I blinked until my vision was no longer blurry. Rogan fished his phone out of the pile of his clothes by the shower and answered it.
“Slow down.” He moved back to the bed and held the phone out a couple of inches from his ear.
Rynda’s high-pitched voice emanated from the phone, punctuated by a child wailing. “. . . can’t calm him down. Please. Please. I need your help. Please, Connor.”
I groaned and collapsed back on the bed.
“I’m busy,” Rogan said.
“If you just talk to him, he’s only four, please . . .”
Rogan looked like he wanted to throw his phone against the wall. “I’ll be right there.”
I slapped a pillow on my face.
The pillow disappeared and he leaned over me. “Wait for me.”
“Let me guess, it’s another crisis only you can solve?”
“Kyle is panicking. I put her and the kids in the building north of us. It will take me thirty seconds to walk over.”
“We just had sex, and now you’re taking off to see your ex-fiancée.”
“I’ll be back. We’re sleeping in the same bed tonight. I mean it.”
I waved at him. “Go.”
He pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt. “Wait for me.”
He opened the door and left.
I exhaled. It’s not that Rynda was consciously manipulating him. It was more that she relied on other people to fix her problems. First her mother, then her husband, and now Rogan. She was the kind of person who would see a pot overflowing on the stove and come and tell you about it, instead of picking it up and moving it off the burner. And then she would be proud of herself for acting quickly in a crisis.
Rogan, on other hand, would solve the problem. That was what he did.
I checked the small digital alarm clock on the nightstand: 10:03 p.m. I thought it was much later. I must’ve just fallen asleep when Rynda called. Except now I was wide awake.
I studied the starry glass ceiling above me. The night was so beautiful from here. It would’ve been even more beautiful if Rogan was here with me.
I’d left my phone in my car. I had meant to grab it but so much had happened.
The room spread in front of me. No shelves, but a stack of books sat on the floor near the window.
10:10 p.m.
I got up and snagged the top book off the stack. Monsters Inside Us: A Case Study of Magically Induced Metamorphosis. Well, that was a mouthful. I dragged the book with me to the bed, turned on the lamp, and leafed through it. Magic did strange things to human beings. A century and a half ago, when the Osiris serum was first developed, it was given out like candy. Nobody knew exactly how the Osiris serum did what it did. Some thought it created new powers. Some said it awakened the dormant talents we had repressed. But how it acted was less important than the results. Some people took it and gained great power. Others turned into monsters. Those magic-warped had to be destroyed.
Now, years later, the instances of monsters were rare. I’d met one, Cherry. She was a junkie and she sold herself to some institute run by a House. They had exposed her to something and now Cherry spent her days in the murky waters of the Pit, a nasty flooded area of Houston, eating frogs. Part of her was more alligator than human.
10:19 p.m. Thirty seconds, huh.
I wrapped the blanket around myself and flipped through the book. I knew a lot of these cases. The case of German Orr, the real-life minotaur. German was a sicko, who could transform himself into a bull-like beast. While in his minotaur shape he was extremely well-endowed, and he used his talents to star in some seriously gross porn. He was arrested on bestiality charges and went to court, arguing that this was magical discrimination and his rights were being violated. He lost, was jailed for six years, and then left the country.
Jeraldine Amber, the Bangor Banshee. When Jeraldine used her sonic magic, she transformed into a strange pale creature with black eyes and watery white hair. She was normal in all other respects, and while her talents passed to her children, the ability to metamorphose didn’t. Or so they claimed.
10:35 p.m. Seriously, Rogan?
I turned the page. The Beast of Cologne. I knew this story so well, I could write a book on it. Misha Marcotte, a Belgian woman, discovered her talent in her early twenties. She could assume the shape of an enormous beast, a creature out of a nightmare. She was practically indestructible in that shape, but she had no control over it. Once she metamorphosed, she would go berserk. The Belgian Armed Forces in cooperation with the French Légion de Sorciers, the Sorcerer Legion, had tried to evaluate her skills, and during her third transformation, she permanently lost her humanity. She crossed the Belgian-German border and rampaged through Cologne, nearly leveling the city, until they finally contained her. How exactly they managed to do it was a secret, but the dominant rumor was that the Germans drowned her in the waters of the Rhine. She was a cautionary tale for anyone with the power of metamorphosis.
There were rumors that she had reverted to her human form, survived the drowning, and was being kept alive somewhere under constant sedation. I believed it. The Primes would never throw a talent away, not while they hoped to glean some knowledge or increase their power from it.
I slapped the book closed. 10:48. I’d been waiting for him for almost an hour. Enough was enough. I couldn’t just sit here, pining in the dark by myself, naked. I had family to check on.
I got up off the bed. The thought of putting on my blood-smeared dress turned my stomach. No, thanks. He had to have some clothes around here.
I searched the room. The glass curve of the shower extended a few feet past the shower itself, and behind it was closet space. Shelves supported stacks of neatly folded T-shirts and sweatpants, and a rod held a couple dozen hangers, offering everything from shirts to ridiculously expensive suits, precisely organized and quickly available. Military habits were hard to break.
I grabbed a T-shirt. It came to mid-thigh on me. I stole a pair of sweatpants. Predictably, they were a little tight on my hips and way too long. I rolled them up. Good enough. I kicked the remnants of my dress, my bra, and my underwear into a pile on the floor. I really liked that bra, but there was no way I would be walking out of his place with my bra in my hands. With luck, nobody would see me, but I didn’t want to take chances.
I slid my feet into my beat-up sneakers and padded out the door and down the staircase to the second floor. Bug sat in his chair, absorbed in the glow of nine computer screens arranged in three by three formation on his wall.
