“To save his life?”
Isleen inclined her head, a subtle gesture that dripped with condescension. “Will his help be beneficial to our cause?”
Our cause? My wrist ached. I loosened my grip on the tire iron, allowing circulation back into my hand. “What the fuck do you think? Yes, he will be beneficial to our fucking cause.”
“That is all I was asking. Do not get upset.”
“Lady, you haven’t seen me upset.”
“You are as loyal as he said.”
I stared, my temper teetering on DefCon Five. “You know who I am?”
“At first I was uncertain, but now I am not. He spoke of you, Evangeline, although I imagined you younger.”
“And blonder?”
“Pardon?”
“Long story, and it has everything to do with why I’m here.”
Her eyes asked the silent question, but I hesitated. I hadn’t the stamina to repeat my sordid tale twice in one day. Besides, I still wasn’t certain that I trusted her. Vampires are, by nature, very self-centered. Their goal is always the betterment of their people, and if other species are trampled along the way, so be it. Deceptive and willing to play you like a fiddle for their own purposes, they still possessed one quality that many humans did not: an unwillingness to lie.
Still, I saw little distinction between deceiving and lying, but vampires saw an ocean of difference. How could they be proud of a culture that embraced duplicity?
Isleen watched me with cool disinterest. She pretty much ignored Alex. Both scored her faith points, but instinct kept me from trusting her. Her people were part of this rumored alliance, whether she liked it or not. And Wyatt and I weren’t exactly low-profile players in the Triads. I had to be sure.
“What does Truman look like?” I asked.
“Taller than him,” she replied, nodding in Alex’s general direction. “Black hair, dark eyes, I believe what you call a Mediterranean look. Greek, perhaps? A soft voice that deepens when he is angry.”
So far so good. “What about the scar?”
“Scar?”
“Yeah, the scar on his face.”
She remained motionless. If she’d been up close and personal with Wyatt like she said, if she knew him at all, then she’d know—
“He does not have a scar on his face. None that was ever visible to me.”
“Good.”
I walked past her, toward the other doors that lined the corridor. Interview time was over. I needed to do what I’d come here to do. I passed several doors and stopped in front of one that sported a broken padlock. The door’s nameplate had been ripped off and a black X had been drawn in paint. No, not paint. I touched it, and a soft fleck came off on my fingertip. Dried blood. I jiggled the knob; it wasn’t locked.
“I would not, Evangeline,” Isleen said. She stood next to me without seeming to move. Alex hadn’t twitched from his place by the stairs.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Death is in that room. Something wicked and depraved happened there. It is quite overwhelming.”
Fear traced lines across my back with icy fingers as I realized which door I had been drawn to. I had died in this room. Going inside might jog loose the rest of my missing memories. But faced with that possibility, I hesitated. Some things were better left buried; others had to be dug up again, no matter how painful. Which was this?
Beyond my hesitation, one simple thought rose to the surface: Wyatt needed me. I had to do everything in my power to save him. He brought me back, gave up his free will, so I could tell him what happened in that room. Not going in failed him, made his sacrifice for nothing. No.
“I have to go in,” I said, as much for Isleen as myself. “I have to see it.”
She retreated a step. I turned the copper knob. It didn’t squeal. The door creaked open. Warm, humid air crept out, bringing with it the heavy odor of death. Metallic, sweet, and thick, it was a physical entity that forced me backward. I released the knob, but the door continued to swing into inky blackness.
Just inside, my fingers found a switch. Dim, garish light from a single, naked bulb flooded the room. Dried blood spackled every surface. Barely larger than a coat closet, the room’s wood-paneled walls sported haphazard sprays and streaks, with no discernible dispersal patterns. A stained and ripped mattress lay on the cement floor. Two lengths of chain were bolted to the wall above one end of the mattress, each ending in a pair of unlocked handcuffs. A set of rusty shackles, like something from a bondage film, lay on the floor by the opposite end of the mattress.
It was the source of the smell, of the dread, and of the sense of death. My death. My blood.
“Oh my God.”
Shit. “Alex, don’t come in here.”
Too late. He bolted back into the hall before he threw up. I ignored the retching. I couldn’t lose it, too. This was what I’d come to see. It’s what I had to remember. How had I gotten there? What had I learned that was so goddamn important?
I tried breathing through my mouth, but could still taste the stench. It permeated the room, the air, my senses, my skin—everything. I thought about Max and going to see him the night I left Wyatt’s bed, so certain that Max could help me, give me something on an alliance that was—at that time—only a rumor. Tell me if it was fact or fiction.
I took another step inside, less than a foot from the torn and defiled mattress. I studied the bloodstains. Most were centered, and imagination, not memory, told me its source. My stomach tightened, forcing bile into my throat. More blood dotted the head, near the dirty handcuffs. Footprints smeared it in unremarkable patterns on the concrete floor, but left no discernible shapes or sizes, just shadows of many feet. Had Wyatt knelt there? Held my hand? Watched me gasp for air and finally die?
The handcuffs had bound my wrists, the shackles my ankles, and had held me prisoner for almost three days. Most of the blood spilled was mine, but I felt some semblance of satisfaction in knowing—because I knew how hard I would have fought—that some tiny amount belonged to my captors. I knew I had been tortured here, because Rufus said so. I knew I had died here, because Wyatt said so.
But I knew nothing about that room from my own memory. Nothing.
The room tilted. I was on my knees, arms around my waist, hugging myself tightly. My entire body trembled. Slowly, I was beginning to lose it. If seeing this hadn’t shocked my memory into returning, would the next forty- eight hours really make a difference?
“Evy?” Alex was in front of me, crouched to eye level. He held my upper arms and shook me gently until I met his eyes. Twin blue puddles of concern shocked me out of my downward spiral. “Evy, are you here?”
I licked my lips, tasting death. “I’m here.”
“Do you remember?”
Tears, hot and bitter, seared my eyes. I didn’t blink, only stared. Sought answers in his eyes and found none. I was stronger than this. I inhaled and held it, imagined the oxygen was cleansing me, energizing me. Centering me so I could get on with the task ahead. In Alex’s concern, I saw Wyatt—waiting for me, counting on me to rescue him and make it right. To do what he’d brought me here to do.
“No,” I said on the exhale. “I tried and it didn’t work.”
“I do not know what memories you have lost,” Isleen said, “but perhaps memory is not what drew you to this place. Perhaps it was fated that we meet.”
“I don’t believe in fate.”
“No? Truman places great value in fate and fortune.”
I thought of Tovin and the vision that had brought us to this point—Wyatt’s blind adherence to that bright, happy future. It set all of these events into motion, and with only two days left, that future loomed on the edge of darkness. One gentle push and it would fall into the abyss, along with my life and his free will. So much suffering for nothing.
Using Alex for leverage, I stood up. He hovered, and I let him. Isleen stood casually in the doorway,
