“Like missiles.” She’s scowling. “I remember.” She snatches the key, her fingers brushing against mine.
I like that brief touch, which is strange.
Never before have I wanted a human to touch me, unless it meant I was about to kill them. In fact, I’m usually actively repulsed by their proximity, even my own champion or general. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never before chosen a female. I’m sure that’s the difference. I’m so busy thinking over my feelings and reactions that it doesn’t hit me until she’s putting the car into gear that I’m on the passenger side of the car.
It’s very strange, allowing someone else to take control of my direction and trajectory. “We need to head for the Travis Air Force Base.” I square my shoulders against the small seat, my head nearly brushing the ceiling. “That’s where we agreed to meet them.”
“We’re a few hours from there,” Whitney says. “They said tomorrow at sunup.”
The sun’s just setting. “What do you propose we do until then?”
Whitney frowns. “I don’t suppose you’d let me go?” She doesn’t meet my eye. She’s focusing on the business of driving, eyes intent on the road ahead as she pulls out of the parking lot and onto the small road away from Lake Tahoe.
“I won’t, no. You’re mine.” I’m surprised how strongly I feel about it. I’m not sure I could release her, even if I wanted to, but I definitely don’t want that.
“Well, is there something you’d like to do for the next ten hours, before we have to confront the US military?” She cringes. “Something other than killing lots of people?”
I chuckle. “What else did you have in mind? Is there another food you want to force me to consume?”
She doesn’t laugh. Her lips don’t even twitch. She just slumps over the steering wheel, her eyes focused on the road. “Whatever you want.”
“Was there something else you wanted? You just worked on your training, and now I’m supposed to do something with you that isn’t killing. Wasn’t that the deal?”
She shrugs and says nothing.
It’s like. . .like she’s given up.
“Whitney.”
She doesn’t turn toward me.
“Whitney, what’s wrong?”
“Other than the fact that I’m chauffeuring a psychopath to his meeting with the US military where they’ll join hands and, I don’t know, kill half the population of the United States? Is that what you’re asking?”
“You aren’t yourself,” I say. “And I find that I don’t like it.”
“Oh, no,” she says. “You know, we’re driving back through the Donner party stuff. That’s Donner Lake.” She points. “It’s one of the sites in American history where people became the saddest and the most confused.” She sighs. “And that’s how I feel right now.”
“You’re confused?”
“You’re meant to kill people—it’s your whole purpose. So why did I meet you? Why did you bond me, if I wasn’t supposed to change that? If I couldn’t change who you are and what you want, then what was the point?”
“Does there have to be a point?”
Her hands clench around the wheel. “Shouldn’t there be a point? Isn’t there always a point?”
“I don’t believe there always is,” I say. “Or at least, if there is, I’m not privy to it.”
“Because you’re just a broken death machine,” she mutters, her fervency growing as she speaks. “No feelings. No changing. No growth. Just wake up, murder, lather, rinse, repeat.”
“Lather?” She’s making no sense, but at least she sounds a little more like Whitney usually does.
“Forget it.” She’s fuming again.
Fuming’s better than slumped and despondent.
“You know.” She’s sped up quite a lot. The car’s going faster than the marked speed limit, which is how I like to drive, but she usually chides me for it. “You’re stupid.”
