“Good. We’re not here to discuss the power, we’re here to discuss your future.”
“Ya know, you’re pretty confident that you’re allowed to have an opinion about my future. I mean, this is nice and all”—I wave my hand at the room—“but you’re stuck. I can leave and do whatever I want. You can’t.”
I’m not actually sure this is true, but I’m running with it anyway. Because there’s something to it, that’s for sure. Otherwise, why meet up with me here? He has to know we’re at Ryet’s home. And even if he doesn’t actually have that information, it’s a logical first guess.
But he didn’t come to the cabin. He’s controlling this experience, I do understand that. But he’s not really in control.
I am.
“You’re very astute, Syrsee. Do you know that?”
I’m so used to him being smarmy and assholishly charming that I find his new serious, calm, deliberate, and almost cold nature off-putting.
Frightening, actually. That’s a better word. Because only people who know they’ve won act like this. And I didn’t even know we were playing a game, so there’s no way I’m the winner here.
“Why are we here, Paul?”
“I just told you. To discuss your future. And you took us off track to try to convince yourself that I’m not really in control of your future, but as your maker, I disagree. You are mine. I’ve already told you this. Ryet is mine. I’ve told you that as well. We’re doing this together whether you want to or not.”
“Doing what, though?”
“That’s all very need-to-know. And you don’t need to know. Yet.”
“Then why should I help you?”
“I don’t need your help. Well”—he pauses to smile. It’s a very confident smile—“I don’t need your permission to take your help.”
‘Take my help.’ It feels like a weird way to phrase things.
“Then, again, why am I here?”
As soon as I say this, Ryet appears. Not standing in front of me, or sitting next to us having tea—but in the bed. He’s naked and lying on top of the covers. All stretched out on his stomach and showing off that glorious body of his.
I look over at Paul with an eyebrow raised. “What’s going on?”
“Do you love him?”
“You don’t have the right to ask me that question. We’re notfriends.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Well, you would be wrong. I like him, but love him? No, Paul. I do not love him. I’m his food.”
Paul laughs. “My darling, he isyourfood.”
“What? How the hell do you figure? He feeds on me!”
“He feeds on you so he can feed you back. It’s a symbiotic relationship. That means?—”
“I know what it means, you asshole. I’m not stupid.”
Paul flicks a finger in the air. “Of course you’re not. I know that better than anyone. I am, after all, the one who educated you.”
“You didn’t—” But I don’t even bother finishing. Because of course, he was the one who sent me to college. He was probably the one who chose all my classes.
The moment this thought runs through my head, he smiles. “Did you enjoy the piano?”
“What?”
