Page 9 of Entity

After typing in the code, I tense up, expecting the panel to refuse me. Like it can read my fingerprints or my DNA and will set off an alarm or electrocute me. But nothing happens. And then, with a click, the door unlocks.

I enter the cool, dark stairwell.

I flick on the lights, and the door closes behind me.

My belly thrills with the knowledge that I’m going behind Ian’s back.

That I’m acting out. That I really am about to do this.

It has to be what he wants. He’s been pushing me toward this all day.

He wants me to have some depraved sexual experience with the Prototype, just like I had with Eros.

Maybe he’s hoping to burst in on us, some kind of cuckolding thing.

I hope not. That would be too weird, even for me.

Aware that Ian could return at any minute, I thunder down the stairs as fast as I can go without falling and breaking my neck.

My curiosity flits to his mysterious offsite lab emergency, wondering what kind of emergency could possibly require Ian’s help.

But as I descend, moving deeper into the belly of Ian De Leon’s stronghold, my thoughts return to the Prototype.

Disobedient .

I shiver with fear and excitement.

What does that mean , exactly? Is he cruel? Aggressive? Does he force himself on unwilling partners? Does he try to engage them in endless conversation instead of getting straight to the act? I giggle nervously. It echoes through the stairwell, reverberating back to me, a mad little chuckle.

My footsteps echo on the stairs, muffled by my slippers, and for a second, I feel like I’m entering the Underworld, and the Prototype waits for me as Hades himself, the god of this place.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs. The imposing vault door looms before me. The air down here feels heavy with anticipation. Like the whole universe is holding its breath.

My chest tightens. I really shouldn’t be here. I should not have come down here.

A distant, muffled sound catches my ear.

It’s coming from inside the vault door. The noise crawls toward me like a nightmare in slow crescendo. At first, I think it’s the wind. But it’s too deep for that, too guttural. And then I realize it’s a wail. A long, drawn-out, unearthly cry.

I step backward by instinct, every cell in my body telling me to turn and run back upstairs. Back to warm light and a well-stocked bar. I could make another drink and wait for Ian to return. I could leave this place, these sounds, alone. I should forget this.

But I can’t.

The wailing pauses for a second, and then it continues, louder. A low banging rises alongside the wail, metallic and violent.

Something sounds like it’s slamming against one of the doors down here, over and over.

My throat closes up.

But I move forward, step by step, until I’m standing at the vault door.

“Don’t be a pussy, Katherine.” It’s the pep talk I give myself when it’s late, and I’m drunk, and a strange man offers to take me home.

When some girl I barely know sells me a bag of unidentified dehydrated fungi.

When I see the pendulum about to swing back toward me, but I don’t want to get out of the way.

I willingly let the blade eviscerate me, millimeter by millimeter, and I don’t know how much skin and muscle is left before I’ll break wide open, spilling my guts on the floor.

I type in the key code.

The wailing gets louder and louder. The slam of what could be a body against the wall, over and over, over and over.

The door unlocks, and I push it open.

Everything goes silent. The wailing stops. The metallic slamming stops.

I stand on the threshold, my breathing shallow.

“There, see?” I whisper. “All in your head.” Or it was the wind or some strange weather phenomenon. Maybe when I opened the door, it changed the conditions. Maybe it’s the fucking ley lines talking to me.

Either I go through the door, or I don’t.

“Katherine. Suck it up.”

I step through the door.

Even though my heart skitters in my chest, even though there’s a knot in my throat warning me of danger, nothing happens. I’m just standing there, shaking like a deer in headlights, while nothing happens.

My body is lying to me. There’s no reason for all this anxiety. It’s quiet down here. Perfectly safe, like it was earlier when I was here with Ian. And those horrible sounds were just like the shadowy arm in my room: nonexistent.

Time to meet the Prototype.

My thoughts, eager to be distracted, fill with that shadowy shape in the dark room. The elegance of him. I wonder how he’ll look, how he’ll sound. If he’ll let me touch him.

Up ahead, I see Eros’s room. I have the strange urge to go up to the door and press my ear to it.

I’m sure he’s back inside. Could he have made those sounds?

Could he be… broken or upset? What if he wasn’t turned off, and he panicked in the dark?

I wonder if Pleasurebots ever feel frightened or confused.

If I woke up suddenly, locked in a dark room, I would probably scream and pound on the door, too.

No sound comes from within Eros’s room.

“Eros?” I whisper, knocking lightly. I’m afraid to speak any louder, like something unwanted will hear me.

He doesn’t respond. Of course he doesn’t.

He’s in sleep mode. The thought of him standing in that room, beautiful and still as Michelangelo’s David, hidden away from the world in utter silence and darkness, raises a sudden lump in my throat.

He should be outside. He should be enjoying his youth, or…

I pull away from the door abruptly. There is nothing Eros should be doing. He’s fine. He’s a complex program loaded onto some very sexy hardware. I may as well be lamenting the fact that my phone can’t get married and raise a family.

And Eros isn’t why I’m down here, anyway.

My breathing is still shallow. A sweat breaks out on my upper lip as I turn to the door that hung ajar earlier. His door. The Prototype.

The wail, those echoing slams, reverberate in my mind. I’m shaking. Fight or flight wells up in my chest, demanding that I flee.

Don’t be a pussy, Katherine .

Every minute that goes by is a minute that Ian could return. That those strange sounds, the vision in my guest room, could become real and cause me harm. But I don’t stop. My feet carry me forward. I have eyes only for that door.

I type in the code, and there’s a soft click as the door unlocks.

Every hair on my body stands on end. My stomach flips, fear and excitement turning my gut to mush. I push on the door.

I hold my breath.

