The White Rabbit was completely gone, Player’s illusion morphed into his alternate reality. Sorbacov’s blurred image became so faded he wavered and was transparent. Where his face had been, in the center of the picture, eyes stared at the two of them, looking eerie, as if they actually peered out of the drawing itself, or through Sorbacov’s wavering, ghostly body.
Zyah held her breath. Those eyes lifted to look around the room, at her. This was becoming far too real. The eyes wavered, grew transparent, just as Sorbacov had, and then slowly faded away. For a moment, she could have sworn, the frame on the picture rolled in a weird circle and then righted itself.
She gripped Player’s arm, her nails digging into his skin. “That was insane. And very scary. I need a cup of tea. Or maybe a drink.”
“Let’s have a drink of whatever Hannah sent us and get out the notebooks. Each of us can write down what we remember and then compare notes. Czar said we’d figure it out faster that way, and we’re going to have to figure this out.”
“At least the bomb didn’t start ticking.”
“I hadn’t started building it.” Player pushed back his hair. “I hate that you have to go through this with me, Zyah. And I hate feeling Anat could be in danger. That thing staring at us was all too real, and it sure as fuck felt real.”
“It was,” Zyah confirmed in a low voice. She shivered as she reached into the drawer of the end table to remove the notebooks and pens she’d stashed there so they’d both have something to write in. “Something was in this room with us, Player—it wasn’t the first time.”
Was that the terrible dread she’d been feeling throughout the evening? She pressed one hand to her churning stomach. Had Sorbacov really been so evil that he’d found a way to come back from the dead? Was that even possible? She shivered again and moved closer to Player. His body was always hot. Always. Most of the time he felt like a furnace. She needed that heat right at that moment. Something evil had found its way into their home. A trace of its presence lingered behind.
“It’s gone, Zyah. After you write down what you felt and saw, think back to the first time you felt the presence and write down anything you can remember about that night as well. Even what I was dreaming.”
She leaned into him, rubbing her face against his shoulder. “I hate that anything like that creature might share knowledge that is just ours.”
“He doesn’t. He isn’t part of my past.” Player spoke with absolute conviction.
“He’s not the other man who was there that day?” Zyah asked tentatively. Player rarely directly addressed his actual childhood with her, and she hesitated to bring it up unless he did. She’d seen enough that she didn’t think talking about details unless he wanted or needed to was necessary. On the other hand, his past was entirely private, and no intruder should have any part of Player. He’d already had so much taken from him.
“No. That man is dead, Zyah. He would be like Sorbacov, a shadow, no more.” He was writing in the notebook and didn’t look up.
“You’re certain he’s dead?” she asked. “Sorbacov’s friend? You know for a fact that he’s dead?”
“Yes, baby. I know that for a fact.”
She wasn’t going to ask him how he knew it. “This was a shadow,” she persisted. The room was dimly lit. There were shadows everywhere, and she didn’t understand why Player wasn’t as shaky as she was. She went still inside and turned her face up to Player’s, her eyes on his. “Player. Look at me.”
His gaze flicked from the notebook to her, and she flinched. The blue was a glacier. Burning, yes, but so cold it was burning blue. Scary blue. She was looking at something in him that could be . . . deadly. Deliberately, she blinked, but that expression didn’t go away.
“Player.” She whispered his name in a kind of despair.
“I’m right here, baby.”
She shook her head. “No, you’re not. You’re letting them drag you back there. You’re letting them swallow you with their darkness. You were out of that.”
He threaded his fingers through hers and pulled her fist to his chest, pressing their locked hands over his heart. “I’ve never been out of it, Zyah.”
His voice was very quiet. Tender. That black velvet that whispered over her skin and broke her heart in so many ways. He brought their hands to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. The sensation caused her stomach to do a slow somersault. He rubbed his jaw along the back of her hand so she could feel the slight growth of his beard over her sensitive skin. At once, a thousand butterflies took wing. She was so susceptible to him.
“There’s no getting out of what was done to me. They had me for years. You see glimpses and you’re sick inside. I try to protect you, but when I’m asleep, I can’t. I tried to walk away from you, give you up, but I’m not that strong. I’m so in love with you I can’t think straight. But you have to know, if you accept me, if you want me with you—in your life, in your bed—you have to have all of me. You have to know who you’re going to bed with, Zyah. I don’t want you waking up one morning and saying you had no idea.”
She couldn’t stop looking into his eyes. She could see what they’d shaped him into. That cold man capable of things she’d caught glimpses of later on. Not just the building of the bombs. The man who could lie on a floor and shoot a gun blindly and hit his target accurately. A boy, a teenager, sent out to kill grown men for his country, who did so without hesitation. He sat next to her, showing her he was still there, inside that gentle man who had massaged her feet and legs so thoughtfully when she was tired.
“What am I going to do with you, Player?” She honestly didn’t know.
“That’s the question, isn’t it, baby?” He indicated her notebook. “Have you written down your impressions while they’re still fresh? I’m about done. While you’re writing, I’m going to make us a couple of those refreshing drinks. Hopefully, that will make us both feel a little better.”
She didn’t like him moving away from her, even just to slide out of the bed and pull the beautiful basket filled with items from the Floating Hat to him. Instead of writing down everything she’d observed, or thought she saw, she kept her eyes fixed on Player. That feeling in the pit of her stomach was still there, a dark dread that just wouldn’t go away.
She didn’t want to lose Player, and there was a deep fear that she could. She knew, from the little she’d seen of the glimpses into the members of Torpedo Ink’s past, that they didn’t like to take their eyes off one another. That was why they often traveled in pairs. Now she really understood. She felt as long as she could see Player, nothing could happen to him.
She watched him mix the liquid with water into the glasses and then come to her dressed only in loose-fitting drawstring pants that rode low on his hips. He looked disheveled after his nightmare. A little wild. He came around the bed to stand on her side in order to give her one of the tall, hand-blown goblets. It was beautiful, just like the man. Sometimes she felt overwhelmed with love for him—and fear for him.
“I’m not going anywhere, Zyah,” he assured quietly.
She took a sip of the liquid. She’d never tasted anything so good. It wasn’t too sweet. Or too tart. The drink actually cleared the clouds from her mind, and she was able to take a full breath for the first time since she’d felt the malevolence enter her space.