Fall (The Ragnarok Prophesies) (42 page)

“Memory juju?”

I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

He slipped his phone from his pocket and pulled up his GPS application, rapidly touching various buttons. In a matter of seconds, a robotic female voice instructed him to turn left out of the parking lot. He sat there for a moment, looking at his screen as if trying to memorize the route. “How do you feel about breaking and entering?” he asked almost casually.

“Um…”

“If we can’t get an answer, breaking in after closing may be our only option,” he said, setting his phone on the console between us. He turned to look at me. “Can you do it?”

Could I?

“I think so.” Now that the moment was here, doubt filled my voice, making my response more weak question than confident answer. If breaking the law got us any closer to an answer for one of the thousand questions we had―if it helped us find Idun―I could do it. I
would
do it. I cleared my throat and nodded. “Yeah, I can do it.”

“Good,” Ronan said, backing out of our parking space. “Let’s just hope we don’t have to go that far.”

I crossed my fingers.

The stucco and glass office building, complete with an employee parking garage, stretched across most of a block, two stories on one side and three stories nearer the garage. The grounds were landscaped, newer trees planted in a neat row down the entire length of the sidewalk. I hesitated in the Yukon, overwhelmed at the sheer size of the building and the number of cars in the garage.

How the heck did Ronan expect us to break into this place if it came right down to it? There were probably guards, alarms, and cameras. And if we were lucky enough to get into the building without getting caught, how the heck did he expect us to find what we needed?

Ronan arched a brow, his eyes gleaming. A superior smirk twitched at his lips. He looked half amused, half condescending as if he knew exactly what I was thinking and found it hysterical. “Good thing your boyfriend can afford your bail,” he said, hopping out of the Yukon.

I swear he actually laughed.

“Jerk,” I muttered before climbing out of the relative safety of the car.

Ronan headed toward the building, not even looking to see if I followed.

A handful of employees stood beneath one of the fully grown trees, smoking and chatting. They didn’t look in our direction, but I felt like they were staring holes in my back. I think one wore a security guard’s uniform.

If we had to break in, we were so screwed.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and hurried after Ronan.

He held the door open for me, that half condescending, half amused look still etched on his face.

I think I liked him better when he didn’t emote.

I stepped on his foot, making sure to grind my heel into the top of his boot, before marching past him, a fake smile plastered on my face.

He grunted from behind me.

The door swung shut.

I took a deep breath, looking around.

The inside of the building was more imposing than the outside. The receptionists’ work area took up half of the room, the built-in desk standing waist high, with an elevator to each side. Hallways extended beyond the desk to the left and right before ending abruptly at two banks of tall windows at the far end. A few plush sofas and chairs sat in groupings near the windows, all empty. Bronze sculptures sat on tables, with massive pieces of artwork hanging above. Flowers and plants were scattered everywhere, lending the waiting area a spicy, floral scent. I’m sure the strange combination smelled lovely to most people, but it made me want to vomit.

Two receptionists sat behind the desk, one manning the phones, while the other typed away at her computer. They were both older―one middle aged and the other well into her seventies―and both wore black slacks and white company polo tops. Neither looked particularly friendly.

Ronan nudged me from behind.

I tripped forward two steps before I caught my balance.

“Jerk,” I muttered again, and then marched toward the desk, my steps confident even if the rest of me wasn’t.

“Can I help you?” the elderly receptionist asked, barely sparing me a glance. She didn’t stop typing either.

“Erm, yeah, I need to speak with Annette Saunders.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

I contemplated lying to her. “No,” I said, figuring lying wouldn’t get me very far. Besides, if we did have to break in later, I preferred not being the first person they remembered.

The elderly receptionist stopped typing, flicking her gaze up to meet mine. Her eyelids were tinted with light blue eye shadow. “What’s the nature of your visit?” she asked.

“I―” I had no clue how to answer that question.

“We’re doing research and were told that she could answer a few questions for us,” Ronan interjected smoothly, stepping up beside me.

Well, at least one of us was an accomplished liar.

The receptionist looked at him, her lips pursed.

I crossed my fingers, hoping and praying she decided we looked honest enough.

“Who referred you?” she asked.

Ronan nudged me again.

“Oh, uh, Jameson from customer service,” I said. My heart thumped unevenly.

I held my breath, waiting for her to demand his last name or some other tidbit of information I didn’t have.

“Sign in, and have a seat,” she said, pointing to the guest ledger on the far side of the desk. “I’ll see if Ms. Saunders can see you.”

“Thank you!” I hurried around the desk, relief and nervousness crashing through me in tandem.

“Relax,” Ronan said, leaning close so his voice didn’t carry.

“I’m trying,” I huffed, reaching for the pen.

Ronan plucked it from between my fingers, and scrawled two names across the page. He moved away from the desk, the picture of relaxation. He settled into a chair, stretching his legs out before him. I peeked at the guest ledger before following after him, feeling sick to my stomach.

“Jack Dawson and Rose Bukater?” I hissed, sinking into an armchair beside him.

“I liked the movie,” Ronan said, shrugging.

I clutched my head in my hands.

