Free In Your Dreams by Gina Ardito Page A

entered the wrong room? Maybe. Every suite
in the Halfway House looked the same, with no variation in furnishings or
décor. A long counter with two barstools cut the space between the front door
and the sleeping area. No sinks, no bathroom, no coffee pot. No clocks, no paintings
on the walls. No windows. On the other side sat the full-sized bed, complete
with a mattress full of painful springs, two lumpy, rock-hard pillows, a sheet,
and a blanket. Army barracks had more personality.
    The only
individuality came from the occupants. Each bounty hunter had a unique
electrical makeup—the DNA of the Afterlife—and a homing sense of his/her own
quarters. So, had Sean’s radar gone out of whack? Or had someone else taken his
place already? A quick glance confirmed the latter. Nothing of his remained.
Not that he’d had much here to begin with. The Board forbade personal items of
all kinds: no photos or mementos. Even smells were whisked away by cyclonic air
purifiers before they might trigger a recollection of Earth.
    Afterlife
memories, like his vivid images of the destruction of Luc and Jodie, couldn’t
be erased, no matter how the Board tried. Sean would never forget. Fidelis
Ad Mortem . A motto the Board and its Elders knew nothing about.
    Now, an unknown
presence tinged the air of his room with foreign electricity. He’d been
replaced—both as a bounty hunter and a resident here. Bastards. How long did
they wait before installing someone else in his post? In his room? Suspicion
burned hotter than the sun. Did Verity transfer him because she was concerned
about his welfare, or because the Board wanted him out altogether?
    Tough shit. He
wasn’t going anywhere. Not when he had responsibility for Isabelle Fichetti
now. She needed him, and despite the Board, Verity, and Xavia Donovan, he
wouldn’t abandon his charge.
    Fidelis Ad
Mortem .
    Well, obviously
his clipboard no longer resided here: a hidden benefit. Because now he’d have
to go to Reception to ask Sherman where the Board had stashed it. As he
transformed for the trip, he shook his head at the nonsensical statement. Gotta
ask the Board where they’d stowed his board. Only in the Afterlife .
    The usual crowds
crammed Reception, but Sean didn’t care. He had one destination: the luscious
Samantha, Sherman’s administrative assistant. He wished Luc were here right
now. No one could schmooze Samantha into bending the rules the way Luc used to.
In fact, when Luc went missing, the admin had provided Jodie with the
coordinates to go after him—against the Board’s express directives. Sean often
wondered if Jodie might still be here if she’d obeyed her Elder Counselor,
rather than flying headlong to the Chasm to bring back the man she loved.
    The Chasm.
Shivers skittered through him at the memory of that bleak desolate prison for
the unredeemable.
    Focus, Martino .
    Channeling the
easygoing attitude of carefree Luc Asante, he sauntered toward the strawberry
blonde’s desk. “Sammie, sweetheart, how are you?”
    She didn’t even
look up. “Whaddya want, Sean? I’m busy, in case you didn’t notice.”
    He cast a glance
skyward. Come on, Luc. Wherever you are now. Help me out, pal. For old
times’ sake. Loosening his posture, he poured a hip on the corner of her
desk in fluid Luc Asante fashion. “Two things. First, I lost my clipboard.”
    “And this is my
problem because…?”
    “Because I know
you’re the real power here.”
    That confession
brought her head up and a smile to her lush lips. “Really?” she retorted
without concealing her sarcasm. Folding her arms on the desktop, she pulled her
chair closer until her hand sat a whisper from his thigh. “Okay, Sean. I’ll
play. Give me a few minutes to warm up the positioning system, and I’ll see if
I can locate your clipboard. If I can’t, I’ll activate a new one for you. What
else?”
    “I’m looking for
a kid. I think he came through here a little while ago.”
    One perfectly
sculpted