Bone Music (Burning Girl #1)(91)

His throat’s closed up, and his chest’s suddenly made of metal. And even though he knows on a conscious level that his arms and legs are still attached to his body, it doesn’t really feel that way. Charley’s just staring at him, her expression unreadable. It seems a little tense, a little wary, and a little skeptical, all at once. As if she knows what he was about to say and doesn’t believe it. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to.

“I just . . .”

“You just what?” she asks.

“I liked helping,” he finally says. “I want to help. And I fucked up. And I’m sorry.”

Before she can respond, there’s a buzzing sound from her pocket. She pulls out a cheap-looking cell phone. “Prepaid. Marty bought it for me.” She reads the text message, drops the stick, and walks past him.

“Where are you going?”

“Package just showed up at Marty’s house. No return address. Strange delivery guy. Marty’s on his way there.”

He’s tempted to follow her, but he’s distracted by something else.

Now that she’s moved out of his way, he can see a pattern to the marks she was making in the sand. They’re words.

He walks closer, positions his back to the lake so he can read them clearly.

PLANNING. PLEASE BE PATIENT.

She’s right next to him suddenly. When her hand comes to rest on his shoulder, he jumps, but she’s too busy pointing up at the sun with her other arm to notice.

“Look,” she says. “Blink a few times and let your eyes adjust and you’ll see them.” He follows her instructions. “They’re tiny, so if they line up with the sun, the brightness hides them. But they follow me everywhere I go.”

If they’re drones, they’re the smallest drones Luke’s ever seen. And they’re moving together in a strange, swarmlike pattern. Almost like they’re feeding off each other. Or positioning themselves in relation to each other. They’re small enough and high enough that if he’d noticed them on his own, he would have dismissed them as specks on the surface of his eyes. Or maybe a cloud of gnats.

“Hell,” he whispers.

So the message in the sand is for them.

“Makes you wonder if all the crazy people in the world are really crazy, doesn’t it?” she asks. She lowers her arm and her eyes, squinting and blinking the glare away. “Sure you still want to help?”

She starts for the Camaro without waiting for his answer.





31

Three hundred people are waiting for Cole in the auditorium at Graydon headquarters, most of them journalists, but he’s pacing backstage, Dylan’s voice tinny through the earpiece in his ear.

“Yes,” Cole says, “I’m aware it could mean anything. That’s why I’m asking you what it means.”

“I don’t know,” Dylan answers.

“Guess.”

“Can I see it?” Dylan asks.

“It just came in, and I’m a little busy right now.”

“Where are you? It’s loud.”

“I’m running my company, thank you.”

“Right. The stomach drug no one needs.”

“You spoke with her the other day. What is she planning?”

“I told her the world was full of bad men, and she should go find some and show them what she can do.”

“And now she’s planning something and she wants us to be patient and you have no idea what that is.”

“Well, maybe if I could see the message.”

“I said I’ll send it to you. Later.”

“Or you could tap me into your feeds instead of sending me things on a delay.”

“Not a chance. Speaking of which, you’re getting a package later today. The thing that’s inside it, you’ll need to wear it at all times.”

“A tracking device seems excessive. I’m just sitting here waiting for my subject to perform. Just like you are.”

“This request didn’t come from me.”

“The Consortium. Good to know they’re back in the game.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

On the other side of the drop screen bearing a projection of Graydon’s logo, he can hear the audience growing restless. The stage manager waves at him and points to her watch. Cole holds up a finger.

“E-mail me when the package arrives.”

Before Dylan can say another word, Cole ends the call with the press of a button.

He’d thought a little clarity about Charlotte Rowe’s message in the sand might focus him before he took to the stage, but talking to Dylan has only rattled his nerves.

A minute later, when he walks out into the floodlights, greeted by robust applause, he feels his performer’s instincts kick in. Media presentations are one of those rare moments when he feels like something more than a pretender to the throne. Maybe because, unlike some other aspects of the job, he’s incredibly good at them.

But he’s halfway through his speech when he hears Dylan’s voice saying, I told her the world was full of bad men, and she should go find some and show them what she can do. His vision seems to blur. Then he sees the puzzled faces in the front row and realizes he’s fallen silent. Once he manages a deep breath and starts reading from the teleprompter again, the words he hears coming out of his mouth sound like they’re being spoken by a stranger.