Hidden Passions (Hidden, #7)(80)
They worked on communicating with the brood, learned dragon history, and practiced sword fighting. Getting their protector gauntlets to change shape on demand was tricky, but they were all improving. The dragons viewing everything as a game made the lessons enjoyable. Chris knew none of the caretakers minded the time required.
"It's like joining the National Guard," Tony said. "It's serious but it's fun."
Tony made Chris proud to be his lover.
Tony deserved a partner who held back nothing.
The corner Chris couldn't quite commit was why he was at Rykers Maximum Security today, handing a tan-uniformed red-eyed guard his watch, wallet, and house keys. The Monk demons who ran the prison were pale-skinned and slightly built. They rarely spoke--hence the name they went by in the Pocket. Monks were longtime residents who specialized in keeping locked-up things secure. A metal sign bolted to the wall promised Chris his belongings would be returned. He was scanned all over for hidden spells, which made him glad he'd given his dragon cuff to Tony for safekeeping.
When the demon was satisfied he wasn't here to break convicts out, he was given a metal-cased palm computer that issued instructions in a machine voice--perhaps from some other demon typing them. Whatever the voice's source, it directed him through another secure door and down a corridor big enough for an eighteen-wheeler to drive along. The size of the passage made Chris wonder what other creatures Rykers housed.
He'd have to ask Tony later. Thus far, he hadn't encountered another soul.
"You have reached the visitors facility," the palm unit informed him. "Please wait while we activate the entrance."
Until the door was activated, it was invisible. When the illusion that hid it fell, the entrance emerged from the gray cinderblock as heavy riveted steel. A buzz and a click announced its lock being sprung. Chris inhaled and then blew out his breath. He thought he was ready for this but couldn't predict exactly what this would be. Truthfully, he wasn't sure what he hoped to accomplish. After all these years, what was he going to prove?
That you can face him, he thought. That you're willing to.
He stepped through the opening.
A dim room lay behind it, furnished with a single chair, a carrel desk, plus the magic-proof glass so popular for prison visits on TV shows. Chris pulled out the plastic chair and sat. As he did, the opposite half of the room lit up. The chair on that side held a large male shifter in an orange jumpsuit. For the first few seconds, he seemed a complete stranger. Gray laced his hair, and he was bulky from weightlifting. The terms of his sentence must have prohibited him from changing. More than one bone had been broken in his face--in inmate fights, Chris assumed--without healing completely. Though no longer handsome, Chris could tell the cat used to be. Unexpectedly, he was taller than Chris recalled.
Then Chris recognized his eyes. They were dark brown and not quite right, as if the brain behind them were interpreting the world in askew ways. Chris was looking at Mark Naegel: his mother's one-time boyfriend, his brothers' murderer.
"Chris," Naegel said, which struck him as so strange a shudder ran down his spine.
Thirty years later, the tiger remembered him. Then again, Naegel's normal life ended back when he knew Chris. Probably everything surrounding those events was etched in his memory.
"Why are you here?" Naegel asked, rationally enough.
Why was he there? "I needed to see you," Chris answered.
"Did you get religion or something? Did you come here to forgive me?"
"Do you need me to?" Chris asked curiously.
Naegel gave him his off-kilter stare. His fingers rubbed back and forth along the edge of his carrel desk. "I'd have killed you too if you'd been there that night."
Chris didn't doubt he'd have tried. His tone was so matter-of-fact. "Are you sorry you killed my brothers?"
If Naegel was sorry, it wasn't in his eyes. In truth, he seemed to have trouble understanding what Chris had asked, as if life is sacred was in some language he didn't speak. Was he a killer because he'd been born with a few bad genes? Or was he one because he'd let those genes control him?
"I'm sorry your mother committed suicide," Naegel finally said. "She was a hot piece of ass."
He didn't seem to be saying this to make Chris angry. No doubt he'd have liked it if she'd been available for conjugal visits. That his mother wouldn't have visited the man who'd slaughtered her children didn't compute for him.
Realization clicked inside Chris. The ghosts he'd been fighting weren't real. He'd invented them in his head. Certainly, they weren't residing in this prison.
Chris scraped back his chair and rose.
"Will you come again?" Naegel asked. His face was lifted, his strange dark eyes hopeful. He'd shamed his clan and his family by turning killer. Chris doubted he got many visitors.
"No," he said. "We're not really anything to each other. You probably only want to see me because you're bored."
Naegel sat back without disputing this. Chris sensed his emotionless eyes tracking him as he departed.
The dark gaze felt like it followed him up the vast gray hall, prickling his hackles in icy waves. That was impossible, of course. Only Chris's memories pursued him.
At the security post, he turned in his palm computer and was given back his belongings. The silent Monk demon pointed the way to the outside door. Chris hadn't forgotten how to find it, but he was grateful to be dismissed even so.