A week went by with no sign of Elijah.
His phone stopped ringing and went straight to voice mail, and the place he’d been renting on Airbnb remained in a state of chaos. No one had returned to tidy it, so Holden did when he checked in for the fifteenth time since Christmas.
He folded each small article of clothing neatly and packed them away in Elijah’s purple suitcase, and then went about the task of sweeping up the broken knickknacks. Never having stayed in an Airbnb, Holden wasn’t sure how the damage should be reported. He didn’t even know who owned the apartment or how to get in touch with them. Surely there was a way to find the information online.
Holden finished cleaning and looked around the small apartment. There were times like these when he wished that his ability was stronger. That he could do something beyond pick up vibrations of fear and rage and frustration as he swept away the evidence of the struggle. A postcog could hone in on those sensations and conjure an actual vision of the event. They’d be able to see who took Elijah. They’d know if he was okay.
Stomach tightening, Holden sank down to the couch and pulled out his phone. He searched the building’s address on Airbnb and quickly found the corresponding ad. The weekly price was three hundred dollars—dirt cheap for the area—and it was being sublet by a woman named Kiara Arredondo. She described the space as artsy and fun, perfect for a traveling student or a tourist wanting to be in the heart of Manhattan in an apartment that was also . . . near Community Watch. There was a note stating “soon-to-be C members get a discounted rate! Message for details.”
Holden reread the two lines several times before practically tossing his phone down on the coffee table.
She was a psychic. Elijah had sublet the room from a member of the fucking Community.
How could he have been so stupid?
“Goddamn it, Elijah.”
The apartment went from being a shattered portrait of whimsy and charm to . . . something else. A setup. A trap. Another honeypot used to lure in fresh new psys who’d somehow heard of the Community and were looking to put down roots in the city. How many places like this were there dotted around the city? The East Coast? Maybe even in the country? Just how far were his father, and the other board members, going to ensure they got first pick of newly minted Comm members with powers that would help them get a leg up in their bigger-picture plans?
Holden hurried out of the apartment and jogged down the stairs of the building. There was a large chance he was jumping the gun. After all, Kiara could just be like him—someone who was loyal to the Community and who was trying to give back by helping less fortunate psychics who were looking to find a safe space where they could be open. Where they could belong. It could be altruism. Not part of a plot.
After bursting into the frigid December air, Holden took deep gulping breaths that fogged up in front of him. The cold was abrupt after the ramped-up heat inside the building, but it helped to push aside his frantic thoughts and attempts to rationalize this growing conspiracy theory. Because even if that apartment was marketed to psys solely to provide room and board, it didn’t change that Elijah had disappeared from there, which was too much of a coincidence to be one at all.
Holden sucked in another breath and shot Lia a text message: call me when you can. i think i know how they found Elijah.
He waited a few minutes, standing in the middle of the sidewalk as a steady flow of harried New Yorkers rushed by in their wool coats and scarves, but she didn’t respond. The desire to share this information with someone else, to have a witness, consumed Holden to the point where his finger hovered over Six’s number. He brushed the screen with his thumb before slipping the phone back into his pocket.
Why had that even presented itself as an option? They’d fucked around once. That didn’t make them confidantes. It didn’t make them anything. In the past week, they’d barely spoken—although that could have had more to do with Holden’s recent tendency to avoid the club than anything else. It was difficult to patrol the floors of Evolution and watch scores of intoxicated youths lose themselves in music and each other, while the ghosts of Holden’s past faded away. With each successful party and each night they reached capacity, Holden felt guilt instead of pleasure. The club might have been in an upswing from the depressed state of the past couple of months, but the people who’d made it special were all gone—the Dreadnoughts, the band that had initially been such a big draw in the early days. They were dead, or vanished, and he was still there upping cover charges and drink prices. Being a capitalist instead of a friend. Getting richer instead of mourning.
Was it normal to feel this awful about having survived?
There was no answer in his head or his heart, so he shelved the question and caught a taxi to the club.
The New Year’s Eve party was in full swing when Holden entered Evolution. There was a line down the block, and Six was manning the door with a stone face and eyes as cold as the strengthening wind. He glanced at Holden once as he brushed by, but they didn’t speak. At this point, it wasn’t a surprise. Maybe he was done being cordial now that he’d gotten his dick sucked. Or maybe he’d learned of Elijah’s disappearance and was keeping his distance so as not to get involved.
Unless he already was involved, which was why he was keeping his distance.
There would come a point when paranoia ate Holden inside out. He knew it, but he didn’t know what to do about it.
“We’re already at capacity,” Kamryn said after Holden stopped at the bar to grab a bottle for his planned night of isolation in the office. “It’s not even ten o’clock, H. That’s fucking nuts.”
