"What the—you some kind of fucking witch?" he stuttered, backing away. "Cut that shit out—hey, Dolaski, get in here, would ya?"
Keene backed toward the door and exited, locking her in the interrogation room.
That was better. At least she could get a few minutes alone. They'd been at her all night, holding her as a material witness in the local cop shop. She knew she could make them either arrest her or release her after a certain point, but she figured she might as well stay here and see if she could learn anything. It might even be safer.
She pulled up the only other chair in the room and rested her feet on it, slumped back as far as she could in the other chair, and closed her eyes. Maybe she'd practice sleeping. See if she remembered how.
She was burned and bruised and shocked and splattered with blood. Bruised and charred and wild-eyed from being overtaken by her chant-shape. Her chant-shape, which was keeping her alive, protecting her from whatever sliced Emily's chest open and dissolved her heart.
She shuddered.
Telekine, esper, Adept. Who was on campus, capable of doing that? Someone working for the army? Telekine, esper, Adept. It had to be a Telekine. She didn't know of any other art that could shred flesh in that precise and layered way. Telekine. Precise. Accurate and fast as lightning.
But who?
It could be anyone. A Telekine could operate from anywhere on campus, could be moving parts of her she didn't even know she had, if they were good enough to get through her closing. Of course, when she walked in her power, she wasn't closed. Just elusive. Slippery as a shadow.
And alive. Still alive, if she could stand the ride. As she began to feel the soft drifting of sleep encompass her, the door opened, and someone cleared their throat.
"Flu season's such a bitch," she commented.
"Funny," a familiar voice said, "that's exactly what these fine officers keep saying about you."
She drew herself up in her seat, and let her feet fall hard on the floor. Alex walked across the room and pulled up the chair she had been using, and sat down facing her.
He wondered how she managed to look exhausted and radiant at the same time. It must have been the chant-shape showing in her eyes, in spite of smears of blood and soot and fatigue on her face.
"Hello, Alex," she said, leaning back in her chair, relaxing. "What's the matter? Bored with the Planetoids and want a nice fat cop to deal with for a change, or am I your assignment when I'm sentenced to Planetoid Three for murder?"
Okay, he thought. At least he knew what mood she was adopting for him. He decided to sidestep the bullshit.
"Was Brad in the tunnel with you?" he asked.
He saw her shoulder twitch. "You should know. You sent him."
"I did," he confirmed. "Now I have to ID what's left of him."
"You must feel like shit about that, too," was her only comment.
She was right. He did.
She picked at a torn nail. "Go away, Alex," she said.
"Why, Jaguar?"
Her eyes, hooded and closed, told him nothing. She pushed her chair away and stood, turned her back to him, arms crossed at her chest, staring at the wall. "See Davidson," she said, "The Etiquette of Empaths, pages twenty-five forward."
"In spite of my recent stupidity, what makes you think I'd leave you alone to face that?"
She didn't move.
"Jaguar," he said, "look at me."
"No," she said. "I want you to leave."
"Then look at me and tell me that."
She turned around and her face twisted into motion, but no words emerged. She made a sound of frustration and turned back to the wall, gave it a kick. He felt some sympathy for her. It was difficult, that truth thing. But right now he would work the advantage.
"I came to tell you two things," he said. "First, the army's got you listed under Blackout. You're in the middle of an operation."
She went very still, which was her way of expressing surprise. Then he saw her shoulders lift and fall.. "What's it to you?"
"That's the second thing I came to tell you," he said.
He felt her absorbing his words, knew she read his tone as well. Her body tensed as if for a fight, and she swung around to him, her face painted with soot and blood, hair wild as a solar storm, eyes a holocaust of flame, unwilling to yield to any power except the one she walked in now, clear as the night sky.
Jaguar, as she really was. In her power. Beautiful and dangerous.
I choose you. I choose you.
He stood, pushing his chair over.
"I'm not leaving," he said. "I came here because I should never have let you go."
