That’s why it used other living beings as weapons. But there was something very wrong with this mind, a strange blankness where a sense of identity should be. Worse than at the compound. Then, she’d sensed his maleness and confidence both. Now even those basic elements were faded and dull.
There.
Memory caught the intruder’s psychic “frequency,” much as she’d caught Renault’s after he took Vashti. It was loud. “He’s here.” Lashes snapping up, she ran out of the doorway before Sascha could stop her.
Memory didn’t hesitate as she weaved in and out through the confused but nonviolent crowd.
Crowd control. Terminal field.
Whatever it was Sascha and the other Es were doing, it was working.
The air pressure changed again without warning, a second massive power entering the zone. Panic stuttered her heart, but this mind was ruthlessly sane, its discipline so precise that nothing leaked, not even the faintest edge of emotion. Only that sense of incomprehensible power.
Oh.
She hadn’t sensed him with her abilities at all, she realized. It had been pure survival instinct that alerted her to his presence. Still running, she spotted him up ahead: a terrifyingly handsome man in a black-on-black suit, his features all clean lines and his eyes cardinal starlight. She’d seen his face on the comm while buried in the bunker, knew he could raze cities and cause earthquakes: Kaleb Krychek.
His presence frosted the world in ice.
And his eyes, they landed on her. Hard to miss a woman running full tilt when everyone around her was preternaturally calm. Even the huge parade dragon had laid down its head, its controllers yawning as they leaned up against the dragon’s body.
Where? The single word was a crystalline telepathic contact, so pure her ears rang.
Far right of the street. Clenching her jaw against her dislike of psychic contact with unknowns, she sent him an image of what she could see—the black cloud with tendrils going from person to person, every new victim being aimed toward an E.
There were so many Es here. Why?
The compound—the empaths trained there see this as home ground. It was the same cold telepathic voice, frigid as winter snow, razor-sharp in its clarity and nearly painful with it.
She sucked in a breath. Get out of my head.
I wasn’t in it. Don’t broadcast your question so loudly if you don’t want an answer. He was gone a split second later, his body reappearing at the far end of the street.
Chilled to the bone—what did that much power do to a man—she continued to run in his direction. Her breath wheezed, her chest ached, and she knew her body couldn’t keep up this pace. She was far stronger than she’d been, but years of bad nutrition and lack of muscle strength would take time to fully undo.
A flash of gold in her peripheral vision, Alexei racing across the street to her. With barely a pause, he scooped her up in his arms and said, “Just point.”
Slinging one arm around his neck, she did. And Alexei moved, a predator with lightning-fast reflexes, his body primal grace.
I’m cutting off the assailant to the right. Tell the wolf to go left.
Memory winced at the icy chill of Krychek’s telepathic voice, but relayed the message. “The intruder can’t teleport.” He would’ve done so by now if he’d had that ability. “I think he’s trying to get out now. No more attempts to turn people.”
Empaths are madness.
Memory froze; that hadn’t been Krychek. It was a far less disciplined voice, a thing of fractures and need. Empaths heal wounds of the mind, she replied.
I had no wounds before the waking of Designation E. A kind of frothing energy against her, an attack her mind foiled without effort. You’re not like the others. A sudden quiet. You are darkness. You are like me.
Yes. It was the truth, at least in one sense. You need help. Let me.
It’s too late.
Less pressure. Then none.
“Stop.” She asked her wolf to put her down, then, one of her palms pressed against his heartbeat, she searched with her empathic senses and came up blank. “I can’t sense him anymore.” She relayed the same to Kaleb Krychek.
“Teleporter?” Alexei’s gaze continued to sweep the area.
“No, I didn’t feel a sudden disconnect. It was more a . . . fading. As if he drew the darkness inside himself.” Memory shoved her curls behind her ears, told herself to think. “How can a person disappear while physically here?”
Krychek walked down the street toward them, the starlight of his eyes speaking to her of cold, distant places where it was never warm. “Our quarry has escaped?”
Shivering, Memory backed into Alexei. “Yes,” she managed to get out past her overwhelming awareness of Krychek’s lethal power. Yet this man was mated, was said to be devoted to his lover. Did he show this same deadly face to—
Oh.
“Two faces,” she blurted out on a wave of realization. “He has two faces.” One that was normal, could fool the world, the other a creature of darkness and madness with that odd blankness at its heart.
Memory worried over that blankness, but couldn’t explain it. She had, however, picked up more than she’d realized during that fleeting moment of telepathic contact—she’d never attempt to hack another mind, but his was so fragmented that his hidden thoughts had leaked through on their own. “He hates Es, wants to wipe us out of existence.”
A cold wind swept down the street, raising every tiny hair on her body.
Chapter 43
Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.
—From Hamlet, by the human artist William Shakespeare (17th century)
WHERE AM I?
He “woke” on an unfamiliar street in the smudged dark of night that had just fallen, his heart thumping and his body sweaty under a thin gray sweater and black pants he didn’t remember putting on. He’d been wearing a suit when he left the office. The cologne he drew in with every breath was far denser than his usual crisp choice.
