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She'd been right about Kie, a snake, mean, desperate. She couldn't be trusted. I'd known that, but I'd given in to a stupid residual edge of sympathy.
That wasn't who I was.
For an hour I ran through the desert, until I'd exhausted myself enough to make the run back unpleasant. April sun pounded down on the Las Vegas valley.
Reaching the compound, I showered and hit the gym, beating a punching bag until even the gloves weren't enough to stop the pain from radiating into my hands.
I threw the gloves down, toweled off, showered again, cold water and rage. One fist pounded into the stone shower wall.
That pain woke me. I've never had a tolerance. I give it. I don't want it. For me to switch is an indicator of near catatonia-causing depression.
I'd only been that way twice in my life. One of those times had been when Emily died.
The sun went down while I worked on rainforest documents, clearing legal hurdles to get my hands on more vines with nearly magical properties. More and more pharma companies were realizing the benefits of not just rainforest naturals, with or without psychedelic or hallucinogenic properties, but the benefits of psychedelics themselves. Soon my type of research would be mainstream if a healthy presidential administration took office, and probably all done in secret if it didn't.
I ate a light dinner in the dining room.
I did business with Brazil.
I did another light workout.
I had another shower.
I got updates on Kie (asleep, whimpering) and Ariel (studying at her desk).
I gave up, and sent for Annie.
14
Annie
If I had expected a reprieve, a matter of time before we started into the new contract, I'd have been disappointed.
I was getting to know Mr. St. Martin quite well, however. The summons came as no surprise at all.
His orders were to shower and shave, to dress in the low cut, very short shift I had worn around the compound the first time I had been in residence, back when I was nothing but a prisoner. He hadn't told me to wear shoes and it was just as well: My feet were torn up from a barefoot run through the desert.
I could have used the night before he sent for me.
Or perhaps the anticipation would have killed me.
There was a thrill of danger going to him tonight, something I knew was inappropriate and out of place, and very possibly dangerous. There was something wrong with Cole since I'd returned, enough so that I found myself thinking of him as St. Martin more than as Cole.
I'd never thought of him – and probably never would – as Master.
He was waiting on the other side of the door, his expression distant when I entered. He was facing nothing, staring toward an unadorned wall. His lack of expression was chilling.
Even as I watched him, I identified again the wrongness. Something had changed in him. Could it really be as simple as I was the one who took down Vincent Geddes, depriving him of doing it himself? Or even, I don't know, threatening his manhood? I was the cop, after all. But the death of Vincent Geddes was the only thing that stood out.
Or had something else happened?
Waiting for instruction, I stopped, feet spread wide, arms behind me, hands grasping my own forearms. My heart beat quick and light, a hummingbird heart. A scared rabbit heart. I was trying to breathe in when he turned his face toward me and I swallowed involuntarily, choking briefly on my own spit.
It was a mask of rage that rode over his features, twisted and darkened what was already fairly twisted and dark. When he smiled, that beautiful, upside down triangle of a smile that had once said cruel, yes, but also mischievous – now said something far more frightening.
I breathed in slowly through my nose. Intent has no scent, but I could smell his anger and what he wanted to do to me and what he thought he could do to me and I'd still live.
We'd forgotten each other. When his eyes found mine, I wanted to live in them.
