Page 11 of Inextricably Tied

She just had to read this object.

Of fucking course she did.

Tamneth swipes his badge against another panel, and a pressurized-door unlocks. “The cuffs we have on it should prevent it from changing shape. It’s restrained to the chair.”

Flint stops Harbinger in the doorway. “Why is it restrained?”

Tamneth forces his eyes away from Harbinger. “During the course of our study, we’ve lost a few agents.”

Flint is incensed. Harbinger’s head falls, eyes slipping shut, trying to breathe through one blow after another.

A night terror. From a serial killer. Melded to her for the rest of her life. Able and eager to kill.

It can’t be real. Like Harbinger is pulled from her body, floating above herself, watching as Tamneth stands rooted in his righteousness and Flint fights down his helpless anger.

Pick it up. Then put it down.

It’s a phrase she hasn’t thought in so many years, the mechanical way she learned to cope with her powers. She can still picture it. Smaller, skeletal hands holding her gloved ones. Knees trembling outside a tall wooden door. Milky white eyes staring back, set into a face mirroring her own.

Pick up the object. Read what they ask for. Then every feeling it gives you, every horrible thing you see, push it away.

Pick it up. Then put it down.

Harbinger clings to the thought of that awful wooden door, the distant squeeze of fingers around hers.

Then, with a slow breath, she opens her eyes and steps into the containment chamber.

FOUR

Harbinger

An empty chair is cast in shadow in the middle of the room. Confusion clouds Harbinger’s thoughts, still trapped in her memory, until her eyes focus on the darkness enough to make out an arm. A leg. An almost-human shape strapped to the chair.

He’s dark in varying shades, shifting from pitch black to dim gray. Fire-like wisps flicker at the top of his head, like the black flame of a candle. Around him, the air gives off static. Harbinger can make out the line of his shoulders, the lithe expanse of his chest, all tapering to his waist. Metal straps hold his throat and ankles to the chair, thick handcuffs locking his wrists together in his lap.

She knows it’s ‘him,’ because he prods at their connection until he catches sight of her. His eyes have no pupils, just two glowing yellow slashes that match the gash of his mouth when he smiles.

Flint edges in front of her, but the creature doesn’t make a move for them…not that he could. Instead, his gaze lingers on Harbinger’s skull helmet behind Flint’s elbow. When the terror speaks, a chill rakes up the backs of her knees.

“Sorry for staring, sweetheart, but you look like death itself.”

His cadence is smooth, unperturbed, no audible tell that suggests he’s a prisoner against his will. But there’s a haunting quality to his voice, like a distant thud. A flicking tongue. An object moved in an empty house.

For a moment, Harbinger’s glad Flint stepped in front of her, but the way the night terror watches them replaces the iciness of the room with prickling heat.

“Have we met?” Interest swirls in the terror’s shadowy depths. Harbinger forces her voice level.

“I’m Harbinger. This is Flint.”

The creature laughs, a distorted sound that makes her skin crawl. “Oh, yeah.” His gaze licks over her, and the pull on their connection grows tighter. “I know you.”

Flint stiffens. The creature catches it the same time Harbinger does, and his lip twitches. “You can call me Agony.”

Harbinger’s brow hikes. “Original.”

“I thought so…” Agony’s glowing tongue toys with their names. “Harbinger and Flint.”

Tamneth stays on the edge of the room — of fucking course. When Harbinger turns back, Agony is sizing Flint up.