He walked toward her, and he kept his eyes with hers. She held a hand up as if warding him off, holding him back, but he kept walking.
"Stop it," she hissed at him. "You don't know. It's not—you can't be here."
"Jaguar," he said, "I am here. Where I belong. With you."
The truth. There it was. He had chosen, and felt the relief of that.
"Stop it," she said. "Stop it. You can't. You don't know. You are not to think of me that way."
He took one more step, wrapped his hand around hers. "I already do."
She stood poised inside his thought, and he waited to know what she'd do next. Push him away. Hit him. She could do anything and it would be fine. Anything, if he could stand here with his hand on hers for one minute more.
She breathed in, and her breath emerged from her as a moan, a fury of longing in her eyes. She moved her hand to his face, exploring it as if she'd never seen it before. Then she pulled him to her and kissed him.
I choose you. I choose you.
Her lips were warm, the length of her pressed into his flesh was a fire barely contained. He twined his fingers in her hair and held her here, in this moment, tasting her, tasting the essential power she was walking in, tasting all of who she was, to the bottom of her wild soul.
Like finding the center of the universe and kissing it. Like having it kiss you back.
He knew now what she meant by that.
Then, abruptly, she pulled away and stared at him hard. When she spoke, her voice sizzled like the edge of a star.
"And what would you do with all that in your bed?" she asked him.
He opened his mouth to tell her, specifically and in great detail, but never had the chance to speak.
The door opened, and Keene returned with his partner in tow.
"Addams," he barked, "we're releasing you."
"Dammit," Alex said under his breath. "Fucking cops."
She closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her face, swaying as she stood. When she turned her face up, she was herself again. The moment was gone.
"Was it something I said?" she asked brightly.
"Your attorney called. Said we'd better. For now," he said, looking disgusted. "Go to the desk and one of the women'll take you downstairs so you can wash and get the rest of your things."
"What a disappointment to be leaving. I so hoped we could continue our discussion of Kafka's metaphysical approach to pain as it relates to effete ineptitude in the criminal justice system."
"Yeah—well, don't leave the city. Got it?"
"I got it. Wish I could get rid of it." She patted Keene on the back and turned to Alex, wiggled a finger at him! "Bye-bye now."
He grabbed her arm. "I'll go with you."
"You can't," she said. "No men allowed where I'm going."
"Then I'll meet you back at your room. Do you hear me?"
She tried to jerk her arm back but he held on. "Go away," she growled at him.
"No," he said sharply. "Meet me back in your rooms. Will you?" She said nothing, but looked as if she wanted to say a lot.
"Will you?" he repeated, and she nodded at him, once. He let her go.
As she swung the door open, he was given a clear view of an attractive man greeting her, putting a sympathetic arm around her, and leading her out the door.
"That man with Dr. Addams," he
asked Keene, "who would he be?"
"That guy? Some kind of dean or something. Yeah. Ethan Davis. We got nothing on him."
"That's unfortunate," Alex said. "It really is."
Alex went through the grim task of identifying Brad's remains, calling his family and letting them know, making arrangements for transfer of his body after autopsy. Then he'd gotten into his rented wings and headed back toward campus and Jaguar.
Although he would never convince her of this, Alex thought there was something to be said for using wings instead of wheels. For instance, they made it easier to tell when you were being tailed.
As he skimmed the tops of buildings where he could safely and legally cruise at two hundred and fifty, he saw on his instrument panel that someone was too close behind him. They approached and pulled back, approached and pulled back. He slowed to one fifty, then one hundred.
They slowed with him.
A visual check showed him a current model Eagle, gold. That was a machine made for speed. He slowed just a little further, to seventy-five, hoping the hover capacity on his older Thunderbird would kick in and hold the line. The Eagle actually had an advanced hover, but his reading on this model taught him that if it was pressed, it would stall out.
