Page 59 of Fuse

“Or even…not in nightmares.”

He grunts softly. “Not if I can help it.” Then shifts a little, his T-shirt and khakis rustling as if he’s crossing his arms. “But sometimes, something will bring up…memories. Visceral shit, mostly. A smell or a sound.” A new rustle, giving away his shrug this time. “Still can’t listen to Van Morrison for that very reason.”

“Van Morrison?” I pivot enough to shoot him a quizzical look. “You have to avoid Van Morrison?”

“Didn’t say it was easy, man.”

“No shit.”

We’re quiet again, though I turn to look out the window once more—and nearly hope he’ll drop the subject and just get back to offering me coffee. The sun’s nearly all the way up, and the bitch-ghost in my head seems to have vanished along with the night. Thank fuck.

Are you ready for more fun, papi? I certainly am…

And that’s what I get for allowing myself to breathe normally again.

“Shit!”

And as deeply as I stash the hiss beneath my lower registers, Foley’s back on both feet again. Looming in my peripheral again. Intense and unyielding and one hundred percent his undeterred PI self again. In short, he’s yanked out every trait I keep him on the payroll for. I’m just not sure how epic the proverbial shoe feels on the other goddamned foot.

“All right, man.” He comes closer but seems to know what’s too close, stopping short of that boundary before turning and leaning back against the support beam that bisects the window. “Ice breaker time is over. Time for the real work.”

He pauses again, as if really waiting for me to pick up on that riff. I don’t move. I don’t allow myself even the luxury of half a breath. If I don’t allow the universe to know I’m here, then Faline won’t either.

“Richards.”

Goddamnit.

“Reece.”

I’m cold again. So cold. With gritted effort, I hold myself back from visibly shivering. It feels like coming down off one of my wilder weekends, only worse. Much worse. Maybe I’m just getting sick. Is this all some strange fever dream? I haven’t been sick since escaping the hive, an item added to the small plus column of Consortium torture aftereffects. Who needs penicillin and Nyquil when a guy’s got megawatt sterilization in his blood, right?

But if it’s not the flu, then it’s got to be…

Not the worm.

Not that fucking worm.

That stupid. Fucking. Worm.

For some strange reason, the words are suddenly comical.

The mighty lightning bolt. Taken down by a…worm.

I laugh. Hard. The action unlocks my restraint—and more chills. They rack me as I flip around and slide down the window, hugging myself.

“Richards.” The alarm in Foley’s exclamation tells me more. Great. I really look as craptastic as I feel. “What the fuck is going on?”

I roll my head back and forth in a show of haphazard denial. It’s another move borrowed from my party king days, which makes me laugh again. I can’t believe I remember how to do this. I can’t believe I’m still admitting there really is an art to this.

And I really can’t believe how loud the voice is, returning to my head in all its crooning, cruel glory.

That’s it. You’re learning. Just let me in, cariño. It’s so much easier when you don’t fight.

“Christ,” I bite out, barely keeping my teeth from chattering. “A f-f-fucking worm. A fucking w-w-worm.”

Foley double-takes. “What the hell?”

“It’s th-th-the only ex-explanation. Th-The worm.”