“And you didn’t mention this before, when we first encountered him?” Dark suspicion glassed over his eyes.
“Like I told Ariadne, we’re not to the full-trust stage yet.” I stared him down. “Give it a little more time, maybe.”
“Time,” he said with a shake of the head. “I don’t know what it’s going to take, but I doubt it’s just time. I’m gonna go check on Kurt.”
He left, and I felt a stab of guilt for lying to him. I exited the garage through a side door, stepping out into the winter night. It was starting to snow, the flakes landing delicately on my shoulders. Had I been less preoccupied, I might have tried to catch one on my tongue. Yeah, I’d just dealt a hell of a beat-down to Henderschott, but he wasn’t dead, and for some reason, I suspected he’d be back. Wolfe was still somehow able to take control of my body at unfortunate moments (not that there would ever really be a fortunate moment for him to assume control) and because of him, I suspected I’d let loose an extremely dangerous meta to wreak untold havoc upon the world.
Did that mean anyone Gavrikov killed was another death on my conscience? I already had 254 that I blamed myself for. I’d kept a very careful accounting, sadly enough, and that was the tally. Sure, I hadn’t physically killed any of them myself (except Wolfe) but I regretted them all (except Wolfe).
I entered my room, shutting the door behind me. I had been tired hours ago; now I was exhausted. I threw down my coat, noting white powder spots from the drywall all over the exterior and a nice rip along the back, presumably from the fight with Henderschott, and I wondered if I should be worried. Did most seventeen-year-old girls get into as many fights as I did? I doubted this was normal for anyone but the worst delinquents.
A knock at the door jerked me out of my thoughts. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. Drywall dust was speckled through my hair and I had three visible rips in my shirt. I sighed and went to the door.
When I opened it, I was faced with a man I’d never seen before. He had a deeply pale face, his hair was brown and short, and his eyes were bright blue, in a shade that glittered even in the dim light.
“Yes?” I looked at him as I spoke. He was older, probably in his thirties or later. “Can I help you?”
“May I come in?” He spoke with a heavy accent that sounded Russian or Slavic.
“Umm…do I know you?” I looked at him, trying to determine if I’d seen him before. He wasn’t Henderschott, I knew that much. His face was normal, handsome even, though pale.
“Can I please come in?” He looked back down the hall, furtive, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I saw you outside and followed you back here so we could talk.”
“Saw me outside?” I drew the door a little closer to shut. “There wasn’t anyone outside just now. The campus was deserted.” I straightened, trying to project the image that I was strong by drawing myself up to my full height. I doubt it worked. At 5 foot 4 inches, I was shorter than almost everyone. Including him. “By the way, telling a girl you followed her back to her room? Not exactly a turn on. Kinda makes you sound like a stalker.”
He brought his hand up to his eyes as though he were frustrated, massaging his temples. He looked out at me from behind his fingers. “I need to talk with you.” He pulled his hand away from his face and held it up. I stared at it, wondering what he was going to do next when the tip of his finger burst into flames. I yelped in surprise and the flame spread across his entire hand, stopping at the wrist. With an abrupt flick of his fingers, the fire died and his flesh returned.
“Aleksandr Gavrikov,” I whispered.
He stared down at me with those intense, blue eyes, and I swore I could see a hint of fire deep within them. “Yes. Now can I come in?”
Chapter 17
I took a few steps back trying to get away from him, but Gavrikov took it as a sign to enter. He closed the door after checking the hallway again. He pressed his back to the door after shutting it. He was haggard, his face pale, the coloring washed out. Big beads of sweat ran down his forehead and he was breathing heavily.
I didn’t want to ask, but I did it anyway. “Are you all right?” The backs of my thighs felt the soft impact of the edge of the bed; I could not retreat any farther without making it obvious.
“What?” His accent was more pronounced and he blinked a few times, as though his eyes were hurting him. “Oh. I have not been…” He stared down at his hands, as if seeing them for the first time. “It has been very long since I last quenched the fire.” He took another deep breath. “I don’t think I’ve done it since…” He looked up, concentrating as if trying to recall. “Not for over a hundred years.”
“Uh…how do you eat?” My brain screamed at me for my stupidity, asking him dumb questions when I should be jumping out the window, running far, far away from the man who blew up an entire building last night.
“I don’t,” he said with a grim smile. “When I am afire, I don’t need to eat, I subsist on air—it keeps the flames burning.”
“Oh.” I pondered that. “You don’t like being human?”
He looked down at his hands again. “Flesh is easily hurt. Not so with flame; it can be elusive, unquenchable—and it feels no pain.”
“Ah,” I said, still feeling dumb. “So…what do you want to talk about?”
“Have a seat,” he offered. I don’t know why, but I sat down on the bed. If he burst into flames, it wasn’t likely to matter whether I was standing or not. He walked past me to the window and looked out. “I have to thank you again for freeing me.” He looked out through the glass, then to either side as if he were trying to find curtains.
I shook my head when he turned back to me. “The glass is mirrored. No one outside can see us.”
His hand touched the window and he looked at it, curious. “So many differences since I was a child. We did not even have windows in the house I grew up in.”
“Yeah, me neither, for all intents and purposes,” I said, drawing a surprised look from him. “I had a somewhat unconventional childhood.”
“Unconventional.” He nodded and half-smiled. “I like that. I had an unconventional childhood as well.”
“So.” I felt a little awkward, and I still wondered why he was here. “Mr. Gavrikov—
“Please,” he said with a wince. “Call me Aleksandr.”
“Well, I was trying to be a little more formal—”
“I hate that name. “ His mouth was a thin line. “I am only Aleksandr.”
“Okay.” The awkwardness did not abate. “Why are you here?”
He kept his distance, walking over to the desk and the computer that I had yet to use. He pulled out the chair and tentatively sat down in it. He was still sweating profusely and I wondered if he was suffering some sort of withdrawal from not using his power or if he was simply nervous. “Your Directorate—”
“Let me stop you right there,” I said, drawing a look of curiosity from him. “They’re not mine. I’ve only been here a couple weeks, and mostly because I have nowhere else to go since that psychotic Wolfe,” I felt him stir inside but he kept blissfully silent, “was chasing me down.”
“Wolfe?” He squinted at me. “You drew the ire of the beast and yet live?”
“Drew his ire?” I snorted. “I drew more than that.”
“No matter,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I have heard the legend of this beast. Help me and I will kill him for you.”
“Too late. I already killed him.”
I watched Aleksandr’s face drop, a hint of disbelief permeating his clenched expression. “You killed him?” He pointed his finger at me. “You? You did this…by yourself?”
“I—” I tried to find an easy way to explain but failed. “Yes, I did.”