Free Illusive by Emily Lloyd-Jones Page A

laugh. He’s scored a hit. “Or maybe,” he says, “it’s you that’s naive. You think the government’s going to support you for long?” He nods in the direction of Gervais and Carson. “Those feds have it right. Us immune—we’re criminals. The only difference between you and me is that you’re willing to whore whatever talents you’ve got out to the people who’re trying to hunt us.”
    Aristeus’s face shuts down. “I’m working to help people like us.”
    Daniel gestures at the interrogation room and then at the places on his wrists where the handcuffs chafed. “Great job you’re doing.”
    There are few lines that Daniel won’t cross. He’s conned innocents, stolen plenty of valuables, and even let blame be pinned on others. But he won’t betray people he cares about. Kit Copperfield and Ciere Giba are the closest thing he still has to family. If his choices come down to rotting in a cell or selling them out—he’ll choose the cell.
    “You were right before.” Aristeus folds his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair. “Legally, the UAI can’t touch you. We cannot conduct interrogations under the Allegiant Act. We are not military.” He inclines his head, as if conceding a point in a duel. “So, I won’t touch you. But here’s the rub—I don’t need to.” He shifts his attention to the dauthus in the corner. “Morana, would you mind watching the door? I would rather not have anyone walk in on this.”
    Morana nods and steps outside. The lock clicks into place, and something about it makes Daniel shiver.
    Aristeus’s voice rings out in a sharp command. “Look at me,” he says, and reflexively Daniel meets Aristeus’s eyes.
    “You will not use your immunity,”
Aristeus says, and his voice is different. Softer and ice cold.
    The world around Daniel goes silent.
    It’s like he’s slipped underwater—he feels as if every soundis muffled, muddied. He doesn’t realize what’s happened until Aristeus’s earlier words sink in: his immunity is gone.
    It’s gone.
    Just… gone.
    This has never happened before. His senses have never failed him. They’ve always been there, whispering to him, telling him where the lock is weakest, which wire will start the car, the direction the security camera is facing. He’s been relying on his instincts for so long that having them taken away is crippling.
    “It feels odd, doesn’t it?” Aristeus says. “It’s like your sense of smell. You never notice it until it’s gone.”
    “W-what did you do to me?” Daniel says, and each word is carried on a shaky exhalation.
    “Oh, that’s a parlor trick.” A smile lifts the corner of Aristeus’s mouth. “Want to see something much more interesting?” His voice takes on that tone again—cold and soft.
“Stop breathing.”
    Daniel’s lungs freeze in mid-exhalation. His whole chest seizes up and he cannot draw breath. He tries—oh god, he tries. At first it’s just uncomfortable, a tightness around his throat and nose. But then his chest begins to burn. He needs to breathe. He chokes on the effort, wants to gag, but he can’t. He’s scrabbling at his own collar, trying to open something. There is a pounding in his head, nausea in his stomach. Undernormal circumstances, a person cannot hold his breath until unconsciousness. The body will not allow it. But these circumstances are anything but normal. Gray spots begin to dance at the edges of his vision. His fingers tingle like they’ve fallen asleep.
    Then Aristeus says,
“Breathe.”
    Daniel’s breath hitches in his throat, and he has trouble restarting his lungs. He cannot suck in enough air; he presses his fists to the table to keep himself upright while he pants.
    Aristeus’s smile widens.
    Daniel has heard of this. There have always been rumors, but Daniel thought of the most rare immunities the way people do about albinos—sure, they exist, but what are the odds of ever meeting one? Mentalists and illusionists are