His pulse hammered at his throat.
Forcing himself to keep moving, he reached into his pants pockets, but there was no phone there, and his wrist was bare of his usual unit. His hands curled into fists inside the pockets, but he kept his face expressionless; from the way others on the street glanced at him before carrying on their way, he must’ve appeared normal enough.
No one blanched. No one tried to run.
Swallowing to wet his dry throat, he paid careful attention to the architecture and the geography. Unless he’d lost days instead of hours, he must be in his own city.
A woman laughed up ahead and opened out a lace parasol.
Next to her were several other women in pretty dresses. Nothing about them gave him a location. He could’ve looked in the PsyNet to orient himself, but with his mind as chaotic as it was, he didn’t want to risk suffering a fugue while only partially in his body.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said with a smile he’d learned to produce on cue because it put humans and nonpredatory changelings at ease.
The women looked at one another and giggled.
He deepened the smile; he knew from a lifetime of experience that he had a pleasing aesthetic appearance, one that appealed to women. He’d never had much reason to use that tool in his arsenal, but today, it might gain him some desperately needed answers. “I was wondering if you could help me,” he said. “I’m a visitor just arrived in your beautiful city. I don’t suppose you have recommendations about what I could do this evening?”
The women giggled again, before one said, “You’re not far from Chinatown, and the Chinese New Year festival is uh-mazing.”
“Oh, and Fisherman’s Wharf is jumping,” her friend added. “They’ve got circus performers there tonight. While we were there, one of the DarkRiver cats shifted and dove through a ring of fire on a dare
!”
The rest of their words faded into the background.
Fisherman’s Wharf. Chinatown. DarkRiver. He was in San Francisco. Where he kept an apartment because he flew in and out for business. Right now, that included a major deal with the SnowDancer wolves.
Many of those wolves had to be on the streets attending the festival, but no one called him out. It wasn’t until five minutes later, when he passed by a glossy shop window that he realized why: his hair was the wrong color and he was wearing the paper-thin latex mask that he’d used for the medical appointment. It altered his features beyond recognition.
Red trickled out of his nose as he watched.
His head began to pound.
Chapter 44
Project Scarab: Closed. All outstanding matters cleared.
—Psy Council (2004)
ALEXEI THUMPED A nutrient drink down on the conference table in front of Memory. He’d brought her to DarkRiver HQ for a debrief, but like hell he’d let anyone else near her until she’d gotten some food in her. “I can see your cheekbones cutting against your skin.” Whatever she did when she tracked the unknown mind, she used up the same massive amount of psychic energy as when she worked with Amara.
“Drink.” It came out a growled order, his wolf’s chest heaving with its worry for her. “Judd says the stuff’s still the best way to get a calorie hit after a psychic burn.”
Memory folded her arms across her chest and refused to reach for the glass. “I swore I’d never take nutrients again.”
“It’s not the same as the old stuff. It’s flavored—pomegranate and peach.”
“I’ve told you not to growl at me.”
Baring his teeth, he bent down until their faces were only an inch apart. “You have drops of blood on your shirt.” His entire body trembled with his fury at her hurt. “Drink.”
Memory unfolded her arms, her gaze softening. She leaned into him and, taking the glass, drank half before placing her palm against his cheek. “Sorry about the blood.” Tender words that sought to mollify his wolf. “It was like a pressure system building inside me. He has so much power and he can’t control it.”
Wanting to bite off the bastard’s head, Alexei pointed toward the plate of cookies and chocolates he’d found in the nearby staff kitchen. The HQ was full of changelings on a daily basis and a number of those changelings were mated to Psy—he’d known there’d be all kinds of fuel within reach. Memory had drunk more of the nutrient mix by then, but she devoured several cookies in a row.
His wolf finally began to calm down.
Only after she’d eaten four cookies and was working on a fifth did he open the door and nod at the others to come in. Lucas entered with Sascha, Krychek behind them.
Naya, her fears assuaged by cuddles from Luc and Sascha, was with Tamsyn’s family. The healer’s twin terrors, who’d been known to run amok through the wolf den when Tamsyn visited the SnowDancer healer, were two of Naya’s most favorite people. Alexei was of the opinion the twins were secretly setting up a pint-size wolf-leopard gang. Said gang had already run a successful raid on the den kitchen.
The crew had absconded with an entire cake.
Allowing the amused thought to further calm his wolf, he took the seat beside Memory. She inched closer to him when Krychek chose a seat on the other side of the conference table—directly across from her. Krychek tended to have that effect on people; it was a wonder any woman trusted him enough to allow him close, but the man had a mate.
Then again, Alexei’s fingers were currently clawed—his calm only went so far—and yet Memory had no problem with the hand he had on the back of her chair, the razor-sharp tips of those claws brushing her curls.
Love made people crazy.
Love.
It was a word he wasn’t supposed to know, an emotion he couldn’t afford to feel. Not for a woman who made him wish for the impossible. But it lived inside him, a primal force that had him handing Memory a sixth cookie when she finished the fifth.
“I’ll explode,” she complained, but took it.
His wolf settled.
