She closed her eyes. Opened them again. Her insides sang like a struck bell, shivering brass moving through her veins in a tintinnabulation. Nate peered up at her in an empty, plaintive stare. His eyes were blue, blue, blue. She’d never noticed.
“What about Colton?”
Whitehall made a soft, disappointed noise. “What about him?”
“The shard of bone. It was in your office.”
“Ah,” he breathed. “Was that you who broke into my house? Devan wouldn’t say. He loves a riddle. Clever of Price, to have the sole person he’s beholden to take possession of his token.”
“Token?”
“Didn’t he tell you? It’s no ordinary thing, for someone dead to pull themselves out of the afterlife. But Colton Price is no ordinary boy. He carved pieces of himself away. He left them scattered about like Hansel in the wood. The way he tells it, he caught sight of a bright little light and followed it home.” His eyes narrowed, and he peered down at Delaney through a steely gaze. “Do you know, Ms. Meyers-Petrov, the power of a True Name?”
She held her tongue. The thing inside of her rattled in anticipation.
“In Homer’sOdyssey, Odysseus is captured by the giant Polyphemus. He is exceedingly careful not to reveal his name to the giant, to keep from being controlled. He instead gives a false name.”
“Nobody,” Delaney said, because she knew the tale.
Whitehall looked pleased. “A token is no true name, but it is identical to Colton Price’s true nature. And thus, through it, he can be controlled. As any demon might be controlled.”
Her eyes jolted back to his. Her chest constricted. The edges of the room seemed to winnow in and out, the shadows shuddering in their keep. Her voice came out in a whisper, tremulous and so very afraid.
“What did you say?”
“This is news to you. It shouldn’t be.” Whitehall tutted his tongue. “Did you think he was human? All this time, did you think him wholly alive? You may be able to command the dead, Ms. Meyers-Petrov, but even you cannot order them back from beyond the grave.”
Colton Price, who had always seemed so cold. Colton Price, who reminded her of something seraphic. Mars, god of war, resplendent and undying. Indomitable, impossible Colton.
“What do you mean?” Her voice was a scrape. “What do you mean, he’s not human?”
“I mean,” said Whitehall, pushing his glasses farther up on his nose, “that Colton Price drowned when he was nine years old, and he returned somethingother. One does not simply scrape himself free of death and come away whole. He walks like a boy, sure. Talks like a boy, yes. But there’s sulfur in his bones and brimstone in his veins. He’s a creature of Hades, and he’s as bound to Hell as any haunt.”
The boy carved out much of himself years ago.That was what the voice whispered to her, the night they’d been caught beneath the slow-falling snow. The night she’d looked at him all gilt in lamplight and thought him holy. In the pocket of her pinafore, the bone shard felt impossibly heavy.
“Forget Price.” Whitehall’s mouth was a grim line, his patience waning. “He’s no longer willing to cooperate, and therefore he has outrun his usefulness to me. I won’t waste another moment of my time. He’ll be taken care of, and that’s that.”
“Taken care of.” Her voice sounded as if it came from a hundred yards away. Behind her, the dark quavered, afraid. “You mean kill him?”
“We won’t dwell on it,” Whitehall said, brushing her off as if shooing away a fly. “The loss of Price is a disappointment, to be sure, but science is about moving forward. It’s about progress. You’re a success, Ms. Meyers-Petrov. That’s something to celebrate. Something in you has allowed you to house an immortal spirit without consequence. We’re going to find out what that is and harness it.”
Harnessed, hissed that odious voice, audibly irate.I cannot be harnessed. I, who have no name. I, who was here before the race of men. I, who will remain when they are dust.
“Shut up,” she said, without quite meaning to. “Shutup.”
In front of her, Whitehall’s energy shifted visibly, moving from frustration to curiosity, his eyes bright. “It speaks to you,” he marveled. “Doesn’t it?”
She clamped her mouth shut. It was taking everything in her not to scream. Not to thrash the way the dead thrashed, contorting over the dripping stone.
“Ms. Meyers-Petrov.” Whitehall scooted his chair closer. “We are, you and I, on the brink of having dominion over death. I kindly ask you to indulge me. What is it saying?”
Tell him, slithered the voice,we say, Die, you old pig.
She bit her tongue. She willed the voice silent. She willed the tears dry. Throat hoarse, she asked, “What is it you want? Out of all of this.”
The flames burgeoned bright in the flat lenses of Whitehall’s glasses. He looked, for a moment, unbearably sad. “I want my wife back,” he said.
“Your wife is dead.” She didn’t care if it was cruel. It was the truth.
