The Pale Waters (#1 Reclaimed Souls) (10 page)

I have one hour.

Plus, I want
all
of the qualities of
The Pale Waters. My assumption is that the stone’s essence is only
effective if all of its qualities are kept together. I already lost
the intoxicating fumes when I crushed it. I still feel some of that
euphoria, but I’m no longer thinking about jumping out the window.
Should Roland walk in right this instant, I might become much more
sexually aggressive, but he is sulking up in his lavish apartments
and I am here, trying to find a way to melt his scars away.

Well,
melt
is a strong word. I can’t
do that. I can mask. I can cover. I can deceive. I can create an
illusion of some
one
else. Roland Rexus, but only better.
Sexier. Stronger.

Through the microscope, I look again. The
colors have shifted hues. Black onyx is now gray. Blood red is
peach. Amber orange is yellow. Cyan blue is turquoise. Rose pink is
fuchsia. Only the silvers and the whites stay the same. Those are
the constant, the foundation, and why, when observed in stone or
grain form, the naked eye only sees a creamy ivory shade.

Is it losing effectiveness? Or are the
grains in a constant state of change?

Time for an experiment.

I retrieve a drinking glass from this
morning’s breakfast, add purified water, and then pour in a small
amount of the grains. Stirring the liquid, the grains dissolve
entirely, and, taking a fortifying breath, I drink it.

TWENTY

THE LIQUID BURNS MY THROAT LIKE the molten
lava that created the rock in the first place. I can feel it
swirling in my stomach. Attaching. Attacking. Assembling. Changing.
My skull spins and my eyes roll into the back of my head.

Knots form all throughout my torso, muscles
clench and unclench, and I hear a piercing scream that can break
glass. Everything is so red. I try to resist the pull. Resist the
Feeble Princess’ anger. But I can’t. It is too strong.

Then silence, peace, and clarity. Clarity on
our society’s class system. Ineffective government. Lack of food,
poverty, and starving children.

The unfairness of it all. Dirty. Shame.
Guilt.

Slavery. Forced military service. The
inherent cruelty commonly displayed in homes, in the streets, out
in the open. Kill. Kill. Kill.

I push the microscope off the table, and it
crashes to the floor with a satisfying crunch. It feels good to be
so destructive. I spy the six piles of books from the researchers
before me. Those idiots. Couldn’t do one damn thing right. Now I’m
here to fix their mistakes. Fix Roland Rexus. I grab their books,
their tablets, and their notes roughly. They disgust me, and I
throw it all into a pile into the corner. I need to destroy it all.
I find a blowtorch behind a metal door—I practically rip the door
off its hinges—and set the crude pile on fire.

The heat licks at me, laughs at me, tells me
how stupid I am. But dear Goddess, watching the fire destroy those
books makes me feel so delicious, so sexy, so perfect. I want to
feel this way all the time.

I know it’s wrong, it claws at me. The real
me screams at me from the inside:
Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
And then I scream out loud, but I can’t help it. None of it. The
Feeble Princess’ volatile nature owns me for a spell. It quells
down only to flare up again; burning, itching, dying ember by
ember, as I watch the corner of my lab engulf in flames. And I
don’t do a damn thing about it.

I don’t care. Even if I go up in smoke with
it, I think it will be worth it.

My head spins again. I collapse to the
floor, crumple up like a discarded scrap of paper, and vomit up the
vile contents I drank only moments ago.

What have I done?

Smoke is everywhere, and I choke. Half my
lab is in flames, walls as black as a moonless night, and I’m as
weak as a newborn babe. I crawl to one of the unaffected lab tables
and I try to stand up, to pull myself up, but I’m about as
effective as the discarded microscope in front of me on the floor.
Crawl, dammit! I shuffle to cabinets, drawers, anything, in order
to find the fire extinguisher, and only at the last moment, before
the fire turns its attention to my side of the room, I find it,
lift it out of the cabinet, and spray it until nothing is left.

When I open my eyes sometime later—it feels
like hours and not merely moments—the room smolders, crackles, and
pops, the fire is defeated—
I’m
defeated—and the Feeble
Princess won that round.

