attend a boring meeting about the repair of some road owned by the Pack. I hadn’t wanted to go, so I’d decided not to cut my workout short. I hadn’t realized that he held up the meeting until I deigned to make an appearance, so when I’d walked into the meeting room, almost an hour late, he, Lydia, and the two alphas of Clan Heavy were all patiently waiting for me. Mahon had dosed off, his wife had knitted half a sock, and Lydia had shot me a look of pure hatred. I’d felt like a total moron. The meeting had lasted a total of fifteen minutes and neither I nor the alpha couple of Clan Heavy needed to be there anyway . . .
Oh.
The light dawned. “She was one of Curran’s ex-girlfriends?”
Derek nodded.
Curran had followed the protocol. I would do the same. “Fine.”
Derek nodded again. “I’ll get my jacket.”
An hour later we stared at Champion Heights, where Saiman made his not-at-all-humble abode. During the magic wave, chunks of the tower would fade into hard red granite, complete with old moss—the result of spells shielding the building from the magic’s jaws. Right now it was all brick, mortar, and glass, foreboding and dark.
Neither one of us wanted to go in.
Sitting in the Jeep would accomplish nothing. I parked the vehicle in the tower’s parking lot and we climbed the wide concrete stairs to the glass-and-steel entrance. Despite everything that happened, Saiman still hadn’t changed the code word. It took us less than a minute to get through security and ride the elevator up to the fifteenth floor. The elevator vomited us up into a hallway lined with criminally luxurious carpet.
Derek’s frown had graduated to a full-blown grimace. A furious yellow light sheathed his irises.
“Try to look less disgusted.”
He shrugged. “Are you worried I’ll offend him?”
“Your eyes are glowing, and your upper lip is trembling like you’re about to snarl. I’m worried Saiman will panic, and that door is hard to break. Make an effort to look less deranged and threatening. Think of rainbows and ice cream; it will help.”
Derek sighed, but the glow in his eyes dimmed.
I knocked on the door.
No answer.
I knocked again.
Nothing.
“He’s in there,” Derek said. “I can hear him moving.”
“I’m deciding if I should let you in,” Saiman’s smooth voice called through the door. “Our meetings never go well, Kate. You’ll forgive me if I’m less than enthusiastic.”
“Adam Kamen,” I said.
The lock clicked and the door swung open. Saiman wore his neutral form, a bald man of slight build and indeterminable age, somewhere between twenty and fifty. He was a blank canvas, hairless, colorless, without any distinguishing features. If you bumped into him on the street and didn’t notice the sharp intelligence stabbing through his eyes, you’d never remember him.
Saiman’s face wore a martyred expression. “Come in, come in . . .”
I stepped inside and froze. Chaos reigned around me. Usually Saiman’s apartment was a highly controlled environment of white rugs, stainless steel furniture, and ultramodern curves. Not a single carpet fiber was out of place. Today the couch held a variety of clothes folded into neat stacks. Wooden crates littered the floor, half-filled with books and linens. The door to Saiman’s state-of-the-art laboratory stood wide open, and through the doorway I could see more boxes.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m playing golf, Kate. What does it look like I’m doing?”
He was in rare form today. “Why are you packing?”
Saiman rubbed his forehead. “Are we playing the obvious question game? I so apologize, nobody told me the rules. I’m packing, because I intend to move.”
“Watch your tone,” Derek said.
“Or what?” Saiman spread his arms. “You shall tear me to pieces? Spare me your threats. I assure you, under the present circumstances, they will have no effect.”
I glanced at Derek.
I stepped closer to Saiman. The odor of scotch floated to me. “Are you drunk?”
The last time he got drunk I had to drive like a maniac across a snow-strewn city while an enraged Curran chased us across the rooftops.
“I’m not drunk. I’m drinking, but I’m not drunk. Kate, stop giving me that look; I’ve had two inches of scotch in the last two hours. With my metabolism, it’s a drop in the bucket. I’m functioning at maximum capacity. The alcohol is merely the grease for my wheels.”
“You never told me why you’re packing,” I said. Saiman was the last person I expected to move. He loved his ridiculously overpriced apartment in the only pre-Shift high-rise still standing in Atlanta. All his business contacts were tied to the city. He had half a dozen aliases, each with his or her fingers in a different pie.
Saiman rocked back on the balls of his feet. “I’m moving because the city is about to die. And I do not intend to go down with the ship.”
“MOVE THE CLOTHES IF YOU WANT TO SIT DOWN.” Saiman walked to the bar, retrieved a crystal goblet and a thick glass, and splashed amber-colored scotch into it.
Neither Derek nor I moved.
Saiman sipped his drink. “It started with Alfred Dugue. French-Canadian. An unpleasant violent man, very conflicted about his sexuality. His sexual practices were . . . odd.”
Dear God, what would Saiman find odd? Never mind, I didn’t want to know.
Saiman seemed to study his scotch. “I understand that realizing your preferences are in conflict with established norms can be traumatic, but Dugue was engaged in extreme self-loathing. Somehow between bouts of whipping himself and performing bizarre erotic rituals, he managed to build a successful enterprise shipping goods down the Mississippi. I wanted a piece of the action. I assumed the shape consistent with Dugue’s type, charmed him, seduced him, and permitted him to take me home. I should’ve been more thorough in my research.”
“Didn’t go well, did it?”
Saiman’s eyes brimmed with outrage. “He served me poisoned wine. When that failed, he tried to strangle me. I snapped his neck like a toothpick. It was a distasteful affair.”
“I’m sure.”
“I was going through his papers when I stumbled on his notes on Kamen’s research. At first I dismissed it as a pipe dream. However, after running Dugue’s operation for a few weeks . . .”
Of course. Why was I not surprised?
“You turned into the man you killed?” Derek couldn’t keep derision out of his voice.
Saiman shrugged. “He was already dead. He couldn’t benefit from his company, and it couldn’t be left unsupervised. I’ll have you know I’ve greatly improved on it since it came into my possession. For one, his teamsters are now paid a living wage. Consequently, the incidents of theft are down thirty-seven percent. Soon, I shall simply sell the entire enterprise to myself, eliminating the need to perpetuate the Dugue impersonation. But I digress. I realized that Dugue wasn’t fond of bets; if he invested in something, it was a sure thing. Given the obscene amount of money he’d sunk into Kamen, I revisited the matter. I went to see Adam.”
“While he was under the Red Guard’s supervision?”
“Of course.”
So much for no visitors. I knew it was a shit job from the start. I knew Rene had denied me information. I could deal with it. But an outright lie went over the line. Strike one against Rene. “Go on.”
“We chatted. Kamen was deeply damaged by his wife’s death, a genius in his work, but practically nonfunctioning in all other areas of his life. It took me two visits to realize the machine was real. For a brief period I considered using it for my own means, but I’ve since come to my senses. It has to be destroyed.”
I raised my hand. “Saiman, what does it do?”
