He slowly turned his head toward Becker. “And speaking of the psychometric...”
Arthur went cold. “We’re not speaking of him.”
Zeppler’s lip curled. “You don’t need to speak,” he said. “I’m hearing it clear as day. Disgusting, to have those feelings for another man. But useful.”
Arthur’s stomach sank.
“Your guilt is very loud,” Zeppler said to him, then turned to Becker. “The siphon is still in the car. Set it on the front steps before you leave, please.”
Becker nodded, then gestured at Arthur, eyebrows up.
“Leave him here,” Zeppler said, again as if in answer to something Becker had said. “He’s big, he’ll make a decent guard when we’re done tonight.” He spoke carelessly, as if Arthur was nothing more than a piece of furniture to be moved where Zeppler wanted.
Arthur’s hands set themselves behind his back into parade rest. He bit back the curses he wanted to fling.
Zeppler smiled, as if he were amused by Arthur’s unvoiced rage. He looked over at Becker. “And deal with Chance.”
Becker nodded again. He gestured, and Chance came forward out of the guards. His eyes were too wide as he marched past Arthur, past the car, into the darkness beyond. Becker and another guard followed just behind.
Arthur couldn’t move his body, or even his head, to see where Chance had gone. “Deal with him how?”
Zeppler calmly studied Arthur, ignoring the question. “Becker talks to me telepathically.” His eyes never met Arthur’s, focused instead on his forehead. “You should do it too. I dislike voices; thoughts are already so loud.”
But as he spoke, a gunshot cracked, the echo reverberating over the grounds.
Every nerve in Arthur jumped, like sparks trapped in a straitjacket, unable to move his body but only to fizzle in shock inside him. “Did Becker justshootChance?”
“Of course not,” Zeppler said, like he was bored. “Becker made him shoot himself.”
Oh, Christ. Arthur swallowed thickly.
“He did, actually, deserve it,” Zeppler said, as if Arthur had spoken aloud. “Why tolerate failure when Becker can just make more soldiers?”
“Soldiers are not disposable,” Arthur bit out.
“To the general, they are.”
In the corner of his eye, Arthur saw one of the henchmen climb behind the wheel of the Delage Arthur had stolen, while Becker got the siphon clock out of the car’s front seat. He carried the clock over to the manor and set it gently on the front steps, the gold muted and strange in the greenish fog that hung unnaturally in the air to light the manor grounds.
Becker got into the front passenger seat as two more henchmen got into the back. The driver started up the engine, and the car made a loop of the circular driveway and disappeared down the gravel path.
Zeppler stepped closer. “It is darker without the headlights,” he said distractedly. “But I hardly need to see you when I can hear you as I do.”
Arthur swallowed again.
Zeppler nodded knowingly. “I do look deceptively harmless. Everyone expects to meet a monster, but appearance has nothing to do with good or evil. Beautiful people are capable of cruel thoughts and actions.” He tilted his head. “You’re wondering how my telepathy works.”
What was Arthur going to do, contradict him?
“I hear your thoughts as if you’re speaking out loud to me,” said Zeppler. “But even for a telepath, I am exceptional. There is a lot more to my magic than hearing thoughts.”
Because Zeppler was a telepath with a relic. Arthur tried not to think it—
Zeppler’s mouth turned up in a dark smile. “Yes, I’ve learned that the psychometric has a relic too. That’s going to make him very useful. But you; you are useful too.”
Zeppler leaned forward. “What happened to my people in America, Lieutenant Kenzie?”
No. No, Ace, think of something else, anything else—
