Accessory: The Scarab Beetle Series: #4 (The Academy) by C. L. Stone Page A

that money goes to other people.”
    That sounded familiar. Blake had once made a similar point. “It’s odd that his father kept collecting more and more, and in secret. When is enough, enough, right?”
    Avery shrugged. “I don’t agree with his methods at all, but not everyone who has money is like that. I do understand why people like Ethan would keep working and building. I mean, what are you supposed to do once you’ve got, say, a million dollars? Do you roll over and do nothing? Or do you continue to work and build? Up or down?”
    “Good point,” I said. If I had the ten percent of two billion dollars, would I just roll over and do nothing? It was tempting, but I’d done nothing for a few weeks and felt restless. Maybe I’d have money after all this was over, but I couldn’t imagine I’d sit by and not do anything at all.
    He came to a door near the end of the hall. It was marked Storage, but the door was wider than others we’d passed by. He knocked at it quickly and then opened the door and walked in.
    I followed, only to be met by a wall of smoke greeting me in my open mouth. I coughed, gagging. Cigarette smoke. Oh no.
    The room was dimly lit, and my eyes strained to adjust, watering at the smoke floating around in the air. There were shelves with medical supplies, first aid kits, boxes of flotation devices marked off as spares. There was a set of three folding tables set up in an U-formation, and they were covered in computer monitors. The only real light in the room was the glow from the screens, and the open door behind us. A thick cigarette smoke trail rose from behind the monitors.
    I stepped forward. Doyle’s mop of brown hair was combed away from his eyes, although strands continued to float around his temple. He had a pale face and tired, red eyes as he glared unblinkingly at his monitors. He read without moving his lips, without much expression at all. He wore a black T-shirt with some green binary code on the front that I assumed meant something, but I couldn’t make sense of all the ones and zeroes.
    “Doyle?” Avery asked. “Do you want me to throw on a light for you?”
    “What for?” Doyle’s voice drifted to us, a little gruff. He coughed several times, clearing his throat, and then swiveled a monitor sideways to look at Avery. “You’ll just ruin the mood. I don’t work well in the light. It hurts my eyes.” His head turned my way and he blinked. “And what, may I ask, dear boy, is that thing doing here?”
    I knew Doyle must have been around somewhere and I should have figured that he would be holding checking details for Avery, but I kind of put him out of my mind. I rubbed my fingers along my nose, as if that would mask the heavy cigarette stench. “I’m not a thing,” I said.
    “You knew she was coming along,” Avery said.
    “Yeah, but I thought you’d put her in her place, like the kitchen or with the maids.” He flicked his cigarette, the ashes landing in a paper plate next to him on the desk.
    “She’s in charge of the team now,” Avery said.
    Doyle blinked at him, staring. “And?”
    “So we need more information on Michelle,” I said. “And Nightingale. Like who is coming on board that we need to look out for.”
    “Listen, sweetheart,” he said in a long sneer. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t exactly play well with others.”
    “How hard is it to give me a name and some data, Doyle?”
    He sat back in the chair quickly and folded his arms across his chest. The cigarette hung from his lips. “Last time you just wanted ‘a little bit of information’, I ended up in a broken down building with spiders and hobos, looking at a dish that didn’t even work, breaking into a Catholic church, kidnapped at gunpoint, and forced to do all kinds of unthinkable things. Helping you isn’t helping me. It’s more like a gateway for torture.”
    “Aren’t you here to help?” I asked, looking at Avery.
    “Well, I don’t have to help you