He’s wearing one of his scarfs—the ones he prefers, in the color of cat’s puke—and a tailored, dark suit. His golden eyes drill mine, unblinking, unnatural.
Fake.
Barbie and Ken.
He made them into that shade. No one is born with eyes like that.
I’m in an office, presided by Elliot Whitehouse behind an executive desk. He sits on a black leather chair with a back taller than his head.
My throat bobs up and down. There’s an incessant pounding between my temples brought on by the loud buzzing of his presence. I wish the droning to stop. It doesn’t relent one bit. Nausea hits me in waves, undoing me from the inside. The word “concussion” has a real meaning for me now. I know my Symbiot healing powers are at work, but they don’t work fast enough.
I eye a heavy-looking statue that rests off to the side on a pedestal and imagine it ramming against Elliot Whitehouse’s temple. It doesn’t move. I imagine squeezing his heart like an overripe peach. Nothing.
Instead, daggers of pain lance from the top of my forehead to the back of my neck, skewering my brain through and through. I hate him with all that I am, so why isn’t that enough? If I could only handle meditation … if I wasn’t so weak … if my brain didn’t feel ready to split in two … if … if … if …
Freezing air blows from the air conditioning vents. I shiver, wish for a blanket, a bed, a pillow, but all I’ve got is a hard chair and a nasty old man who’s staring at me with terrible eyes. He stands, comes to pace in front of the desk. His expensive patent shoes creak with every step. He looks warm in his suit and scarf or cravat—whatever the hell it’s called. And I want to pull that silky mess off his neck and stuff it deep, deep inside his throat.
My hands twitch behind the chair. The zip tie cuts into my skin.
Not for the first time, I wonder what makes this man a leader to these monsters. He’s no match to the beasts I’ve seen. They could spike his old ass in seconds. There must be a reason.
“Ms. Milan,” Elliot says with a smirk. “What a pleasure to see you again. How do you do?” He still remembers the fake last name I gave him at his twisted party.
“Just swell,” I say, my upper lip twitching.
“So glad. And how about our mutual friend, our dear James? How does he fare during these trying times?”
I take a deep breath. My nostrils flare and feel too narrow to inhale the air my lungs demand. Shadows swim around the edges of my vision, fueled by my anger and impotence. They try to disseminate my thoughts, hoping to snuff me.
Puke cravat … inside his throat.
Bring fluorescent lights … Electricity.
Aydan … Bright, bright hands.
God, I hope he got away.
I swallow and answer, “I don’t know. James isn’t my friend.”
Elliot pinches the edge of his sleeve and pulls on it, adjusting it. A golden cufflink sparkles with small diamonds. “Is that so? Did you have a falling out?”
“Yeah, you could call it that.” The jerk is high if he thinks I’ll tell him anything about James or IgNiTe.
“Was that before or after you destroyed my cryo lab?” he asks in a calm, cold tone.
I frown, try to look surprised. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He leans against his desk and crosses his arms. His pupils are black horizontal slits surrounded by flecks of gold. “Let’s agree not to insult each other’s intelligence, Ms. Milan. Shall we? I know you were there. You and James and Veronica and others I don’t know.”
It takes me a moment to remember that Veronica is Blare’s fake name, and another to puzzle over how he could have managed to see us. Aydan disabled the cameras. The only ones there were the guards and they all died.
“I can see you’re baffled,” he says. “Your team had an easy back door into the security system, what with James being the owner of Zero Breach. I was a fool to use his company to secure my labs, but he played a clever game. I’ll grant him that. He had me fooled for years, but it seems he got desperate in the end, even recruiting careless kids for his IgNiTe rebel group.” He laughs dryly. “After the night you came to my house, I began to suspect something wasn’t right. He always refused to join my ranks. I thought he was organizing his own faction, and I was okay with that. Our kind has pulled toward the same goal for a long time. We’ve trusted each other, like lions hunting together, knowing that in the end we would share the spoils of the chase.
“But the closer we got to The Takeover, the more our factions solidified and James had to choose a side. It didn’t make sense for him to refuse me, not when I’m the leader of the most powerful faction. He denied being with Hailstone, tried to make me believe there was some other group he was part of, but I knew better.
