Quicksilver Dreams(6)
Bypassing the view, I made my way through to the kitchen and figured the house was being kept at arctic temperatures, so the chocolate would likely be okay if I just left it on the counter. Deciding to leave a note, I grabbed a sheet of paper from the magnetized notepad on the side of the fridge. The pen was missing from its holder, which wasn’t unusual, so I dove into the junk drawer, shoving the random items out of the way.
That’s when I encountered the piece of metal that curled around my fingers upon being touched. I gasped, jerking my hand out of the drawer, but it clung.
It was cool looking. Shiny. It was as if the metal had turned to liquid and dripped around my fingertips. Then it conformed and stuck to me. Without thinking about it, I picked it off to get a closer look, and much to my surprise, it seemed to be warm. It conformed to my hand no matter how I touched it, making an immediate imprint of my fingers, which was weird and amazing at the same time. It left me wondering what kind of metal could do this.
But I was here for a reason. I had to remember that.
“Find the pen,” I told myself, and I absently slid the drawer shut with my hip as I meandered back through the living room. I went to see if the pen was next to the notepad by the phone in there, still playing with the piece of metal, pleased to see it form a ring as I pushed my finger through the middle of it. It was almost like the blue play putty I got to play with as a kid in elementary school when we studied solids, liquids and gases, only this substance was in the form of metal.
I spotted a man down by the pool through the living room window.
Was this Frank?
He had an amazing mane of long, pure silver hair, which stood out because of the deeply bronzed skin he had. Dressed in light-colored linen trousers and a silk shirt, he looked coolly composed, sitting comfortably in a deck chair under the umbrella.
What he was doing mesmerized me.
A strange device created a small projection of a person in his hand, sort of popping off the screen in 3-D with absolute clarity, which blew my mind.
Was this some kind of new technology? It was totally Star Trek—or Star Wars—level stuff. To be able to project your image across a network and have a conversation with someone seemed otherworldly. I broke out in goose bumps at the thought. It would mean having to look good at all times. Damn. Just thinking about that was stressful.
As though sensing he was being watched, the man looked up, and I saw he wasn’t as old as I had first perceived him to be. He was prematurely silver, was likely in his early fifties at most.
I caught sight of his eyes and stiffened with surprise. They looked angry, like I’d caught him at something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. They blazed up at me, and I swear his lips seemed to curl into a snarl.
My smile died on my lips, and my hand froze midwave.
He cut off the projection by fisting his hand around the device and surged out of his chair, starting for the house with a determined look on his face.
Damn the spirits, she’s early. Where’s the gun?
The words stabbed through my mind with sharp ripples of promised violence. Dark, sinister feelings of pleasure, the image of fear reflected in someone’s eyes, the beauty of deliverance blanketed my mind.
What was that?
My heart jackhammered against my chest. I jerked my head, negating the feelings. They weren’t mine.
What was this?