Five minutes later, he was out of the congested streets and tall buildings of downtown. Five minutes after that, he was in the sprawling retail-urbs, blowing through red lights and dusting the few cars on the road with him in the passing lane. If he’d met a cop, it would have gotten nasty, but he didn’t.

When he made the turn to go up to the Adirondack Outlets Mall, even the Quattro couldn’t keep the supercar on the pavement, the heavy back end of the car fishtailing. At the top of the rise, he shot forward to the stores—and nearly bought the farm in a front-end collision with a gray Ford Taurus.

The inside of the older sedan was dark so he couldn’t see the driver, but there was no time to follow up on that shit, either.

He went around to the back, as instructed, and got a load of a scene out of a Schwarzenegger movie circa 1987. You want to talk about chaos? There were cars and trucks full of holes, slayers on the ground still moving, gunpowder—and in this case, gasoline, too—thick in the air. Oh, and a whole corner of the building was gone. Slamming on the brakes, he got out, and the stench of lesser was so intense, he fell back against V’s precious car.

Qhuinn came jogging over. “We got some enemy down on the ground, all ready for you.”

“How many?”

“Nine. Maybe ten.”

Butch kept his groan to himself. “Any of us hurt?”

“We’ve got one with a leak—even if he refuses to admit to the shit. Manny’s on the way.”

“Who’s injured?” Butch looked around. “And what the fuck happened to the building?”

“Bike blew up. Oopsie.” Qhuinn calmly unholstered one of his guns and put three shots into the head of a slayer who’d reached for his pant leg. “I believe it’s being classified as a Honda-plosion.”

“I’m going to need Vishous to come in.” Butch shook his head. “But I hate to have him so exposed.”

“We’ll move the bodies, then.”

Rhage jogged over, called by the shooting. “Everything okay out here?”

“One of them was getting touchy-feely, but my body, my choice.” Qhuinn tucked his gun back under his arm. “And now he doesn’t have a frontal lobe or eyeballs so it’s not going to be a problem.”

“We need transport,” Butch said. “You’re exactly right. We’ll move the slayers to a neutral location where I can do what I have to and V can be right on hand. This place is way too exposed.”

Sure, V could throw up some mhis, but after that explosion, the scene was bound to be on 911’s radar. The last thing anyone needed was a bunch of humans wondering why they couldn’t see something that they knew damn well was there.

“And we’ve got one other problem,” Rhage said.

As Butch’s phone went off, he glanced at the screen. Then focused on the brother. “Manny’s ETA is just six minutes from now. So if it’s bleeding, we’ve got it covered.”

“It’s not bleeding. And I wish it was the kind of thing the docs could fix.”

* * *

It was as all the men came to stand in front of Jo that she realized the truth she had been after, the trailhead she had been determined to find, the answers she had sought… was going to be worse than the not knowing.

Seven of them. All Syn’s size. All wearing some version of leather on the top and the bottom. None of them spoke. They just stared at her, and their expressions were the same, no matter the features.

Sadness. As if they pitied her.

Because they were going to kill her? Or was it because of something even deeper than that. Death, after all, was a simple, if traumatic, concept. There was a truth in this lineup of huge bodies, however, one that she recognized as very complicated, even though she had yet to learn its dimensions.

Its repercussions.

She looked at Syn, who was standing with his back to her. Who was standing between her and the others.

“Who are you really,” she said to his broad shoulders.

When he didn’t answer, and none of the others did either, she stared at one of the bodies on the floor. The torso was bent at a right angle—in the wrong direction. The man’s head was nearly touching his hips. And even though his back was clearly broken, and the spinal cord must have been severed, and no part of him should have been moving outside of autonomic twitches in the toes or the hands? The legs were churning and the arms were scratching over the cement.

His head turned to her, and his unblinking eyes stared up.

With pure hatred.

As Jo gasped, more of the sickly sweet stench speared into her nostrils. And as her headache pounded, she put a hand to her temple.

The blood all over the should-have-been-dead man wasn’t right. It wasn’t red.

None of this was right.

“What are you!” she yelled.

When Syn didn’t turn around, and none of the others replied, she jumped forward and punched his shoulders. But even though she put all her strength into it, the impact seemed to barely register on him.

“Tell me! Tell me what this is all about—”

Sharp footfalls came at her. “Easy there,” a male voice said in a Boston accent.

Jo wheeled around and recognized who it was in the hazy, disjointed way of a dream. “You…” She groaned and weaved on her feet. “I know you…”

“Yeah. You do,” he said with a strange kind of defeat.

“The blog…” Her headache was getting so much worse. “The school for girls. The restaurant that was abandoned downtown. The stories and the photographs, that video feed from the souvenir shop parking lot…”

The man with the accent didn’t respond. None of them did.

“I was right,” she mumbled. “I’ve been getting too close to the truth. And you… you’ve been taking my memories from me, haven’t you. That’s the headaches. That’s the… confusion. The restlessness and the exhaustion. You are a secret that you don’t want me to know.”

Now Syn turned around.

His eyes were back to normal, but she couldn’t forget the way they’d been, flashing with an unholy red light.

There was nothing in the real world that did that. There were also no corpses that were not corpses in spite of the fact that they had been hacked open and drained of blood. There was nothing that smelled like this, or fought like that, either.

“Give me my memories back,” she said in a low voice. “Right now. You give me my fucking memories back. They were not yours to take, no matter how justified you think it is. They’re mine.”

The one with the Boston accent muttered, “Syn? You know her?”

“Oh, he knows me,” she said without looking away from her lover. “Don’t you. Or do you intend on taking those memories from me, too.”

Someone cursed. Again, the Bostonian. “What the fuck are you thinking.”

He was talking to Syn. Then again, so was she.

“I trusted you,” she said bitterly. “I let you into… my home. I took you in when you were fucked-up. You owe me the truth.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

All at once, floodgates opened in her mind, and like birds released from a cage, images and sounds and smells fluttered forth into flight, revealing themselves as they dodged and weaved in the airspace of her consciousness.