“Yes. We’re doing very well lately.”
Kamryn curled her lips in an exceptionally dramatic stank face. “You seem really excited about it.”
He flashed a faint smile. “It’s been a long year. You could say I’m feeling a little hesitant about the new one.”
“Why? This is the perfect time to hope for a change in the tides or whatever the hell optimistic assholes say.”
This time, he outright laughed. Leave it to Kamryn to be a bright spot in his otherwise dismal day. Week. Month.
“Maybe there will be a change for the better. It would be hard for next year to be as catastrophically awful as this year.”
“Yeah, I mean, ideally there will be no kidnappings or murders.”
“Right.” Holden’s smile faded. He grabbed the neck of a bottle of bourbon and skirted the bar again. “Exactly.”
“Sorry. Was that tactless?”
“No. It was honest.” He held up his prize while nodding toward the spiral staircase. “I’ll be in my office if you need me. Six has everything in hand down here.”
“He’s had everything in hand all week, H. You should think about giving the guy a holiday bonus.”
“Maybe,” he agreed.
Or maybe his father had already given Six one.
Holden hurried upstairs and was thankful that people were no longer expecting his attention. In the past, he’d played the part of host instead of owner, moving from customer to customer to gauge the level of their enjoyment, whether drinks were coming out fast enough, and to make small talk with the regular psy folk. Now things were different. He didn’t want those close connections with people who might be at the club for purposes other than drinking, or were potentially being targeted by the Community for unknown purposes. The more distance between Holden and the people around him, the better. Except for Six.
Being close to Six would be advantageous on so many levels—learning what Richard Payne truly wanted him to do at Evolution, whether Six had seen Chase or Holden’s mother at the Farm, or if the moment they’d shared had ruined any hope of Holden ever getting answers to those questions. After all, Six had claimed he’d been intrigued by Holden. That there was something about him that had drawn Six’s attention from the beginning. Had all of that been bullshit? Holden wasn’t used to being played. Especially by his own mark.
With the bottle of bourbon open and the amber liquid filling a glass that likely had foregone washing for a couple of days, Holden slumped in his chair and stared at the computer monitor. It was the perfect way to check on the party without putting himself in the middle of the chaos of humanity, but he couldn’t focus on the dance floor or the bar. His eyes flit from camera to camera, hoping against hope that he’d catch a glimpse of Elijah. That all of this had been a nightmare, and the young precog had been safe all along. Or maybe that he’d faked an abduction to get the Community off his back. It was an absurd theory, but Holden was desperate.
If this was real life, it meant that the Community wasn’t above kidnapping and punishing psys who didn’t fit their mold of a loyal and committed Comm member. It meant they weren’t above brainwashing. That they didn’t actually see any of them as real people with free will. Which made it even more likely that Lia was right, and that his father might have become a monster over time. Maybe even the rest of the board.
It would also mean that Holden wasn’t much better than his brainwashed mother if he was completely frozen with fear at the idea of contacting local law enforcement and getting voids involved. If he knew anything about his father, and the Community, it was that involving outsiders was a sign of betrayal. That was how all of this mess had started. According to his father, he’d “allowed” the police to get involved with the disappearances. From that point on, he’d been saddled with a babysitter. Who knew what would happen this time?
He tossed back a drink, let it burn down his throat, and slid his gaze to the mammoth bulletin board dominating most of the opposite wall. A year ago, Elijah had insisted on decorating the office. He’d said it was gloomy and depressing and that it needed some life. What better way to put some life into a space than by filling it with pictures of himself?
The bulletin board was covered by a collage of photographs—fifty percent Elijah with his cheeky grin, booty shorts, and various outrageously flashy shirts, and several more with him and Chase or the Dreadnoughts. All at the club, back before the vanishings and the deaths and the mysteries. Back when Evolution had simply been a happy place for queer psys who had been demeaned or dismissed by the rest of the Community. Because even in an organization full of freaks, they were still the fucking outcasts.
He swallowed his bitterness and chased it with another swig of bourbon. It didn’t help. The discontent and suspicion, the fear and rage, were roiling together deep inside of him and feeding the part of him that knew there was something to Lia’s claims.
Holden shoved back his chair and walked over to the bulletin board. He touched the pictures of people who had once been his friends, before letting his fingers hover over a snapshot of Chase at Coney Island. It was an old Polaroid and faded with time, but the moment was engraved in his mind. It had been one of the first trips they’d gone on as a “family,” shortly after Chase had been released from the Farm. He’d been so haunted as a child. Big gray eyes wide and guarded as he kept his smiles and words scant. He’d kept so much to himself that Holden had no idea how long Chase had known about the Black family—about the mother who’d fled the Community and the twin brothers who’d been stowed away down in Texas.
