each word. “I think I don’t know the real Brynner Carson. I think I’ve heard what people think. Maybe what he wants people to think.”
Emelia rewarded me with a smile and a nod. “And how’s he been sleeping?”
“Sleeping?” I couldn’t stop my mouth from falling open. Or the surprise or shock on my face. “I can’t really say. We’ve only been together a short while.” Whether I counted it by hours on the plane or days since I took the assignment, it was true.
Aunt Emelia put a hand on her chin and waited for me to say more, but I’d said enough already. “Well, we’ll ask him later when he’s feeling more talkative. Let me go wash up, and I’ll make some dinner. My husband will be home soon and eager to see you both.”
By dinnertime, an hour and a half later, I’d grown used to Emelia. Her open and warm nature made it hard for me to distrust her, even though I’d had plenty of practice. The two times I broached the subject of Heinrich’s journals, her oneword answers made it clear this was not the time.
So I busied myself in the kitchen, cutting salad, until the sound of a distant garage door opener announced someone arriving.
After a moment, a stout man in his sixties bustled into the kitchen. Tall, with wide shoulders and a protruding belly, he walked right past me to squeeze Emelia in a bear hug. His black polyester suit looked like something from the eighties.
Then he turned and looked at me, tipping his head. “Ma’am.”
“Grace Roberts, sir.” I dried my hands and offered him a handshake.
He looked me over from head to toe like a horse trader making an appraisal. “You’re too pretty for our boy. You come here with him on purpose?”
“Hush,” said Emelia, smacking him in the chest. “Go set the table. And check on Brynner; he’s been dozing.” After he ambled out, she looked at me. “I’m sorry. Bran has a habit of speaking his mind.”
“He called me pretty. I think I’ll let him live.”
Bran called from the living room, his voice dark with worry. “Emmy, the boy’s doing it again.”
Emelia turned off the stove and ran to the living room with me at her heels. Brynner thrashed back and forth, caught in a nightmare. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
“Aren’t you going to wake him up?”
Emelia nudged me. “He might take it better from you.”
“I don’t get paid—” I clamped my mouth closed, reminding myself that I did. Field grade, field operative pay. Kneeling by the recliner, I put one hand on his arm. His skin radiated heat, making my fingertips tingle. “Brynner, wake up. Come on, wake up.”
He didn’t move.
I shook him, and his head lolled. He was whispering words through gritted teeth.
With my other hand, I reached out, cupping his jawline. “Brynner.” His beard stubble scratched my hand, his skin almost fever hot. “Brynner, wake up.”
Brynner’s eyes shot open, wild, feral. He lunged at me.
Eight
BRYNNER
The dream unfolded the same as before. Mom, her face slack with horror and realization. The blood running from her chest where a spear protruded. Her gaze locked on the silver jar in her hands as the air before me shimmered.
She tossed it, her blood-flecked lips mouthing words without voice. “Brynner.”
I moved to go after her, but in the dream, like my memory, my legs weighed two tons each, and my arms wouldn’t move. The monsters looming behind her watched the Canopic jar sail through the air. Into my hands.
“Brynner, wake up.” Fueled by guilt, I hurled myself toward the fading image, forcing my arms to reach for her—
And off the couch, onto a hardwood floor. Sweat covered me. My limbs shook.
“Get off me.” Grace Roberts’s voice squeaked the words.
She lay pinned beneath me, gasping for breath. A few feet away, my aunt and uncle watched, not even trying to hide their amusement. I pushed myself off Grace, ignoring the pain in my chest. The embarrassment hurt more. I wanted to make an impression on Grace, not a belt-buckle-shaped bruise.
Grace struggled to disentangle herself, then scrambled away, a mixture of fear and concern on her face.
What did I say? What did she hear? I rose to my knees, woozy from whatever Aunt Emelia had given me. And afraid. Fear was normal. A constant in my life.
“Son.” Bran Homer, the man who raised me from the day I turned nine until I ran away. He offered me a hand up and over to the