Two Weeks' Notice (Revivalist #2)

Two Weeks' Notice (Revivalist #2) Page 30

He favored them both with a warm smile as he stood. “She’s a lovely girl. And you, Annalie, were very wise in your choice of sisters, I think.”

After Liam was gone, Annie was quiet. Bryn stroked her hair gently, and finally said, “If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

“No,” Annie said, with unexpected force. “No, I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to remember. So let’s just…drop that, okay? Cut, print, move on. Damn it. Can you—uh—wipe my eyes or something? Damn, I think I need to pee, too. Man.”

For an answer, Bryn yanked the Velcro off her left wrist and put a tissue in her hand. Annie raised her arm and stared at it, as if not quite sure what it was (or, more likely, what it would do), then dabbed at her eyes with the tissue, blew her nose, and sighed. “Oh God, it’s ridiculous how good that feels. I didn’t realize how tiring it was to be in the same position all the time.”

“Feel any impulse to throttle me with your free hand?” Bryn asked.

“Only a little,” Annie said, “which, considering we’re sisters, is probably normal.”

Probably. Bryn studied her for a few seconds longer, then undid the rest of the restraints. “Hey!” Annie said, and sat up. “Are you supposed to do that? I mean, now? Ow, I’m still wearing IVs. Can I take these out?”

“No,” Bryn said. “But you can roll them with you to the bathroom, unless you have a real liking for bedpans.”

“Do you have to empty it when I’m done?”

“Not a chance, sweetie. I don’t love you that much.”

Annie’s smile was almost like her old one. “You were in the running for best sister ever, but now you’re back to, you know, just best in the room.”

“Except you?”

“So far, you haven’t tried to stab me, so I think you’re one up on me right now.” Annie swung her legs over the side of the bed and groaned. “Ow. Sore. A little help?”

Bryn supported her and eased her to a standing position, and rolled the IV stand over so Annie could hold on to it. “Better?”

“In one way. In another, now I really have to pee, now that it’s actually possible to do it.”

“In there.” Bryn walked her to the bathroom door and shut it behind her. As she waited, she looked down at her suit—grimy now with her twisting and wriggling around on the pavement underneath the limo—and remembered that she’d been on her way to change, again. How many outfits had she ruined today?

Well, she couldn’t change now until Liam came back to supervise Annie; she might trust her sister again, a little, but not enough to let her roam around the house without oversight. If her Protocols weren’t completely deactivated, she might choose the moment Bryn was cleaning up to reenact the shower scene from Psycho, and that wouldn’t do anyone any good. Least of all the shower curtain.

Annie came out a few minutes later, looking almost herself again. She’d even taken a moment to brush her hair, which fell in bouncy, ridiculously shiny curls halfway to her waist. It still looked thinner than before, but it’d fill out. “Okay, warden, I’m done.”

“Good. Back in bed.”

“Seriously?”

“Just for a few minutes,” Bryn said. “I’ll come back to get you.”

She fastened the Velcro around Annie’s wrists, ankles, chest, waist, and thighs, feeling stupid as she did so. Annie took it without any snarky commentary, which was nice, if unusual. “I’m sorry,” Bryn said, smoothing the last fastener in place. “I’ll be back for you soon. Tomorrow you won’t need these at all.”

“No hurry,” Annie said. “I’m not going anywhere.” She sighed, wriggled a bit, and closed her eyes. Mr. French, who’d been following the two of them around with anxious concentration, trotted after Bryn as she went next door. After a moment of consideration, she locked the door, then started stripping off the old, stained clothes. At this rate, she thought, I’ll have to buy a whole new wardrobe every month. Well, at least it wasn’t a depressing idea for a change. New clothes were always cheerful.

A fast, hot shower made her feel brand-new, and Bryn toweled off and dressed from the skin up again.…After consideration, she went for the best underwear she had, lacy and flirty, and over that, in compensation, a plain pair of jeans and matte jersey shirt. Comfortable. Not seductive. Overtly, anyway. Mr. French decided not to follow her after that; he curled up in his dog bed and put his head down, evidently worn-out by the day’s trials. She shook her head and left him there as she checked on Annie.

She wasn’t there.

Bryn did a fast, alarmed check of the room: no sign of Annie hiding in the closet with a butcher knife or lurking in the bathroom or under the bed.

Pat.

