting antsy to finish this up?”
Behind me the radiator’s clanging away. It needs to stop. My face is burning. This entire room feels too warm.
“I didn’t realize I was doing that,” I say.
“No. I guess you didn’t. Which reminds me.” Cordero checks her watch. “It’s time for another dose.”
“I told you I don’t need it.” I can’t go back into the fog. Not now. “I’m cooperating, aren’t I?”
Cordero’s smile is thin, no teeth. “Yes, but things are going so well as they are. No need to change our modus operandi, is there?”
There is every reason to change our modus operandi, but none that I can verbalize. I still can’t summon my sword or armor but I’m close.
I need an hour. Maybe less.
I need time.
I need to figure out why he’s here.
Why is Malaphar back?
Same reason Daryn’s here. It has to be.
They missed something.
What did they miss?
I need time to think.
And I need to recruit help.
“Don’t you trust me, Cordero? I’ve been nothing but honest with you. I’ve been sitting here, tied up, telling you everything for the past few hours. Don’t I deserve a little credit?” I look right at Texas. “Am I off base here? Because I feel like I deserve a gold medal for being such a good detainee.”
His reaction to the code word is no reaction. Same with Beretta.
Nothing.
Not a blink, twitch, or hitch in their breath.
Are they that good? That cool under pressure? Or did they miss it? Or are they confused because it’s not a perfect message? I’m not trying to tell them to keep quiet. I’m trying to tell them that a demon’s sitting right in front of them.
“You are being very cooperative, Gideon, but you still need the dose. Don’t take it personally. It’s simply a safety measure.”
Cordero looks to Beretta but Texas is the one to step forward. “We each had one dose,” he says. He kneels in front of me, snapping on the latex gloves. Behind him, Beretta points the pistol at me.
Texas looks up. On his face is an expression I can’t figure out, but that maybe is apology for what he’s about to do. So much for gold freakin’ medals. Shit.
He takes the hypodermic needle from a small black pouch, along with a square of cotton, then he pulls up my sleeve and presses the needle to my skin. I feel cool moisture as he depresses the plunger. The dose meant to go in my veins is absorbed into the cotton square.
Not into me.
Texas turns casually as he stands, making sure Cordero sees the spent syringe.
I have to drop my head because I know the relief’s showing on my face. Yes. I have a man on my side. He knows something’s wrong and Beretta must, too.
It’s a start.
Now I just need time. A chance to think. To let the last of the drugs burn off.