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So that was the plan. “The acreage I checked out yesterday wasn’t right. Too much swamp, and too many roads intersect around it. Do you have any other parcels in mind?”

“I’ll e-mail the Multiple Listings to you. And until I decide where we will build, you’ll bring the captives here.”

“There’s not enough room in the shed for an audience.”

“I’m talking about the bedroom. It’s quite large. As you know.”

O swallowed and kept his voice smooth. “If you want me to teach, I’ll need more space than that.”

“You will come here until we build. That clear enough for you, or do you want a diagram?”

Fine. He’d deal.

O opened the door.

“Mr. O, I believe you have forgotten something.”

Jesus. Now he knew what people meant when they said their skin crawled.

“Yes, sensei?”

“I want you to thank me for the promotion.”

“Thank you, sensei,” O said with a tight jaw.

“Don’t disappointment me, son.”

Yeah, fuck you, daddy.

O bowed a little and left quickly. It felt good to get in his truck and drive away. Better than good. It felt like a goddamned liberation.

On the way to his house, O pulled into a CVS. It didn’t take him long to find what he needed, and ten minutes later he shut his front door and deactivated his security alarm. His place was a tiny two-story in a not-so-hot residential section of town, and the location provided good cover. Most of his neighbors were elderly, and those who weren’t were green-carders who worked two and three jobs. No one bothered him.

As he walked upstairs to the bedroom, the sound of his footsteps echoing up from the bare floors and bouncing off the empty walls was oddly comforting. Still, the house wasn’t a home and never had been. The thing was a barrack. A mattress and a Barcalounger were all he had for furniture. Blinds hung in front of every piece of glass, blocking any view. Closets were stocked with weapons and uniforms. The kitchen was completely empty, the appliances unused since he’d moved in.

He stripped and took a gun into the bathroom along with the white plastic CVS bag. Leaning in toward the mirror, he parted his hair. His roots were showing about an eighth of an inch of pale.

The change had started about a year ago. First a few hairs, right on top, then a whole patch that spread from front to back. His temples had held out the longest, though now even they were fading.

Clairol Hydrience No. 48 Sable Cove took care of the problem, got him back to brown. He’d started with Hair Color for Men, but soon discovered that the shit for women worked better and lasted longer.

He popped open the box and didn’t bother with the clear plastic gloves. Emptying the tube into the squeeze bottle, he shook the stuff up and threaded it through to his scalp in sections. He hated the chemical smell. The maintenance. The skunk stripe. But the idea of paling out repulsed him.

Why lessers lost their pigmentation over time was an unknown. Or at least, he’d never asked. The whys didn’t matter to him. He just didn’t want to be lost in a great anonymity with the others.

He put down the squeeze bottle and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked like a total idiot, brown grease slathered all over his head. Jesus Christ, what was he turning into?

Well, wasn’t that a stupid question. The deed was long done, and it was too late for regrets.

Man, on the night of his initiation, when he’d traded a part of himself for the chance to kill for years and years and years, he’d thought he’d known what he was giving up and what he was getting in return. The deal had seemed more than fair.

And for three years, it had continued to strike him as a good one. The impotence hadn’t bothered him much, because the woman he wanted was dead. The not eating and drinking had taken some getting used to, but he’d never been a big chowhound or a drunk. And he’d been eager to lose his old identity, because the police were looking for him.

The plus side had seemed tremendous. The strength had been more than he’d expected. He’d been one hell of a skull-cracker when he’d worked as a bouncer