seen. I put my duffel down next to a bed near the stairs and pushed under the covers, the pillow cool and fresh against my cheek. I didn’t think I’d sleep.
I was wrong.
5
H OUSE O RANGE
“C lose the door and have a seat,” Reeves Silver said, as if he were inviting in an old friend. “Can I offer you a drink?” He poured scotch in a glass and held the bottle over a second tumbler.
“No.” Slater Orange did as he was told, latching the door, then taking a seat across the desk in Reeves’ personal office. He tugged at the cuffs of his shirt, an old, telling habit.
Reeves’ eyes lit up when he saw that.
Slater dropped his hands into his lap. “Why have you called me here?”
“Because you and I are partners now,” Reeves replied affably, his blue eyes too blue in a face comfortably lined with the lies he told. “Rulers, ruling House Orange side by side. Unless you fail so miserably we must find your replacement.”
Slater remained silent.
“Oh, now, have I hurt your feelings? Don’t you see how this will work? Our partnership?” Reeves asked. “Fine. Let me try this again. This stunt you’ve pulled,” hewaved a finger at Slater, “is impressive. You took a far greater risk than I expected you to take, Slater.”
“Robert,” he said plainly.
Reeves bit down on a smile. “Let’s not play games, Slater. I always thought you were conservative when you made your moves. I certainly never expected you to go to these extremes with your power play. Death? Rebirth or whatever you call that horror you’ve done to yourself? I believe I’ve underestimated you all these years, and I am not a man who underestimates his peers. So, a toast. To the surprise of you.” He lifted his drink and sipped.
He sat back, fingers pressed together, waiting for Slater’s response.
“My name is Robert,” Slater said again.
“Are we going to do it this way? Are you expecting me to prove to you that I know you are Slater Orange pressed into that”—here he waved his fingers again—“body?”
“Why would you think I am anything other than Robert?”
Reeves leaned forward again. “I know you, Slater. I might have underestimated your desperation, your sickness, your access to whatever technology it took to implant yourself into that body and brain, but I know you’re in there, one hundred percent Slater Orange. I know the stink of you, the hunger of you. I see it behind your eyes. I smell it on your skin.
“And,” he said in a conspirator’s whisper, “I’d love to know how you did it. But we can save that for later. Right now, here, today, I want you to understand one thing: I own you.”
“I can’t be owned,” Slater said. “I am the head of House Orange. It is the law.”
“What is that saying? Good men don’t need laws, and bad men always find a way around them? I can claim you. And, really, I already have. Maybe not publically. Not yet. This”—again the finger waved, this time to indicate the two of them—“works for me. Your deals, payments, dues will go through me and my House. Do you understand me, Slater? I own you and your House.”
When Slater didn’t respond, Reeves set down his tumbler. “I looked into the members of House Orange who might take over ruling. There have been dozens of deaths over the past decade. Subtle, accidental, untraceable misfortunes have befallen every person who could take the throne. The only conceivable candidate left is a ten-year-old boy, who would of course need guidance until he is of age. Guidance I am assuming you would provide until he too was killed. Clever,” he said. “Not a long game, but it might be long enough to buy you time to win the trust of the Houses. Or to buy their trust.”
“What do you want?” Slater asked.
“You. You are useful to me. I want to give you power—enough to keep you happy and silent. House Orange in your hands. Isn’t that what you want? Power for as long as that galvanized body may live?”
Slater’s
I was wrong.
5
H OUSE O RANGE
“C lose the door and have a seat,” Reeves Silver said, as if he were inviting in an old friend. “Can I offer you a drink?” He poured scotch in a glass and held the bottle over a second tumbler.
“No.” Slater Orange did as he was told, latching the door, then taking a seat across the desk in Reeves’ personal office. He tugged at the cuffs of his shirt, an old, telling habit.
Reeves’ eyes lit up when he saw that.
Slater dropped his hands into his lap. “Why have you called me here?”
“Because you and I are partners now,” Reeves replied affably, his blue eyes too blue in a face comfortably lined with the lies he told. “Rulers, ruling House Orange side by side. Unless you fail so miserably we must find your replacement.”
Slater remained silent.
“Oh, now, have I hurt your feelings? Don’t you see how this will work? Our partnership?” Reeves asked. “Fine. Let me try this again. This stunt you’ve pulled,” hewaved a finger at Slater, “is impressive. You took a far greater risk than I expected you to take, Slater.”
“Robert,” he said plainly.
Reeves bit down on a smile. “Let’s not play games, Slater. I always thought you were conservative when you made your moves. I certainly never expected you to go to these extremes with your power play. Death? Rebirth or whatever you call that horror you’ve done to yourself? I believe I’ve underestimated you all these years, and I am not a man who underestimates his peers. So, a toast. To the surprise of you.” He lifted his drink and sipped.
He sat back, fingers pressed together, waiting for Slater’s response.
“My name is Robert,” Slater said again.
“Are we going to do it this way? Are you expecting me to prove to you that I know you are Slater Orange pressed into that”—here he waved his fingers again—“body?”
“Why would you think I am anything other than Robert?”
Reeves leaned forward again. “I know you, Slater. I might have underestimated your desperation, your sickness, your access to whatever technology it took to implant yourself into that body and brain, but I know you’re in there, one hundred percent Slater Orange. I know the stink of you, the hunger of you. I see it behind your eyes. I smell it on your skin.
“And,” he said in a conspirator’s whisper, “I’d love to know how you did it. But we can save that for later. Right now, here, today, I want you to understand one thing: I own you.”
“I can’t be owned,” Slater said. “I am the head of House Orange. It is the law.”
“What is that saying? Good men don’t need laws, and bad men always find a way around them? I can claim you. And, really, I already have. Maybe not publically. Not yet. This”—again the finger waved, this time to indicate the two of them—“works for me. Your deals, payments, dues will go through me and my House. Do you understand me, Slater? I own you and your House.”
When Slater didn’t respond, Reeves set down his tumbler. “I looked into the members of House Orange who might take over ruling. There have been dozens of deaths over the past decade. Subtle, accidental, untraceable misfortunes have befallen every person who could take the throne. The only conceivable candidate left is a ten-year-old boy, who would of course need guidance until he is of age. Guidance I am assuming you would provide until he too was killed. Clever,” he said. “Not a long game, but it might be long enough to buy you time to win the trust of the Houses. Or to buy their trust.”
“What do you want?” Slater asked.
“You. You are useful to me. I want to give you power—enough to keep you happy and silent. House Orange in your hands. Isn’t that what you want? Power for as long as that galvanized body may live?”
Slater’s
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