We were going to get caught, and end up in jail, living on bologna sandwiches and the dubious generosity of a prison guard named Percy until we were fifty or Sköll and Hati destroyed the world. I’d never see Dace again, or my dad, or―

“Will you try to relax? They never even check the visitor logs.”

I scowled at him.

He grunted again, and then leaned in to whisper again. “We’ve done this before, you know.”

“I’ve never done this before.”

“Yes, you have. In Iceland.”

I arched a brow, and then frowned. A brief flicker danced through my mind, not brought out by Freki, but by Ronan.

Iron bars, chains. Dace covered in blood and bruises.

“Get out of my head,” I snapped through gritted teeth, hating the way Ronan prowling through my mind made me feel. His presence was invasive and unwelcome. It felt like some foreign body literally forced its way inside and plopped down in the middle of my brain. One that had no business being there.

A faint tremor ran through me, unease and irritation rolled into one. Freki stirred faintly, sending a snarl rippling through me. I imagined myself slamming a door in Ronan’s face, and then padlocking it closed.

Ronan vanished from my head.

He grunted, surprised.

My eyes widened.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked, rubbing his chest as if I’d punched him.

I shook my head silently, not sure how I kicked him out. I’d just wanted him out before he roused Freki like he had the first time he tried that little party trick on me. Putting him on the other side of a locked door seemed like the best way to prevent having a major meltdown in the middle of the waiting room.

“When I first met Dace, I used to imagine a door connecting us,” I murmured, remembering, and then shook my head. “We broke into a
prison
?”

Ronan eyed me for a minute, and then nodded. “Yeah, to break Dace out.”

“Wow.” I wracked my brain for something more than the brief flashes Ronan had pulled to the surface, but found nothing. I didn’t remember that particular scene… which was probably for the best. My hands still trembled at even the brief reminder of Dace’s swollen, bloody face.

Had any of our past lives been easy or painless?

Ha! Did I even need to ask?

Fifteen minutes later, the elderly receptionist waved us over and held out two temporary visitor passes. I stuck the standard pass to my shirt, relieved my fake name wasn’t plastered across it. Call me crazy, but I doubted we’d make it all the way to Annette Saunders’ office without someone noticing we weren’t exactly Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet.

A smug smile spread across Ronan’s face. The way his eyes gleamed all but screamed “I told you so.” I opted to ignore it.

“Take the elevator on the right to the second floor, and then turn right,” the receptionist said after Ronan donned his badge. “At the split, turn left, and then left again at the next hallway. You’ll see Ms. Saunders’ name on the door.”

“Erm, thanks,” I said, taken off guard that we weren’t being accompanied. I scurried around the desk to push the elevator button before she changed her mind and sent a security guard to deliver us to the head of their billing department.

Ronan stepped up beside me, still relaxed.

If I lived another thousand lifetimes, I’d never understand how he and Dace could seem so outwardly calm and in control. No matter the situation, they didn’t sweat or fidget. They stood still. Why hadn’t I been gifted with that ability?

The elevator chimed and then the doors slid open. Ronan and I stepped inside. I held my breath, waiting for the receptionist to call us back or come after us. When the doors closed again without her saying a word, I exhaled, my shoulders sagging.

Ronan stood calmly, his hands at his sides. His reflection stared out of the chrome paneling of the elevator until I felt surrounded by his somber-faced carbon copies.

Seconds ticked by.

The elevator jerked into motion, the
whir
sounding over the light strains of muzak piped into the elevator via a speaker system.

I jumped. My face flushed with embarrassment.

Jeez, get a grip, Ari
, I told my reflection.

The elevator pulled to a stop. That odd sinking sensation, like we were free-falling for a split second, rolled through me. When the doors opened onto the second floor, Ronan strolled out, turning right. I followed behind him, more confident in his memory of the receptionist’s directions than my own.

The few people we ran into spared us only the most cursory of glances before continuing on their way, too caught up in their work to worry about us. Like the lobby below, the second floor was impressively decorated. Fine art lined the walls, and vases of exotic flowers sat on tables tucked into niches and natural curves in the walls.

Annette Saunders’ office looked no different than any of the twenty others we passed along the way. A solid, oak door, flanked by shuttered windows on each side, led to her office. A black and white plate, settled into a bracket on the window to the right, announced her name and title. A small mail slot sat below it.

“Ready?” Ronan asked, shooting me another of his looks.

No.

“Ready,” I said, untangling my hands from my pockets to smooth my hair down.

He tapped on the door.

“Come on in!”

Ronan looked at me again, and then pushed the door open.

Annette Saunders sat at a massive desk on the far side of the room, her head bowed over a calculator and a stack of papers. She didn’t look much older than me―late twenties, perhaps. She had her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Like the receptionists, she was dressed in a company polo. Unlike the women a floor below though, she actually looked up from her work and smiled at us when we walked in the door.

“You must be the two Alice called up about,” she said, rising to her feet to greet us. She held her hand out, a friendly smile still plastered on her face. “I’m Annette Saunders.”

“I’m Arionna,” I said, quickly supplying my real name before Ronan attempted to continue the farce of Jack and Rose. I reached out to shake Annette’s hand, feeling a whole lot better about this than I did two seconds ago. She wasn’t anything close to what I expected. I’d imagined three piece suits and a wall of degrees behind her desk. Not someone so… young.