He bent his ear, as if Olivia might whisper. A female officer sat at his side, sprawling in her chair, with a bemused expression—the look that a child might have on her face when she's getting ready to tear the wings off a fly.
Olivia bit her lip and simply waited. It had been more than an hour since they had cuffed her. She needed a drink, but dared not ask. "I want my lawyer," she said for the tenth time.
"You and I have been friends for a long time," Walton said. "You're a good woman. The kids down at your school love you. So I've got to say, these accusations sound downright crazy to me. I've got to wonder what really went on?"
Olivia tried to keep calm. With every second that she waited, it increased the likelihood that the Draghouls would come. Yet she couldn't tell them the truth. She'd contacted Father Leery, but it would take some time for him to reach the precinct. She had to hope that he'd make it, that he'd be able to do something.
"I told you, I'm waiting for my lawyer," she warned Officer Walton.
He circled, scratched his head. The female officer leaned back in her chair, looking bored.
"Was it some kind of road rage?" Walton asked. "Did these folks do something to you? Were you afraid of them? I mean, if it was self-defense...."
A soft rapping came at the door. The interrogation room door opened, and the desk clerk poked her head in and whispered, "Her lawyer's here."
"Well," Walton said, clearly annoyed, "the more the merrier."
Olivia breathed a sigh of relief—until the Draghoul from Best Buy strode into the room, grinning like a skull.
"Watch out!" she shouted to Walton. "He's not a lawyer!"
She threw herself backward, hoping to break her chair, but merely landed on the floor.
Officer Walton whirled and reached for his gun, just as the Draghoul touched his temple. Walton spasmed so hard he was thrown into the air. He bounced off the wall, fell, and began to convulse and growl.
Stunned, the female officer tried to pull her gun as the old Draghoul leapt. He grabbed her head, jerked to the right. Neck bones snapped. She sagged to the floor.
The Draghoul turned to Olivia and flashed a baby-killer smile. "I love to see a woman in cuffs."
Bron sat in his chair, beneath a bulb that beat at him. Though it gave little light, it seemed to exude a great deal of heat, enough so that he found sweat dripping down his armpits, beads of it twisting down his nose.
He wondered if the government had special bulbs made just for interrogation rooms. With all of the examinations that the military made of Iraqis and Afghans at places like Guantanamo Bay, he imagined that they probably needed such bulbs.
Bron decided that he would simply endure—the heat, the boredom, the silence. He'd been in the room for a long time, and no one had come to speak to him. No one had offered a drink, or asked him if he needed to relieve himself.
It was part of their strategy, he decided. This was how they hoped to break him down.
They'd come for him in a couple of hours, the interrogators, when he'd been up all night and all day. They'd let his own fear work on him.
The problem was, he didn't really fear the police. Bron had long ago learned to turn off his feelings, not just for others, but for himself. Worry, fear, fatigue—if he concentrated, he could ignore them all.
He heard a scrape at the door, and a plastic card swiped through the outside lock. He expected Officer Walton, but instead a teenage girl entered the room, a pretty brunette. She walked toward him with a strangely mesmerizing gait, her hips rolling gracefully, her back straight and poised.
She smiled. "Good to see you, again, Bron."
He didn't remember seeing her before, until she was nearly upon him—the young woman from Best Buy!
A shout died on his lips as she reached up and touched his temple. He saw the flash of sizraels, felt an electric spark, and his vocal chords went soft. He wanted to yell a warning, call for help, but he had forgotten how.
He stared up at her, mind blank with horror.
"You don't remember me very well, do you?" she asked. "But I remember you!" She tilted his head up and looked into his eyes. "I remember our time at the group home, that football game we played on Thanksgiving, what, six years ago? Riley gave me the memories."
She tilted his head up, examined his jaw, and smiled. "Yep, you're Bron Jones, all right. Now you're ours, little nightingale. So let's take a peek at those nasty old memories you've got rolling around in that skull."
She stood just in front of Bron. His heart was already racing from fear, but the nearness of her set it thudding to a new beat. He could smell her perspiration, her perfume. She wasn't just pretty. Her face was flawless. She wore a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt, and he couldn't help but notice her curves. She smiled teasingly. "Oooh, you're going to go into musth soon! You'll be needing a mate. Wouldn't it be cool if I was your first? Would you like that?"
She smiled, leaned near, with eyes as dark as a fawn's. Despite his fear, he found himself wanting her, and as she placed her hands up on his skull, she did it tenderly, caressing him. She splayed her fingers out, so that they cupped each lobe of his brain, and then softly touched his eyes.
He closed them. "Don't worry," she said. "I don't want to hurt you. You're one of us now."
She leaned forward, and her warm breath stirred the skin of his face, played through his eyelashes. She kissed his lips.
I'm not going to tell you anything! he wanted to say, but his tongue couldn't have been any more numb and useless if a dentist had shot it full of Novocain.
His mind exploded. It was as if a thousand memories surfaced at once, bursting like fireworks:
Mr. Bell driving him to Tuacahn.
Olivia showing him to his room.
The Mercedes flipping as it rolled.
Bron handing Olivia the caltrops.
Galadriel huddled in the back of a police car.
Purple fireworks exploding from his fingertips.
His heart pounding in terror as he discovered his sizraels.
Playing the guitar.
Watching lightning arc across the sky.
Oreo-cookie cattle.
Figuring out how to flush the toilet in his room.
Mike giving him a grin.
Whitney's gorgeous teeth.
The little Stillman kids, all sneaking waves goodbye.
Everyone that he loved, everyone that he wanted to protect, all flashed through his mind at once. Every secret thought, everything he wanted to conceal, all that he held sacred came out of him in an instant.
It was like being raped, he knew, at some primitive level. He'd never felt so sullied, never imagined that he could feel so violated.
And this is just the beginning, he thought. They'll take whatever memories they want from me, dispose of my friends. Olivia's mind would be wiped, but not before she was forced to reveal the contact information for any other masaaks that she knew—Father Leery, her family, the Weigher of Lost Souls.
Bron realized that their little community was like a terrorist cell, but once it was discovered, everyone in it would be laid bare. Olivia's people, the Ael, weren't just in hiding from their enemies, they were in hiding from themselves. How much damage would come from Bron's capture, he couldn't begin to calculate. Dozens of Ael might get rounded up, hundreds!
In another room, there was a popping noise, like firecrackers going off.
The girl lurched back, her eyes going wide, startled. She didn't bother looking toward the sound of the gunfire. She was startled by him. You can't have my friends! Bron wanted to scream, but it was too late. She already knew where Olivia lived.