The Flight of the Silvers (Silvers #1)(32)

Amanda shook her hand with hummingbird zeal until the dots disappeared. She searched every inch of her skin for remnants.

“Amanda?”

She threw her saucer gaze at the shower curtain. “W-what?”

“I didn’t mean to say that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I’m not . . .” She flashed back to her alley encounter with Esis, the strange white tendril that had burst from her hand. What did she do? What did she do to me?

Amanda jumped to her feet. “I should . . . I should check on the kids.”

“Let me know if you find out anything about Theo.”

“Yeah. I’ll ask.”

“He said he was a blight.”

Amanda stopped at the door. “What?”

“Theo. He made himself out to be some god-awful person, but he didn’t seem so bad.”

Hannah smeared hot water against her eyes. “I don’t want him to die.”

Amanda kept staring at her flushed pink arm, lost in dark imaginings. God only knew what the scientists would do if they found out about her white affliction. They’d probably have her vivisected by sundown.

“He’ll be okay,” the widow said, without remotely meaning it. “We’re all going to be okay.”

—

Amanda returned to the game parlor, her arm still tingling from her outbreak. She noticed David and Mia keeping a curious vigil at the window.

“What’s going on?”

Mia turned to her. “Erin’s back. She found another one of us.”

“Looks healthier than the last guy,” David added. “Though he doesn’t seem pleased.”

Before Amanda could peek for herself, the procession moved inside. Loud voices echoed from the lobby.

“—not until you tell me what the hell’s going on! I mean, why so cryptic? Are they paying you to generate suspense? Because trust me, I’m all stocked up.”

David smirked at his companions. “He’s certainly spirited.”

Mia noticed Amanda’s tense expression. “Are you okay?”

She forced a thin and shaky smile, even as her thoughts churned with hot new worries. She’d held Mia’s hand earlier. What if she infected her? What if they both had the alien blight now?

Amanda studied Mia’s fingers as casually as she could. “I’m okay. How . . . how are you feeling?”

“Numb,” the girl replied. “Tired. I’m happy for you, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your sister.”

“Oh.” Amanda blinked in confusion, then reeled with guilt. “Yeah. I still can’t believe she’s alive.”

“Are you two close?”

“Uh, well—”

The argument in the lobby got louder, closer. Now they could hear Beatrice’s chipmunk voice.

“Sir, if you would just give me your name . . .”

“My name is Up Yours until I get some answers. What is this place? Who are you working for? What the hell do you want with me?”

“Sterling Quint will answer everything—”

“Sterling Quint? Sounds like a Bond villain. I’m not appeased. But if you can get him here and talking in five minutes, I’ll become a lot nicer.”

The group appeared in the doorway. Between Beatrice and Erin stood a lanky young man with wavy brown hair. His rumpled black oxford was torn at the left shoulder. He clutched a spiral-bound pad against his chest. A sketchbook.

Zack examined the three refugees in bathrobes, then chucked a hand in hopeless dither.

“Okay. Now I’m at a spa.”

—

Czerny stopped at the end of the second-floor hallway. He squeezed a drop of clear liquid into each eye and shot a blast of eucalyptus spray up his nostrils. After several blinks and sniffs, he was finally ready. He knocked on the door to the Primary Executive’s office, and then once again stepped into Rat Heaven.

Scattered among the Persian rugs and sculptures stood ten huge glass aquariums, each filled with scampering mice of the brown and white varieties. Despite the apartheid arrangement, both breeds enjoyed a life of murine opulence, filled with fresh mulch and lettuce, frequent mating opportunities, and the greatest luxury of all: time. As physicists, the Pelletier Group experimented with math, not mammals. None of these creatures would see the business end of a scalpel. Not for a few generations, anyway. Their caretaker was breeding a special strain for his wife, a university neurobiologist. Czerny could tell from the devoted pampering that these creatures were more than a pet project to Sterling Quint. They were pets.

A fat white mouse roamed free on his great mahogany desk. Quint stroked her back as she chomped a piece of radicchio.

“I’m not encouraged by the blood on your shirt.”

Czerny breathed through a scented tissue. “I’m afraid the Oriental has fallen into coma, sir.”

Quint scowled in pique. “Idiots.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The Salgados. They should have smelled the alcohol on him. They had no business drugging him in the first place.”

“As it stands, I agree. Shall I dismiss them?”

Quint pondered the matter a moment, then slowly shook his head. “No. The last thing we need are disgruntled ex-contractors spilling our secrets. Raise their wages, but give them less responsibility. Have them guard the property or something.”