I peer over my shoulder, but I immediately jerk away as I realize my captor is none other than Carrick Byrne. His grip merely tightens on my arm, holding me firmly in place.
For the first time since I’ve met the man, he’s not glaring at me like I’m beneath him. Instead, his eyes are wide and curious. “You saw beneath the veil. How did you do that?”
“What?” I blurt out, confused by his words. I try to pull my arm out of his hold, but he merely clamps down tighter. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You saw Marcus,” he presses.
I understand what he means because I couldn’t control my reaction in the office, but I feign ignorance. Instead, I straighten my spine and lift my chin. “Of course I did, Mr. Byrne. I had an interview with him, didn’t I?”
He narrows his eyes, his lips pressed into a chastising line of disappointment. “Don’t play stupid with me, Miss Porter. We both know you’re anything but stupid.”
I just stare back, eyes round and unblinking. I’m not admitting to anything. Because what I just saw in there is the mark of a crazy woman, and I don’t want to be crazy.
Two people come out of an office beside Olympic Dreams, moving past us toward the elevator where they push the button and wait for their ride. Growling in frustration that what little privacy we had has been breached, Mr. Byrne starts dragging me down the corridor. By the time I think to try to pull away, he’s opening the door to the fire stairwell and ushering me through.
Again, as soon as the door slams behind us, he demands, “How did you see beneath the veil?”
I lift my chin again, staring at him icily. “I have no clue what you mean.”
I am not about to admit to this stranger—no, this asshole—that I see strange things. I’ve been told my entire life they’re hallucinations and the product of a sick mind. Somehow, he must have found that out about me, maybe a hack of my medical records. For some reason, he’s trying to bait me into admitting these things.
Even as these thoughts run through my head, I know they’re ridiculous. This man has no reason to check up on me, and it was sheer dumb luck I happened to pick his company to apply to for a grant. But still, I can’t accept what I’m seeing is real.
Something comes over his face—an acceptance of sorts—and he releases me. He takes a step back, pushes his hands down into the pockets of his designer slacks, and gazes down at me with sheer confidence. “All right… I’ll tell you what you saw, and you tell me if I’m correct.”
I blink in surprise, not expecting this.
“You somehow managed to break past the glamour—or veil as it’s more formally known—that Marcus wears in front of humans, and you saw his daemon self. Pale blue skin, sort of shimmery. Eyes that look like cut crystal. Two tiny blue horns that stick out from his temples.”
Gasping, I blurt before I even think to stop myself. “I didn’t see the horns.”
“I knew it,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. “By your expression, I could tell you saw him. The real him, I mean.”
“What do you mean by the real him? And what is a daemon? You said he wears a glamour in front of humans… are you implying he’s not a human? And most importantly…” I whisper, feeling my world start to spin. I lean against the cold cement wall, hugging my arms over my stomach, my gaze falling to the floor. “Am I going crazy again?”
“You think you’re crazy for the things you see?” he asks, not in an accusing manner, but as if things suddenly make sense to him. “How long have you been able to do this?”
I shrug, as I can’t quantify at what age. “I thought they were imaginary friends when I was little. I had my first admission to a psych unit when I was ten.”
“Fuck,” he mutters and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was empathy I see in those normally chilly, remote eyes. And then he ruins it by growling, “What in the hell are you?”
Anger burns through me like a raging fire. I push off the wall, take a step into him, and give him a hard poke in the chest with my index finger. “What in the hell am I? What in the hell are you that you knew I could see those things? And what is Marcus, the mysterious man with the blue skin and horns? What in the hell is going on?”
Mr. Byrne merely flicks a glance down at the finger jabbing into his chest, then back to me with one dark eyebrow arched.
It’s not amusement, that arch.