Marielle made a soft sound and turned onto her side, grabbing a pillow and holding it against her body. Then she stretched toward the headboard, yawning as her eyes slowly opened. It took a minute, but she remembered where she was and looked to her right.
Vincent was staring at her, eyes still warm and tender as he leaned his mouth into his palm. For a moment, she was confused, as if waking from a dream. Then she recalled the events of the day before and sat up, clutching the sheet close to her body. A vague, dreamlike memory hit her of Vincent pulling the sheet over her when the temperature had dropped during the night and whispering, “Good night, Marielle…”
She turned to the desk and spotted two mugs. Both had something steaming in them that she prayed was coffee.
“Hi,” she said shyly.
He smiled at her and blinked once. His eyes told her how tired he was. “You’ve brought me food often, so I brought you some coffee,” he said, gesturing.
She yawned, trying to hide it with the back of her wrist. “You actually left?”
He nodded. “Not for long.” He brought her a black mug. “Cream and sugar,” he whispered, handing it to her and leaning in to give her the smallest kiss on her temple. She tried to stifle a smile.
Then he bent and pulled a covered plate from the side of the bed. “It’s not classic French cooking, but…” She cocked her head at him as he uncovered it. “Croissant, goat cheese, and cherries.”
She tucked her bottom lip in, tingling. “What time is it?” she whispered, noting that the sun was up but not too bright.
“Just after eight. Everyone will be here soon.”
He pulled up another plate and uncovered it, revealing the same meal as hers. She nibbled a bit of the croissant, feeling like a queen. Breakfast in bed? She could die.
“Would you like the first shower, or should I go?” he asked, using a spoon to spread some of the soft goat cheese in the middle of the pastry. He closed it like a sandwich and took a large bite.
Somewhere inside, Marielle wanted to ask if they should just bite the bullet and shower together, but it didn’t feel like the right time. Instead, she reached over and touched the top of his hand, which was resting on the mattress between them. “Stay with me for a minute,” she said quietly.
He smiled at her. “Of course.”
“Vincent, don’t you need rest?” she asked after taking a hot gulp of the sweet, creamy coffee.
“Oui,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I’ll sleep tonight,” he added, and ate another bite.
“The other day, you said you’d answer anything I asked. Do you still mean that?” He nodded, the corner of his mouth just barely twitching. She wasn’t sure why she needed to know this right then, but she dared it. “How many lovers have you had?”
He exhaled heavily and tilted his chin down. “I’m not entirely sure. When m—when my wife died… I had a string of lovers. Many of them are faceless now.”
“Makes sense,” she murmured, feeling small. She chewed for a moment, pulling her hair over her right shoulder. “Were any of them men?”
He chuckled, looking a little embarrassed. “Eh, no. I promise that despite the jewelry and”—he glanced down at the golden tattoos running up his arms—”decoration, I am very much straight.”
Marielle laughed as well. She wasn’t sure why she’d asked the question. Maybe in the back of her mind, she was trying to understand the connection between Chamber and Austin.
“How’s Austin?” she whispered, flicking her gaze toward his room, then back to her cup.
Vincent looked at the wall. “He showered about half an hour ago and went out. Downstairs, I think.”
He finished eating and stood, stretching with a yawn. She watched his body lengthen and sighed dreamily when he gently pinched her chin and went to the bathroom, shutting the door. Like the night before, he took less than five minutes, but he also took a few minutes to shave. She could hear the razor swish in the sink.
When he came back out, she once again took in the heavenly scent of aftershave and soap against his skin. “Can I do anything else for you?” he asked as he rolled one sleeve up to his elbow, buttoned it, then did the other. She shook her head as she finished her coffee. “I have to go down to the lab.”
“‘Didi, Didi, no! Not my lab-or-a-tory!’” she mimicked the classic cartoon Dexter’s Lab.
He chuckled at her, and again, gently pinched her chin. “Come meet me in a bit.”
Marielle nodded her agreement, and he left. Exhaling, she flopped back against the mattress, excitement rushing over her. She couldn’t breathe correctly.
