Free The Progeny by Tosca Lee Page B

right?” he says, laying the phone aside.
    “Yeah,” I say, as though I regularly see guns sitting on coffee tables. My heart is thudding in my ears, and for a crazy moment I wonder what it feels like to be shot—if I will know for myself within minutes. “I mean, no. Nothing is all right. I’ve got a guy trying to kill me, and find out I’m this thing from some ancient history. So, no. Everything is not all right.” I rub my forehead as though I’m seriously on the brink of a breakdown, which I might be.
    “I’m sorry,” he says, elbows resting on his knees.
    “I keep thinking, what if Marko’s brother doesn’t know anything? What if I can’t find anything to help—my parents, my siblings, friends . . . whoever they are?”
    His brow wrinkles slightly. “Then we wait. You said he’d call.”
    I drop my hands to my sides. “I appreciate you doing this for me. I know it’s not your prime directive, or whatever. So thank you.”
    He shrugs a shoulder, his black, long-sleeved shirt clinging to muscles that make me certain he’s some kind of ex-military. I studied him covertly all the way here, but now I’m looking at him anew. Is this the face of a man who wants to kill me? Because apparently I’m a bad judge of that.
    “It’s the only way I know you’ll let it be and keep from doing something dangerous.”
    I nod and then fold my arms around myself. They feel heavy. “Too bad this place doesn’t have one of those minibars.” I smile slightly. But I’m thinking very, very hard about how much he should offer to go down to the little shop near reception and pick up one of those miniature bottles of wine. If what he says about me is true, I can compel—persuade, whatever—him to do this. “I could use a drink.”
    “Yeah.” He rubs his face. “Though alcohol doesn’t sit well with your kind. There’s coffee.”
    “I hate that stuff,” I say, glancing at the Keurig. “Though I’d go for a latte. You didn’t see a coffee shop nearby, did you?” Starbucks. Go get it, Rolan. I know for a fact we passed one less than a mile away.
    “Better to stay out of sight,” he says. “There’s creamer, if that helps. Or more soda.”
    So much for Jedi mind tricks. I glance around, as though looking for options. But I’m thinking as hard as I can that he needs to get up, walk out the door, and drive down the street. When I look back at him, he’s reaching toward the table, where the gun is. My heart trips, but then he picks up my neglected sandwich. “Get something in your stomach,” he says, holding it out. “You’ll feel better.”
    I move toward him and take it, my spine prickling as I return to the bedroom. He’s just picking up the remote as I close the door behind me.
    So now I know that I have no idea how these supposed powers of mind suggestion work, that Rolan made it up completely . . . or that he’s immune.
    Which makes him a hunter. And means Ivan was right.
    I force myself to sit on the edge of the bed facing the door, sandwich on the floral bedspread beside me. I glance at the clock: 8:45  P.M .
    I sigh and lie back to stare up at the ceiling in the dark. I’m exhausted, my limbs heavy as though the earth just doubled in mass.
    I mean to wait in silence for the better part of three hours. To give the impression that I have finally given in to exhaustion.
    Which means, of course, that I do the one thing I have no intention of doing.
    I fall asleep.
    I rouse just enough with the first violent twitch, the kind your body does when it refuses to go gently. I shove up from the bed in a panic, limbs like tar, and grab the edge of the bedspread to keep from falling in slow motion onto the floor.
    What’s wrong with me? My legs are stupid, and I end up dragging the bedspread halfway off the bed. Something soft topples to the carpet with a crinkle of plastic. The sandwich.
    I stagger back against the desk and almost knock over the glass of soda.
    The one Rolan poured when I