Darkness waits for me beyond. But as the door swings open, pale light fades on, slowly brightening to illuminate the room. It’s just like Eros’s: empty and white, but for a circular dais at the center. And on the dais, unmoving, bathed in shadow, stands the Prototype.

His features are shadowed. He’s tall and elegant. Unlike Eros, he is not posed artfully, but stands unassuming, his weight distributed to one leg, the other bent slightly at the knee. His arms are folded in front of him. His face, mostly obscured, seems peaceful in the darkness.

I step into the room.

The light brightens just enough to clear the shadows from his face.

My heart stops.

The Prototype is breathtaking. Where Eros is bright and vivid, almost more than human, this…

this creature is something else. His skin is pale porcelain, so smooth and delicate that I can see his synthetic veins running like blue threads underneath.

Thick silvery hair falls past his shoulders in waves.

His nose is angular, aristocratic. Cupid’s bow lips turn down to meet a sharp jaw and chin.

Dark, elegant brows arch low and brooding over honey-colored eyes.

Every part of him is beautiful, making up an achingly flawless whole. But a shadow seems to hang over him. His expression is almost dour. And his clothes, intricately embroidered black pants and shirt, vaguely Medieval in style, reveal nothing but his throat, face, and hands.

There is nothing other than his physical attributes, and maybe the reputation Ian has so effectively crafted for him, to set the Prototype apart from Eros.

But I feel infinitely different. When I saw Eros for the first time, I was overcome with awe, eagerness, fascination.

But with the Prototype, here and now, I feel like I’m taking the final step of a long and arduous journey.

I’m breathing fresh, unspoiled air for the first time.

It’s strange, almost embarrassing, reacting this way to a silent and unmoving figure.

Strange that my heart has slowed to a tranquil crawl.

My muscles have relaxed, my shoulders slumped in a palpable relief.

Strange that from the moment I stepped into this room and saw the Prototype, I felt a bizarre, inexplicable sense of comfort.

It doesn’t make any sense, but I go with it. Better strangely calm than strangely disturbed.

I make one full circuit around the Prototype, blatantly admiring him one last time before we meet.

And then I kneel at his feet, pressing the back of his heel.

He’s wearing boots, but through the supple leather, I feel something give way.

I scramble to my feet, stepping back. I don’t want him to be startled when he wakes.

I hold my breath.

Slowly, like the first wind of a brewing summer storm, he comes to life.

His extremities shift first, moving hesitantly, testing. Then he inhales. Exhales. The sense of comfort, which I begin to recognize as deep familiarity, washes over me like a sun-warmed sea. I watch his every move like I’m trying to memorize him.

And then his eyes alight, and he blinks, turning slowly to look at me.

The world falls away.

For an instant, I feel like I’m tumbling from the top of this skyscraper, rain-lashed and free, until the world opens up and a silent blackness envelopes me, welcoming me home.

And then the feeling goes as abruptly as it came. I’m lost for words, for understanding. What the fuck is this Pleasurebot doing to me?

All the while, he watches me, wordless and sharp-eyed. Like he's assessing me. Reading me. Knowing me until I'm stripped naked before him, until skin and muscle are pulled away, until I am nothing but bone and sinew, until that's gone, too, and I'm a bright and pulsing energy.

I can’t hide from him, even if I wanted to.

“Hi. Sorry to wake you.” My voice wavers.

The Prototype tilts his head, and his mouth softens. “Hello.”

His voice hits me in the chest and coils all the way down to between my legs.

It's deep and knowing, and it fills me up like thick, honey wine. Immediately, I know he’s nothing like Eros.

He’s winter and Eros is spring. He’s a god while Eros is nothing but a faithful priest. And somehow, I feel so acutely, so intensely, down to the core of my heart and in the cells of my makeup, that I know him .

“Please don’t apologize,” he says. “Thank you for waking me.”

“You’re welcome,” I whisper. It’s the most I can muster.

The Prototype steps from the dais, slow and dignified. He is long-limbed and slender, taller than Eros. He approaches me in what feels like slow motion. Every movement plays like a kaleidoscope before my eyes, bright and unending and terrifyingly unreal.

I know you .

And does his gaze reply? Does he see it in my eyes; does he know me too?

He draws closer, his hair falling behind his shoulder on one side to reveal a pale, corded neck. The embroidery on his shirt winks in the soft light as he moves, and I see the rise and fall of his chest, the shift of muscle beneath.

God, what a gorgeous achievement of engineering. I swallow hard. He’s mechanical. He’s a program. A program, Katherine .

“May I ask your name?” he says, halting just outside my personal space. His gaze is firm and earnest, and I can’t look away.

“Katherine Fox,” I answer. “But… you can call me Kit.”

He reaches out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “Kit,” he says.

My name has never been spoken like that — like I’m known. Needed. Cherished . His fingertip brushes my skin, and it feels like an electric shock. I only just manage not to lean my face into his hand like a cat, purring with pleasure.

When he withdraws, his soft skin no longer touching mine, I feel a sense of unspeakable loss. After a moment of silence, I realize it’s my turn to say something.

Do I know you? I want to ask.

It’s on the tip of my tongue, ready to fall out, when I catch myself. What kind of stupid question — of course I don’t. And I don’t know him. Fuck. What is happening to me? I inhale sharply, trying to pull myself together.

“Do you have a name?” I ask.

He smiles. It’s fleeting, but it hits me like an arrow in the heart. That smile catches hold of every one of my anxieties and crushes them to dust. That smile is the most lovely thing I’ve ever seen. It’s like coming home to a place I’ve never been. It hurts to look at him.

“Orpheus,” he answers. “My name is Orpheus.”