Serafina and the Virtual Man (7 page)

“And Dale?” JK pursued. “I actually thought I saw genuine affection, genuine loss today. I wasn’t sure of it before.”

“I’m still not,” Sera said flatly. “There’s truth and lies so muddled up in there, I doubt even he can separate them anymore. Grief, maybe; worry and excitement, definitely. You go and wiggle your way into his secret laboratory. I’m going to scare up a poltergeist and maybe even a vision or two.”

JK sighed. “He’s alarmed it, so it’ll take some time to get past. If I can. Sera? Keep your phone at the ready. That thing could bury you, and I wouldn’t even hear from in there.” She pointed up to the gallery.

Sera waved one hand and wandered through the arch into the bowels of the house, trailing her fingers along the walls as she went. Adam stayed with JK as she turned and ran lightly upstairs to the gallery.

His heart was doing a steady but accelerated drumming, like when a game got interesting. Which was amazing. That VR program was
fucking
good.

“God, I was such a genius,” he murmured with derisive self-mockery and switched cameras so that he could see her entering the outer study. She looked at the camera above the secret door and sighed as she extracted the laptop from her bag. “So which way, JK?” he urged. “Try and hack into the alarm system? More satisfying to accomplish but harder. In fact, probably impossible in the time available. Or ask Exodus? Go on, ask. You know you want to…”

Or had he really scared her off? How creepy
was
he right now? The trouble was, being disembodied tended to separate you from the norm too.

Well, even alive, he’d never pretended to be normal.
Come on, JK, just ask me. Five seconds, and then I’ll help you out…

Her fingers on the track pad hovered. She had elegant hands, small and slim, the nails shapely and beautifully painted. How would they feel on a man’s body?

You’ll never know, will you?

Fuck, I don’t want to be dead.

Two seconds, JK. Come on, you know it makes sense.

She opened a program he’d never seen or heard of before.

Oh well, can’t win them all.
He ran his mouse over the chat icon. And before he could click, it flashed to life. “JK has invited you to chat.”

Yes!

Exodus: Ignore the camera. The alarm won’t go off until you touch the keypad. Make sure you hit # first, followed immediately by 9845. Wait for the click, then 7698.

A smile flickered across her face.

JK: I hate you.

While he grinned, she marched to the keypad without hesitation, laptop clutched in one hand in tablet form so she could check the numbers. With only a couple of glances, she hit the keys with swift precision, waited as instructed, hit the rest, and then she was in.

The door slid open, and he turned slowly to face her.

Chapter Seven

Jilly’s heart raced. She hadn’t hesitated to obey Exodus’s instructions, yet now that the door stood open, she had to force herself to go in.

Empty room full of exciting technology?

Or
him
?

The room was dark as before; light from the outer office penetrated only the first few feet of the lab. Beyond, everything looked shadowed, mysterious.

She gripped the laptop tighter and stepped inside, every sense on high alert. She couldn’t hear anyone moving or even breathing. The room smelled sterile, as if no one had been there since it was last cleaned. And yet the hairs on the back of her neck stood up in awareness. Like Sera’s in the presence of spirits.

I am not psychic. I am
so
not psychic.

She moved farther in, eyes darting to every corner of the room. And then, just as suddenly as the last time, the lights came on, and she was blinded by the dazzling green glow that zapped into her and seemed to consume her. At least it finished its scan—or whatever it was doing—faster than before.

Breathing deeply, she opened her eyes and saw him sitting by one of the computers watching her.

He slouched in his chair, untidy, unshaven, every bit as carelessly attractive as she remembered. And terrifyingly real.

Was this how Sera saw ghosts?

His lips quirked into a rueful smile, and he stood, walking toward her. She followed every move with fascination, the faint swing of arms and hips, the play of sinew along his wrist and hand as he held it out to her. Solid. Real.

“JK. I’m glad you came back.”

He’d touched her before, without permission, the faintest brush of his fingertips against her skin, and she’d liked it. Or, at least, looking back on it defensively, she hadn’t
minded
. It had been so quick and unthreatening. But this, this hand held out to her, loomed huge in her mind because of what she’d learned since the first time, since the first visit, not just about what he was, but who he’d been.

She stared at his hand. It was big enough, but hardly huge in this reality. The fingers were long, his nails cut short but not professionally manicured. A capable, efficient hand that she shouldn’t be able to touch.

Slowly, she set down the laptop on the nearest desk and lifted her hand to touch his fingers. They curled around hers, warm and solid, and she gasped and clung to them for support.

“You’d better not be taking the piss out of me,” she got out, and his eyes narrowed in sudden laughter, the skin crinkling around the corners. He had a good, silent laugh, an excellent match for the mere smile she’d glimpsed before.