Had he known all along, or had he learned just before contacting Nate?
Nate . . .
Out of everyone in the Community, and the Ex-Comm or whatever Lia had called it, it had been Nate and his void boyfriend who’d backed Beck into a corner. Although Nate had claimed his empath abilities were weak, he was the one who’d figured everything out and put a stop to it all. He hadn’t hesitated to investigate his brother’s death, and he hadn’t been cowed by any of them.
Before Holden could rethink the decision, he had his phone out and he was dialing Nate’s number. There was a pause before it rang, and he feared the number had been disconnected and changed, but it rang. It rang four times before voice mail picked up.
“Nate,” he said haltingly. “It’s Holden. Look—I kept my word and left your name out of it, but . . . Chase is gone. He’s been missing for a while, and I don’t know what to do—”
The door to the office burst open. Holden stiffened, still facing the bulletin board, and hung up without finishing the sentence. From the lack of impressions coming off the person who’d stepped into the room, he knew it was Six.
“Shouldn’t you be down there monitoring the door and making sure only Community folks get in?”
“That’s a wash,” Six said. “It’s too crowded. The line would get hostile.”
“And you care about them getting hostile?”
“No. But I figured you wouldn’t want me pissing off your regulars. Even the voids.”
“Heh. You’re pretty intuitive for an impenetrable.”
Six joined him next to the bulletin board. He slid his hands into the pockets of the black-and-gray camo cargo pants he wore way too often. “You’re a bigoted motherfucker.”
Holden couldn’t have glared more incredulously had Six accused him of being a conservative. “Excuse me?”
“You’re a bigot.”
Holden ground his teeth together. “How am I a bigot?”
“You don’t like non-psychics. You think we’re lesser than you.”
“Okay, no.” Holden fully faced him. “First—you’re a psychic. Just because your brain is a giant EMP wave for psychic abilities doesn’t mean you’re a void. Your gift is just more passive than mine.”
“You’re the first person to ever put it that way,” Six said, raising an eyebrow. “Shocking.”
“Yes, it’s shocking that I have half a brain.” Holden narrowed his eyes. “Second—I don’t dislike voids. I just have little patience for them.”
“You think you’re smarter than them. Hell, you think you’re smarter than me, and that is definitely a product of your delusions of grandeur. Me being an impenetrable doesn’t mean I don’t have common sense, Holden. And you implying it does just makes you a giant douche bag.”
“Are you less likely to let me give you another blowie if I act like a douche bag?”
Six’s mouth twitched. He ran his tongue over his teeth as if to prevent himself from flashing even an eighth of a smile. “Don’t say ‘blowie.’”
“Fine, but the question still stands.”
“Heh.” Six went back to eyeballing the photographs. “We could fuck around again. If I get to touch you next time.”
There should have been an explosion of triumph in Holden’s chest, but he felt nothing. Just a distant satisfaction that Six still wanted him, which collided with his original plan to use sex to get information. Although he had no idea how likely it was that a guy who merely said, We could fuck around again, would form enough of an emotional attachment to spill any of the beans.
“Er, yes, there would not be complaining from me there.”
Six slowly nodded. “Cool.”
“Yeah. Cool.”
When Holden didn’t say anything more, Six looked at him sidelong. “What’s with you?”
“Nothing.”
“After all that game you spit on Christmas, all you’ve got is cool? Bullshit.”
“That was before,” Holden said.
“Before what?” Six’s brows drew together when his question earned him no answer. “Did something happen?”
“Come on, Six. You know it did.”
Six’s lips curled down. He crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders back. “I was put here to keep you out of trouble and make sure the club is keeping the psychics happy. That’s it. Anything else that goes on has nothing to do with me, Holden. I can tell you that right now.”
Holden cycled through responses, and wondered why he was on the brink of blurting out the truth. There was something about Six, his straightforward demeanor and bottomless dark eyes, that made Holden feel like their conversations were their own. Not repeated for anyone else. Not fodder for another plan. When he searched Six’s face, he found absolutely no indication that this was a game or part of a job. Even without the ability to reach out with his empathy and verify these suspicions, Holden trusted his instincts.
He trusted Six.
Maybe he didn’t have to fuck the man to get some answers.
“Do you want to go somewhere and talk?”
“When? I don’t want to leave the—”
This time it was Holden flashing a slight smile. “I’m not suggesting you leave your post, but don’t think I’m not endeared by your dedication. I meant later. We could do a 4 a.m. breakfast?”
“Fine. But I like my pancakes homemade.”
Was this Six’s way of saying he wanted to fuck and eat breakfast in bed? Judging by the way he was looking Holden up and down, it sure seemed like it.