Hidden Salem

by Kay Hooper

  Or he was just plain evil.

  None of the possibilities were at all reassuring.

  Grayson didn’t have to knock on Geneva’s door as he passed just before eight thirty to know she was already up and about; she’d delivered the photos to his room. Even more, however, the thread of awareness he felt too often for his peace of mind was there, not a sense of her emotions, just a sense of her.

  Just.

  He went downstairs and into the large dining room, finding the weekend breakfast crowd beginning to thin out, two waitresses busily clearing several deserted tables and at least three others already cleared and set for the later risers such as him.

  He also found Geneva sitting at a table with the woman and her dog he had seen checking in yesterday and they had both sensed last night while passing her door. The two women were sitting a little apart from the tables nearest them, and those were now empty of guests, but it still made Grayson uneasy.

  They were talking very intently.

  Knowing Gen, she had instigated the meeting, impatient as always to find whatever information she could to help her investigation, especially now with a kid missing, and she was talking to the other woman with an absorbed expression he recognized.

  Sighing a little, Grayson went to another table some distance away, but at an angle where he could observe, and was soon eating his own breakfast.

  His memories of the night before were clear—not always the case after one of his migraines—and one of them was that Bishop had suggested they find a way to meet up, team up in whatever way seemed best. Now, he wondered if maybe Geneva had decided to avoid that. Then again, she could only be getting acquainted with another guest who just happened to be psychic . . .

  Grayson sipped his coffee, his veiled gaze on their table. No. He hadn’t been a big believer in coincidence even before joining the SCU; by now it was something he profoundly distrusted. He didn’t believe it was an accident, fortunate or unfortunate, that another psychic with, Geneva believed, powerful abilities had shown up in Salem just now. Bishop believed that the energy static in and around the town was increasing, possibly building toward something, planned or unplanned, that could easily affect psychics in ways they could not predict. It could already be affecting the two of them in ways they weren’t even aware of.

  Like his apparent ability to sense those damned crows, and maybe even Geneva’s “new” ability to tap into the residual thoughts left behind when people departed a place.

  Her possible new ability sounded more useful to him.

  A little girl was missing, three strangers they knew had been drawn here had seemingly disappeared into thin air, and there had been at least four bodies—or the mutilated remains of them—found over the past few weeks.

  So where did this woman fit in?

  For that matter, where did he and Geneva fit in? For the first time, Grayson had the uneasy suspicion that adding three outside psychics to an odd small town that had been virtually isolated for generations might well have upset some delicate balance. Especially if, as Geneva believed, each of the powerful five families could boast of at least one psychic and possibly more.

  Was that why the “static” sensed by Bishop’s monitoring psychics was increasing in strength? Because he, Geneva, and this unknown woman were here? Was it a defense mechanism, energy composed of the excess countless psychics were using to strengthen their shields because they consciously or unconsciously sensed a threat?

  Grayson had belonged to the SCU too long to discount anything, and that possibility worried him. Many of them had experience with psychics creating or contributing to energy fields, and seldom was the outcome a positive one for the psychics caught up in those fields.

  Pushing that aside for the moment, he opened his senses just a bit as he focused on that other table. He didn’t try the spider senses again so soon, but even with just his empathic senses—and those dulled post-migraine, as usual—he could feel the tension at that other table and was pretty sure most of it came from the other woman. She was still wary but, more than that, she was . . . worried?

  Afraid?

  He felt another flicker, one of interest but curiously alien, and shifted his gaze to find that the dog was looking steadily at him.

  Interest and . . . oh, yeah, disconcerting as hell. Not emotions he was accustomed to sensing or feeling from people. The interest was laser focused, and there was a curious weighing up of him by the animal that was more senses than anything else. How he smelled (woods and pine trees and bacon), the sound of his breathing, even his steady heartbeat and the faint throbbing behind his eyes.

  Grayson knew a dog’s senses were far keener than human ones, even those enhanced by spider senses and years of practice, but he’d never thought about what emotions might be behind those senses or how they were used. The dog even had a sense of his own identity. He was Leo. He was Leo, and he was curious about the man because . . . because the man was like Nellie.

  Nellie?

  Like Nellie and like . . . Geneva. Gen-ee-vaa. That other name was shaped tentatively, carefully, being committed to memory. And this other new name, this other new person, was Grayson. Gray-son.

  The dog Leo felt friendly toward them all, because he knew they were alike in a way that made him feel comfortable and unthreatened. He was also certain they posed no threat to Nellie. Maybe they could help her; that was what he felt. But this place bothered him a bit, made the fur down his spine want to stir; even the air outside smelled just the slightest bit wrong and it baffled his canine mind . . .

  * * *

  —

  GRAYSON BROKE OFF that contact with more effort than he expected and looked down at the pastry that was supposed to be the last of his breakfast. A flash of queasiness told him he would not be eating anything else for a while. In fact, he hoped he’d be able to keep the rest of his breakfast down.

