23
The Ingraham Institute
Virginia
Val exhaled, shivering with the bone-deep cold that always came with dream-walking, and opened his eyes on the reality of his situation. The dim, damp stone confines of his prison, the weight of the silver cuffs on his wrists. He heard a low, steady sound, felt a vibration against his leg: the cat, curled up in a ball at his hip, purring contentedly and kneading the outside of his thigh.
He smiled, faintly, and reached to trail his fingers through her soft fur. Her purring intensified, eyes closing in bliss.
On the other side of the bars, Baroness Strange sat with her back against the wall, legs drawn up, arms propped on her knees. A plastic bag rested on the floor beside her.
She smiled when Val met her gaze. “Out visiting?” she asked, not accusatory, but curious. Almost fond.
“In a fashion,” he said. “Have you been waiting long?” His skin prickled with unease; he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of anyone watching him when he was projecting himself, when he was at his most vulnerable – even if that someone was her. He almost trusted her. Almost. In the sense that he could trust anyone, which was fractional at best.
“Just a few minutes,” she said. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“You’d be the first,” he said, with only a small amount of bitterness. Before her frown could blossom, he said, “What’s in the bag?”
“Oh.” She reached for it and pulled out a four-pack of glass bottles. “I brought you more Frappuccino.”
“Hmm.” He tried not to show much reaction, but his mouth watered in anticipation.
Annabel grinned like she knew it. “Yeah, you like your coffee. Here.” She got up and fed the bottles through his meal slot one at a time.
Val lined them up beneath his cot, in the shadow, where hopefully his guards wouldn’t spot them. He opened one now, sipped it slow. “Where is your esteemed husband this afternoon?”
She settled back against the wall and flapped a hand. “Moping, probably. Growling at Doctor Talbot.”
“Helping to reintegrate my brother?” Val guessed, and her expression turned guilty.
“Not because he wants to.”
“Yes, he hates all vampires. He’s made that quite clear.”
“Your brother–” she started.
He silenced her with a wave. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Alright.” She didn’t seem affronted – he hadn’t seen her anything but sympathetic or agreeable – but she seemed to withdraw. “I can leave you alone if you want.”
It was a trap, and he knew if: if he told her to go, he would confirm himself as the asshole he was; if he asked her to stay, he’d reveal his vulnerability. The set of her mouth told him she already knew exactly how fragile he was, and he didn’t like that at all.
He sighed out a breath through his nose, and she smiled, self-satisfied.
“Brat,” he accused, and her grin widened into its usual sweetness. “I have…” he started, and hesitated. “Something to ask you.”
She perked up, the movement uncannily wolfish. He forgot sometimes what she was; dangerous, that.
“You and your baron drove here, yes?”
“I showed you pics of the Caddy,” she reminded.
“Yes. Beautiful machine. I don’t suppose” – he took a quick sip of his drink, feigned casual, slouching back against the wall – “you could give anyone driving directions to this place. Could you?” Careful to sound bored. Just curious. Just speaking to fill the time.
Her smile grew sharklike. “Planning your escape?”
“Maybe,” he said, flippant, shrugging with one insolent shoulder.
