by Hondo Jinx
“Don’t you go trying to look up my skirt, sonny,” the old woman said, and offered a dry cackle as she climbed with great caution into the alcove’s only adornment: a hammock stretched between two palm trees. “Ah,” Hazel said, shifting around and straightening her gown. “That’s more like it.”
“Before you peek inside,” Sage said, “I need you to know that observing his truth might incur a degree of risk on your part.”
Hazel grinned at that and said to Brawley, “Oh, she’s a clever one, isn’t she? How better to tempt an ancient Seeker than with a dire warning of requisite dangers? At my age, I crave dangerous information like a toddler craves sugar. Enough with your parlor tricks, my dear. Let me in.”
Sage raised a hand. “Not quite yet, please. I need you to know that I’m serious.”
“And I need you to know that while I might look like a senile old bat, I am not in reality a fool. I might not know anything about this young man, but context tells me plenty. I already know that you’ve fallen in love, Sage, and that your psi score has gone through the roof. I also know that you were somehow connected to the shooting today. I almost fell out of my hammock when that news hit me. Furthermore, I know that the dead men were acting on the orders of the psi mafia and that the Order is already involved.”
“They are?” Brawley said.
Hazel nodded. “To a degree. I feel restraint there. A temporary restraint, however, hanging in the balance. But the local police have been redirected for the moment. Again, a temporary reprieve for those involved, but one that I can see, by your facial expression, puts you at some ease.”
Brawley nodded. “Go ahead and do your thing.”
“Do my thing,” Hazel chuckled. She held out a gnarled hand. “Take my hand. Physical contact isn’t strictly necessary, but it will make this easier, and besides, it’s been years since I’ve held hands with a handsome young man.”
Brawley grinned, liking this old woman. He took her hand and held it gently, mindful of the swollen knuckles, which could only mean arthritis.
Hazel shifted around and let her eyes flutter shut, looking like she was ready to nap.
Standing there holding her hand, Brawley was reminded powerfully of standing at his grandmother’s bedside during her final moments. A rush of emotion surprised him, deep sorrow smashing him in the heart as he remembered his grandmother’s passing and her last words to him.
By that point, most of the family had come to see his grandmother’s cancer as a blessing in disguise. His grandmother had disappeared into Alzheimer’s three years earlier, and by the time the lung cancer had arrived—a long overdue arrival, the doctor had joked, given her seventy-year habit of smoking three packs of cigarettes per day—his grandmother rarely recognized any of them and endured life in a state of constant agitation, grumbling her bitter mantra, Just let me die. Just let me die.
But unlike the rest of the family, Brawley refused to see the cancer as some kind of ironic angel of mercy come to end Grandma’s suffering. At seventeen, he hated that cancer with a white-hot passion. His grandmother was the toughest person he had ever known, and coming from a bull rider out of Texas, that was saying something.
Grandma and her family had started the ranch, scratching a living out of that unforgiving land. She’d been the oldest of fifteen siblings, hard as it might be to believe, and all fifteen preceded her in death.
Like so many barn cats, Grandma’s brothers and sisters had lived violent lives and died violent deaths. They had been drowned in flash floods and shot in the wars; struck by lightning and stabbed in a poker game; thrown by horses and gored by bulls and bitten by rattlers. One had gotten rabies. Another disappeared into a tornado.
And though Grandma couldn’t remember Brawley or his family, she remembered her past in sporadic bursts of shocking vividness, recounting these fantastic deaths in great detail and invariably expressing shame and wonderment to find herself the first of so many to die on her back in a bed.
To Brawley, Grandma Hayes was the soul of the family, the heart of the ranch, and spirit of the hard land he had come to love. Her father, brothers, and husband had all been bull riders, and as a girl, Grandma had climbed onto the backs of bulls until her father tanned her hide and then again whenever she thought she might get away with it. It was she who had first lifted Brawley onto the back of a calf and told him to ride. And a few months later, when Brawley got stomped for the first time and broke a rib, it had been Grandma who pushed the others away, pulled Brawley to his feet, and said, “Dust yourself off, cowboy. You’re a Hayes. And that means you keep riding. No matter what.”
That final, hot, high summer day in the back room of his grandmother’s trailer, the air stifling with staleness and heat and worse smells than a gut-shot doe, seventeen-year-old Brawley held his grandmother’s gnarled hand and cursed the cancer even as she faded away.
The family gathered around. Everyone was crying. Everyone but Brawley, that is.
Out of respect for his grandmother’s commitment to toughness, he had resolved to not shed a tear, not until she was gone at least. That was no easy thing. No easy thing at all.
Grandma’s emaciated chest rose and fell. Her breaths were coming slowly and irregularly then, long and terrifying gaps stretching out between the rattling inhalations, each of which broke his heart afresh.
Then Grandma gasped sharply, and her eyelids opened. One eye stared through Brawley. The other drifted loosely, untethered in its socket.
The family tensed, sobbing, and for a brief, nightmare second, Brawley wanted to scream at them, he was so angry. Because he knew that they were hoping that it was over, that his grandmother had surrendered to death and would suffer no more.