After a few minutes, she got up, set the dishes aside, and showered before dressing and heading down to the morgue. When she got there, Kiritani was on guard again. He nodded at her and gave her immediate access this time.
She went in. Kirra was already there running tests, and she gave Marielle a small wave.
“What have we found out?” Marielle asked.
“So far, just that Varun was dying as well,” she replied, moving around his body. “I just got in.”
Marielle made her way to the last slab and looked down. Amir was still fully clothed, and even his face remained covered.
“He’s still masked,” Marielle said, her tone confused.
Kirra sighed and shook her head. “It didn’t feel right,” she said distantly. None of them had ever seen his face.
Marielle took a deep breath and nodded. “We have to, though, right?” She looked back at Kirra, who nodded in response. Marielle paused, thinking. “Maybe just you and I,” she said quietly, flicking her gaze toward the door, then back. “I think he’d want as few people as possible to see him.”
Kirra agreed. “Sounds right.”
Marielle washed her hands and put gloves on as Kirra stood by Amir’s body waiting for her. Once she was ready, both women took a deep breath in. Kirra was correct. This felt wrong. They each took one side of his mask and slowly peeled it away, setting it aside, then stood over him for a moment, taking him in. It was odd: he was handsome, thirty to thirty-five, with dark skin, a narrow face, defined cheekbones, and loose, dark curls crowning his head. His full lips were parted, his hazel eyes fixed in a glazed stare.
When Marielle looked into his eyes, she had to look away again. It always felt strange seeing a dead body up close, to see someone’s empty shell as they stared at you in an eternally drained glare, their limbs stiff, their body now a puppet to be manipulated by the medical examiner. To think that this had once been a real flesh-and-blood person who had controlled their own movements… And he—Cypher—Amir… with all of his talent and ability, was now nothing… a non-thing. He… it… was a husk she could move, and he wouldn’t fight back. He wouldn’t protest or try to get away. He wouldn’t ask for a corpse… he was one. This bordered on nightmarish for Marielle. She’d killed him, after all.
“That’s shocking,” Kirra murmured.
Marielle nodded. “He’s handsome,” she whispered, her eyes welling with tears. She lifted a finger and traced a line along his jaw, then put her face in her hands and cried silently. “In a… strangely boyish way.” She turned, unable to look at him for a moment. “I didn’t expect that.”
Kirra came around the table and hugged her. “It’s okay. You did what you had to.”
“I know,” Marielle whispered, but she still felt shaken.
“Was he the first person you’ve killed?” Kirra asked, pulling back a little. Marielle nodded slowly, as if it was registering for the first time. “You should talk to Dr. Rancor.”
Marielle sighed. She should—for a number of reasons. She acknowledged this and wandered toward the door.
“Did you know?” Kirra asked. Marielle looked over her shoulder, questioning her with her expression. “About Dr. Rancor’s powers?”
Marielle let out the breath she’d been holding. “Yeah,” she whispered, hearing Austin reflected in that one simple word. Then she walked out of the room and tried to leave the image of Amir’s face—his handsome, dead face—behind.
Her aimless wandering took her to Austin’s office, where she stood outside the door with her hand lifted to knock for a moment, thinking. She did need to talk to someone, and she was growing to trust Austin more and more. They had fun together, she always seemed to have a smile on her face in his presence, and he’d been kind to her a number of times now. Why had she been mad at him yesterday? She didn’t want to explore that thought. So much had happened since they’d gone bowling yesterday evening that most of the events of the night had been erased by all of the action, fear, and trauma. He hadn’t said or done anything to hurt her, right? No, he’d just gone to the bar to get a drink, and then…
She knocked on the door.
“Yeah?” His voice came from inside.
She entered, grateful to find him working and not in a nervous, needy state. He glanced up and stood from his desk as soon as he saw it was her, putting his coffee aside. The look on her face must have spoken volumes to him, because he quickly came and knelt down in front of the couch where she sat, looking down as she tried not to cry.
“Hey,” he said in a smooth, compassionate tone.
