I wasn’t sure he even heard me, he was laughing so hard.
“Can Voice make you do something that you find deeply morally objectionable? Can it override everything you believe in?” I asked Barrons, fifteen minutes later when I came back down. I’d made him wait, partly because I was still stinging from his laughter, and partly because it pissed me off in general that he was early. I like it when a man’s on time. Not early. Not late. Punctual. It’s one of those lost dating courtesies, not that Barrons and I are dating, but I think dating courtesies are common courtesies that should be practiced in most all civilized encounters. I pine for the days of good, old-fashioned manners.
I made no mention of his laughter, the MacHalo, or my absurd dance. Barrons and I are pros at ignoring anything and everything that passes between us that might smack of emotion of any kind, even so simple a feeling as embarrassment. Sometimes I can’t believe I was ever beneath that big, hard body, kissing him, getting glimpses into his life. The desert. The lonely boy. The lone man. Don’t think it hadn’t occurred to me that having sex with Barrons might just answer some of my questions about who and what he was. It had. And I’d promptly stuffed that idea into my padlocked box. For a gazillion reasons that need no explaining.
“It depends on the skill of the person employing Voice, and the strength of his victim’s convictions.”
Typical Barrons answer. “Elucidate,” I said dryly. I’ve been learning new words. I’ve been reading a lot lately.
As I moved deeper into the room, his gaze dropped to my feet, and worked its way back to my face. I was wearing faded jeans, boots, and a snug pink Juicy T-shirt I got on sale at TJ Maxx last summer that said I’m a Juicy girl.
“I bet you are,” he murmured. “Take off your shirt,” he said, but this time his voice resonated with a legion of voices. It rippled outward, past me, filling the room, stuffing every corner, cramming it full of voices that were all telling me to obey, pressuring every cell in my body to comply. I wanted my shirt off. Not the same way I wanted it off around V’lane, rooted in sexual compulsion, but merely because I. well, I didn’t know why. But I wanted it off right now, this very instant.
I began to lift the hem of my tee, when I thought, Hang on a minute, I’m not going to show Barrons my bra, and pulled my shirt back down.
I smiled, faintly at first then bigger, pleased with myself. I stuffed my hands in the back pockets of my jeans and gave him a cocky stare. “I think I’m going to be pretty good at this.”
“TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT.”
The command hit me like a brick wall and destroyed my mind. I sucked in a violent, screeching breath and ripped my shirt from neckline to hem.
“Stop, Ms. Lane.”
Voice again, but not the brick walclass="underline" rather a command that lifted the brick wall from me, freeing me. I sank to the floor, clutching the halves of my torn T-shirt together, and dropped my head in my lap, resting my forehead against my knees. I breathed deeply for several seconds, then raised my head and looked at him. He could have coerced me like that anytime. Turned me into a mindless slave. Like the Lord Master, he could have forced me to do his bidding whenever he’d wanted. But he hadn’t. The next time I discovered something horrifying about him, would I say, yeah, but he never coerced me with Voice? Would that be the excuse I made for him then?
“What are you?” It burst out before I could stop myself. I knew it was wasted breath. “Why don’t you just tell me and get it over with?” I said irritably.
“One day you’ll stop asking me. I think I’ll like knowing you then.”
“Can we leave my clothes out of the next lesson?” I groused. “I only packed for a few weeks.”
“You wanted morally objectionable.”
“Right.” I wasn’t sure his demonstration had served its purpose. I wasn’t sure taking my shirt off in front of him was.
“I was illustrating degrees, Ms. Lane. I believe the Lord Master has achieved the latter level of proficiency.”
“Great. Well, in the future spare my tees. I only have three. I’ve been washing them out by hand and the other two are dirty.” BB&B didn’t have a washer or dryer, and so far I’d been refusing to tote my stuff to the Laundromat a few blocks down, although soon I was going to have to, because jeans didn’t wash well by hand.
“Order what you need, Ms. Lane. Charge it to the store account.”
“Really? I can order a washer and dryer?”
“You may as well hold on to the keys to the Viper, too. I’m certain there are things you need a car for.”
I eyed him suspiciously. Had I lost another few months in Faery, and this was Christmas?
He bared his teeth in one of those predatory smiles. “Don’t think it’s because I like you. A happy employee is a productive employee, and the less time you waste going out to the Laundromat or. doing whatever errands it is. someone like you does. is more time I can use you for my own purposes.”
That made sense. Still, while it was Christmas, I had a few more items on my wish list. “I want a backup generator, and a security system. And I think I should have a gun, too.”
“Stand up.”
I had no will. My legs obeyed.
“Go change.”
I returned wearing a peach tee with a coffee stain over the right breast.
“Stand on one leg and hop.”
“You suck,” I hissed, as I hopped.
“The key to resisting Voice,” Barrons instructed, “is finding that place inside you no one else can touch.”
“You mean the sidhe-seer place?” I said, hopping like a one-legged chicken.
“No, a different place. All people have it. Not just sidheseers. We’re born alone and we die alone. That place.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I know. That’s why you’re hopping.”
I hopped for hours. I wearied, but he didn’t. I think Barrons could have used Voice all night, and never worn down.
He might have kept me hopping until dawn, but at quarter till one in the morning my cell phone rang. I thought instantly of my parents, and it must have shown on my face, because he released me from my thrall.
I’d been hopping for so long that I actually took two hops toward my purse where I’d left it on the counter near the cash register, before I caught myself.
It was about to roll into my voice mail—a thing I’ve hated ever since I missed Alina’s call—so I thumbed it on inside my purse, tugged it out, and clamped it to my ear.
“Fourth and Langley,” Inspector Jayne barked.
I stiffened. I’d been expecting Dad, figuring he’d just forgotten to factor in the time difference. We alternated calling each other every other day, even if only for a few minutes, and I’d forgotten last night.
“It’s bad. Seven dead, and the shooter’s holed up in a pub, threatening to kill more hostages, and himself. Sound like the kind of crime you wanted me to tell you about?”
“Yes.” Himself, Jayne had said. The shooter was a man, which meant I’d missed whatever crime the woman who’d picked it up the night I’d been watching had committed, and the Book had already moved on. I wondered how many times it had changed hands since. I would search back issues of newspapers for clues. I needed all the information I could get, to try to understand the Dark Book, in hopes of anticipating its future moves.
The line went dead. He’d done what he’d promised and no more. I stared down at my cell phone, trying to figure out how to get rid of Barrons.
“Why was Jayne calling you at this hour?” he said softly. “Have you been inducted as an honorary member of the Garda since they last arrested you?”
I glanced over my shoulder with disbelief. He was standing at the opposite end of the room, and the volume on my phone was set to low. Maybe he’d picked up on the tones of the inspector’s voice from that distance, but there was no way he’d heard any of the details. “Funny,” I said.