He refused to welcome her end, regardless of the pain, not only because he loved his grandmother and couldn’t imagine life without her but also because he knew that she would spurn their weakness and fight death every step of the way, kicking and biting and gouging eyes all the way to the grave.
At that moment, his grandmother’s rolling eye recentered, and she stared up at Brawley with a clarity he hadn’t seen from her in years. “Brawley,” she croaked, using his name for the first time in many moons, “you hold on tight and ride hard, boy. Never quit. Never ever ever.”
Even at seventeen, he understood she was talking about more than just bulls.
“I won’t quit, Grandma. Not ever.”
Then she died.
And Brawley had spent the rest of his life trying to honor his promise to her.
This memory struck him now with the power of a charging angus, goring him straight through the heart with sorrow and love.
He staggered, releasing Hazel’s hand, and almost fell. “What the hell?”
He didn’t know what, precisely, he’d been expecting from this experience, but it sure as hell hadn’t been this. He’d thought maybe Hazel would hold his hand then rattle off some neatly packaged information and be done with it.
“I’m so sorry,” Hazel said, opening her eyes. “That memory had been crouched inside you, ready to come rushing out.”
Brawley nodded, still rocked by the unexpected geyser of emotion.
“Your grandmother was quite a woman,” Hazel said, “and fiercely proud of you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She held out her hand again. “Would you still like to continue? You weren’t the only one blindsided by your memory. It was so powerful that I glimpsed nothing else.”
Brawley hesitated. If this experience was going to be like that, he wanted nothing to do with it. But his curiosity demanded that he proceed, especially if doing so might uncover not only his past but also something that could help him to keep his women safe.
Remembering his promise to his grandmother, he nodded to Hazel and gently took her hand once more. “Let’s do it.”
Hazel closed her eyes, and this time, he did, too. A second later, memories flowed over him. None had the completeness, clarity, or impact of the first. These s
nippets whipped by in incomplete flashes, and he barely registered snatches from the hours since his arrival in Key West. The taste of the hot banana peppers on his cold cut combo; the recoil of the Mac-10 in his hand; the shock he’d felt when Callie had lifted from the water and drifted toward him at the edge of Mallory Square.
Then his memories had gained speed, blurring into the past, and he caught only flickering glimpses of scenes hurtling back through time. Sitting in a Vegas parking lot, drunk off his ass, he and another rider splitting an apple pie, eating it with their hands like a couple of depraved savages; his mother drying her hands at the sink, singing softly and beautifully, a rare thing because his mother never wanted anyone thinking she was showing off, absurdly enough, the woman with the voice of an angel but as humble and plain-spun as a burlap dress; and way back when he was two or three, stumbling around the backyard and chasing Corky, the good-natured, snake-killing collie mutt that would later save his life when he was seven and a javelina charged out from a screen of prickly pear scrub, its curved tusks flashing like razor blades in the sun.
Faster and faster they descended into his past. Then they left his past, and tunneled into a deeper past, drilling beyond his birth and the boundaries of his life into a strange country where he could make neither heads nor tails of the slippery half-images blurring past.
Hazel pulled her hand free, and Brawley straightened, opening his eyes.
The old woman lay wide-eyed on the swaying hammock, clutching her chest as if she might be having a heart attack.
Hazel turned her gaze on Brawley. “You’re a power mage,” she said, her voice thick with awe.
He nodded. “That’s what they tell me.”
“This is what lit up the Latticework earlier today. You are a living, breathing power mage.” She blinked and turned her head toward Sage, who had been watching and listening intently from beside Brawley and who slipped her hand into his now. “And that explains your power boost, Sage, and why the two of you fell in love though you only met today.”
“Yes,” Sage said.
“My, what a welcome to Key West you have had, Brawley,” Hazel said, shaking her head. “And what a life to this point. A world champion. My oh my. But your grandmother never knew, did she?”
“No, ma’am. Did you see my past? My parents? My birth parents, I mean?”
“Your earliest days, both within and beyond the womb, were accessible to me, as was the time leading up to your conception. I saw your birth parents, their names, your true name, everything.”
Brawley tensed, his curiosity boiling over. This was it.
“I saw them surrender you for adoption and understood their reasons for doing so and for shrouding you in the protective cloak.”
“Who are they?” Brawley asked. “Who am I?”
Hazel frowned. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”
“Why?” Brawley and Sage said at the same time.
“Because everything I saw in your distant past was a lie. In all my many years of exploring the past, I have never seen such an elaborate and convincing cloak. I believed it all until what truth was available to me coalesced, and I was able to see the unreckonable dissonance between your would-be parents, a pretty pyrokinetic and a handsome telepath, in juxtaposition with the glaring fact that you are a power mage. Which meant that those two individuals couldn’t possibly be your parents. Only a power mage can beget a power mage.”
“Wait,” Brawley said. “If the people in my past aren’t my birth parents…”
“Constructs,” Sage said.
