Deviation (6 page)

I channel the Raven that exists in the mind of the stranger in the study, or at least a fleeting glimpse of a feeling of her. When that doesn’t work, I channel Taylor. Then I pick up my phone.

Obadiah picks up on the third ring.

“Hello?” He is breathless with laughter. Jealousy pings in my chest for whatever carefree moment he’s cultivated. I haven’t experienced a single one since leaving Twig City—and even then.

“It’s me,” I say, shoving through to the other side of business.

“Oh. Hey.” Concern spikes on the vowel. He draws it out longer than necessary. I know he wonders what would make me call him after a socially respectable hour of the night.

“I need you to do something for me,” I say. My voice is light and only hinting at sultry.

“What’s this, Raven Rogen asking me for a favor?” Someone in his background chuckles. It’s male. I don’t bother asking who. There’s no time. If Linc’s listening, he’s going to storm in as soon as I say the next part. If someone else is on duty tonight, well, I can’t waste time imagining the thrill they’ll get. It’s part of the plan anyway.

I put a soft purr into my voice. “Now that you mention it, the favor is definitely more beneficial to you.”

“Excuse me?”

I add a pout and explain, “Daniel’s gone. Caine’s busy with a supermodel from Denmark. Everyone else on my speed dial is either too old or too attracted to farm animals. I’m bored, and I think this ruse has gone on long enough, don’t you?”

“Ruse?” No laughter now. Just his confusion and hesitant willingness to play along. Once he figures out the game. I don’t wait for him to add it up.

“Please.” I snort, putting some of the ice in my voice I channel from Taylor’s image. “You think our friendship is real? You think I give two shits about your sorry attempts to break free from your antagonistic daddy? I’m sick of playing sympathetic bestie. I want to be entertained, Obadiah.”

“Entertained how?” I’ve got him. And whoever is listening. I hope.

My purr is back. Low and full-on sultry. “Tell you what. I’m going to wait for you right here in my bedroom wearing, well, not much, and you’re going to figure out the answer to your own question while you drive.”

“Raven, you’re being—”

“Don’t disappoint me, Obadiah. If you do, we can’t be friends anymore and that would be a shame. I need you. Twenty minutes.”

I hope he understands that’s the honest part of the call. I don’t wait to find out before I hang up.

I have twenty minutes.

I saw a show once that depicted rituals and rain dances performed by indigenous tribes throughout various African countries. Some used animal sacrifices, many danced and swayed around fires, all of them used drums. Heavy on the bass, no treble or strings to accompany, and the pounding was low and constant. Something that seemed to work directly into the veins of the men and women swaying and dancing and staring into the flames, willing the answers to whatever questions they asked.

My chest feels like a ritual drum now. Beating and burning its way into my veins. I hope it carries answers too.

I change into something with more lace than fabric and strut around my bedroom. I turn my hip this way and that, pretending to study myself in the full-length mirror. I toss my hair, reapply lip gloss. This promiscuous side of Raven Rogen wasn’t nearly as quick a study as Titus may have liked but much of it is built into the female psyche; it isn’t hard to figure out.

When I’ve sufficiently paraded, I cut the lights.
Please do not let the infrared be working yet.

In the darkness, I stuff my pillows into my bedcovers, hit play on the sexiest jazz album Raven owns—there were several choices—and creep into the hallway. I breathe a prayer to whatever god exists for soulless creations that Linc has gone home for the day. He is the only one in the entire house I don’t want to run into. Well, next to Titus, of course.

No one meets me as I dart down the darkened hall toward my destination. I hope they’re all glued to the video monitors trained on the entrance. I hope Obadiah understands.

Titus’s study is unguarded and empty.

I have no idea if I’m right about what I’ll find inside. But I have nowhere else to look.

The smell of stale cigars hangs in the air. Through the shadows, I spot a large desk along the wall I’m pressed against. Then I click the door shut behind me and I see nothing beyond my own hand in front of my face. I take a tentative step forward, blinking ferociously and forcing my eyes to adjust double time. In the back of the room are two large chairs. I know they’re upholstered in brown leather from my hallway spying. They’re twisted sideways and, in the deep darkness, it’s impossible to tell if they’re empty or if Titus somehow anticipated me and even now sits in the dark, waiting for my frail attempt to thwart him.

I take another step. My breath catches. I swallow the lump. My ritualistic heartbeat pounds in my chest. I reach the first chair and keep going, sliding around its edge until I touch the floor lamp beside it. My foot finds the switch. I step on it and soft yellow light floods the space.

The chairs are empty. I breathe a little.

Ten minutes.

I go back to the desk. There’s a case next it with glass doors and a delicate but secure lock embedded into the front. Sitting inside, plain as day with no room left to wonder if I’ve guessed correctly, is a small black device like the one I saw Linc using. Like the one the guard at dinner held. But this one’s different from theirs. This is the one I’m going to steal.

Nine minutes.

I dig through desk drawers but there’s no key. I peer at the lock, trying to guess what size the key would be. Where he would keep it. I don’t think he carries it on him. He isn’t the type for paranoia or worry of that sort. Titus Rogen is nothing if not completely confident in the utter fear and respect his men have for his house and its contents. His ego is far too big to consider someone might be dumb enough to rob him.