She couldn’t stop herself from crying. Why did she feel like she couldn’t talk to Vincent about this, but she could talk to Austin? Maybe it was because she never sensed that Austin was lying to her. Keeping some of his actions from her? Yes. Outright lying? Never. She was confused.
The fact that they were both profilers also played into her feelings. She always felt like she could read Austin, his truthfulness and genuine nature; she could do this with Vincent, too, but she felt like Austin could read her back, and because of this, she could open herself to him a little more.
“Hey,” he said again as her tears began welling, and he gathered her to his chest. Oh, no… She wanted to be there. “It’s okay,” he breathed, “I’m with you.”
At first, the idea of being in Austin’s arms gave her cause for concern, but then she remembered what he’d said the other day. “I know the difference between work and play, and I don’t violate that, Marielle.” She also recalled the similar way he had treated Klara yesterday, and noted that this was a close, intimate embrace that felt entirely non-sexual. It was like a best friend or father holding someone who couldn’t form words. His arms were around her back and his hands up around her shoulders, not anywhere low or below the belt, enveloping her protectively.
“You’ve never killed anyone before,” he realized in a whisper.
She nodded. “I can’t stop seeing it. It took some time to hit me… but I was just in the morgue. I saw his face,” she murmured, starting to shake.
Austin pulled back, eyebrows knit together in genuine concern. “You saw Amir’s face?” She nodded, and he stroked her hair back from her face, once again only to comfort her. He made a soft sound that sounded like “Oh,” and pulled her to him again.
She broke and sobbed silently on his shoulder. What was she mad at him about? The question melted into wondering why she was mad at him about it. He held her, gently rocking and hushing her, and she sensed nothing disingenuous about it. He really cared. Of course he did. What else would she think?
That he just wants your body, Marielle…
She forced herself to stop and pull away, huddling up in the corner of the couch. Silence passed between them for a few moments.
He pulled a chair next to the couch and sat in front of her. “Did you dream about it?”
“No, but… I think I might,” she replied, gazing into her empty hands.
Austin nodded. “Often people don’t realize they’re traumatized for a while after the incident occurs. This is especially true in children.” He looked distant when he said this. Then he looked down. “Did you sleep last night?” he asked, his gaze returning to her. It was obvious he was trying to ask something else.
“Yes, I did,” she replied curtly. Then she softened her tone. “I didn’t dream, I don’t think.” She tucked her lips in. “Vincent just guarded me all night.”
Austin swallowed, and she thought she caught a relieved sigh. But then, if he had been listening to them, wouldn’t he have known that?
As if on cue, he replied, “I know that you know I was listening for a while. I was only trying to make sure you were both okay.” He sighed. “I stopped after Vincent’s story about his wife… and went to sleep.” True. She felt a little better. “I was so worried about you after all of that,” he admitted.
She opened her hands as if to shrug. “I was pretty shaken up. I cried a lot in the shower.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Vincent didn’t hold you?” he asked, and there was genuine concern in his tone.
“I kind of… didn’t tell Vincent.” She winced a little.
Austin looked detached for a minute, but then he turned back to her. “Okay… You need to do something with your mind here before it develops into something that takes root.” She nodded. “What’s on your list of things to do today?”
“Uh, I have to go pick up Vincent’s clothes, and I have a meeting with Sasha at one o’clock.”
She stood up and went to the pictures on his wall again. He’d put more of them up. They all had dark backgrounds and something blood-red either highlighted or in the foreground. A woman’s mouth curved into a salacious smile, her lipstick as vivid as the rose behind his desk. A photo of a woman’s crimson mouth biting into a Red Delicious apple. A child carrying a red umbrella in the rain. She admired them quietly.
“Who’s the woman?” she asked, cocking her head at the two photos. They were obviously the same person.
He’d followed her again, standing behind her and watching her take them all in with his hands loosely in his pockets. “A working girl I picked up about six months ago,” he replied. True. “She let me take a lot of photos of her.”
“I’m guessing they’re not all here,” Marielle said, looking at the rest of the wall.
His cheeks reddened a little. “They’re not, no.” He bit his bottom lip. “I can show them to you, though, if you want.”
