When at last Dave stopped the car and opened her door—he had to, since he controlled the lock—the Scryer blinked at the sudden light, and found that they were at the front of the hotel, not inside the closely guarded space in the building’s depths.
Dave shrugged off her surprise, and handed her their room’s keycard. “Something’s come up, ma’am. You know the drill.”
She did, although she’d very seldom met with this part of it. Donning her dark glasses as required, she went as far as the door with Dave and then entered the lobby alone.
She was expected to head directly for the room elevator, but her stomach didn’t give her time. Rushing to the ladies’ room, she bolted into a stall and vomited. Having thus at least partially exorcised the accused, she went to a sink and rinsed her mouth, poured hot water over her hands to warm them, then took off her dark glasses and gazed into the mirror, pushing back her disordered hair, shaping it and her thoughts into order. Face to face with her mirrored self she calmed as she always did, and began freshening the light makeup she was required to wear on assignment. Her features combined the golden symmetry of a Botticelli portrait with the meditative stillness of a Noh mask, and her eyes were pure and clear, the only eyes not a monster’s she was ever allowed to look into
She knew it. Knew she’d killed him. All she felt was relief…and a sense of power so alien it confused her.
Freshened and put to rights she headed again for her room. The candy drug given to her by Dave tenderly cocooned her as always, sliding a fine mesh between memory and reality, turning the horrors into dismissable blurs, and making any thought of running away, escaping, getting free, a laughable, touching folly.
On her way to the elevator, she passed the cocktail lounge. Halting in the doorway, she listened to the murmur of relaxed conversation and calm piano undercurrent for a few indecisive instants before entering and seating herself at the bar. She’d never done such a thing before, and wondered why she dared to now. Perhaps it was the detached peace of the place, or the skill of the musician despite the cheapness of the music. Perhaps it was anger, that always dwelt in her like a dormant seed, waiting its chance to burst into a blood-red flower. But most of all it felt like the new, strange sensation that had come over her when she’d seen the face of the accused grow white and stiff around his staring eyes. Joy. Sheer rapturous joy.