“It’s just technology,” he said, as if he knew exactly how to soothe her. “Virtual reality. No headset, no goggles, no gloves. When you touch the sensor just past that first computer, it sets off the machine over there”—he pointed toward the dental drill-shaped things above the two benches—”which scans your brain and the rest of you and plugs you in so that others in the game can see you, and you feel with your whole body.”

“Fuck,” Jilly said in wonder, gazing from the machine back to him and their joined hands. “But it’s real. You
feel
real. You look real.”

“So do you.” His finger moved on the skin between her thumb and forefinger, sending tiny thrills down her nerves. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. She turned his hand, pushing her fingers against his to open them, which he did at once, and she could study the lines of his palm and trace them with one finger.

His breath caught, and he curled his fingers back around hers. “You’re tickling.”

“Sorry.” She pulled free, only half as embarrassed as she should have been. “This is just so incredible. This is your new system? No wonder Ewan’s keeping it under wraps. It’s not just revolutionary, it’s mind-blowing. How’d you do it? How can it get so far into your brain without even wires?”

“A combination of very new techniques from both neurosurgery and VR.”

Jilly wandered across to the benches, touching the unknown equipment with reverence. “You’re a neurosurgeon too? Somehow the papers missed that.”

“Not me. We have a friend, a doctor, who helps with that side of things. Gives me what I need and even tests it for safety.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “And he passed it, right?”

“Right.”

She frowned. “It’s clever,” she allowed. “Fucking clever. But I don’t get this room. Why put such fabulous technology in such a shite virtual environment?”

He grinned. “The environment’s still real. We haven’t programmed it to anything else yet. Where would you like to go?”

She felt her eyes widen. “Where have you got?” she asked breathlessly.

“Hmm, prohibition-era Chicago? We can go gangster shooting and take on the mob. Or 1940s occupied Paris. Or there’s a half-finished futuristic with some magnificent aliens.” He considered her, leaning his head to one side. “I can see you in Paris, all chic and secretive.”

For some reason, a flush rose through her body to her face. She hoped her makeup hid it. He only quirked his expressive lips and turned to the computer he’d just left. His fingers flew across the keys.

“The computers,” she said, frowning. “Real or virtual?”

“Real. Well, both, I suppose, since our virtual forms can operate them.” He glanced up at her over his shoulder. “One thing you have to bear in mind. The game is an environment. A blank canvas with only the most basic of plots. You control the events by your thoughts and desires, and when you want to leave, you do. But that’s the tricky part. You have to
really
want to leave not just the scene you’re in but the entire game, otherwise it doesn’t work. That bit takes practice, so you’d better just tell me. Which means you’ll have to stay with me at all times. There should be a safety cutout on a time mechanism, plus a distress sensor, but they weren’t properly operational when I made this stuff, and I don’t know how far along Dale’s got with it.”

“Not very, if you’ve been here for two days,” she observed and was instantly sorry when his expression clouded. His eyelids swept down, and he turned back to the computer.

He had long, dark eyelashes that looked oddly appealing against his pale skin. “That’s different. I’ve got nowhere else to go. OK, Paris, 1942. Ready?”

“What do I do?” she asked, suddenly panicking.

“Nothing.” He straightened and came toward her. “Take my hand.”

She did, clinging to it like a lifeline as the world changed dizzyingly around her.

****

The force of the vision dropped Sera to her knees. A man’s terrified face stared up at her, contorted because someone else was ruthlessly squeezing the air out of his windpipe. Crackling flames loud in her ears, the glow of fire close to the dying man’s head. A log fire.

It vanished as quickly as it had come, and Sera knelt, panting on the hard hearth of the Ewans’ sitting room.

Fuck.

A man had died here, deliberately murdered. And it was on this spot at the hearth. Touching it with her foot had brought the vision; falling to her hands and knees had intensified it for the instant it lasted.

Sera rose shakily to her feet. Violent visions never got easier to bear, but she had a job to do.

“Well,” she muttered, gazing around her. “No wonder you’re pissed off. Someone killed you, right here. Tell me all about it.”

She stood by the hearth where he’d died and closed her eyes, concentrating on her memory of the vision, of the dying man—youngish, wild-eyed, unkempt brown hair. Presumably Genesis Adam, although she tried to avoid thinking the name, just held on to the feel of the vision, to the cool fringes that hung in the air like the echo of the angry spirit, and called to it.

Without warning, a gust of air hurled her hair back from her face. She had to hold on to the mantelpiece to avoid staggering backward.

“Be easy,” Sera told it, sending calming, soothing vibes. “I’ll find who did this to you. I’ll make sure he’s punished. It’s not your concern now. I’ll do it.”

Something moved above her head. She only just managed to leap out of the way as the framed original art crashed to the floor where she’d been standing.

No wonder there was no “stuff” in the house. The bloody poltergeist kept trashing it.

“You have to go,” she said firmly and began imposing herself upon it, pressing into its essence, forcing it apart.

