He'd never loved any of his foster parents. He knew the danger of getting too close. He suspected that she sensed that, and so she was working to break through his barriers.
He blinked away his thoughts.
She left the room, and Bron lay wide awake. A mosquito entered through the open window and buzzed around his head. Bron didn't kill it. For some reason, mosquitoes never bit him.
He wondered if Olivia's kiss was more than a kiss. Was Olivia flirting with him? He'd heard of women like that. A teacher in Highland, a town near his old home, had just been sentenced for abusing a boy.
How old is Olivia? he wondered. Mr. Bell had said that she was in her early thirties. But she could have been in her late twenties.
No, he decided, she wasn't flirting. But there was something going on here.
There was something odd about Olivia. She looked a lot like Bron did, at least in the strange color of their skin, and the slightly off shapes of their heads. Her eyes were more hazel, where his were gray.
They looked so much alike that he could almost imagine that she was his mother. He got an odd notion: what if she'd had a child when she was young, and had abandoned it?
Mr. Bell had said that she had applied to become a foster parent three years back. Could she have just been waiting for him, hoping to reunite?
It sounded crazy, but this woman with her touchy-feely attitude, her instant bonding, her fear of... something—Bron had never met anyone like her.
He wondered about his real parents. He wondered if they ever lay awake at night like this, speculating on what had become of him.
So he lay on his bed, in utter turmoil, wonders whirling like autumn leaves caught in a dust devil, until he finally settled down to sleep.
Chapter 6
Evil Never Sleeps
"With cunning comes the prize."
Blair Kardashian stalked into a seedy motel on Saint George Boulevard, one that advertised rates at $24.95 Per night. The sharp odor of Lysol permeated the floor tiles, covering the scent of dust and decay. An outdated television played a Spanish soap opera. No one bothered to sit at the front desk. It was too late at night. Blair punched a call button on the counter, and heard a buzz in a back room.
Sixty years ago, this would have been a decent motel. Millions of tourists passed through Saint George each year on their way to some of the bigger parks—Zion, Bryce, Arches. The hotel had been built to service such tourists.
A dull twinge struck his stomach, and Blair wondered at it. The pains had eased. Blair had purchased a stethoscope a few hours earlier. A quick check showed that his heartbeat was strong and regular. After years of running marathons, it was as strong as a teen's. So he had to ascribe these phantom pains to a pulled muscle, or perhaps a deep bruise to the sternum. He had hit the steering wheel hard when the Mercedes rolled.
The memory filled him with rage. He had a dead acolyte, and no clues. His superiors had run the plates on the Honda CRV. Someone had reported them stolen eighteen months ago.
The Ael frequently drove cars with stolen plates.
An elderly Mestizo woman came from the back, walking carefully, as if to make sure that her considerable bulk did not accidentally knock over the office chair. "Hello?'' she asked with a thick accent.
Blair immediately launched into Spanish, which he spoke with a distinguished, Castilian accent. "I am looking for a woman and a young man. They may be visitors to the area."
He pulled out his cell phone and showed the picture that his acolyte had taken of the boy they called "Bron." The night manager squinted as she studied the image.
Blair waited for her answer.
After the crash, he had told the police that a car had scraped his in the parking lot. He'd claimed that he'd tried to exchange insurance information, but the female driver had fled. He hadn't thought to get her license number. "She sped away too quickly," he told them, "and when we tried to follow, she threw tire spikes out the window."
The police had been mortified. They would make eager allies. The caltrops were obviously home-made. This implied forethought on the part of those who threw them. The fact that Blair's vehicle had rolled, and that someone had died, elevated the charges: fleeing the scene of an accident. Battery. Homicide.
The police would have a field day.
"Such a handsome boy," the woman said in an atrocious Mexican accent. She leaned forward, resting her bulk against the counter. "What do you want him for?"
Immediately Blair sensed that she was evasive. She was the kind who helped her friends hide from the immigration police, and rented rooms to hookers by the hour.
"He threw some tire spikes out the window of a car earlier tonight," Blair said. "My son was killed."
"Oh, I heard about that on the news!" she said. She shook her head. "I haven't seen him."
Blair didn't trust her to tell the truth. He had little use for humans. They were inferior creatures. He had even less respect for this woman.
"Thank you," Blair said, reaching casually for the phone. Just as he nearly had it, he raised his hand and grasped the right hemisphere of her cranium. The sizraels on his fingers extended. His sizraels had extremely long, articulated ridges, when compared to those on others of his species. They would have looked fake, like plastic suction cups, except that they stretched out eagerly when he attacked.
With a single touch, electricity arced down his arm and shot pale blue-white faerie lights. The woman spasmed and fell forward. He gripped her, his fingers probing her greasy hair. He reached out with his other hand, grasped her firmly, and peered into her mind.
He did not fear getting caught. It was late enough that most of the humans slept. The few people cruising the strip would not be able to see into this dim office.
Her name was Imelda, a vile woman, a murderess who had crossed the border years ago to escape prosecution for killing a marijuana farmer and stealing his crop. The fruits of her theft had purchased this seedy motel, which grew more worthless by the minute.
But that did not interest him.
He looked for an image of Bron in her mind. The woman had six runaways living in one of her rooms, teens who barely scraped enough money together to pay for their rent and their drug habits, but otherwise the hotel did not harbor any teens.
Blair growled in consternation, then ripped the memories of his visit from Imelda's mind, every trace, so there would be no record. The hotel office had a security camera, but he learned by peeking into Imelda's memory that it did not work. She only used it to keep would-be robbers at bay.
He let Imelda go, and the woman sagged against the counter for a moment, then dropped to the floor with a whuff. When she woke in a few minutes, she would remember nothing, and Blair would be gone.
He went into the parking lot and got into his rental, confident that all over town, his acolytes would be doing the same. They'd scour the city tonight, checking every hotel within miles. But his gut told him that they lived in the area. The best way to find them would be to check the schools.
That would have to wait until Monday.
Chapter 7
The Laying on of Hands