With Grace held at Hammel, it’s down to her lover Benedict Thomas and the other “abnormals” he and Grace rescued to return the favour.
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The link snapped. Its recoil brought Benedict to wakefulness with a gasp. He flailed, but already knew he'd find the bed empty. The apartment was silent, Grace's absence a hole in his mental awareness. He reached out. Horror slid cold fingers down his spine when he couldn't find her. Sitting up, he closed his eyes, sinking himself into his own subconscious.
“Do not follow me.”
Benedict sighed hard. He should have known she couldn't leave Hammel alone. Damn the woman! Annoyance flared, then petered out. Worry replaced it—a terrible yawning sensation in his gut. She'd gone to Hammel. On her own. And they'd caught her.
He knew what they'd do. She was powerful, uniquely so, with exactly the sort of abilities they wanted to cultivate. They would pull her apart to see what she was made of. It's what they'd done to him, and he'd only just survived. His blood turned to ice at the thought of Grace going through so much pain. And there was a possibility she might not be as lucky.
Scrambling out of bed, Benedict located his clothes and dressed hurriedly. A glance at the clock showed the time was a little after four. He shoved his feet into sneakers, then pulled back the curtain. The pre-dawn sky was navy-gray, lightening to pale blue across the eastern horizon. Tapping his fingers on the windowsill, he considered what he ought to do. Didn't manage anything. No, he needed to speak to someone else. He grabbed the spare key off the top of the drawers and left the apartment.
Emery Wade opened his door after five minutes of knocking. Wearing a Pink Floyd t-shirt over plaid boxers, he rubbed his eyes before blinking at Benedict. “What the fuck, Thomas? You any idea what time it is?”
“Grace went to Hammel,” Benedict replied. “They've got her.”
The big man froze and stared. “Shit. Are you sure?”
Benedict nodded. “The link broke. That means they've isolated her somehow. I can't reach her.”
“What's going on?” Charity Peterson's voice was sleepily plaintive.
Emery glanced back. “Hammel has Grace.”
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