out onto the Scrape himself.
Through veils of sand-carried wind, Steve saw the shadows leap upon the woman. They formed a dark huddle around her body, and one of her feet sticking out twitched as they…fed.
This is what would’ve happened to William Kerry.
Flashes of cold burned all around Steve, which meant other such creatures were coming. There wasn’t enough of the woman for them all to get their fill.
He turned to find one inches away from him, leaning in as if to sniff. Sand burned Steve’s eyes, but he could see that the creature was near human, but gray, feral.
They surrounded him now.
Steve gritted his teeth to summon courage for the impending fight—he had Maisie to think of—but the creature’s interest shifted. They moved on, parting around him like a stream divided, for whatever scraps might be left of the carnage of the woman.
They left Steve— devil, soulless, freak —alone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The entrance hallway was so big and echoey with marble and crystal that sounds bounced around the space like bullets. If Maisie had serious money, this wasn’t how she would spend it. Her ideal abode had soft sounds, like the ocean at a beachfront condo, which, come to think of it, would probably cost as much as this house.
Graeme loitered, pacing outside a set of big, white double doors. Nervous.
Yeah, well, she was, too.
Steve was probably waking up now. He’d be bossing everyone around, coordinating shit, rolling out maps on the hoods of cars like the fucking FBI. Making people literally jump at his commands.
Yep. That’s what he was probably doing.
The doors suddenly opened inward, and some lady with a bun and dressed in chin-to-shin black—kinda like a nurse on opposite day—beckoned them to follow.
Maisie looked around as she was led into a huge living space with elegant, silk-covered sofas that had rolled arms with silver-blue trim. Huge gold rugs covered the floor, probably a hundred years old and from some foreign place where they’d been hand knotted by children. The nurse lady kept walking, though, leading into another living roomish space, and beyond that loomed another set of double doors. Maisie was willing to bet there’d be a third living room within. Because what else would they do with all this space but buy sofas to fill it?
The nurse knocked, but didn’t wait for an answer—whoever was in there must’ve known they were coming.
Graeme went inside first. “Sir.”
And Maisie trailed after him into an office dominated by a really big, ornately carved wood desk. Behind the desk sat a man in his late fifties, and she recognized him…but from where?
Though his hair was going gray at his temples, the man was fit and had the fresh, glowing skin of an actor only ten years out of his action-movie days.
The man stood up and held out his hand. “Hello, Maze.” French accent. “I’m Didier Lambert. I’ve been very anxious to meet you.”
Whoa. Everyone knew his name. Everyone.
Didier Lambert had invented Rêve. He was a national hero in France, but he’d become a recluse after the Rêve-olution of shared dreaming had swept the world. Some people cursed him for opening Pandora’s box. Others praised him for ushering in a new age wherein humankind could be gods. Generation Rêve, Maisie’s generation, knew he was important, but didn’t remember the time before. Who remembered what life was like before electricity? Cooking food over a fire? The time before Rêve might as well have been the Stone Age.
Every once in a while Lambert would pop up somewhere interesting, like the U.N., but mostly he stayed incognito.
She shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”
What was he doing involved with all this? Had she been delivering his packages?
As he pulled away, he gestured. “If you’ll have a seat?”
A chair was pulled up behind her. Maisie looked around to find Graeme standing back by the door frowning, his expression sickly pale. Afraid.
Maisie turned
Through veils of sand-carried wind, Steve saw the shadows leap upon the woman. They formed a dark huddle around her body, and one of her feet sticking out twitched as they…fed.
This is what would’ve happened to William Kerry.
Flashes of cold burned all around Steve, which meant other such creatures were coming. There wasn’t enough of the woman for them all to get their fill.
He turned to find one inches away from him, leaning in as if to sniff. Sand burned Steve’s eyes, but he could see that the creature was near human, but gray, feral.
They surrounded him now.
Steve gritted his teeth to summon courage for the impending fight—he had Maisie to think of—but the creature’s interest shifted. They moved on, parting around him like a stream divided, for whatever scraps might be left of the carnage of the woman.
They left Steve— devil, soulless, freak —alone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The entrance hallway was so big and echoey with marble and crystal that sounds bounced around the space like bullets. If Maisie had serious money, this wasn’t how she would spend it. Her ideal abode had soft sounds, like the ocean at a beachfront condo, which, come to think of it, would probably cost as much as this house.
Graeme loitered, pacing outside a set of big, white double doors. Nervous.
Yeah, well, she was, too.
Steve was probably waking up now. He’d be bossing everyone around, coordinating shit, rolling out maps on the hoods of cars like the fucking FBI. Making people literally jump at his commands.
Yep. That’s what he was probably doing.
The doors suddenly opened inward, and some lady with a bun and dressed in chin-to-shin black—kinda like a nurse on opposite day—beckoned them to follow.
Maisie looked around as she was led into a huge living space with elegant, silk-covered sofas that had rolled arms with silver-blue trim. Huge gold rugs covered the floor, probably a hundred years old and from some foreign place where they’d been hand knotted by children. The nurse lady kept walking, though, leading into another living roomish space, and beyond that loomed another set of double doors. Maisie was willing to bet there’d be a third living room within. Because what else would they do with all this space but buy sofas to fill it?
The nurse knocked, but didn’t wait for an answer—whoever was in there must’ve known they were coming.
Graeme went inside first. “Sir.”
And Maisie trailed after him into an office dominated by a really big, ornately carved wood desk. Behind the desk sat a man in his late fifties, and she recognized him…but from where?
Though his hair was going gray at his temples, the man was fit and had the fresh, glowing skin of an actor only ten years out of his action-movie days.
The man stood up and held out his hand. “Hello, Maze.” French accent. “I’m Didier Lambert. I’ve been very anxious to meet you.”
Whoa. Everyone knew his name. Everyone.
Didier Lambert had invented Rêve. He was a national hero in France, but he’d become a recluse after the Rêve-olution of shared dreaming had swept the world. Some people cursed him for opening Pandora’s box. Others praised him for ushering in a new age wherein humankind could be gods. Generation Rêve, Maisie’s generation, knew he was important, but didn’t remember the time before. Who remembered what life was like before electricity? Cooking food over a fire? The time before Rêve might as well have been the Stone Age.
Every once in a while Lambert would pop up somewhere interesting, like the U.N., but mostly he stayed incognito.
She shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”
What was he doing involved with all this? Had she been delivering his packages?
As he pulled away, he gestured. “If you’ll have a seat?”
A chair was pulled up behind her. Maisie looked around to find Graeme standing back by the door frowning, his expression sickly pale. Afraid.
Maisie turned
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