I pull myself to a sitting position and
inspect what escaped my destructive behavior. Not much, but my main
lab table, the remaining Pale Waters’ grains, still in the mortar,
and the prototype are safe.

I check myself. Other than a few cuts on my
face—I have no idea what cut me—and red marks on my fingers from
the fire, I am unhurt. Roland and his chief of staff are going to
kill me when they find out. I groan as I stand up.

I don’t have much time before I’m expected
in his apartments. With a working prototype.
Or Else.

Or else what? Hell, had I encountered him
moments ago, I would have done everything short of assault him, and
even that I’m not too sure of. It would have been magic, powerful,
enticing, hot, passionate, and explosive. I would have gladly
destroyed us both, or died trying.

Thank Heaven no one witnessed my behavior. I
won’t be able to hide the product of said behavior for long,
though.

I sprinkle in a dash of The Pale Waters’
grains into the now-thick, black liquid prototype. I stir the
liquid with a glass rod and allow it to breathe for a few
moments.

Sealing the tube, I encase it in a clear
rubber sleeve and study for any changes. It feels warmer. The black
water turns a milky gray color, and then, after another sixty
seconds, into a creamy white hue that’s more solid than liquid.
Something’s going on; some sort of chemical reaction.

I wish I had a service robot around to see
if the current prototype transformed its metal arm into a
human-flesh-arm.

With nothing left to do, I leave the lab to
meet Roland at the appointed time.

TWENTY-ONE

IT IS ONLY WHEN I’M ON the lift that I
consider my appearance. I’m almost positive that I look like I
did
jump out of a few windows and barely survived with my
limbs intact. Perhaps Roland will have a fabriskin robe I can
borrow to throw over my sooty clothes. Before he throws me out of
his Palace Skyscraper for being an utter failure.
Actually, why
waste a perfectly good fabriskin robe before throwing me out?
I
smile a little at the thought.

Tucking a hand in a pocket, my fingers touch
the forgotten coral lipstick. Thoughts invade. Cruel thoughts. If
he decides to fire me tonight, then I can complete the mission. I
pull the tube of lipstick out of my pocket and examine its gold and
red frame carefully. It’s an elegant, little case, something a
wealthy woman would carry in her clutch.

I pop its top off and twist the base to
raise the deadly, yet lovely, waxy tube. All it will take is one
kiss.

Another floor goes by and I stare at the
lipstick and its delightful, vibrant coral tint. In one hand, I
hold a product—the prototype—that could probably, with further
research,
enhance
Roland’s life. In the other, a product
that will
end
his life.

I thought this assignment would be easy.

I am both the beauty and the beast and I
know, deep down, I won’t use it on Roland, and something frees in
my chest.

With a small sigh of relief, I slip the tube
back in my pocket.

I stare again at my prototype. Pride swells
my insides. I’m at the cusp of something great, wonderful, and
possibly life changing. I cannot end it now. Not now. I need Roland
far more than he needs me; he just doesn’t know that yet.

I can change the continent. The world.
Roland. Can I change myself? Can I
save
myself? Probably
not. Again, I think of Roland. My thoughts always turn to him. He
saved me once. Maybe I can return the favor.

***

I step off on the ninth floor and hear
voices.

Turning in the opposite direction, I climb
up another stairwell and listen. I’ve missed the first part of the
conversation.

“I’m not saying it’s a bad idea, Roland.”
It’s Cat’s voice. “But accelerating everything isn’t smart. I am
not convinced Rahda will agree to this. Furthermore, I don’t think
she’s capable. It’s like she’s a bomb ready to explode.”

“I’ll admit her methods and ideas are
unorthodox, but she has achieved more in twenty-fours than I ever
expected.”

Cat laughs. “You call the wound in your calf
an achievement? She’ll be your ruin long before she is your
salvation. What makes Rahda Plesti unique? And before you respond,
I’ve seen the photo. You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Roland hesitates before he says, “She is
uniquely situated to prevail in any situation, at any cost, in any
location.”

“I wish I had your faith. She’s the old
man’s disciple and as such, Rahda risks her own life by not
fulfilling his orders. Just look at what happened to those that
came before her.”

