“You made me complicit, you bastard!” She rose from the couch and flung her hands in the air. “And after he told me I remind him ofhis mother!”
“He said that?” I asked quietly.
“Yes!” Colette exclaimed. “Because she was French, and so is he.”
“How do you know?”
“He understands me,” she replied. “You may not have noticed, but there aren’t many people in this city who do. What do you know about him?”
In a short drive across town, she’d learned more about Zephyr than I had walking the Strip with him all day.
“Not much,” I admitted. “He prefers to talk about me.”
Colette smirked. “You must enjoy that.”
Her words were lost in the clamor of my thoughts.
“He doesn’t even know his real name,” I murmured.
“Something to add to the list of things you said you would fix.”
I looked toward the window and the boulevard below. Problems were mounting, and I didn’t have solutions for any of them. I didn’t know the terms of Zephyr’s deal, didn’t know what Maslow had on him or how deep the hooks went. I had nothing to offer in trade—no leverage beyond my reputation, which the wraith was already eager to exploit.
The last thing I wanted was to get dragged into Dollhouse politics. I was a contract demon, not a crusader. And if Maslow called me to the table, it wouldn’t be about Zephyr. It would be about the Fairmont Street deal. That was the beginning and end of whatever he had in mind, and I wouldn’t touch that contract with a ten-foot pitchfork.
But I’d made promises, and Zephyr was at the center of every one.
Colette spoke again, gentler now. “You care for Zephyr. It’s a rare thing, and he must be a rare breed because he clearly cares for you too.” Stepping forward,she laid a hand on my shoulder. “Rob yourself of this if you must, but don’t leave him to suffer. Get him out of that place. Help him find himself. And then you can move on.”
Releasing me, she walked around the couch and out of my line of sight. I heard her scuffling, exhaling as she bent, then the hiss of the minibar fridge opening. A beat later came the rustle of plastic packaging.
When she reentered my field of view, she was pouring from a bag of peanut M&M’s into her palm. My weary look went unnoticed as she dumped the candies into her mouth, then cheeked them to speak.
“You work on your apology. I’ll find out about Zephyr. Where he comes from and what his life was. I think he’d like to know.”
“I think you’re right.” The words caught a little in my throat.
“Bien sûr. I am,” Colette said while chewing loudly. “About all of it.”
She padded past me while munching her way through a second handful. When she reached the door, she tugged it open, then paused on the threshold. “And, Lucas? When you talk to the boy, try not to let your pride speak louder than your heart.”
The door clicked shut behind her, and silence filled the room.
I stayed put, staring at the place where she’d stood. My chest was too tight. My thoughts and yes, my pride too loud. Damn demonic vices.
Apology. The word lingered.
I’d shouted at Zephyr, frightened him, then returned him to the clutches of someone who saw him as fuel ratherthan flesh.
Maslow wouldn’t miss him if he disappeared, but I would.
I already did.
I dragged a hand down my face and exhaled, slow and bitter.
Colette was right. About all of it.
I owed Zephyr more than silence.