  That was a thought he pushed away quickly.

  His head was throbbing, and he rubbed a thumb between his eyes. Hard.

  Dumb. Dumb to try using any of your senses so soon.

  But . . . First crows and now this dog.

  Damn.

  For the first time, he was getting more than emotions. And from animals. The crows and this dog, at least.

  New ability, or evolution of what he’d always had? Same thing. Either way, it wouldn’t come without a cost. Probably a painful one.

  Because one thing he already knew was that picking up emotions from animals—crows and this dog, at least—forced his mind to work in a new way in order to somehow translate what was not human into something his human mind could understand. Alien emotions, concepts. Like looking at or hearing a new language that bore only a faint resemblance to his native tongue. And included hieroglyphs.

  His mind seemed to be dealing with the chore almost automatically, if slowly and with an effort, the way a new ability triggered often did, and yet Grayson could feel the strain, like using a muscle he’d never known was there. The ache in his head was stronger, and this was the kind of ache he doubted any meds yet developed by science could touch.

  It could, however, trigger another migraine. Possibly, at least. It was rare that one migraine followed hard on the heels of another, and he really hoped it wouldn’t now due to these new senses.

  That could definitely cause problems down the road.

  The question was, was it something he could protect himself against by putting more effort into his shield, or something that would only worsen as time passed? Could he control it, or at least focus in order to use it? If the energy-static was indeed building, and that had been the trigger, he wasn’t sure his shield would be able to hold steady against it. Though, presumably, keeping his shield up would keep him from sensing crows and dogs as well as people.

  Or would it?

  Most of the agents under Bishop had learned, sometimes at great
cost, that conditions in the field could and did affect them in abrupt and unexpected ways. And that the shields many had come to depend on could fail them at critical moments.

  It had also taught them that the side effects of using their abilities in new, different ways could easily worsen.

  Great.

  A steady series of migraines was daunting even to one accustomed to the occasional wall banger, but even more he seriously doubted that Bishop would keep him on this investigation—or possibly any other—if that proved to be the case. Not only because his effectiveness as an agent was bound to be lessened, but because Bishop did not take chances when it came to the health of his agents, especially when abilities and their side effects became unstable.

  So far, none of the doctors and other geniuses the unit chief employed to monitor and frequently test his agents had been able to state with certainty that their abilities, with or without side effects, would not do some long-term damage to their brains. Especially since medical science had to begin with the unfortunate truth that they hardly understood how much of the brain even worked.

  Doubly true of the brain of a psychic.

  Before Grayson could gather his thoughts and make some sense of them, let alone ask himself some tough professional questions concerning just how effective he could be here if he couldn’t even count on his usual control and shields, someone else was sending a message with the utter clarity that had always been able to cut through whatever shields he possessed.

  Gray, we need to meet up, but a bit later. Nellie and I are going out to walk Leo. Nice new friends, casually met, with things in common. When we come back, we’ll go up to my suite, because she’s part of this, too, and there are things we all need to talk about. Why don’t you slip in there ahead of us and use your scanner to make sure nobody’s listening in. I don’t think anyone is, but best to be sure. Hang out your DO NOT DISTURB sign. Nobody’ll be surprised. You look like another migraine’s coming. Better take at least that one med and maybe lie down to wait for us after you scan my suite.

  Grayson wanted to turn his head and glare at Geneva as the two women, the dog pacing beside his mistress, strolled from the room, because when she sent a stream of thoughts like that, they were a bit like sharp darts tossed into his already aching head.

  And, besides, who was the primary agent here?

  He was.

  Not that Geneva had ever been or would ever be subordinate to anyone else. She obeyed Bishop—mostly—because she chose to, because she deeply respected him, because she loved the work, and because she had been happy to find a use for abilities that had rendered her childhood miserable.

  Not that she’d ever said as much to Grayson, but he’d caught her once or twice in vulnerable moments with her guards down, and he knew. He understood; it was the rule rather than the exception that people born with psychic abilities could not lay claim to memories of a happy childhood.

  Still, he was supposed to be the lead partner here, dammit. Headache or no headache.

  He pushed his plate away and fought the urge to keep rubbing his forehead. As if that would help.

  Yeah, dammit, he needed the meds that would keep the worst of the pain and other symptoms at bay and allow him to function, and he needed to scan Geneva’s suite if there was going to be any kind of discussion about what was going on in Salem. Maybe he even needed a nap. But most of all, he needed to get up and walk upstairs without falling on his ass.

  Before he could even push his chair back, a professionally sympathetic voice spoke.

  “I’ve heard migraines can be hell and last for days,” Ms. Payton said. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  Grayson moved his head slightly, rather cautiously, so he could look up at her, and forced a smile. “No, but thanks. My fault. I didn’t get enough sleep or give the meds time to work. I think this time I’ll obey my doctor. Take a nap. Maybe even sleep longer.”

  “Probably best,” she said, still professionally sympathetic. “And a good day to stay in anyway. It’s even colder out than yesterday, and the forecast is for snow tonight or tomorrow.”