With that thought in mind, half-convinced it’s a wasted effort, I reach out and lift up on the delicate metal handle. It engages with a soft click and the cabinet door swings open. His weakness is thinking he has no weakness.

So gingerly I have to remind myself not to drop it, I take the device from the shelf. I half-expect some alarm to sound the moment I take it in my hand, but the silence remains. With a swing of my arm and flick of my wrist, it’s in my robe pocket.

Six minutes.

I inspect the remaining contents of the case.

Cash. Credit cards. Ironically, a set of keys. My eyes land on a framed picture. It’s off to the side, laying flat instead of displayed upright. I almost pass it by. But the fact that it’s been closed up in this cabinet must mean something. I look closer and my breath hitches. Underneath the glass and a fine layer of dust is a photograph of a woman. She is slender and beautiful with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She is achingly lovely in her delicate dress and tragic, hollow-eyed smile. And she looks so much like me that it’s alarming.

Did Titus use this woman to create my physical features?

She’s clearly older than me. Closer to Josephine’s age. I have no idea what it means, and although I want to take it and find out, I don’t dare. I am careful not to touch any of it. Titus’s weakness might be his own ego but I have no doubt of his strengths. Details. Titus is all about the details.

Three minutes.

I am about to close the case when a carving catches my eye. On the backside of the cabinet door someone has carved into the wood. It’s shallow and sloppy, a home job, but that’s not what stops me. The symbol is a tree—not like the one I have tattooed on my neck representing my scientific engineering. This tree is inverted, with branches growing into the trunk, like the one carved into the post on my bed.

I have no idea what it means. Nor time to care.

I close the cabinet with a click and hurry across the room to switch the lamp off. The switch digs into the ball of my bare foot. I hope it’s the only pain I experience from my little excursion. The light dies and darkness swamps the space, magnifying the smoky scent as I cross the room. I slip out the door, pulling it shut behind me with as little force as possible.

I whirl, lace and silk hem lines flying, and head for my room, forcing my feet slow and steady against the plush carpet.

No one saw.

No one saw.

My bedroom door is open. A bulky form that is absolutely not Obadiah moves inside the frame. A scream bubbles up and turns to an animated curse as somehow, in a moment of reflex, my Taylor-channeling from earlier comes back to me.

At my string of invented oaths, the form turns to greet me. I stuff my hands into the pockets of my robe and pull them out again, half terrified, half sure of myself. “What the hell are you doing in here?” I demand.

Williams hovers near the foot of my bed. His face reddens at the same time his brows knit in confusion. He looks from me to the lump on my bed that poses as me. “What are you doing out there?” he asks, regaining his composure.

“I asked you first. Don’t question me. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“I was …” His eyes shift to the mound of pillows I have shoved underneath my bedclothes. When they dart back to me, they travel. Lingering, enjoying, leering. I cinch my robe tighter. Suddenly, I know exactly what he’s doing here. Acid rises in the back of my throat.

Someone comes up behind me. At the scent of the familiar cologne, my shoulders tense.

“What is happening here?”

Oh God. The contraband in my pockets weighs a hundred pounds.

I whirl, indignation pasted on. “This asshat snuck in my room and was going to … take advantage of me,” I say. The pause in my words is obvious. But Titus is too intent to notice my sensibilities.

“What?” His eyes narrow in on Williams. He didn’t even take time to doubt me—a terrifying sort of relief. “You’re supposed to be in debriefing for the redhead.”

“I finished early.” Williams manages to keep his eyes away from my robe.

It’s too thin. The fabric is gauze. Probably transparent.

“This is strike two, Williams, but it’s a big strike. Your shift is over. I suggest you take your leave,” Titus says. If voices were vipers, he’d be the deadliest in the pit.

Williams mumbles an apology and skirts out the doorway. He looks half terrified Titus will swat him as he passes. Titus doesn’t move. Williams disappears down the hall without another glimpse back. I wish he hadn’t left so quickly. Titus studies me from the open doorway.

I muster contempt, which isn’t difficult. “I hope you fire him.”

“He only came for something he thought was being given away,” Titus says pointedly.

I swallow.

I’m not her.
I can’t say that. “I’m picky,” I say.

For some reason, that makes Titus laugh. He tips his head back and the sound seems much louder and longer than my joke warrants. Before he can punctuate it with a threat, or something worse, Obadiah arrives.

“I know you said twenty but my driver was … Oh, hello, Mr. Rogen.” Obadiah’s pale cheeks flush to a bright shade of crimson. He tucks his hands behind his back. It’s a gesture I know he uses to feign confidence.

“Whitcomb,” Titus replies. He eyes Obadiah, then me, then my outfit. Understanding dawns slowly. He wasn’t informed of the call. The box in my pocket lightens some. “You still going with picky?”

I yank Obadiah by the wrist, pulling him to my side. The two of us up against the big bad Creator. Adrenaline pumps through me. Without a scrap of hesitation in my voice I say, “I’m going to bed.”