Then the door crashed shut, and her mind was left clutching nothing.

She might have imagined it had gone, except she could hear doors banging all over the house.

“Stand
still
, you bloody awkward…” No, no point, in being angry with it. It would bury her. Taking a deep breath, she followed it.

****

Jilly dangled over the side of a bridge, which she clutched with both hands. Below her, in the almost pitch darkness, stood Adam, ready, she hoped, to catch her. It was a long way to fall. She dropped straight into his arms.

He grunted with the force but didn’t stagger or drop her. Instead, he let her slide down his hard body until her feet touched the ground. There was no time for confusion or embarrassment. Already she could hear the voices of the German foot patrol pursuing them, and they had dogs with them.

Hand in hand with Adam, she stumbled back along the muddy bank of the River Seine until they were completely under the bridge, their backs against the stone wall. She tried not to breathe. Beside her, Adam’s chest rose and fell evenly. In the deeper darkness beneath the bridge, she couldn’t even see his face, although his teeth gleamed briefly in a quick smile.

This was amazing. Not only did she have a cool and savvy partner actually in the game with her, the surroundings, the actions were so real that her heart pounded and adrenaline flooded her, almost as if she really was helping Adam sabotage a bridge while avoiding capture by Nazi soldiers. She hadn’t had so much fun in…well, ever. Even when she and Sera had stolen that car from under police noses when they were sixteen, she hadn’t felt this kind of glowing exhilaration.

The German soldiers and their dogs ran over the bridge, talking excitedly. One of the dogs barked but presumably only out of general high spirits, because the footsteps didn’t pause, just kept running overhead and onward.

Jilly counted to ten, then breathed a sigh of relief.

“They’ll be back,” Adam warned.

“So we have to blow up the bridge before they do.”

“You want to waste your explosives on this little bridge?”

“No, I want to force them to bring the new guns over the bigger bridge instead, and blow up more of them at one time.”

“I like the way you’re thinking. But we’ll need more explosives.”

“Fine,” Jilly said, getting the battery torch from her coat pocket and switching it on. “Pass the book.”

“What book?”

“There’s always a book,” Jilly said impatiently, patting the chest of his trench coat until she found the hardness of a book in his inside pocket. “And it generally makes all the difference between completing a mission and not. I’ve played enough of your games to know that. How much explosive do we need to blow this bridge? We shouldn’t waste any.”

In her torch beam, Adam grinned, and took a dog-eared book from his inside pocket. In the game, he was clean-shaven and his hair was shorter and tidier under the dark trilby hat. He looked both handsome and mysterious in the shadows.

“Yep, you can save some,” he said admiringly. “Come on, they could be back any moment.”

Adam, it seemed, was a gentleman. While he dangled upside down laying wires and explosives under the middle section of the bridge, Jilly much more daintily laid the charges at either end, from the relative safety of the river bank. Which gave her time to pick up his discarded coat and hold her torch steady for him as he worked. Her gaze tended to slide away from the explosive to the rippling muscles of his arms and shoulders.

Then he swung himself up beside her on the bridge, breathing deeply and they ran together to the far side, Adam letting out wire from the reel as he went. They climbed down the river bank again, stumbled as many yards as they could before the wire ran out, then lay flat on the ground.

“Stick your fingers in your ears,” Adam said. Then he pushed down the lever and flung his arm across her head and shoulders.

Jilly heard her heart beat once, and then the world exploded in the loudest noise she’d ever heard in her life. Adam’s arm tightened briefly. A scattering of light debris fell along the length of her body, but it felt like little more than dust.

“All right?” Adam asked.

Jilly tried to nod. She could barely hear.

He leapt to his feet, drawing her with him, and they ran again, stumbling away from the scene before the soldiers or police could get there.

“Okay, so that was bloody real,” Jilly gasped with approval. They slowed and turned to look at the bridge in the distance. Or at least what was left of it.

“Ace sabotage,” Adam said with satisfaction. He licked his lips. “Could murder a pint.”

“Hey, you’re in France.”

“A pint of wine—or even Cognac—is equally acceptable. We can report to our Resistance contact at the café.”

“How far? Do you have the map?”

“I remember the way, and not very.”

“Good.” Jilly was all set for the next step of the game, which was great fun in Adam’s company. It wasn’t just playing either—it was living.

But with the realization came a short blast of reality. She remembered who and what he was and what she was really here for. To say nothing of Sera taking on the poltergeist single-handed.

“Wait, though,” she said uneasily, “I don’t think I’ve got time—”

“Time goes faster here,” he reminded her. “It goes at the speed of your thoughts and mine, not of actual reality.”

She stared at him. “Then how do I know how long I’ve been here?”

“Your phone’s in your pocket, isn’t it?”

“In my
real
pocket,” she corrected, feeling inside her 1940s raincoat. Her hand closed around the comforting shape of her phone and dragged it out triumphantly.