Page 14

I hover at the top of the stairs, my hand pressed to the door that will open into Ian’s penthouse. If he’s in there, I have to act normal. I spent the whole walk upstairs trying to convince myself that Eros malfunctioned, that he said something else. But I’m not sure I am.

Whatever Eros meant, I don’t think Ian is a danger to me.

No matter what he says when he’s sober, Ian’s behavior this morning made something very clear: he isn’t kind to Eros.

He locked him in a vault, seemingly indefinitely, because he couldn’t carry a conversation the way Ian wanted him to.

And now, I assume, he’s taking it out on me.

But he wouldn’t hurt me. His lawyer knows I’m here. My phone can be tracked. He’s just a volatile, bitter alcoholic.

I open the door slowly, heart in my throat.

The living area is empty. Shoulders slumping in relief, I close the door behind me and scan the room. No Ian. Just the rain endlessly drumming the windows.

“Thank fuck,” I breathe, heading straight for the bar. I could use that whiskey after all. But as I’m reaching for the bottle, something stops me. A strange, muffled sound. At first, I think it’s nothing, maybe the wind howling. I curl my fingers around the bottle.

I hear it again, louder this time — a low, drawn-out groan that crescendos slowly until it’s a hoarse sort of wail.

Not this shit again. The sound is barely loud enough to hear above the rain and my own heartbeat, but I’m sure I’m not imagining it.

And it’s coming from the hallway I haven’t been down. It’s coming from Ian’s room.

That fucking does it. I grab the whiskey bottle, spin on my heel, and run for the spiral staircase.

I scamper up the metal stairs and rush into my guest room, slamming the door behind me and locking it.

Without pausing to catch my breath, I dive into bed — whiskey still in my arms — and pull the covers over me.

I lie curled up under the blankets in a fetal position, breathing hard.

It’s what I used to do as a kid when I was scared, when I needed to be alone.

I’d curl up under the covers and close my eyes, and the rest of the world would fade away.

But I still hear the rain outside, lashing these impossibly high windows.

After a few minutes pass and nothing happens, I start to feel ridiculous.

What did I think was going to happen? Ian suddenly rushes at me with a knife just because his Pleasurebot malfunctioned?

Because now that I’ve had time to think, I realize it had to have been a malfunction of some kind.

Eros’s whole demeanor changed when he said that.

It wasn’t part of his programming. It was a momentary system failure.

Sighing, I sit up, pushing the blanket off.

I inhale cool air and stare restlessly out the window.

I’m also certain I was overreacting to whatever I heard downstairs, but my nerves are still buzzing like live wires.

I take a drag from the whiskey bottle, then I roll off the bed, shed my clothes, and head into the bathroom.

I need to cleanse myself, both literally and figuratively.

The hot shower streams over my naked body like a baptism. Whatever I witnessed in the vault earlier, it’s being washed away with every drop of water on my skin, every fortifying breath I take.

And the wail I thought I heard coming from Ian’s room? The wind howling. It’s been the wind every time.

I open my eyes to grab the shampoo.

A tall, dark shape stands with me in the shower. It’s fuzzy at the edges, undefined, like a figure obscured by fog.

A scream grows and dies in my throat, my terror choking me. Instinctively, I throw myself backwards, away from the figure.

Its edges flicker, beaded with static, and it moves toward me.

The next thing I know, I’m slipping, scrambling to catch myself in the slick shower.

One foot loses its grip and flails out from under me.

For a split second, I see my skull slamming on the edge of the tub and Ian finding me there in a pool of my own blood.

But I catch myself at the last second, regaining my balance.

And by the time I’m firmly on two feet again, the figure is gone.

It was only there for a second. Like a shadowy, human-shaped glitch in the universe.

Nausea churns in my gut. I turn off the shower, grabbing a towel and drying myself as quickly as possible. It was the same as the arm reaching into my room yesterday. The same as the figure outside the building, standing in the rain.

I’m going fucking crazy.

I dress hurriedly in the same skirt I arrived in, a pair of old tights, and yesterday’s sweater. Not bothering with my damp hair, I grab my recording device, shove it into my pocket, and get the hell out of my room. I’d rather be downstairs with a drunk Ian than in here with… that .

I clatter down the spiral staircase, half hoping Ian will be back on the sofa where I left him before I went with Eros to the vault. As if I could erase the last hour or so from existence. I wish.

The living area is still empty.

All at once, a wave of anger rushes over me, heating my skin.

