I don’t wake up well at two in the morning.
“Solo.”
My eyes widen. It’s Terror her own self. At 2:14 in the morning. And suddenly I am acutely aware of the fact that I am not dressed, not at all, and without meaning to I glance toward where the security camera is.
I don’t worry about walking around naked. First, ninety-nine percent of security footage is never seen by anyone. It just goes straight into the servers. And second, on those rare occasions when camera footage is played, it’s for a bored security guy.
Anyway, I just don’t have much of a modesty thing.
Unless it’s Herself, the Mighty One, the Evil Queen herself, calling me in the middle of the night.
“Yeah?” I say, because it’s all I can come up with.
“I need you. Be at the south elevator, Level Two.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Now?”
“Am I stuttering? Now.”
I hesitate, trying to get the processors up to speed.
“I’ve already called two other employees, both of whom were unable or unwilling to respond. Both of whom are now former employees.”
“I’m on my way,” I say.
Click.
“What the hell?” I ask my room. I feel perfectly and completely awake and yet I manage to pull my jeans on backward anyway. And where did I leave my shirt? Does it smell? Are there clean ones in my closet? Yes, there’s one.
Find the front of the shirt. Okay. Good. Shoes.
I’m more or less dressed and I barrel out into the hallway, bleary, hair all over the place, no socks, underwear, or belt. My left eye has apparently been glued shut, but I am on the move.
I reach the elevator and ride it down to the second floor, which is the main reception area. Elevators coming from the parking garage come here first. It’s an amazingly impressive, intimidating space, a soaring four-story-tall atrium with a massive double helix floating in the air, all glowing colors and soft pulsations.
The lights are down, with soft spots on the elevator doors and the sweep of the reception desk. There’s a security guy sitting there, surprised to see me. He’s just thinking of asking me why I’m there when we hear the click-click of Terra’s high heels.
The guard quickly straightens his tie, shoots me a look, and stands up as Terra sweeps in.
Honestly, how does she manage to be that put-together at this hour? Sure, Eve mentioned she was at a spa all day, but it’s two-something in the morning and the woman looks like she just stepped off the cover of Hot ’N’ Scary Moms magazine.
She stares hard at me, like she’s caught me doing something. I flush with guilt because there are so many possibilities.
“That damned girl,” she says. “She’s here.”
Really? She’s referring to her own daughter as “that damned girl?” That seems harsh, even for Terra Spiker.
“I was in the middle of work,” Terra continues.
At two in the morning? I think, but I keep my mouth shut.
“And now, you’ll notice, I am not in the middle of work.”
The elevator dings. The door slides open. There’s a plainclothes security guy—instantly recognizable by the MIB suit and the earpiece. And the gun bulge under his jacket.
He has a tight grip on Aislin’s arm.
I start to grin at Aislin. Then I see. Her nose has been split, right across the bridge. One eye is red and puffy and will soon be black. There’s a welt on her neck, a shoulder strap that was obviously torn and then retied hastily. There’s blood on a patch of scalp where someone has torn her hair out.
The guard and Aislin step off the elevator. He’s still holding her arm in his big fist like she’s a threat.
“What a surprise to see you, Aislin,” Terra says in a voice that could freeze oxygen.
For once Aislin is at a loss for words. She’s been crying. She sees Terra, winces, and her eyes slide over to find me. For a second there’s a look of total vulnerability. It’s hard to see: She’s not the vulnerable type.
“A surprise to see you, not a surprise to see you in trouble,” Terra says. “And you wonder why I don’t want my daughter dealing with you? Look at yourself.”
“Leave her alone.” The words are out of my mouth before I know it.
Both security guys suffer simultaneous heart attacks. No one breathes. Terra glares incredulously at me. I see a faintly amused look in Aislin’s eyes. And gratitude.
Terra lets it go after no more than a single sharp intake of breath. “Aislin will be spending the night, Solo,” she says. “Find her a room. Do not wake Evening. She’s still recuperating and doesn’t need … this.”
The word “this” is drenched in venom.
“Twenty-four hours,” Terra tells Aislin, manicured finger puncturing the air. “And only because my daughter would hate me if I didn’t.”
She clickety-clacks ten paces away, stops, half-turns, and says, “And page Dr. Anderson, Solo. The girl’s a mess.”
And then she vanishes.
“Hey, Solo,” Aislin says sheepishly, as the guard walks away.
“Let’s go get Eve,” I say.
“No, no, no, you heard her mom.”
“Yeah, well, Terra can go … she can drop dead. Something bad happened with you. You came here to see Eve, not me.”
She half-leans against me. She smells like booze and cigarettes. “You’re a good guy. I hope E.V. figures that out.”