“No, it’s fine,” I said, a little deflated. “Of course I don’t really want to talk about it, but I probably should. I don’t like to dreamwalk because it always reminds me of the person who I most often did it with.” I paused, and felt a cauldron full of regret burn inside me. Dream me or real me? Maybe they were the same person. Or maybe I just had heartburn. “It reminds me of what Zack and I used to do in dreams.” The burn was more pronounced when I gave it voice, but it felt better after a moment. “So now I only use it when I have to.”
“Ahh,” he said, like it was a true revelation. “And since that’s the only way you have to contact me ...”
“Yeah.” I folded my arms tighter. “That’s why I haven’t contacted you.”
“But you’ve used it to contact others?” He peered at me. I wanted to look away, but didn’t.
“Once,” I hissed regretfully.
“Who was that with?” he asked, watching me with the most peculiar expression. I couldn’t tell quite what he was thinking.
“Scott,” I admitted after a moment’s pause. “When I needed a ride home from the airport.”
He gave me something bordering on a smirk. “I’m the most knowledgeable person about Century that you know, and you wouldn’t contact me via the only method you have because of the feelings it generates, but you would use it to save yourself cab fare.” It was definitely a smirk now.
I felt a sizzle of impatience and embarrassment. “When you say it like that, I feel stupid.”
“I wouldn’t feel stupid,” he said casually. “I would perhaps suggest that there may be more complexity to your feelings about this particular power, though.” He let one eyebrow creep higher, and I could see nothing but amusement. “Perhaps something to do with the predominant purpose of use coloring how you view using it now—”
“Thanks for the psychoanalysis, Doc,” I said, and I used my control over the dreamwalk to dispel the feverish blushing sensation I felt under my collar and up my cheekbones. I stared at him, trying to overcome the emotion. “Fine, well, we’re talking now. What can you tell me about him?”
“Hmmm,” he said, pondering. “Sovereign? He’s very strong. He knows this. His reputation is well earned, something he’s spent time building, cultivating.”
“So he’s prideful about it,” I said. “Got a little bit of an ego.”
“Perhaps,” Zollers said, a little too coyly for my taste. “But it really doesn’t matter because you won’t be able to beat him.”
I narrowed my eyes as I looked at him, my first sliver of suspicion poking at me. “I heard he can change his face.”
“Could be,” Zollers said, a little more brusquely now. “I only met him for a few minutes, and that wasn’t an ability he demonstrated to me.” He seemed to get a little thoughtful. “Still, I suppose it’s possible. Never heard of a meta who could do that, but it’s not as though we know every type of meta in the world, do we?” He smiled thinly. “After all, Sovereign is still a mystery.”
It felt just the littlest bit like he was fishing, and I leaned forward. “You said Century had scared the hell out of you when last we met. You told me they wanted me dead, that this storm that was coming would consume me.”
He nodded slowly. “I told you they wanted to kill you back then because it was true. A man named Weissman was my contact with Century, and he quietly made his position plain—he wanted you dead.”
“Why?” I asked, still leaning forward.
“I wasn’t in a position to ask,” he said.
“They changed their minds since,” I said, settling back in the chair. “Weissman said the order came down from Sovereign himself.”
“Did it?” Zollers gave me a slow nod then a smile. “I suppose that’s a good thing for you, then.”
“Or a bad thing for him,” I said, watching him through the haze of the dreamwalk. He wasn’t being evasive, but his eyes were clouded.
“I think you may be harboring some ill-considered notions here,” Zollers said, leaning forward himself. “If you think you can take Sovereign ... you’re wrong. He will destroy you if you try. His power is unlike anything—”
“I thought you said that Weissman was your sole contact with Century?” I asked in a muted tone.
“He was,” Zollers said, and I could see a hint of hesitation in him. “Before—”
“Before you ran from them because they were going to kill you?” I asked, feeling myself smile a little, like a dog who’s caught the scent of fresh meat. “Which, by the way, they seem to be doing a pretty mediocre job of.” I watched him react only a little to my goad. “You ran into him after that?”