“Wanna stick around, McCrea?” he drawled.
“I would, thank you.” Conn leaned into a corner of the room, arms folded across his chest.
Ivers shifted in his chair. He was built like a brick house. Big yet trim, with not an ounce of fat on him. He tugged at his uniform jacket and smoothed the fabric around his neck, drawing attention to the red knots stitched along his collar. There were a lot.
“Bewitching, isn’t she?” said Ivers. “Too bad she’s not human.”
Conn’s mouth twisted in a way that could have meant anything.
“Hello? I’m right here,” I said. “Why doesn’t someone talk to me and tell me what’s going on? Me, the human.”
Ivers laughed.
“I’m totally human,” I insisted, though honestly I was beginning to have my doubts. “And I want a lawyer and a phone call,” I added, since that’s what people always say in movies.
“You have no rights.” Ivers almost sang the words. “Besides, we’re simply having a friendly chat. I even paid you a compliment, like the gentleman I am. See how nice I’m being?”
“‘One may smile, and smile, and be a villain,’” I told him.
He crinkled his brow. “What?”
“Shakespeare,” said Conn from his corner. “It’s a line from Hamlet.”
Ivers craned his neck to look at him.
“Her friend’s in the school play,” Conn explained.
“Her friend?”
“Her human friend. In the Alter.”
I didn’t think Conn could betray me more than he already had, but his confirmation that I wasn’t human stung. “I’m a person,” I said. “You keep calling me a Shade, but I’ve no idea what that is, or what the Alter is, or where I am. All I know is that I’ve been abused and kidnapped and drugged.” I flung those last words at Conn. They didn’t touch him. His face was impassive.
“I want an explanation.” I heard my voice and wished I’d never spoken. That hadn’t been a demand. It had been a plea.
I was begging.
Ivers unbuttoned his jacket, reached in, and pulled out a lighter and cigar. “This is a good day for the IBI, a day for celebrating.” He flicked the lighter open and I jumped at the sight of its tiny flame. Ivers lit the cigar, puffing, and blew a cloud of smoke into my face. I choked.
“The Alter is our word for your world,” Conn said suddenly.
“McCrea,” Ivers warned.
“You’re in Chicago, but another version of the city you know. One where the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 never happened. That’s what caused the interdimensional split.”
“McCrea. Do I need to ask you to leave?”
A pause. “No, sir.”
“Good. Because the only explanation you need”—Ivers stabbed a finger in my direction—“is that that chair is made of iron so that if you catch on fire, you won’t burn the whole place down. But you will burn, sweetheart, oh, you will, if you don’t answer my questions.” He growled, “Exhibit A.”
An image glowed on the wall behind him. My name, dashed in colorful chalk on concrete. Alongside it in different handwriting was another name: Raphael Amador.
“Exhibit B.”
The image was replaced by another one: Raphael and me laughing as he tried to draw a daisy on the back of my tank top.
“What was your mission in the Alter?” Ivers demanded. “Why did the Shadow Society send you there?”
“You’ve been stalking me!” I stared at Raphael’s face as if he could help me out of this horrible, senseless mess.
“Surely you wanted us to see you,” said Ivers. “Flaunting yourself, flirting with a human”—he didn’t bother to suppress a shudder—“in front of a known portal between worlds.”
“We were at the Water Tower. It’s not a ‘known portal between worlds.’ It’s a mall!”
Ivers sucked on his cigar. “Don’t lie.”
“Fine, okay, the mall’s like a few blocks away from where we were. But we were just hanging out. I drew on the sidewalk, and then we went to the food court for smoothies. Wait … have I been arrested for graffiti?” I glanced between Ivers and Conn. “Am I being treated like this because of some chalk art? It’s chalk. It washes out in the rain!”
“Playing innocent is a stupid move,” said Ivers. “Because if you don’t play nice with me, like I’m playing nice with you, we’ll have to vox you.”
Vox? Something tugged at my memory. I knew this word. It’s Latin. It means “voice.”
“Only if you want to,” said Ivers. “You’re acting like you want to. Do you? I can do it myself, if you like.”
“No,” said Conn. The word was sharp. “That’s a bad idea.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion. You’ll be debriefed later, McCrea.”
Vox. Voice. A swirl of memory twisted inside me like a curl of that nasty cigar smoke, telling me that I did know what Ivers was talking about. I did know what it meant to vox someone.
They were talking about making me speak.
Torture.
“I was the senior ranking officer at the time of her arrest.” Conn stepped between Ivers and me. “I’m responsible for her. At least until I have been debriefed, and therefore relieved from this mission.”
Ivers looked at him disdainfully. “She’s a tasty bite, McCrea, but she’s a Shade. I don’t know what happened to you while you were playing school in the Alter, but you are seriously deep-sixing my respect of your objectivity.”
Conn took a deep breath. “I hate Shades. You know that, sir. That’s why you assigned me to this case. I am being objective. Voxing won’t work on her. I have reason to believe that she doesn’t actually know that she’s a Shade.”
“Impossible.”
“Then debrief me. Listen to my report. Decide for yourself. Or ask Director Fitzgerald what she thinks of the IBI rules and regulations.”
“Fitzgerald.” Ivers repeated, sour. “Fine. Fine, McCrea. I’ll debrief you. And in the meantime, you sweet little witch”—he tossed his burning cigar at my feet—“solitary confinement.”
18
“I’ll take her,” said Conn.