Page 59 of Darkness

“Believe me now?” the woman asked, changing back into Jessa mode.

“Yes. But I have a question. If the government is trying to keep the news about travelers quiet, aren’t you making a clusterfuck of things by speaking with so many people?”

Jessa giggled. “Who’re they gonna tell? No one will believe them. Besides, if you found the secret to getting what you wanted, would you let others in on the deal? I think not.” She pulled a cell phone out of the pocket of way too-tight jeans and checked the screen. “Oops. Gotta go. See ya.”

She bussed her lips across Morrisey’s cheek and raced out the door.

Only then did Morrisey notice his mostly immaculate kitchen and living area.

Then her words sank in. The FBI is going to move you to their complex for your protection. Damn. Morrisey’d been hoping they hadn’t been serious about the little stipulation on page seven of his employment contract.

Farren arrived at Morrisey’s building twenty minutes later.

With a van.

And wearing clothes. Regardless of how hard he stared, Morrisey never detected wings.

Chapter Twenty

What the fuck had Morrisey gotten himself into?

The room was spartan to say the least, with one double bed, a desk, a dresser, a closet, and another door leading to an equally sparse bathroom. No tub, just a shower. Morrisey expected bigger accommodations based on the size of Leary's office. Light gray walls, dark gray carpet, geometric print comforter in shades of gray, with a single blot of navy blue for variety, like some eighty percent cotton Rorschach test.

Oh well, a few pairs of jeans and shoes on the floor ought to break the monotony.

Farren pulled a rolling suitcase into the glorified prison cell, giving an apologetic shrug. “You can return to your own home once you complete training or take a permanent one here. Trust me. Resident apartments are much better than here in the barracks.”

Barracks? At least the shoebox beat the barracks from Morrisey’s Army reserve days. “Where do you live, Farren?” Better yet, why did Morrisey care, especially if knowing only added to his fantasies? Images flashed through his mind from the dream.

Fuck! Thinking about Farren naked would have to wait for later.

Farren flinched, casting his gaze down. “I live here. It’s… better for all concerned.”

Morrisey had so many questions about who Farren really was before he came to inhabit the apparently ageless body of model Farren Austen. Now might not be the appropriate time to ask. More pressing matters took precedence. “How many live here in this underground dungeon?” Were the demon-possessed allowed out into the world?

“We currently house fifteen recruits in this wing, but none are travelers. Twenty permanent residents live on another floor. Some are guards, cafeteria workers, admins…”

“So many?”

“Only about six task force recruits will complete training.”

That didn’t sound ominous. Much. “Why?”

Farren shrugged. “Only a special type of person can do what we do successfully. Many don’t have the heart or the nerve for the work. Others make… mistakes.”

Icy fingers of dread ran up Morrisey’s spine. “What kind of mistakes?”

“Not taking the job seriously.”

The same held true with all police work. Morrisey wouldn’t ask what happened to the unsuccessful ones. A question for another time. He’d committed to this effort. The answers wouldn’t help him now.

Farren continued, “Very few humans here actually learn what we really are outside of our team. Your nearly being possessed is what put you to the head of the class. I’m afraid the nondisclosure agreement is in effect for any interaction with the newbies. Anyway, recruits get up at six. Breakfast is at seven. Many choose to fill the time working out at the gym.”

Morrisey snorted, waving a hand toward his body—a body that didn’t see exercise gear often. “Does it look like I go to a gym?”

After an up-and-down perusal, Farren looked away, face flaming. “The scenery is… acceptable.”

“How underwhelming.” What scenery? Morrisey’s body or the gym bunnies lifting weights before any decent human being rolled out of bed? Was that a come-on? A coming out? Then again, a man needn’t be gay to appreciate the muscles brought on by a good workout. Morrisey had attracted his share of audiences during his pumping iron days.

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