Bryn dashed back in her room, grabbed the handgun she kept in the nightstand, and raced out again. That got Mr. French up and running at her heels; he seemed to think it was a fun chase game meant just for him, and he almost tripped her up as she took the steps at a terrifying pace…

And almost ran straight into Patrick as he rounded the corner at the bottom. He took a step back, and she did, too, almost knocking herself over as her heels encountered the stair riser. Pat’s gaze fell to the gun in her hand. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought you—” Bryn took a deep breath and didn’t try to holster the gun. “Annie’s not in her bed.”

“I let her loose,” Patrick said. “And before you tell me I’m taking a risk, I tested her before I released her completely. She’s doing fine, and Liam’s keeping a sharp eye on her. I don’t think she’s liable to come after me at the table with a butter knife, but if she does, I assume you’ll…shoot.”

Relief made her weak at the knees for an instant, and then she felt her cheeks burn a little. Maddening, because she hadn’t overreacted…not considering the circumstances.

“I watched the videos,” he said. That surprised her, and she realized with a shock that in the heat of dealing with Annie she hadn’t even thought about the videos. “Two theories come to mind. First, someone is conducting a cleanup, officially sanctioned or not.”

“Which would explain why Graydon was on the list of vendors for Pharmadene after the turnover in management.”

“Or someone is abducting the Revived to find out exactly how they’re still alive. Testing them.”

Bryn hadn’t actually considered that. She’d been so focused on the method of their death that it hadn’t dawned on her to think about what might have happened before…but it was possible. More than possible. Someone could have gotten wind of the existence, or possibility, of a drug-based immortality; someone could have taken the logical step to find a person who was living proof and start experiments.

Which meant that when she’d seen Jason on the gurney being shot in the head and loaded into the furnace…that hadn’t been the beginning of his suffering.

That might have been a merciful end.

Her brain raced ahead of her, imagining all the horrifying things that could be done to a body that wouldn’t, and couldn’t, die.…It made vivisection look sane and humane, and she tried to close the door on her imagination, shut it off.

She’d go crazy if she spent much time in that dark, dark place.

“It could be something else,” Patrick said. He’d read her expression; she could tell from the sudden softness of his voice. “Something we haven’t considered yet. Let’s keep from rushing to judgment, Bryn. This is going to take a little time.”

“Time to what?” she said. “Track down two anonymous men in ski masks who are trying to abduct me?”

“No,” he replied very calmly. “Trap two anonymous men in ski masks.”

Oh.

Chapter 11

Dinner seemed fine, although Bryn couldn’t have said what it was exactly that she ate.…Chicken, she thought, with vegetables, all perfectly normal. Annalie, although pale and still nervous, was making an effort; she was all tinsel-bright smiles and eyes that were just a bit too wide, gestures too fast. Bryn watched her, waiting for any strange lapses, but she saw nothing but her sister, amped up a little too high. Liam didn’t seem to be paying attention, but she knew he was; he was well within striking distance of Annie’s fork, should she choose to go completely wrong, but her sister’s Protocol order hadn’t included the butler, just Patrick. And, of course, Bryn.

They were just finishing the dessert—a silky butterscotch pudding that was the first thing that actually made an impact on Bryn’s senses—when a tone sounded from the kitchen. That, she recognized, was the security alert. Liam excused himself, then came back and said, “Patrick, I believe you have guests. Again.”

“Wasn’t expecting any.”

“These seem to be in a large vehicle, and they’re wearing police-issue bulletproof vests. I’d guess that your FBI friends may be a bit unhappy.”

Bryn got up and went to the kitchen, where the surveillance monitors showed—just as described—a large tactical van, black and nondescript, with four men in helmets and flak vests standing around it.

Liam had forgotten to mention the semiauto rifles they carried. Bryn tried the little joystick on the keyboard, and zoomed in.

FBI. It said so very clearly on their vests. And walking up in the center of them, also wearing a vest but no helmet, was Special Agent Riley Block.

She didn’t look at all happy. That was extremely clear in the high-definition look she shot directly at the camera.

“Open the gates,” she said through the speaker, “or I’m driving in over them. That would be awkward for you to explain to the neighbors.”

Not that explaining the presence of an armed tactical team was going to be any piece of cake, if said neighbors were taking a jog around the block, but Bryn shot a look at Patrick, who was standing behind her. He shrugged.