“I can’t do this. One of the actors got hurt—”
“Hades and Persephone?” Worry made her shouty. “Are the animals okay? Did they—”
“Nothing to do with them. I promise,” I assured her. “I made a friend, and somebody targeted him online. He got hurt. There are news helicopters flying overhead. Uniforms everywhere. It’s bad, Ari. I’m jumping out of my skin.”
“I hear you. That’s a lot to handle.” Though she probably covered the phone with her hand, I heard my brother’s muted voice as they talked back and forth. She came back to me only seconds later. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll put Hannah on a plane. It will take a bit for her to get to your location, but you hang in there.”
“Hannah? Will she be okay with—”
“She’s young, I know, but I think she’s fully capable, and she’ll be over the moon to work with the animals on that show. You just—you hang in there, okay? Hang on. Once she’s there, you can figure out what you need to do next.”
“Thank you.”
“Is Morrigan okay? She’s taking care of you, right?”
“She’s my hero.” My throat was so dry my voice cracked. “More on that later.”
“Want to talk to Taggart?”
“Okay.”
“Bro. What’s going on?” The baby started crying, but one of them must have left the room because the sound grew distant.
“I don’t know. Cyberbullying maybe? Someone uploaded a video. Here”—I put the phone on speaker—”I’ll link you.”
When I went to YouTube, the video had been taken down.
“Oh, thank God. It’s already gone.” I told him briefly what the video showed and about the ominous message at the end.
“This guy’s famous, right?” Taggart said grimly. “Google his name plus the word video.”
I did as Tag advised, and there it was—a whole page of search terms related to the video that had been uploaded the night before and removed. Others had made screen caps and copied it and reposted. There were already memes.
“Oh Christ.” I groaned. “It’s everywhere, isn’t it?”
“The internet is forever, especially for a guy like Sebastian Keye.”
This was going to kill him, if it hadn’t already.
Chapter Twelve
Bast
For what seemed like a long time, I knew nothing but snatches of low-voiced conversations and horrible pain. I didn’t come around until much later, after everyone had left but my father.
He stood like a man of consequence, legs spread, hands in his pockets, staring out the window so the light hit him just so. His face resembled a dark-haired Charlie Hunam in his Sons of Anarchy days. Today, he wore a bespoke suit, a watch that cost six figures, and a frown that would make ordinary men shit blood.
Dangerous beauty, my mother had said.
“I hope that look isn’t for me,” I croaked.
“Your ownership of this expression is currently at seventy-five percent. I’m cursed.” He came over and ruffled my hair affectionately. “Stupid boy child. What am I going to do with you?”
I went to lift my hand, but my arm ached as though it had been crushed. Both arms were wrapped in thick, padded bandages, and they hurt like fire.
“I’ve been mummified.” My tongue felt slow and thick.
He unbuttoned his suit coat and sat in the uncomfortable orange plastic chair by my bed. “Your left ulna and radius are broken in several places. I’m having an orthopedic surgeon flown in from LA who will put plates and pins and God knows what else in there while you heal.”
“So…” I was slow to comprehend this. “No more airport metal detectors?”
If looks could kill. “Can you not make jokes, please?”
“I messed up.” I didn’t know why he still put up with me. I kept ruining the things I touched.
“Your right ulna has a hairline fracture. How did you break both arms, Sebastian?” He stood and turned away, hands folded behind his back as if to address a jury.
That particular stance meant he already knew the answer.
“I really don’t remember,” I admitted.
He turned and drilled me with the patented Alastair Keye, attorney-at-law glare. “If you were to remember, what would your answer be?”
I object?
“Probably protected the moneymaker.” Of course I’d have protected my face. “Ow. Why does it hurt so much? Don’t these people believe in painkillers?”
“You have a concussion. They have to be careful with medication.” Dad pressed the nurse’s call button and told her I was in pain. “How did you end up on a ledge fifteen feet below the bluffs?”
“Don’t remember. Honestly.” I tried out my winsome grin but it failed. “I ate with Molly and Stone.”
Dad lifted a brow. “Do I know this Stone person?”
Laughing hurt like hell. “You make him sound…like a gargoyle.”
“Oh, Bast.” Dad used the gentle tone he reserved only for me. “I know it’s your nature to joke when you’re frightened, but it would have killed me if you hadn’t gotten a lucky break last night. Don’t make light of it, please.”
He closed both hands over mine, put his forehead on them, and willed me to cut it out with the power of his wounded dignity.
Wounded dignity worked. It always worked.
“Stone is a friend.”
Dad lifted his head. “Okay. Then what happened?”
I only had snapshots of memory. A nice dinner with Stone and Molly. A drinking game and later, messages pouring into my phone. My feed blowing up. A new video showing someone drugging my drink and the feeling of abject humiliation. Fear. Hopelessness. Then…nothing.
Dad rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You don’t remember taking the golf cart?”
“No.” Had I?
“You don’t remember what you were thinking when you ran the golf cart into a tree?” Fierce blue eyes held my gaze. “Fair warning: There was no indication that you tried to stop.”
Cautiously, I lifted the less painful arm. Touched my face. My cheeks felt raw, and my forehead hurt, but I didn’t seem to have stitches or staples.
“It was foggy last night.” Visibility had been practically zero when Stone had walked me home. “Maybe I got turned around somehow.”
Dad had never looked at me with such desperate helplessness before. I wasn’t sure I could bear it. He leaned forward and let his clasped hands fall between his knees.
“Do you know what a fifty-one fifty order is?”
“I’m…being committed?” I asked with growing horror. “You’re going to—”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, you’re not a lost Bronte heroine,” he said irritably. “Based on an investigation of the scene, the police believe you to be a danger to yourself. You’ll be evaluated by medical personnel. The hospital can keep you for up to seventy-two hours. This, by the way, stays on your record for life. Going forward you’ll never be allowed to own firearms.”