Who the fuck does Ian De Leon think he is?

Inviting me here to interview him for his book, promising me a bestseller, and then taking none of it seriously?

All he’s done since I arrived is get drunk, initiate sexual encounters, act like a dick, and then disappear mysteriously.

Meanwhile, I’m seeing fucked up visions and being subjected to a bizarre warning in the basement.

And I’m starting to feel like I should take that warning to heart.

“Ian!”

His name, clipped and bitter on my tongue, hangs in the air. But there is no answer. Not even a distant, muffled wail from his room like before. Because that was a hallucination. Because I’m losing it in this place.

I stand there fuming, wondering if I should just storm into Ian’s room and demand that he get his ass out here and take this book seriously, but then something toward the window catches my eye.

I squint, leaning forward, not sure what I’m seeing.

It’s… a shimmer in the air like a migraine aura.

But when I move forward, I see that it’s not just in my vision.

It’s real. It’s stationary, a glowing irregular shape between me and the window glass, roughly oval, about a foot tall and half as wide.

It’s like a tear in the fabric of the world.

It wavers just below eye level like a heat mirage.

But unlike a heat mirage, it’s fractured and jagged-edged, and fully opaque.

I can’t see the window through it. Instead, its center seems to be crackling with a dark, colorful energy.

Colors shift within the mirage, orderly in shape — squares, lines, checkered patterns — yet utterly chaotic in their movements. Like pixels on a dying monitor.

I take another step toward the mirage, entranced. Its kaleidoscopic colors blend together like a drug.

And then something inside me… flickers .

A dislocation. A glitch. A crackle in my ribs, as if my bones are coming apart delicately at the seams. It feels horrifically wrong, and it hurts , but part of me is also crying out for more, begging to be pulled apart and dragged through the darkness, to be remade on the other side.

Like the sensation in the elevator. Like the windows, when I’m too close. I remember the feeling of the fall, the pressure. If I can just get to the other side —

My breath hitches. The mirage is gone. Nothing stands between me and the window, the curtains of rain sweeping across the glass.

I sway on my feet, putting a hand out to brace myself on the sofa. I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose and mutter a string of soft expletives. Enough with this fucking shit.

“Ian!” I shout again, my voice rough with adrenaline.

No answer.

I barely know what time it is anymore. The city has been rain-dark for days now. Surely, Ian needs to eat. He’ll come out eventually. A distant siren shrieks, faraway and eerie, as if the city below is another world entirely.

“Ian, you fucking dick,” I repeat. But I’m already heading to his room. I don’t care how many terrors I just witnessed, I’m not about to waste an entire day of work just because Ian decided to get drunk and pass out.

I pause at his door, hand raised to knock.

Eros’s strangled warning echoes in my head, stopping me short.

Don’t trust him . I hesitate. But there are only so many rational choices here.

Do I really think Ian’s own creation would turn against him like that?

It’s not like Eros is… well, everything he does and says is a program.

I saw that first-hand. He can’t be sentient. It was a malfunction.

I knock on Ian’s door.

There’s no answer.

I press my ear to the door, listening for signs of movement.

Nothing.

“Ian,” I announce, “I’m coming in. Don’t be naked.”

I’m surprised when the knob turns. I thought Ian would be the type to lock everything away, just like he does his Pleasurebots.

But when I push open the door, I see why the room is unlocked.

It’s empty. The bed is a mess, blankets and sheets strewn about.

Ian’s clothes from yesterday are piled haphazardly on the floor. And Ian isn’t here.

Other than the bathroom, there’s one more room I haven’t checked. I passed it on my way down the hall, assuming from its half-open door and dark interior that no one was inside. With nowhere else left to search, I return to the dark room and peek in, speaking softly. “Ian?”

I push my way in, and the door catches on something soft. I look down and see piles of books all over the floor. Clutter covers almost every surface. There are bookshelves along the walls, a desk, and an ergonomic chair. Over all of this, papers and notebooks are stacked in comically large piles.

But of course, Ian isn’t there.

I’m about to pull the door closed when I pause. Ian isn’t here. And this looks like a study or an office. These are probably Ian’s personal notes, his notebooks. I might find something about Eros. My pulse speeds. I might find something about Orpheus .

Ian would never let me put stolen information in the book. But it doesn't have to be in the book to influence the work. If I want this book to be a slam dunk, I need to know exactly what goes on in Ian’s head, even if he won’t tell me.

So I go inside.