Dangerous Thoughts

Chapter 8

Charles spent the next few hours locked in his office.

He tried to get some work done—sifting through some of the memories he had collected earlier in the week, editing clips here and there—but it was impossible to keep his mind focused on the task in front of him.

That girl... he thought angrily, thinking of the way she had stared at him defiantly through the bars of the cage. The way she had mocked him and then willed herself into a stubborn silence. He had her in his grasp, and yet he was no closer to uncovering any of the mysteries surrounding this cult.

And now I don't even have the memory, he thought to himself bitterly. He had reviewed it several times the night before, after Juliette had gone to bed. But each time he saw the same images: the room of hooded figures—all faces hidden and all voices unidentifiable—the flickering candles, the pentagram of blood, the small drugged child... And then the awkward flash forward in time, flinging him to the moment where the thief had been discovered and was forced to flee. He had never seen a natural memory with a cut like that—only memories he had edited. Someone must have tampered with the thief's memory.

Or maybe she's right and the gaps are my fault, he thought miserably. I didn't know what I was doing when I took that memory from her—what if I damaged it beyond repair?

He pressed his forehead onto his desk and took a deep breath. Then he looked up at his collection of memories, eyeing a glowing green memory at the end of the row. He had acquired it a few weeks ago from a man in the next town who had won his political campaign. It was a powerful, intoxicating memory, filled with the overwhelming sensation of joy after besting an opponent. When Charles had gone to collect it, he had been surprised by the strength of emotion, and offered the man a decent sum for a copy. He had priced it high, knowing someone would pay well to feel that way. And yet, in this moment, Charles was tempted to take the vial, uncork it, and absorb the memory for himself, damn the loss of profit.

He had done this on a few occasions, dark times when he was hurting and had wanted to be someone else, just for a few moments. He would take a memory and absorb it for himself so he could bask in someone else's triumph. But the feeling never lasted long. Memories grew stale over time, slowly deteriorating until something that could once fill you with a rush became just an old thought in the back of your head.

Charles was still debating whether to uncork the vial when he heard a knock at the door.

Groaning, Charles got out of his chair, opened the door, and saw James standing at the threshold.

"What?" Charles asked shortly.

James was fiddling with a small wooden box, not quite making eye contact with his brother. "It's been three hours," he said.

"You better not have come in here to ask me to let that thief out."

"What about Juliette?" James insisted. "She's had to sit in the parlor all afternoon to keep that cage up. She told you her magicks only have a 10-foot radius. She's trapped in there."

"Juliette said she can keep the cage up for hours. She'll be fine. And if our thief insists on being stubborn for much longer, I'll go out and buy a normal iron cage."

James shook his head and said, "I gave her lunch."

Charles frowned. "Juliette?"

"No—I mean, yes, of course I fed Juliette, the poor child is stuck in there. But I gave it to the thief girl too."

"You did what?" Charles asked, his voice rising to match his anger. "James, what the hell is wrong with you? How are we going to get her to talk if you're just giving her food! She won't take us seriously if we go back on our word!" He rubbed his face with his hands. "Please tell me you at least slipped a truth potion into her meal."