“No,” Chester says. “But I—I think I want to see something.”
Obie’s heart feels heavier than usual. “All right,” he says softly, and he slips into Chester’s mind again, sifting through his memories. He catches a glimpse of the one he’s looking for—a flash from down in the prison back in February—and coaxes it out, breathing light and motion and sound into it.
Instantly, a new memoryscape with a new Memory Chester blossoms to life in front of them—a Memory Chester who looks startlingly similar to the Chester sitting at Obie’s side. Same height, same lines in his face, same edge in his eyes?—
He’s not quite the Chester who confronted Obie in Redwater Bowl’s parking lot, and he definitely isn’t the Chester who shook Obie’s hand for the cause of destroying the Sanctum together. But he’s close.
JJ was in Room 7 this time.
Chester was trying his hardest to stay away from that room—to stay away from that entire hallway, really—but he wasn’t always successful. Right now, he was hunched at the computer outside Room 9, typing as quickly as he could.
It’d been a few hours since he last heard JJ’s screams through the walls. At this point, he was counting that as a win.
Familiar footsteps strode down the hall. “Locke,” Nostrand said, his voice curt and clipped. “You’re going back on interrogation duty early. Council’s orders.”
Chester turned around, frowning. “What? Why? Did we get another influx of neophyte demons?”
“No.” Nostrand jerked his head at Room 7. “The Council seems to think you can get a confession out of Jackson.”
All at once, it was like the world tilted sideways around Chester. “No,” he croaked.
“Yeah. Nasir just reached out. Your shift starts at two p.m., right after Chaganti leaves for the day. The spellcasters will let you know when the room is ready for you. Understood?”
For a long moment, the only sound Chester could hear was the roaring of his own heartbeat. He opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out.
He couldn’t do this again. He couldn’t do this again. He couldn’t?—
Nostrand’s jaw twitched.“Understood,Locke?”
Suddenly, Chester felt like he could breathe again. Before he could lose his nerve, he straightened his spine, meeting Nostrand’s eyes. “No.”
Nostrand’s eyebrows shot up. “No?”
“No,” Chester repeated, setting his jaw defiantly. “No, I’m not doing it.”
Pride—and another emotion that Obie doesn’t quite want to define yet—surges through him. “You… refused?” he whispers, turning to Chester.
Chester’s eyes are fixed on his hands. “Initially, at least.”
Nostrand’s eyes darkened. “Don’t be naïve, Locke,” he snapped, and Chester flinched. “This isn’t your final exam anymore. Jackson isn’t your friend anymore. He’s conspiring with the enemy—hasbeenconspiring with the enemy for weeks—and according to our strike force, he wasveryprepared to leave you behind.” He leaned forward. “No one has trusted neophyte hunters from the start, and this is the final nail in the coffin. Jackson is dead to us, and you—you’re on thinner ice than ever.”
Chester’s hands were shaking and his lungs felt far smaller than they should be. Face hot, skin cold, hands clammy.
He couldn’t do this again. Hecouldn’tdo this again. He couldn’t?—
“Now,” Nostrand said, “before you do something that’ll embarrass both of us, I’m going to tell you again: your assignment is to interrogate Julian Jackson. Do you want to change your answer this time?”
“I—” Chester’s voice cracked. He looked away. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do it.”
“Good. Two p.m.,” Nostrand repeated, and he turned on his heel and strode away without another word.
“The second time.” It’s Obie’s Chester—therealChester—who speaks now, his haunted eyes still locked on his trembling past self. “The second time, I—I was actually a little relieved. Because if JJ reallywasbad from the beginning, then I didn’t do anything wrong when I tortured him the first time, right?”
The self-loathing in his voice is thick enough to taste. Obie’s chestaches.“Chester.”
But Chester, apparently, isn’t done. “Looks like nothing really changed in six years, huh?” he says bitterly. “It’s just like you said from the start: I’m not worth saving. Never have been, never will be.”
White-hot fury burns through Obie. “Don’t youdare,Locke,” he snarls.
