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Then she turned and walked away.
The one shot that Liam had given her helped her maintain, but healing was at this moment beyond her reach. Bryn drove fast and recklessly, and swore under her breath at her lack of a cell phone with which to call ahead to Annie. She’ll be all right.
She’d better be all right, or I’ll kill Jane for that, too. Over and over and over.
Upon her tire-screeching arrival, the mansion looked the same as it ever had—gates shut and locked, everything right and proper. The gardeners were finishing for the day, and rolling the plastic bins down toward the pickup point on the street; they waved to her as she drove in. All very normal.
Except her skin still looked gray and slack over her muscles, and she could feel the wrongness inside her. The big industrial refrigerator in the kitchen held the lockbox with the last of Manny’s special-formula shots; she’d grab those, inject two, and take the rest with her. And the box of inhibitors—she and Annalie would need those if they were to rely on the Pharmadene formula of Returné. The idea of being under the control of those built-in Protocols didn’t sound like something Bryn could handle. Not now.
Her self-control was like a thin, fragile crust over a vast abyss of betrayal; she tried not to think of what was going to happen when she finally broke through it and fell into that boiling cauldron of emotion. She’d loved Patrick, really loved him, and the damage he’d done to her was as great, in its own way, as Jane had managed.
Bryn parked Mercer’s sedan and ran up the front steps—or tried. Her legs felt clumsy, as if the nerves were making only partial contact with the muscles. It took three tries to fit her key into the locks on the door. She heard Mr. French barking on the other side.
As she stepped in, his glad rush toward her skidded to a stop, and he backed up a couple of tentative steps with a whine of puzzled distrust.
“Oh, sweetie,” Bryn said. “It’s okay. I’m still me. ”
Mr. French took another step back, still whining. From the library doorway, one of the house’s Rottweilers—Maxine, Liam’s favorite—advanced stiff-legged and growling.
“Annie!” Bryn yelled. “Annie, get down here!”
“Bryn?” Her sister’s voice echoed faintly from somewhere upstairs. “Oh thank God, I was so worried. Patrick was going out of his mind—” She appeared at the railing on the second floor and paused, eyes going wide. “What—?”
Maxine was steadily advancing on Bryn, who stood very still, trying not to look like any more of a threat than she already did. The Rottweiler was normally very sweet, but she was in guard mode now, and Bryn no longer smelled like someone who belonged here.
She smelled like danger.
“Call her off,” Bryn said. “Hurry. ”
Mr. French had backed all the way to the stairs, clearly torn by confusion—he wanted to protect her, but his instincts were all in conflict with his senses. Maxine wasn’t conflicted at all. She just wanted Bryn gone.
Annalie hurried breathlessly down the stairs. “Maxine!” She clapped her hands sharply. The Rottie didn’t even glance her way. Liam was her master, and the others were just tolerated guests. “Maxine, stop!”
She grabbed the dog by her collar just as Maxine’s growl dipped down to a truly menacing range. Maxine, surprised, tried to lunge forward, but Annalie held on and dragged her back over the slick marble floor, into the library, and blocked her way out until she could slide the door shut and trap the dog inside. Maxine wasn’t one for barking, but she did then, deep-throated and vicious sounds of alarm. The scrabble of her claws against the wood made Bryn wince. “Jesus!” Annie said, and backed away from the door, then turned to look at her. “Oh. Oh God. ”
“I need shots,” Bryn said. Her throat felt horribly dry, and her voice sounded thin. This was happening much faster than she was used to, but then, she’d been through a lot; the stabilizing influence of the single shot Liam had given her was wearing off incredibly fast. “Mr. French—”
He was huddling against Annie’s leg. Her sister knelt and petted him, then picked him up. Mr. French didn’t generally like being carried, but he didn’t resist this time.
And he never stopped watching Bryn with that dark, confused, betrayed stare.
“Come on,” Annie said. “Let’s get you fixed up. ” She sounded less bothered than Bryn would have thought, but then again, Annie had been through six months with Mercer and Fast Freddy. “Where were you?”
“At a nursing home. ”
“I’m serious. ”
“So am I,” Bryn said. She followed Annie into the back kitchen, spotlessly clean as always. “I can’t believe they left you alone here. ”
“Well, there wasn’t much choice, apparently. Liam said he couldn’t let Patrick run off by himself, and Joe—”
Annie pulled the lockbox from the refrigerator and put it on the table, then frowned. “I don’t know the combination. ”
Bryn pun
ched it in, opened the box, and uncapped one of the syringes before rolling up her sleeve and plunging the needle home. The burn of the nanites was especially tough this time, and she sank down into one of the dining chairs until the pain subsided enough to breathe. “What about Joe?” She uncapped a second shot and rammed that one home as well. She just managed not to convulse this time, or scream. When the pounding faded from her ears, Annie was talking.
“…kids,” she said. “I don’t know where they went, but he was definite that he’d be back once they were safe, but I haven’t seen him or heard from him. It’s been…quiet. ” Annie blinked, and Bryn saw tears shining on her cheeks before she hastily wiped them off with the back of one hand. “Why is this happening to us? Is it me? Are these people after me?”