She felt hot. “You, like… have them here or something?” Her eyes darted around the office as if they’d pop out at her.
“No, back at my place.” He nodded toward the door.
Her eyes widened. “Austin, please tell me your walls at home are not covered with nude women,” she groaned.
Chuckling, he raised his hands, then scratched the back of his head. “Not in the slightest. There’s a piano and a poster from a space film I saw once just out of college. I hardly even remember the movie—the person I was with that night pulled it from a trashcan.”
She turned back to the photos. Another red flower blooming, its luscious petals dripping succulently from the center.
“Come over tonight,” he invited. It came out like he couldn’t stop himself.
She turned and stared at him. “To your house?”
“Don’t you trust me?” he asked. She almost laughed. He gave her a soft smile; a pause, a small bite of his lip. He wanted a kiss. “Faites-moi confiance, Marielle…”
Her heart sped up. She’d never heard him speak more than a word or two in French, and this was a plea, pure and simple. Not only was it a plea, it was one Vincent had used on her less than a week ago. “For what?”
“Dinner? Talk?” A boyish smirk crossed his handsome face. “I won’t try anything. I promise.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Dinner? Do you cook?”
He smiled. “I’m Italian. I know a few tricks… like olive oil and bread.”
She giggled. Uh-oh… giggling. Stop that, Marielle.
“And butter and garlic,” he continued, raising fingers and counting them off. She laughed. “Come on, you’ll give me something to do… I’ll show you more pictures. You obviously like these, and I have a hundred more.”
Where was the harm, really? She’d already had him alone in her own apartment, and she knew he was telling her the truth. He wouldn’t try anything. He had promised.
“And I’ll come with you today. We’ll go get Vincent’s clothes, and I’ll take you to lunch or brunch or whichever, and then we’ll come back here for your appointment with Sasha. I have one at 1:30 with Klara, so that works—”
“How is Klara?” she broke in.
He pursed his lips and shook his head. “I suspect everyone is having a hard time with meeting their doubles, especially if they have to kill them.”
“Yeah, Sasha isn’t doing well from what I understand.”
“It’s too surreal.” Austin stopped for a moment to watch her as she looked over the last few photos on the wall. “Too difficult to make sense of.”
“I wonder what’ll happen if I have to face myself,” Marielle said under her breath as she eyed a photo of a man looking into a mirror. It took her a moment to realize Austin had modeled for his own photo. He wore a red suit, and his messy hair hid his eyes, so she hadn’t recognized him at first. “Okay, I’ll come for dinner. What do you want me to bring?”
He smiled again, his eyes bright with victory. “Just you.”
***
Marielle made her way into the lab and paused a moment to watch everyone as they skittered about. Shiny spots dotted the floor where someone had done their best to clean the water up, and there was a large pile of rags in one corner. Marielle felt sad that someone had had to clean all of that up. She suspected Kirra or Sabine.
She realized Sabine was coming out of the round room that contained John. She still wore the same clothing as the night before, and looked unwashed and unkempt. Marielle felt her heart warm; Sabine had stayed with John all night.
That was when her mind cleared again and she remembered that today they were going to attempt the new formula Chamber had given them the night before.
Vincent came to her and gave her a small hug. “Are you going to try the”—she searched for a word—”the thing on John?”
He grinned at her, a warm, adoring grin. “Yes, we are going to try the thing,” he repeated. She tried to hide a chuckle.
“Can I stay?” she asked, her green eyes lighting up with hope and excitement.
“Of course,” he said, looking down at her with admiration. “I think we’ve got it this time.”
Sabine came by, her eyes tired and hollow. “Can I get you anything, Sabine?” Marielle asked.
The other woman paused as if she was a bit taken aback—not by Marielle’s question, per se, but perhaps by the fact that she’d internally responded to it in a way that was different from her usual spite. Maybe it was the fact that she had some hope today for John.
Whatever it was, it quickly dissipated, however. “No,” was all Sabine said, and she didn’t glance at her, just continued walking. Marielle took it as improvement if not warmth. She’d always try to get her friend… her sister back.
