Page 3 of Rook

I’m a new man now…but a prisoner never forgets.

Chapter one

Rook

Centrifuge is broken again, and I don’t trust my bloody drones to do a thing.

I’m hunched over my makeshift workbench, screwdriver in hand and a mess of wires and vials spread out before me. The antidote’s a stubborn son of a bitch, dancing just beyond the edge of my intellect. A faint hum buzzes through the air, the telltale sign of another late night with nothing to show for it.

Then it starts—the rhythmic thumping from above, punctuated by a moan that cuts through the silence like a siren through fog. I thrust the screwdriver down and push back from the table, frustration gnawing at my insides.

Can’t be a break-in; thieves don’t moan like that.

But I have a good idea who does.

Climbing the stairs, I brace myself. Sure enough, as I near the top, the sounds get clearer, filthier.

It’s Aisling and Oberon going at it.

Again.

I lean against the wall, shaking my head, the heat from their frenzy seeping through the floorboards.

“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath, “my house, my goddamn sanctuary turned into a 24-hour porno theater.”

It’s not like I didn’t know what I was signing up for when I offered Aisling and Oberon a place to crash. But fuck me if I’d anticipated the non-stop skin flicks. I can practically hear the soundtrack of their lust from any corner of the house, at most hours…and I’ve mentioned it once or twice, but they didn’t seem to care.

And then there’s everything else—Gunnar is MIA, probably plotting his next move or licking his wounds, who knows with that guy now that he’s gone rogue. Luka’s turned his spooky old church into his personal fortress of solitude, trying to keep his head and heart away from Aisling’s pull. And Vance? Last I heard, the big bad Archangel’s holed up in his mansion, playing hermit.

‘Fuck palace’ doesn’t even begin to cover the madhouse my life’s become.

I retreat back to the lab, the echoes of Aisling’s pleasure haunting my descent. Back amongst the vials and microscopes, I try to focus on the task at hand—but the antidote’s allure has faded, replaced by the carnal soundtrack upstairs.

“Guess it beats being alone,” I say to the empty lab, pouring a sarcasm that no one’s around to appreciate. One of my drone’s cameras swings toward me, but there’s no sign of recognition.

Robots just can’t take a joke.

With a sigh that feels more like surrender than relief, I shove my hands in my pockets and trudge toward the kitchen. Maybe there’s a bottle with enough bite to drown out the soundtrack of my housemates’ escapades.

My hand finds my phone as I head upstairs, thumbing through the contacts until Luka’s name pops up. He’s probably the last person who wants a chat, but hell, maybe he’s got a lead on where the hell this new form of eros is coming from. I thought we’d rooted it out when we took over New Eden, but apparently it’s got a new source…and it’s not in Pacific City or Oasis, our neighbors to the east. Luka’s always had stupid intuition for these things, and I haven’t caught up with him in a while.

“Rook,” Luka’s voice crackles through the speaker, rough as sandpaper. “What’s up?”

“Was I interrupting your beauty sleep?” I ask, though I know the answer.

“Sleep?” He laughs, but it’s hollow, no humor in it. “I don’t do that anymore. Not with her haunting every damn dream.”

“Aisling?” I say, even though it’s obvious. Since they were locked up by Terra Vitae together—since he marked her in a drug-addled haze, and she him—he’s changed.

“Always Aisling,” he confirms. “I can’t stop thinking of her.”

“Want me to drop off some downers? Got oxy, xannies, or even just some weed to take the edge off?” I offer, though I doubt he’ll bite.

“Thanks, but I’m cutting out all that shit. Going clean,” Luka replies. I can picture him, white-knuckling it through the withdrawal…but I get it. He got drugged, the drug made him do shit he didn’t want…

Aisling said they described eros as a chemical lobotomy.

Fuck.

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