Page 90 of Even Robots Die
What if he told me the truth when he said that he could feel things when he tries to make me mad?
I assumed he meant that he could feel amusement at my predicament, but what if it was more than that? That speech he just delivered doesn’t sound like the bored man I’ve been spending time with for the past few weeks.
But was he really just that bored man? I can cast him in a dark light knowing how he tricked me into working for him, but ever since I stayed in Blois?
He’s fed me—which is really important if I’m honest with myself—and made sure I had snacks that I liked anytime I needed them. He paid attention to my level of tiredness, forcing me to sleep or take some time off from coding when my brain wouldn’t work right anymore. He got me to go out when I didn’t even know I needed it, and he stayed close to me when I wasn’t feeling well.
He messed up when he sent me back to Paris, but I didn’t really fight him either. It seemed sound at that time and I’m as much to blame as he is.
And he’s here now.
When everyone is living their life, not even bothering to find out if they could be useful in Dad’s search.
He’s here, and he wants to help.
Maybe he has a motive behind the help he’s granting me—he needs me, the quicker the better, to get his brain back to normal—but that doesn’t change the fact that he isn’t trying to deter me from my task.
God knows some would lock me in so I don’t hurt myself more and would find another way to find Dad. They would make sure I was stuck inside while others went to search for him.
That’s not what he’s proposing, though.
It’s like he knows that I need this, that I need to be the one looking for Dad, that if I’m left here to wait until I get news, I’ll lose my nerve, go crazy or something similar.
I’m not a very patient person. No, that’s false. I’m not a very patient person when I have nothing to do.
I can be plenty patient when I’m super focused on something … like coding an entire program to rewrite a brain.
“Where are we going first?”
His question stirs me out of my once again spinning mind, and I’m brought back to reality.
A reality where I’m still in a hospital gown and have nothing to wear to go hunting for my dad.
“I need clothes first. And then we’re going to the underworld.”
Brice raises an eyebrow at my ominous sentence.
“We’re going to the catacombs. There’s a chance Christina might know something,” I say sheepishly. It sounded way better in my head without having to explain.
51
Florentine
Ithought I was going to need to borrow some clothes from whoever happened to be my size around here—which in itself would be a feat. Shapeshifters don’t really come in all shapes. Maybe before their first shift, but after? No, they come in two sizes: lean and slightly to really muscled or thick and very muscled.
From what I understand, it comes with the way shifting acts on their body. A shift rearranges all their bones and muscles or something like that and from what I heard, shifting is worse than a heavy workout—as if it was leg day, abs day, chest day and whatever else one can think about, all at the same time.
Which is why I’m surprised when Brice leaves the room and comes back with a whole outfit in my exact size.
There shouldn’t be something for my large curves just lying around like that.
After dropping the clothes on the bed for me, Brice doesn’t say anything else. He leaves the room and closes the door after him, but I can still hear him right outside the door.
I know he’s doing that on purpose to let me know he’s waiting for me. I’ve seen him appear out of thin air, so I know he could be silent if he really wanted to.
Carefully, I get down from the bed, discard the hospital gown, and jump in the shower. There is still blood crusted on the side of the round and white scars stark on my skin like a painful reminder of where I got shot earlier today.
When I’m done and dried, I slip the panties, bra, large pants, and shirt on without waiting for another second. They fit perfectly. It’s odd, but I don’t question it further.