Hazel nodded. “Complex and convincing fabrications. They would have fooled me at any point in your life until you became a power mage earlier today. I have never seen such incredible illusory. Your true past—your birth parents’ identities and motivations, along with your true name and bloodline—remain hidden behind a powerful shield. But that’s not all.
“I now understand why your psionic ability took so long to emerge. Your strands had been psionically suppressed all these years. These powers never would have emerged if you hadn’t suffered a traumatic injury months ago.”
“Aftershock,” he said. Then to Sage he explained, “A bull stomped me pretty good.”
“Pretty good,” Hazel laughed. “The bull snapped his neck, concussed his brain, and ended his career.”
“Oh my,” Sage said.
“Precisely,” Hazel said. “But the accident—or, to use bull rider lingo, the wreck—also concussed him and fractured the suppressor. Did you feel anxious between the wreck and the Mallory Square incident?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hazel nodded. “For one reason or another, your parents intended you to lead a normal life without psionics.” She chuckled dryly. “But greatness finds a way.”
“So my real parents locked up my strands, cloaked me, and still created a false past that obscured their identities, too. Why? Were they fugitives or something? I mean, they couldn’t have known about the Culling beforehand, right?”
“It is very doubtful that anyone foresaw the Culling, or power mages would still walk the Earth,” Hazel said. “Additional power mages, that is. We can’t know why your parents disguised and limited you this way. Perhaps they were fugitives. Or maybe they suspected some unnamed tragedy and prepared for the worst. Or their love was forbidden, and they wanted to hide you away but also wanted to protect you. It’s really impossible to know… for now.”
“So, you can find out more?” Sage asked.
“Yes, I should be able to find out more. But it will take time. In the morning, after I rest, I will consult the Latticework. Return tomorrow afternoon. By that point, I should be able to answer the riddles of your curious past, Brawley.”
“All right,” Brawley said. “Thank you.”
The old woman smiled sweetly. “No need to thank me, young man. This has been most exhilarating. A power mage. What an astonishing development. But we are not finished yet. We still need to look ahead.
“Also, Sage has provided a well-constructed cloak, but you shouldn’t take any chances, especially now that someone at the Order is involved. I will hide you both behind a powerful cloak, and Sage, I will show you how to create similar shields, as well as mirror images to cast before you, should you suspect violence. You will then be able to cloak Nina. It is she, after all, that the Order is hunting.”
“Thank you,” Sage said.
“Of course, of course. With your new power, these will no doubt be quite easy for you now, child. And for you, Brawley, once you learn the basics. As I go about the action, I would like you to attend as well. That way, once you clear that firestorm of telekinetic energy in your mind, you will be able to progress rapidly as a Seeker. I’ve never seen someone with your psi score, and as a power mage, you will of course become even more potent. Which brings us to your future.”
Taking his hand again, Hazel asked Sage to join them. “You should see this, too, dear, since your destinies are united now.”
This time, Brawley could see nothing but churning darkness, like a wall of thick, black smoke roiling up from a million burning tires.
“A street sign,” Sage said when the moment was over. “Nightshade Lane.”
“Yes,” Hazel agreed with a small smile. “That is the address I saw as well.”
“But I don’t have a number, a town, or even a state.”
“Neither do I,” the old woman said, and shifted her eyes to Brawley. “We could see very little of your future, likely because of your cloaks and because of the tremendous forces at play. But I have a very strong feeling that you should investigate this address.”
Brawley nodded.
“Did you notice the sky, my child?” Hazel asked Sage.
Sage shook her head.
“Come and let us take another look together,” Hazel said, grabbing Sage’s hand.
Brawley watched the color drain from Sage’s rapt face. Then she said, “The eyes...”
“A pair of gray eyes stares f
rom the sky, searching for you,” Hazel explained to Brawley. “Even now, wheels are turning. You have electrified the Latticework. People across the world are taking notice. Some already suspect that a new power mage has emerged. Soon they will come for you.”
“Who will come for me?”
“All of them. Everyone.”
“Time to grab the bull rope and hang on,” Brawley said.
“I wish we could see what was going to happen,” Sage said.
“As Grandma used to say,” Brawley told them, “you don’t gotta know what’s coming down the pike. You just need the guts to handle it when it shows up.”
15
Nina gripped her pulsing sex and bit down on the sweatpants, which she’d luckily shoved into her mouth just in time to muffle her cries of passion. Her body convulsed, shuddering through another orgasm, and she almost fell off the little bench, using one arm to catch herself against the wall of the little dressing room.
What the fuck?
She took a second to let the waves of climax recede, then opened her eyes to see her lust-crazed image in the full-length mirror.
Well, that was a first. Semi-public masturbation.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
It was all so crazy. She was supposed to be shopping, not rubbing one out, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Brawley. Making matters worse, she was also plagued by new, confusing, and exciting thoughts of Sage.
Then, while trying things on, Nina had noticed how wet she was. And swollen. And oh, even that soft touch had sent waves of pleasure through her body and filled her mind with lewd thoughts.
Almost without thinking, she’d pressed two fingertips to her glistening pearl.