from recording his data didn’t mean he couldn’t screw with that data as much as possible. When he focused on the floor and the lower portion of the room, he spotted more of the Skinner runes etched into the walls. Whether they were protections or some sort of ward, he couldn’t tell. Seeing those symbols gave him an idea, however, which involved playing along with Waylon’s little experiment just enough to make him seem like a worthwhile experiment.
“Can you hear him?” the tech asked. “You need to reshape that weapon.”
Cole grunted and lifted his head, hoping he wasn’t overdoing the theatrics. “Yeah. Just give me a moment.”
Reshaping his own weapon had become a reflex, but it was one that had to be trained. Cole drew on that experience as he willed the stakes in his hands into a new shape. After several moments of strained silence, sweat began to trickle down his forehead. More perspiration came when he thought he might not be able to get the stakes to change shape at all. But then the varnish worked into the stake did its thing. The Nymar blood infused into the mixture bonded with Cole’s blood, allowing a bridge to form between his mental commands and the components in the varnish that had been taken from a shapeshifter.
The stake began to creak. The sharpened end stretched outward into a finer, narrower point.
“Very good,” Waylon said as his pen scratched furiously on his clipboard. “The data we collect today will help more Skinners than you know, Mr. Warnecki.”
When Cole shifted his hands, he worked both thumbs to grind the stakes against his palms as much as possible. The thorns were still embedded in his flesh, and they tugged at his skin while scraping against tender, exposed meat.
“His heart rate is escalating,” the tech reported. “More than normal.”
That came as no surprise to Cole. Even though the stakes continued to sharpen and eventually curve into hooks, he wasn’t feeling the results he was after. And the less he felt in that regard, the longer he’d be locked away inside a building that had probably been shut down and crossed off of any list maintained by the Department of Corrections or anyone else who kept track of large buildings. He clenched his eyes shut, focused harder, and zeroed in on nothing but the image of what he wanted the weapon to do.
Still, nothing more than what Waylon had asked for.
“Good,” the man with the clipboard said. “Now shift them back.”
Sweat rolled down Cole’s face. He’d only managed to find one chink in the prison’s armor, and it was looking like he couldn’t exploit it. As soon as that thought rolled through his mind, he could hear the heart monitor whine into overdrive.
“We might want to slow this down,” the tech said.
Waylon’s voice was cool and crisp. “Is he going into arrest?”
“Not yet.”
“Then keep going. If anything ruptures, we can revive him. Cole, keep those weapons touching the table or I’ll have you shot.”
None of those words sank in. Cole’s entire world had devolved into one task. And when that task drifted further out of reach, he thought of an image that centered him and steered him back on course. More important, it made him want to fight even harder to climb out of the pit into which he’d sunk.
“Bring it back to where it was, Cole.” That wasn’t a request from Waylon. It was a demand backed up by a squad of gunmen.
What he’d tried to do was simple in theory, but wound up being a lot harder than he’d anticipated. One of the thorns waggled within his palm, and when he focused harder, it waggled even more. The stakes shrank back down and straightened out. The thorns remained wedged in his palm, but the waggling one felt more like a loose tooth on the verge of popping out. He gripped both weapons tightly, driving every thorn deeper, and concentrated for one more push.
Doing his best to cover what he was doing, he kept his fingers wrapped around the weapons as that one loose thorn burrowed in at a new angle. With a little more shifting within his bloody fingers, the stake’s handle pushed against the heel of his palm. His fingers tightened to the point of trembling, which rattled the weapon’s handle against the table.
Obviously speaking to someone via an earpiece or phone, Waylon said, “Yes, I can see the differences in the process. Focus on the tendrils.”