"Surprise," he commented to his readout, when it indicated that the Eagle was not landing. In fact, it was putting on speed, and no longer hiding. The chase was on.
He kicked his wings to three hundred and got out of their airspace, but they kept pace, as he knew they would. He gave the situation a moment's thought and assessed his chances of evasion at about zero. That was all right, since he'd like to know who was chasing him and what they wanted to tell him, but he wanted to at least give them a little run for their money first.
Just because. Just because he didn't like them much. Just because he considered that what they did was rude, he punched in to four hundred and veered a sharp left to nowhere. It was a random move, and these sorts of people usually didn't deal well with the random. Order was more in their line.
The Eagle faltered behind him, then turned wide, started to catch up.
Alex remembered a cute trick he'd learned in his early lessons on wings. It was something an ex-prisoner showed him, about looping under an oncoming vehicle. There was a way to do it without dropping your power level, if you just—ah. That was it.
The Thunderbird about-faced and went careening directly into the path of the Eagle. Head-on, they sped toward each other, and both had a split second of knowing that whichever way they turned, the other might turn the same way, resulting in a sudden dispersal of body parts for all concerned. But Alex was an Adept.
He grinned, pulled right as the Eagle did, then shot under them, headed in the other direction.
That felt good.
He sighed deeply in satisfaction, and in the realization that he'd have to land sooner or later, at which point someone would pick him up. There was no escaping these boys. He might as well, he supposed, get it over with.
Scanning the groundfield plan, he saw a lot about a mile east, and pulled in to make the landing.
As he got out of his seat, rough hands put him facedown on the ground and kept him there.
"Hello, boys," he said. "Where to now?"
"Shut the fuck up," one of them said, and he was cuffed, and a blindfold wrapped over his eyes. When the Eagle he knew he was occupying took flight, he heard the ping of a computer-driven speedometer that had been stressed by the quick shift of their recent chase.
"That ping," he said. "You oughta have someone look at that. Sounds like someone who doesn't know how to shift very well stripped the overdrive."
"Shut the fuck up," the other one said.
"Anything you say," he replied, and sat silent for the rest of the fairly short trip.
When they landed, roughly he thought, and he felt himself pulled up and out of the vehicle, he asked, "Will Rich be joining us? Or am I important enough to rate his boss—that'd be Matt Durk, general lieutenant, wouldn't it?"
A hand pushed at his back. "Shut the fuck up," a voice said.
Then he was shoved into a darkened room, onto a seat, and the blindfold was removed.
When the room didn't get much lighter without the blindfold, he blinked. Not totally dark, but shaded. What fools, he thought. Did they really expect him not to know whom he was with, or were they just trying to set an ominous mood?
From a corner, he heard a tapping as of wood against wood. A voice that had been hollowed out by years of the need to stay in the duck-and-cover position spoke to him.
"Supervisor Dzarny," it said, "you've been playing games with us."
Alex sighed. "That's true, Durk. I have."
He heard a low chuckle.
"I know where I am, too. You didn't honestly think I'd miss the most obvious cues to people and place, did you?"
"With your training? I suppose not." This said with something like fatigue. Whatever he wanted from Alex, it bored him. He had something else on his mind of greater import, Alex suspected. Alex saw his hand rise, and the room empty, except for the two of them.
"How about we try this?" Alex said. "Since I'm here, why don't you tell me enough so that I don't bug the hell out of you, and I tell you enough so that you don't bug the hell out of me."
Silence. Then, tap tap tap tap.
"There is an operation in progress which is of a rather delicate nature. A specialist is involved. We need to complete it, and hope to complete it soon. In order to meet our schedule, all blocks to progress must be removed. Must be removed."
A long silence.
"Do you understand?"
Alex said nothing.
More silence, and a sharp, sudden crack. Alex couldn't stop the reflex jump, and knew Durk had seen and enjoyed the moment. Good for him, Alex thought. He knows how to run his show.