“Slow down.” He moved back to the bed and held the phone out a couple of inches from his ear.
Rynda’s high-pitched voice emanated from the phone, punctuated by a child wailing. “. . . can’t calm him down. Please. Please. I need your help. Please, Connor.”
I groaned and collapsed back on the bed.
“I’m busy,” Rogan said.
“If you just talk to him, he’s only four, please . . .”
Rogan looked like he wanted to throw his phone against the wall. “I’ll be right there.”
I slapped a pillow on my face.
The pillow disappeared and he leaned over me. “Wait for me.”
“Let me guess, it’s another crisis only you can solve?”
“Kyle is panicking. I put her and the kids in the building north of us. It will take me thirty seconds to walk over.”
“We just had sex, and now you’re taking off to see your ex-fiancée.”
“I’ll be back. We’re sleeping in the same bed tonight. I mean it.”
I waved at him. “Go.”
He pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt. “Wait for me.”
He opened the door and left.
I exhaled. It’s not that Rynda was consciously manipulating him. It was more that she relied on other people to fix her problems. First her mother, then her husband, and now Rogan. She was the kind of person who would see a pot overflowing on the stove and come and tell you about it, instead of picking it up and moving it off the burner. And then she would be proud of herself for acting quickly in a crisis.
Rogan, on other hand, would solve the problem. That was what he did.
I checked the small digital alarm clock on the nightstand: 10:03 p.m. I thought it was much later. I must’ve just fallen asleep when Rynda called. Except now I was wide awake.
I studied the starry glass ceiling above me. The night was so beautiful from here. It would’ve been even more beautiful if Rogan was here with me.
I’d left my phone in my car. I had meant to grab it but so much had happened.
The room spread in front of me. No shelves, but a stack of books sat on the floor near the window.
10:10 p.m.
I got up and snagged the top book off the stack. Monsters Inside Us: A Case Study of Magically Induced Metamorphosis. Well, that was a mouthful. I dragged the book with me to the bed, turned on the lamp, and leafed through it. Magic did strange things to human beings. A century and a half ago, when the Osiris serum was first developed, it was given out like candy. Nobody knew exactly how the Osiris serum did what it did. Some thought it created new powers. Some said it awakened the dormant talents we had repressed. But how it acted was less important than the results. Some people took it and gained great power. Others turned into monsters. Those magic-warped had to be destroyed.
Now, years later, the instances of monsters were rare. I’d met one, Cherry. She was a junkie and she sold herself to some institute run by a House. They had exposed her to something and now Cherry spent her days in the murky waters of the Pit, a nasty flooded area of Houston, eating frogs. Part of her was more alligator than human.
10:19 p.m. Thirty seconds, huh.
I wrapped the blanket around myself and flipped through the book. I knew a lot of these cases. The case of German Orr, the real-life minotaur. German was a sicko, who could transform himself into a bull-like beast. While in his minotaur shape he was extremely well-endowed, and he used his talents to star in some seriously gross porn. He was arrested on bestiality charges and went to court, arguing that this was magical discrimination and his rights were being violated. He lost, was jailed for six years, and then left the country.
Jeraldine Amber, the Bangor Banshee. When Jeraldine used her sonic magic, she transformed into a strange pale creature with black eyes and watery white hair. She was normal in all other respects, and while her talents passed to her children, the ability to metamorphose didn’t. Or so they claimed.
10:35 p.m. Seriously, Rogan?
I turned the page. The Beast of Cologne. I knew this story so well, I could write a book on it. Misha Marcotte, a Belgian woman, discovered her talent in her early twenties. She could assume the shape of an enormous beast, a creature out of a nightmare. She was practically indestructible in that shape, but she had no control over it. Once she metamorphosed, she would go berserk. The Belgian Armed Forces in cooperation with the French Légion de Sorciers, the Sorcerer Legion, had tried to evaluate her skills, and during her third transformation, she permanently lost her humanity. She crossed the Belgian-German border and rampaged through Cologne, nearly leveling the city, until they finally contained her. How exactly they managed to do it was a secret, but the dominant rumor was that the Germans drowned her in the waters of the Rhine. She was a cautionary tale for anyone with the power of metamorphosis.
There were rumors that she had reverted to her human form, survived the drowning, and was being kept alive somewhere under constant sedation. I believed it. The Primes would never throw a talent away, not while they hoped to glean some knowledge or increase their power from it.
I slapped the book closed. 10:48. I’d been waiting for him for almost an hour. Enough was enough. I couldn’t just sit here, pining in the dark by myself, naked. I had family to check on.
I got up off the bed. The thought of putting on my blood-smeared dress turned my stomach. No, thanks. He had to have some clothes around here.
I searched the room. The glass curve of the shower extended a few feet past the shower itself, and behind it was closet space. Shelves supported stacks of neatly folded T-shirts and sweatpants, and a rod held a couple dozen hangers, offering everything from shirts to ridiculously expensive suits, precisely organized and quickly available. Military habits were hard to break.
I grabbed a T-shirt. It came to mid-thigh on me. I stole a pair of sweatpants. Predictably, they were a little tight on my hips and way too long. I rolled them up. Good enough. I kicked the remnants of my dress, my bra, and my underwear into a pile on the floor. I really liked that bra, but there was no way I would be walking out of his place with my bra in my hands. With luck, nobody would see me, but I didn’t want to take chances.
I slid my feet into my beat-up sneakers and padded out the door and down the staircase to the second floor. Bug sat in his chair, absorbed in the glow of nine computer screens arranged in three by three formation on his wall.
