He smiled. "Ah, yes. The bikers. Definitely not enemies one wishes to make." He looked around. "What do you think of this place? Does it look familiar?"
"Actually, yes, I remember staying here . . . despite the fact it's probably been closed since before I was born." I glowered at him. "I don't know what you're playing at--"
"Memory," he said. "I'm playing at memory, Eden Olivia. Prodding and pushing. You may have never stayed here, but you have relatives who did. Sad cases, really. The perils of mixing blood that was never meant to be mixed. There is so much that can go wrong. Just ask your parents. Or Seanna Walsh. Or Ciara Conway."
"What are you talking about?"
"I can't tell you. Too many ramifications. But I can poke at your memory. Inherited memory. If I prod enough, you will question, and if you question, you will find the answers and you will see exactly where you stand. On quicksand. Two sides offer you ropes. The two halves to your whole. Mortal enemies. Both want you. Both promise safe ground to stand on. Both lie."
Frustration welled in my gut, and I thought of those words in the bathroom. I DON'T UNDERSTAND. Goddamn it, I didn't understand, and I was so sick of these teases, of these hints, of all this weird shit that meant something and didn't mean something, and I just wanted--
"To go back to your old life?" he said, as if I'd spoken the words aloud.
"What are you?" I asked. "I want answers, or--"
"Or you'll what, Eden Olivia? Shoot me? Walk away? Neither does you any good. As for what I am, that's a very personal question. I'll give you a name instead. You may call me Tristan."
My cell phone buzzed. I glanced down at the screen.
"Mr. Walsh, I presume?" Tristan asked.
It was. As the call went to voice mail, Tristan came closer. I lifted my gun.
He smiled. "I think we've already established that won't do any good."
"I'll take my chances."
"Go ahead." He put his hand over the barrel of the gun, palm blocking the end. "Fire at will, Eden Olivia."
Before I could decide whether to do it, he snatched the phone from my hand and danced backward, hitting Play on the voice mail as he did.
"I see you called a couple of hours ago," Gabriel's voice said. "But I'm certain my phone didn't ring. Is there a problem? Call me."
Tristan tapped the screen and started to text.
"Hey!"
I lunged. He dodged and kept typing until I managed to grab the phone. Too late. The message had been sent.
Need help. Please come. Followed by an address, then, Don't call. Too dangerous. Just come. Please.
I started to text him.
"You know that won't help. What will you say? Sorry, but a madman who lured me to an abandoned hospital sent that. I really don't need help."
I hesitated.
Tristan continued. "Even if you could explain it, he'd come anyway, just in case. The cry for help has been sent. He must answer. It's his job."
"If you mean he's being paid to protect me--"
"Paid? No. I chose my words poorly. It's his duty. One he executes with pleasure. He's formed quite an attachment to you, as has young Mr. Gallagher. And you to them. Three pawns in a very old game. Do you like being a pawn, Eden Olivia?"
I said nothing.
"Of course you don't. You are Mallt-y-Nos. You rule over pawns; you are not one of them."
"I am what?"