Thick trees and tangled thatches of undergrowth concealed Layla’s crouch. Adrenaline still flashed through her veins now and then, but her tush and toes had long since gone numb. She hoped the adrenaline would make up for her stiffening body if trouble found her, and she tried not to think about how she was meeting it halfway.
The Segue Institute, located deep in the West Virginia Appalachians, might seem too peaceful for a war zone. But she knew better. The wraith war was one of long silences, broken with sudden, violent terror, but she was going to get the photo she’d come for, frigid wraith-infested mountain or not.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
Layla shook her head. The metallic, rattling sound in her ears had been driving her crazy for a while. Had to be a side effect from the blow to the head she’d taken in Tampa, trying to get some video inside what she thought was an empty wraith nest. The nest was not so empty.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
She focused on her target. Shadows pooled around the renovated turn-of-the-century hotel that now housed Segue, though the ineffectual sun was directly overhead. It kind of reminded her of an Escher drawing of a castle: The veranda stairs plunged into a bent twist of darkness, the darkness giving way to whitewashed, starkly delineated walls, which took a sharp turn into darkness again. It was an upside-down kind of building. Tugged at her mind. Tugged hard.
“You’re seeing things, Layla,” she said to herself. The cold wait had to be getting to her. She squeezed her eyes shut to clear her vision. Now, of all times, she needed to stay alert and grounded. No trips to la-la land.
An early, three-hour hike from Middleton, a climb over an unguarded section of Segue’s surrounding wall, four hours kneeling in the scraping underbrush, and still no sighting of anyone, specifically Talia or her well-known husband, Adam Thorne. The Global Insight, the online journal Layla worked for, had many photos of Mr. Thorne on file, as Thorne Industries maintained a high-profile presence at events and charities. But it had only one of Talia, a blurry screen capture of an Arizona alley fight with a wraith. A faint tilt to her eyes was discernable, as well as the woman’s ultrafair coloring, but that was about it. Talia Kathleen Thorne was an enigma, a ghost, and Layla’s obsession. She would stay all night if she had to.
She needed one crisp photo to accompany Adam’s when she broke her story: These were the people at the heart of the wraith war. Wraiths, the monsters of the modern age, had mutated from normal Homo sapiens to some superstrong, fast-healing new breed. Violent and predatory by nature, they attacked their human counterparts, even those they once called friends and family. The spread seemed to have stopped, but the terror continued. All indicators pointed to Segue, yet the government had granted the institute what seemed like unlimited support and power. Was Segue the world’s salvation, or the source of the modern plague?
A flicker in the distance had her raising her camera again. Screwing the telephoto lens in place. Focusing.
Someone exited the building and strolled to the high white railing that edged the wide patio.
No. Two someones. One, dark and masculine, had to be Adam Thorne. The other was so pale as to be barely visible against the white of the building.
Yes! Layla knelt up, waiting for the moment when the profile of the woman would shift, when Talia would face the trees.
Layla needed only a second, and she’d have the shot.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
The noise jangled in her head, but she ignored it. Any . . . second . . . now . . .
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
She squinted into the viewfinder, as if sharpening her vision would reduce the annoying rattle.
And nearly jumped out of her skin when a branch snapped behind her. She whipped her head around, dropping the camera to the safety of the strap around her neck.
Behind her stood a man and a woman, both with buzzed hair and lots of muscles defining what appeared to be some kind of body-skimming black combat gear. They both had an automatic rifle strapped to their torso. Their steely gazes were set on their quarry: her.
“Uh. Hi.” Oh, shit was more accurate. At least they weren’t wraiths. She nudged her own gun under the leaves, out of sight. How could she have missed their approach? She was seriously going to have to get her ears checked.
Layla scrambled up from her kneeling position, brushing earth and twigs off her knees. The camera bounced hard on her chest. Time to put her cover story into effect: lost hiker, now found. Pray they’d go for it. She put an innocent and bewildered expression on her face.
“Ma’am,” the female security guard/soldier/scary lady said, “are you aware you’re trespassing on private property?”
Yep. Layla gave what she hoped was a disarming shrug and said, “I’m sorry. I had no idea. I was hiking and got kinda turned around.”