To the right end of the table, Sascha ate her way through a large chocolate bar. Her face, too, looked thinner. Lucas had his hand protectively on her shoulder; the leopard alpha had chosen to stand beside his mate rather than take a seat.
“The intruder tried to grab hold of me,” Memory said once everyone was settled. “He failed despite the depth of his power.”
“I felt an attempt, too.” Sascha lowered her chocolate bar. “It was like he kept slipping off.”
“I think empathic minds must be immune to him,” Memory said as Luc ran the back of his hand over Sascha’s cheek. “That’s why he has to use proxies to attack us.”
“What did you speak of when he made contact?” Krychek asked, his expression as inscrutable as always—but not only had the man offered an assist during multiple emergency incidents, Judd vouched for him, and that was good enough for Alexei. It wasn’t as if SnowDancer had a sweet and fluffy image, either.
Beside him, Memory said, “He’s going mad and he blames Es—he said he had no problems before we woke up.”
Silence reigned around the table.
Sascha was the first to stir. “That doesn’t make sense,” she said, leaning her body against Lucas’s. “Without Es in the Net, our race would’ve long ago devolved into insanity and murder.”
It was Krychek who spoke next, his midnight voice musing. “Silence was a failure because it gave psychopaths free rein, but it’s possible that for a minority who were on the brink between normal function and mental fracture, the psychic discipline inherent in Silence kept them on the right side of the line.”
“And the sudden influx of emotion in the Net is eroding that control?” Lucas’s eyes were of his cat, the panther prowling close to the surface of his skin.
“There’s now no way to avoid emotion in the Net,” Krychek pointed out. “The fragments emitted by empathic minds are everywhere.”
Memory felt an unexpected stab of sympathy for that desperate mind, but hardened her heart against it. He could’ve asked for help. Instead he’d hurt Yuri and Abbot, violated so many others.
“Murdering Es will collapse your PsyNet,” Alexei said to Krychek, his big body so hot that she wanted to crawl into his lap and wrap him around her. “This guy’s clearly lost it if he’s forgotten that.”
“Yes.” Kaleb Krychek rose to his feet. “I’ll continue to hunt in the PsyNet. This individual is powerful enough to be a deadly—” A sudden chill pause. “Breaking news. Four empaths in County Cork, Ireland, injured when another vehicle plowed headlong into theirs.” The cardinal teleported out.
Shivering, Memory hugged her arms around herself. “That’s not going to be just a terrible accident.” How many of those Es would die? How many had been irreparably injured?
Alexei petted her nape. “Bastard’s getting smarter.” His words weren’t what she wanted to hear. “Much easier to push a single driver to make a wrong move than to force multiple single minds to murder Es.”
* * *
• • •
KALEB stood at the scene of the strange crash on a country road far outside the nearest town; emergency services were on scene and working frantically, and so far, he sensed no deaths. Two of the Es had minor broken bones, the other two some bruising. No other major injuries. The driver who’d hit them was being treated for slightly more severe wounds, but he was alert and aware—and appeared distraught.
One of the Es was sitting beside him, holding his hand.
The offending vehicle was an old model, likely had no automatic collision avoidance systems. The empaths had been driving a newer model, but the avoidance system’d had nowhere to take the vehicle on this narrow road bordered by centuries-old stone walls. Not when another car was aiming itself at them.
Kaleb sta
red at the tire marks on the road. “It looks like the solo driver came straight at the vehicle carrying the Es, then tried to avoid it at the last minute,” he said to the Enforcement officer in charge of the scene.
The stocky male with heavy black stubble against pallid brown skin didn’t technically answer to Kaleb; he was human and had no allegiance to the Psy. As far as Kaleb was aware, this particular detective had never been turned by any Psy interests. He was an honest man—and one who didn’t play games.
“I have a witness who pretty much describes exactly that.” The cop, his Irish accent thick, nodded toward a lanky cyclist who sat white-faced on the curb. “She called emergency services, tried to help the injured before our arrival.”
A glance down at the tire marks. “Driver in the wrong claims to have no memory of the incident and I believe him—man’s plain befuddled.” He rubbed his jaw. “Medics say he hasn’t suffered a knock to the head, so we might be looking at dementia, other mental deterioration.”
A logical conclusion, but Kaleb didn’t think so. Not so close on the heels of the attack in Chinatown. He reached for the NetMind and DarkMind, wondering if they’d interceded to protect the Es, but all he got was static and confusion around smaller and smaller patches of coherence. The neosentient twins were failing along with the PsyNet. They could offer him no help against this destructive threat.
Kaleb stared at the road again before sending a message to his fellow members of the Ruling Coalition, then thanked the Enforcement officer for his help. He teleported home a second later. It was empty—he knew that the instant he arrived. It only ever felt like a home when Sahara was in residence.
Taking off his jacket, he removed his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt before stepping out onto the terrace of their home. The gorge fell away endlessly on the other side. Standing by the railing he’d put in when he found Sahara, his lover who couldn’t teleport out of a fall, he entered the psychic vault of the Ruling Coalition chambers.
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