weren’t exactly wrong. He counted as a witch. So did the other few cleaners in Director Lauderdale’s camp. “Give me time.”
“Time isn’t on your side. You need to report in for weekly examinations,” Kayleigh said. “The others are already starting to degenerate. You’ll need to be somewhere safe when it happens to you.”
“I’ll cope.”
“Simon, every chance I have to study this thing is a greater chance for me to break it,” she pressed. “Don’t you want to help the others?”
No. He really didn’t. Simon raised an eyebrow, studying her with barely leashed scorn. “You sound like your father.”
Color flooded her cheeks. “My father is right to be concerned.”
“Your father is the reason you’re in corpses up to your pretty smile,” he replied evenly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Screw you.”
His tone lightened as he once more gave her his back. “I’ll check in when I’m done.”
“Simon—”
“Someone’s coming,” he told her, shooting her a grin over his shoulder. An easy, no-worries kind of smile. With teeth. “Better not get caught in a corner with a missionary, Doctor. What would Daddy say?”
Setting her jaw, Kayleigh pushed past him, clutching the digital reader to her chest as if it’d provide a shield between her and his mockery.
“You’re an ass,” she muttered.
“You said it yourself, Kayleigh. Enough time, and I’ll be out of your hair.” Venom coated his tongue as he added, “Unless I explode. Like Carver.”
“Damn it, Simon.” She stopped, didn’t turn around. He studied the back of her head, her wavy blond hair that wasn’t anything like her mother’s. But the obstinate set of her shoulders, well, he recognized that one.
Reminded him of her mother. And of himself.
But Kayleigh was one hundred percent natural. He wondered what she’d say if he ever sent her the DNA data he’d destroyed. What she’d do.
Confront her father, maybe. It wouldn’t get her anywhere.
“I didn’t choose this, you know.” The corridor sucked out her words, sent them bouncing along the plain, unassuming hall.
He was too tired for this shit. “That makes both of us. Guess your family should have thought of you before they started making me.”
Her indrawn breath wasn’t as silent as she probably hoped. But when she spoke again, she’d leashed whatever emotion she entertained into a thin, even line. “Just do your job, Simon. And check in on time.”
Simon didn’t say anything. Whistling softly, a breezy little tune, he slid his hands into his jeans pockets and sauntered back toward the elevators.
He was two floors down when his comm vibrated against his hip.
Simon unhooked the device from his belt. As he dropped his gaze to the small case, pain licked across his temple— eighty people in the fifteenth floor of the Magdalene, mice in a maze —and lanced through his forehead.
Did he get headaches? Oh, yeah.
But that was the way a Salem Project witch went out. With a goddamned bang.
Rubbing at his forehead, Simon flicked open his comm.
The list was growing. Fully a quarter of the names were marked as completed, some he’d done himself, but it didn’t end.
More names he knew. More faces he recognized.
More bodies he’d have to hide.
Splat.
Simon blinked. The comm screen blurred red.
Splat, splat.
God damn it, not again. Lifting his hand to his nose, he swore thickly as a metallic tang filled the back of his throat. Blood splattered his hand.
Tilting his head back sent waves of pain through his skull.
Two headaches in twenty-four hours? That couldn’t be a good sign.
P arker strode into her office. The door was already swinging shut behind her when the rest of her attention caught up. “For the love of Christ, Mr. Wells!”
Simon didn’t get up. Sprawled in her office chair like some kind of decadent god on a throne, his long legs stretched across the gap between chair and desk, ankles crossed on the polished surface.
“Time isn’t on your side. You need to report in for weekly examinations,” Kayleigh said. “The others are already starting to degenerate. You’ll need to be somewhere safe when it happens to you.”
“I’ll cope.”
“Simon, every chance I have to study this thing is a greater chance for me to break it,” she pressed. “Don’t you want to help the others?”
No. He really didn’t. Simon raised an eyebrow, studying her with barely leashed scorn. “You sound like your father.”
Color flooded her cheeks. “My father is right to be concerned.”
“Your father is the reason you’re in corpses up to your pretty smile,” he replied evenly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Screw you.”
His tone lightened as he once more gave her his back. “I’ll check in when I’m done.”
“Simon—”
“Someone’s coming,” he told her, shooting her a grin over his shoulder. An easy, no-worries kind of smile. With teeth. “Better not get caught in a corner with a missionary, Doctor. What would Daddy say?”
Setting her jaw, Kayleigh pushed past him, clutching the digital reader to her chest as if it’d provide a shield between her and his mockery.
“You’re an ass,” she muttered.
“You said it yourself, Kayleigh. Enough time, and I’ll be out of your hair.” Venom coated his tongue as he added, “Unless I explode. Like Carver.”
“Damn it, Simon.” She stopped, didn’t turn around. He studied the back of her head, her wavy blond hair that wasn’t anything like her mother’s. But the obstinate set of her shoulders, well, he recognized that one.
Reminded him of her mother. And of himself.
But Kayleigh was one hundred percent natural. He wondered what she’d say if he ever sent her the DNA data he’d destroyed. What she’d do.
Confront her father, maybe. It wouldn’t get her anywhere.
“I didn’t choose this, you know.” The corridor sucked out her words, sent them bouncing along the plain, unassuming hall.
He was too tired for this shit. “That makes both of us. Guess your family should have thought of you before they started making me.”
Her indrawn breath wasn’t as silent as she probably hoped. But when she spoke again, she’d leashed whatever emotion she entertained into a thin, even line. “Just do your job, Simon. And check in on time.”
Simon didn’t say anything. Whistling softly, a breezy little tune, he slid his hands into his jeans pockets and sauntered back toward the elevators.
He was two floors down when his comm vibrated against his hip.
Simon unhooked the device from his belt. As he dropped his gaze to the small case, pain licked across his temple— eighty people in the fifteenth floor of the Magdalene, mice in a maze —and lanced through his forehead.
Did he get headaches? Oh, yeah.
But that was the way a Salem Project witch went out. With a goddamned bang.
Rubbing at his forehead, Simon flicked open his comm.
The list was growing. Fully a quarter of the names were marked as completed, some he’d done himself, but it didn’t end.
More names he knew. More faces he recognized.
More bodies he’d have to hide.
Splat.
Simon blinked. The comm screen blurred red.
Splat, splat.
God damn it, not again. Lifting his hand to his nose, he swore thickly as a metallic tang filled the back of his throat. Blood splattered his hand.
Tilting his head back sent waves of pain through his skull.
Two headaches in twenty-four hours? That couldn’t be a good sign.
P arker strode into her office. The door was already swinging shut behind her when the rest of her attention caught up. “For the love of Christ, Mr. Wells!”
Simon didn’t get up. Sprawled in her office chair like some kind of decadent god on a throne, his long legs stretched across the gap between chair and desk, ankles crossed on the polished surface.
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