Horror nauseated me and sent trembles through my body. I grabbed his hands, forcing them together, palm to palm, between mine, letting the chorus of the Grey cry for compassion. “No, Will. No. Don’t do that. Don’t fall in love with the pain.” I wished I could make him better. I wished I could push away his torment and confusion, repair him, restore his elegant hands and make him forget monsters and terrors in the endless night. “That’s something they gave you—something from the darkness. It’s not good for you. Don’t embrace that. Don’t let them have you.”
Touching him ached and the voices of the grid bound into a single cry as sharp and clear as breaking crystal. His hands were cold but mine were warm around them, and I held on tight for the few seconds’ paltry comfort I could give. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, the tension in his muscles slackened, the riotous energy around him easing down to a small halo of blue and red and green. It wasn’t my doing: I was only grounding him enough to let him do it himself.
He let out a little sigh, just an ordinary one this time, followed by a longer, slower breath. “That doesn’t hurt.”
“No. You shouldn’t hurt. Remember this feeling. When the dark things come, reach for this, not for the pain. Breathe just like you’re breathing now—”
“Blue.”
“What?”
“It’s blue.”
I was startled. I saw the gentle, neutral energy as blue, too—the clean, clearing breath taught in Yoga classes and meditation. I didn’t think Will had any ability to see the paranormal, but maybe things were a bit . . . different now. “Yes. Blue,” I agreed.
He opened his eyes, his gaze steadier but still disturbed in its depths. “Harper . . .”
I backed off slowly, letting his hands slip out of mine. “That’s all I can do for you, Will. Take that home, now. Please, go home.”
He nodded, but he didn’t move away. He just stood still and watched me go back to the TPM building and get into my waiting cab. He was still standing there when we pulled away.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“I’m late. I apologize.” I seemed to be doing that a lot lately, contrary to my usual habit. And here I was doing it again in the doorway of Sarah Shadley’s condo. It was after ten. Sarah shrugged and let me in. “Cam and Gwen are in the living room.”
I touched her on the arm, stopping her. “Why did you move?” Last time I’d been in touch with Cameron’s older sister, she’d been living with their mother in a middle-class suburb of Bellevue and trying to patch up their strained relationship.
“Oh. Mom’s doing OK and . . . I needed some space of my own. I sold the house. Lucky timing: The market collapsed right afterward, but I did all right. And Cam . . . well, I missed him.”
She looked remarkable, a complete change from the defiant, confused girl I’d first met: hair badly dyed and growing out, clothes in-your-face instant Goth with an aesthetic meant more to appall than engender any community with her fellows. Now she stood up straight, her light-brown hair shining and smooth. Her makeup was still pale, her clothes still a touch Goth but in a subtler, softer style that owed more to the romantic side of the movement than the punk. She seemed happy, content with herself, and confident.
“You know vampires aren’t the healthiest friends to have,” I said.
She gave me a half smile filled with secrets and clasped her hands without thinking, rubbing one thumb against her inner wrist under the long, fluttering cuff of her blouse. “Yeah. But he’s my brother. And . . . I guess I don’t really mind some things. With the right person. I’ve always been a freak, anyway. At least now I’m a useful, happy freak.”
I followed her into the living room, feeling a little ill from more than the presence of vampires. When she sat down next to Gwen on the long, chocolate velvet sofa that faced the view of Seattle’s lights tumbling down to Elliott Bay, I felt only slightly less squicked. Yes, I knew vampires needed blood and they had to get it from a living human—preferably someone they had an ongoing relationship with and could trust, or at least control—but since Sarah had been through that before and escaped, I hadn’t expected her to voluntarily return to it. At least it didn’t look like the same abused-pet situation she’d been in with Edward. Gwen leaned against Sarah with casual intimacy. So, maybe not lovers, but extraordinary friends. It could be worse, though from my feeling about vampires in general, it wasn’t exactly good. I just wasn’t sure that being a milk cow was something to be pleased with.
The roiling red miasma wasn’t as bad as usual, or maybe I was getting used to it after all this time. I couldn’t deny I was drawing closer to the Grey. I repressed the desire to swear at the smug little voices in my head.
Cameron was at the other end of the couch. I’d met him as a frightened boy who was trying to come to grips with his transition to vampire and his problems with Edward over it. I’d helped him and it was through my mediation he’d ended up under Carlos’s protection. Gone were the long angelic curls, the hint of a mustache, and the artfully ragged sweaters of his university student days. Now he lounged like a blond leopard, sleek and dangerous, all coiled energy and patient knowledge of terrible things. He didn’t project any of the anxiety I’d caught in our phone call before I went to Leavenworth, only power that hung around him as a bright nimbus of red and black. He gazed at me, studying me as if I’d changed since the last time we’d met. I suppose that was true since it had been more than a year since we’d had any in-person contact. Something about me brought out a crease between his eyebrows. He wasn’t quite as good at keeping his emotions off his face as his teacher was.
“So,” he drawled, “what is Carlos up to?”
“That depends on where you stand,” I replied, taking a seat at right angles to the sofa on Cameron’s end.
“Behind him, if possible. Beside him, if he’ll let me.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Really? I thought you two might have had a falling-out since the last time we talked.”
He shook his head. “No. But he’s more guarded lately, even around me. Ever since Edward disappeared . . . he’s very wary. And I did ask him your question about the process started by one vampire and finished by another. He says, ‘Yes.’ That would be exactly what happened and it makes the current situation all the worse.”
For a moment I was confused and had to think hard on what he was telling me. What had I asked him to ask Carlos . . . ? Oh yes: about Goodall.
Cameron went on, knowing I would figure it out. “Bryson Goodall must have started out under the Pharaohn’s influence, but subtly. Sent to Edward for the security job—naturally Edward would . . . want a more personal connection. Something like that,” he added, nodding toward his sister and Gwen.
I glanced at the women. Gwen, her sharp chin tucked down so her long strawberry blond hair fell over her face, watched Sarah with intense eyes while the other talked in a low voice, her face glowing and her eyes animated with excitement. It wasn’t love—at least not a sexual kind of love—but it was a deep connection that wove a flexing net of magenta and blue lines between them.
“Goodall is like a cuckoo,” Cameron said. “He may be raised in another bird’s nest, but he’s still a cuckoo in the end. As soon as you were out of the way and Edward was in his power, Wygan didn’t need to leave Goodall in Edward’s nest. Now that the information is out, it’s gotten worse for any of us loyal to Edward. That he could have sheltered and embraced a cuckoo—the Pharaohn’s ushabti at that—makes everything he ever did suspect and cause for gossip. Or worse. It’s very bad for Carlos. He’s not a fan of Edward’s but . . .” He trailed off, one hand eloquently touching his own chest a moment, then rolling outward as if to say “you know.”