There were a few moments of silence as Kirra and Sabine transferred liquids from one tube to another. Vincent joined them, helping with a particular measurement.
Barbara and Liam both entered the room, Austin trailing in shortly after them. They looked at the trio expectantly.
Vincent nodded at them and filled a syringe. Then he held it up in their direction. “I know last time was a bit of an issue, but I think this will have a much better result. Chamber was right, the equation was just a hair off,” he explained. “I forget that things are always a bit different from world to world.” He chuckled and added under his breath, “Sometimes a lot.”
Liam nodded. “And your backup plan?”
Vincent pulled the other syringe from his pocket. “The same,” he said with a look that said, “I remembered.” Liam offered him a small smile. “There should be no problems like yesterday, however.”
Liam lifted a hand. “Proceed.”
Again, they darkened the entire lab, and again, Vincent entered the shielded room. The panel peeled back, revealing both him and John.
John’s enormous white eyes drifted up to Vincent. “Will it happen again?”
“It shouldn’t be like before, my friend,” he answered, his tone deep and even. “It might hurt a little.”
There was a pause as Vincent tapped the syringe.
“When they told me that I had a wife… and that she committed suicide… I didn’t know how to feel,” John said. “I don’t remember her.” Vincent looked at him with an expression of complete incomprehension, and Marielle understood. What if Vincent couldn’t remember his wife, but she had still died? “Will I remember now?”
Vincent looked down at him with compassion in his brown eyes as he pushed his glasses back up his nose. “I’m afraid I don’t know,” he said gently. “But I don’t think so.”
John’s giant, lightning-filled eyes wandered downward, then back up to Vincent’s face again. “I’m ready.”
Vincent gave him a reassuring nod. “Administering,” he said quietly, and he carefully inserted the needle into John’s upper arm and pushed the plunger down.
Everyone held their breath. After yesterday’s failure, this seemed like horror waiting to happen again. Sabine turned away, two trembling fingers to her mouth. Then her hand went to her chest, and she hung her head and cried softly.
Nothing happened, no flickering lights or vanishing man. There were no wails or shrieks. There was no crumbling or turning to dust, no breaking apart and coming back together.
John took a deep breath and closed his eyes, shutting off the intense light emanating from them. Then he let out a slow, ragged breath, as if relief had finally found him after five years of torment. After a moment during which he neither moved nor breathed, the machines that had been reporting his unstable condition for so long reset themselves and began to pour out consistent information with only minor changes.
Sabine slowly turned and gasped. “John…” she whispered. “Johnny?” .
He slowly opened his eyes again and stretched his right hand to her. “Sabine,” he breathed.
She ran to the room and stopped just outside, realizing she couldn’t rush in there.
Marielle grinned hopefully and flicked her gaze to Austin, who smiled softly and looked away from her.
Vincent was at the machines, watching the readouts as they rolled out into his hands. He lifted a finger to Sabine as if telling her to wait. Then he looked at her through the glass and grinned wildly before looking down at John. “Why don’t you go to her, my friend.”
Sabine’s eyes lit up with a sad, expectant hope. Could he? Was it true? Would he really get up and walk for the first time since the accident?
John began to sit up as Sabine clasped her hands to her heart. John slowly dematerialized and vanished. The lights flickered, and for a moment, Sabine’s eyes filled with terror as her hope was dashed to pieces. Her gaze darted about. Where had he gone? She wouldn’t survive the heartbreak if this failed. She whirled, looking around the room.
A hand touched her left shoulder, and Sabine froze, drawing a sharp breath. Green eyes full of tears, she turned to John. He was standing there. Standing. Touching her. She could feel him—all of him. He was different, yes, but he was there. He was looking at her, his eyes grateful and loving, even though they were still the large, white saucers they’d become.
Through her tears, a smile tried to emerge, but her emotions overwhelmed her, and all she could do was slowly press her forehead to his. He did the same, reaching up and gently stroking her cheek. They stayed that way for many long minutes, and no one interrupted them.
The nightmare—well, that one, anyway—was finally over.