"I don't understand," Alex said carefully. "While I have no wish to interfere with Pentagon activities, I'm as you see me. Sitting in the dark. How can I avoid interfering when I don't know which of my actions will create interference?"
Tap tap tap.
"Let's say you have options," Durk suggested. "Limited options. And we want to know which one you'll choose."
"Tell me what they are."
"You can stay here with Dr. Addams. Or you can leave. Go back to the Planetoids and let her ran the game on her own."
"Game?" Alex asked. "What's the game?"
"Go fish," Durk said.
Alex was silent. Go fish. What the hell did that mean? Jaguar had a game with the big boys? That seemed eminently unlikely.
He shook his head. "What happens if I stay?"
Durk tapped. "You'll probably end up dead."
"What about Dr. Addams?"
Alex saw the shoulders lift and fall. "Both of you."
"What if I leave?"
"You'll be safe," Durk said.
"Dr. Addams?"
Silence.
Alex assumed that was the lot. He took his time in mulling it. Sitting there in the dark, cuffed and not happy about it, he remembered how very much he hated the army.
Okay. He would try one test.
"Do you want me to pull her out of there?"
Quickly, too quickly. "No. That is not an option."
"Why not?"
That tapping. "She's gone fishing."
Silence.
"What kind of empath is the specialist?"
He saw the shadow of Durk's wooden hand make a quick gesture. He hadn't expected that. Something Alex wasn't supposed to know. Now he was trying to figure out how much more Alex knew, how much he should keep hidden.
"No mention has been made of psi capacities. None will be made. Our specialist is singularly expert, and attached to anonymity."
"Expert at what?"
"Long-distance work."
Alex let the euphemisms settle in. Esper, or Telekine. Or both. Shit. Powerful, if he was any good. And Durk didn't like the specialist. Or somebody didn't. Someone wanted him removed.
Jaguar was—what? Working for Durk? Or dancing in the dark? Tricky.
Alex tried another stab in the dark.
"He's getting out of hand, and you can't deal anymore, so you want him taken out. Is that it? Is that Dr. Addams's function?"
"This is a situation with options. My preference in this matter may not coincide with the preference of others involved."
"You're on your own in this one, aren't you? And Dr. Addams isn't behaving as expected, is she?"
A grunt. Maybe an affirmation.
"She never does," Alex said. "What do you need from me?"
"To know which option you'll pick."
An easy one. "I'm in," he said without hesitation. "Up to my short-lived neck."
The wooden finger tapped, and moments accumulated. "You won't leave?"
"No."
"Don't you want to think about it?"
Alex shook his head. "Nothing to think about."
Durk made another gesture, and a man emerged from the shadows, put the blindfold back on, and led him out.
He was shoved back into the Eagle, which pinged even worse as it lifted. He felt the motion of landing, hands clutching his elbow and pushing him out the door into a noisy place. Hum of engine all around.
That wasn't right. He landed in an empty field. A dead lot. There shouldn't be engine noise.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked.
"Back," a voice replied. He was pushed forward.
He pressed his heels into the ground. "No," he said.
"Yeah," a voice said. "Right."
He felt the displaced air before he felt the fist, but it was a good one when it hit, because he felt, saw, and knew nothing more for some time.
14
EMILY'S FUNERAL WAS HELD THE DAY AFTER Jaguar was released from custody, in order to have some closure before Thanksgiving. It was packed with students and faculty and friends who all agreed on one thing: her death was horrible.
The students looked frightened and angry. The faculty looked confused, and ready, at a moment's notice, to run away. Leonard stood at the back of the church, and Jaguar didn't greet him on the way in. For all she knew, that was the worst thing she could do. She noticed that he slipped out the door before it was over.
In his eulogy, Ethan focused on Emily's contributions as a teacher and a scholar to cover the fact that in the past semester she'd become an emotional wreck. Nobody wanted to talk about that. To give him credit, Ethan kept his talk short, and allowed others to speak.
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