“Rahda’s different,” Roland says in a way
that lets Cat know he’s not likely to change his mind.

“Back home, she is what we call a
Khrinda
, someone who serves two masters. She isn’t what she
seems, and yet, I get the feeling she doesn’t know who she is
either. But…”

“But what?”

“I can find out. I can make sure.”

Roland makes a growling noise, like maybe he
isn’t pleased with the idea.

“Do what you must. There’s too much at
stake. You’ve read Jaucey’s ultimatum. Now, however,” he pauses as
if he’s consulting his watch, “I need you to make ready The
Gardens. Ensure our
guests
feel welcome.” He practically
spits the word guests.

“Of course,” she says calmly, but I can tell
she wants to continue the conversation. “I’ll be back up
shortly.”

I hear Cat step into the elevator lift to go
down while Roland’s footsteps echo as he climbs into his
apartments.

***

I stay hidden in the other stairwell and
digest their conversation.

She’ll be your ruin long before she is your
salvation.

Just look at what happened to those that
came before her.

She isn’t what she seems, and yet, I get the
feeling she doesn’t know who she is, either.

Rahda’s different.

So they
both
know about my mentor,
the Grandfather. Strangely, this doesn’t alarm me anymore. Now that
I’ve resolved to
not
follow my original orders to
assassinate the dark prince, I can feign ignorance if it’s brought
up.

However, what this does tell me is that
there are no secrets between Roland and Cat. I’m not sure what to
make of this information.

Jaucey’s ultimatum.

Dear Goddess, I know that name—Jaucey—and it
irritates me I can’t remember which of the Royals he is.

I wonder what I’m caught in the middle of.
This is more than some intrigue between the Grandfather and Prince
Roland Rexus.

Standing up too quickly, I get a little
dizzy, and sit back down.

It’s too much to think about. I’m tired. I’m
hungry. And I want to see if the prototype works.

I climb Roland’s stairwell. His door is
open.

“I’m here,” I call out loudly, perhaps even
obnoxiously, into the dimly lit apartment. I see his silhouette
sitting in one of the chairs near the fireplace. In my mind’s eye,
I’m instantly transported to our first meeting, his cold
indifference, his demands that I remove my clothing, and the heated
exchange afterward.

I notice a tray of food beside the empty
chair.

“I thought you might be hungry,” Roland
offers.

And that’s all it takes to forget the
questions filling my mind.

Food, in a deep-seated instinct, still has a
persuasion over me. The army never provided enough and, while I
trained in the Old City, rations consisted of dried protein jerky,
a fat bar, vitamins, and leaf water.

I’ve never not been hungry. Sitting in the
offered chair, I take a few bites.

“Thank you,” I say. He is silent as I eat,
and it doesn’t take long to finish the small plate of cold meats,
cheeses, and cubed fruit.

“Do you have the prototype, Rahda?”

I shiver as he says my name. He makes it
sound so earthy and homey, like he’s been saying it to himself for
years.

“Yes.”

Holding it up, it isn’t much to look at in
the dim room, but the fire casts an orange glow on it. He nods but
doesn’t take it from my outstretched arm. In fact, he isn’t look at
it at all. He’s studying me.

Roland lets out a small chuckle.

“Why do I get the impression you’ve been
crawling around in a fireplace for the last few hours?”

I turn pink. My clothes
are
filthy.

“It’s a long story.”

“You have soot all over you.” His tone is
playful, amused. “This will never do. Up. Into the bedroom. I’ll
start a shower—”

“That isn’t necessary. Let’s just see if the
prototype works,” I say.

He pulls me up anyway and leads me into his
bedroom. A small corner lamp is lit and its soft yellow light
creates a cozy, romantic, shadowy atmosphere.

I look everywhere but at him.

The covers on the large king bed are already
turned down for night service, as if a butler just left the room.
Thick draperies cover the windows. Cushy chairs, a matching set,
sit just in front of the draperies, with a tiny table nestled in
between. It’s only too easy to imagine myself sitting there,
watching Roland sleep, or reading a book, or being the first face
he sees each morning.

This is madness.

“Do I drink it?” he asks, finally pulling
the tube from my hand.