  “Looks like I came down off the Trail just in time,” he murmured, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet, being careful of his balance and knowing she saw it.

  “I’d say so. I hope you can get some rest, Mr. Sheridan.”

  At least she’s not offering to have me carried upstairs.

  “Yeah,” he said, knowing that wasn’t the plan. “Me too.”

  * * *

  —

  FINN DEVERELL WATCHED the two women and the dog walking slowly toward the park, talking intently. He was not surprised to see them, though he thought at least one of them might be surprised by his lack of it.

  Then again, perhaps they had already figured out at least some of what went on here in Salem; Geneva Raynor had been in town long enough to have some ideas, especially since she was a trained investigator. And because he had the strong suspicion that she had located at least one of the dump sites, possibly more.

  As for Nellie Cavendish, he wondered how long she expected the alias to hold. Not long, he thought, because she was a very bright woman—and a Cavendish. What she hadn’t known when she got here she would be absorbing from the very air around her now, and so quickly he was certain it would surprise her.

  He wondered if she even knew she could do that.

  There were clairvoyants and then there were clairvoyants.

  Probably, he thought, one reason the two women—and probably Sheridan as well—had connected so quickly. Nellie because she was more likely to trust visitors to Salem than residents, and the other two because they knew at least some of what had happened here, and perhaps even what threatened to happen.

  Quickly. Events were moving quickly.

  Finn had the sense that the urgency he’d been aware of for some time now was stronger than ever. Even the timing of what happened was not natural. He could almost see the strings being pulled, events being guided toward a desired end.

  It wasn’t his desired end.

  Still, he’d been almost sure even before meeting Nellie Cavendish that there was no way to stop what was coming, not if it was just him. He had done what he could, hoping it would be enough, but by now he admitted to himself that without Nellie and the abilities he doubted she was even as yet fully aware of, there was no way to finally put an end to a horror that had already taken too many lives.

  Nellie . . . and perhaps the other two. The ones who knew how to fight monsters.

  Geneva Raynor had displayed the skill and cunning he had expected, escaping her prison with no help even from the man Finn knew was her partner, at least in this. And Grayson Sheridan looked to be a man capable of completing whatever task he set his mind to, whatever that might be.

  Both would make good allies.

  Finn had to talk to them, and soon. All of them. Less than a week now until Nellie’s birthday, and he knew only too well that Duncan would not wait even that long to . . . test . . . her.

  And so far his tests had proven lethal.

  She didn’t trust him; Finn knew that. He could hardly blame her for the natural distrust, but it made the situation all the more urgent that he find some way of convincing her they were both on the same side.

  Her distrust of her father didn’t help matters. Finn thought Thomas Cavendish had made a mistake in distancing himself from his own child, even though he understood the reasons behind those long-ago decisions and actions.

  He wondered if Nellie would. If, perhaps, that was what she would need to hear from him in order to begin to trust.

  Why her father had done what he had done.

  As for the rest, those strings being pulled, Finn was in some ways hamstrung. He had to move cautiously, because a direct threat would be dealt with instantly; Duncan had too much at stake to risk anyone stopping him, no
t now. He wanted power, and he had found a horrific way of obtaining it.

  Finn had his spies, loyal, long-standing, and well trained by him, even one of the militia Duncan believed was his own man. And having those others out and about would be expected since his family owned the Salem Chronicle and had their jobs to do. But there were some questions they could ask in pursuit of a good story or two and many more they couldn’t ask.

  Like everything else in Salem, all the important information lay beneath the surface, known only to a few. And virtually always protected by walls many generations of the five families had learned to build sure and strong.

  Still, Finn knew far more than Duncan realized, and he intended to keep it that way as long as possible, even though the energy required to strengthen his own walls—now, at least—took more out of him than he wanted to admit.

  Time. He needed more time. And there was so little left.

  “Finn?”

  He turned from the window to find his nephew Robert standing in the open doorway of his office. Finn didn’t run the paper mill out on the river; an aunt was in charge of that business and doing very well with it. Finn had chosen to oversee the Chronicle and so kept his dual-purpose office here on an upper floor of the building housing the newspaper, right in the thick of things, where he needed to be. He could also take care of many of his responsibilities in the militia from this central position in town and this quiet office. As much of it as he could control, at least.

  Robert, who should have been in college, had decided to take a semester off, and even though he hadn’t told his father why, he had told Finn.

  He knew some of what was happening. Had a pretty good idea what was coming. And he was a Deverell. He was also one of Finn’s best and most subtle spies and had been for years, patiently and thoroughly insinuating himself into the good graces of most of the younger five-family members.

  “What is it?” Finn asked.

  Robert came inside, closing the door behind him, and crossed to one of the visitor’s chairs in front of Finn’s desk and put his hands on the back, the grip a little tighter than casual. “Word is, Duncan wants everybody in church tomorrow. And the word wasn’t exactly subtle.”