“That’s when I decided it was time to end our business agreement. We even began transitioning our security measures, but it wasn’t soon enough. Such a loss. But never mind that. The fact remains … there were other cameras and they weren’t connected to the main system, which means I saw you there. I know you are partly responsible for the senseless destruction. I know you’re part of IgNiTe,” he says with clenched teeth.
Elliot comes away from the desk and leans forward to look me in the eye. I press my back against the chair. The scent of his cologne is woody and expensive. He licks his lips.
“But you see,” he says, “there’s so much more I don’t understand. So much more that boggles my mind and keeps me up at night as I try to make sense of things.”
In spite of the cold, a drop of sweat slides down my breastbone. A nervous thrill runs down my legs. He’s too close. My head hums like a piano string, unrelenting and louder than with anyone else. Elliot lifts a hand. I flinch, expecting a slap but, instead, he presses an index finger to my temple and pushes it in, making my head bend to the side, digging his manicured fingernail into my skin.
“But things make no sense at all,” he says in a whisper, his neutral breath blowing over my nose. “You’re one of us. James is one of us. Can’t hide that. Can’t fake it. It’s in here.” He drives his finger with more force until my neck feels like it’s about to snap and his finger is about to break through and puncture my brain.
I do my best to repress a groan, determined not to give him the satisfaction.
“So why?” he asks raising his voice and finally pulling away from me. “Why would you betray your own kind? What could humans have offered you? And what witless hope do you harbor that makes you think you have a chance against us, a chance to ever enjoy what they have promised you? Tell me. Make me understand.”
His face has become a mask of anger and frustration. His British cool and superiority are gone, utterly erased by his dogged desire to understand, to see the pieces of the puzzle clearly. Here is someone who is used to knowing everything, used to being in absolute control. Not seeing how we fit in his scheme must be driving him crazy.
A strange satisfaction washes over me. He doesn’t know about Symbiots. He thinks we’re full-fledged Eklyptors, traitors to the cause, to The Takeover. And for that to be possible, humans must have offered us something, must have bribed us, somehow. And that’s the rub—the how—because what could weak humans possibly offer Eklyptors? It would be like cats banding with mice against a mighty pride of savannah lions.
“SO?” In a raised tone, he demands the explanations that will be like sleeping pills to his unrestful nights.
“I don’t know,” I say, a smile stretching the corners of my mouth, “I sort of like the idea of IgNiTe keeping you up at night, so … you can stuff your questions up your ass, you bloody bastard.”
Calmly, too calmly, Elliot takes a step forward, then slaps me across the face. My head snaps to the side. A string of saliva flies out of my mouth and lands on the carpet. The room dissolves into wavering shapes. The headache I’d managed to ignore flashes like a sun flare. My stomach roils and I wish I could vomit all over Elliot’s shoes, but I’m hollow. I don’t even remember the last time I ate. I wipe my chin across my shoulder, leave a red stain behind.
He procures a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipes his hand. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, my dear girl. No matter which, you will tell me what I need to know. You have five minutes to make up your mind.”
“Why wait? I can tell you right now.”
I work up an answer in my dry mouth. It takes a few seconds, but when it’s formed, I spit it out onto his legs. Elliot jumps back, horrified. A trail of pinkish saliva dribbles down his tailored pants, right along one perfect crease. The expression on his face is priceless.
“Your crassness is so perfectly American,” he sneers.
“Oh, get over yourself!”
“Very well. I shall do just that.” He walks around his stately desk and picks up the phone. “Stanton, get things ready down below. Our guest needs a break from me.”
His golden eyes sparkle and—though his mouth never reflects it—I know that, on the inside, he’s smiling with immense satisfaction.
“I think it’s time for her to get acquainted with dear Doctor Sting.” He holds the last syllable with relish, almost making the word vibrate. “Ms. Milan needs someone more to her … level, someone rough around the edges. Please come fetch her, and when she’s finally ready to talk, do let me know.”
Elliot sets the receiver down, satisfaction dripping off him like drool off a hungry dog. He adjusts his right cuff again and says, “Ask and you shall receive.”
My skin crawls with a million scuttling insects. I lower my head, averting my gaze, trying to brace myself for what’s to come. I’d rather die than tell him anything.
I hope I can.