"Look, I have a responsibility to tell them what she is. If she hurts anyone else and I don't try and stop it, what does that make me?"
Katia knit her brows over her dark eyes. "What if she's not an empath? What if it isn't her making me feel this way, think the way I'm thinking? What if I'm just crazy or something?"
He laughed. "C'mon, Katia. You know better than that. You're not crazy."
"How can you be so sure?"
He put his hands on her shoulders and held her facing him. She looked down at the ground, and he lifted her chin so she would see his face.
"He warned us about that," Steve said. "She's very good, and she'll make you feel like she's telling you the truth. Make you believe all kinds of things, like my father did with me. That's what empaths do. But you know what she did. What she can do. He explained it all to us."
"And you believe him?"
"Of course. He knows all about her. He's studied her for years. Her and people like her. And he showed us how she did Emily."
She closed her dark eyes. "I never want to see anything like it again."
"And you don't want to end up like one of them. Like my father. Like her. Do you? Do you, Katia?"
"No," she said. "I don't. Only, I don't like the secrets. I like things to be up-front. And I don't want him to hurt her. If she can't help it, then it's not really her fault, is it? He shouldn't hurt her, should he?"
"He won't. He said he knows how to do this. We gotta trust him. So let's stick to the plan. You take care of your part, and don't worry about anything else. He'll take care of the rest."
16
JAGUAR STARED AT THE COMPUTER SCREEN, wondering if what was on it made sense. Her on-line students sent questions to her regarding their exam areas, and she answered them as best she could, referring them to other professors when she couldn't. Then she would send more questions to them to help them prepare for their exams.
This student had been asked to explain positive and negative uses of ritual space as proposed by J. Post in Unparticular Magic, and using this work, compare use of ritual space in the Serials with use of ritual space in the Lakota sweat ceremony. It was a standard question and the student had answered at length, but she couldn't tell if it made any sense. She turned away from the screen. Impossible to concentrate.
Tonight would be the first class since the funeral. The first time she'd see her students since the murder. And what would they say?
She wondered if Steve would show up, or Katia. Especially Katia, whom Leonard wanted her to guard. Katia whose eyes glittered like Emily's. Molecular dispersion. Coming apart at the seams. That's what she suspected happened to Emily.
Telekine. It had to be a Telekine. But who? It could be anyone on campus. It could be the one man here who she knew practiced the arts. It could be the man whose bed she had refused. It could be the president, or someone she hadn't thought of yet.
A phrase kept circling her thoughts, but wouldn't come to the front where she could hear it. A phrase she was supposed to remember that kept skittering away. She did not pursue it. It would have to find her. Along with the army, she thought grimly.
If she didn't trust her own art so implicitly, she'd be kicking herself around the block for what she'd said to the president. She'd given it all away, left herself no secrets to cuddle. She even let the president see the chant-shape, and she had no idea why. Maybe it was meant to bring the danger close enough so she herself could see it. Smell it. Deal with it. Was that it? Something—that phrase flitting about, not landing. What was it, and why should she remember it?
Her telecom buzzed, and she flicked the on switch, saw a face appear and disappear, and heard the crackling of static.
"Who's there?" she asked.
More crackling, then, "...hear me? Can you? If you..."
It dissolved into noise. "Who is it? I can't hear a damn thing."
"...nothing. I... very ... us they want..."
"They want? Who wants? Who is this?"
A snapping sound, and the disconnection was complete.
She frowned at her machine, stood and stretched out her legs, then went to look out her window at the gray and chilly day. A hawk skimmed the air above the tower dorms, looking for lunch. Two crows mobbed it, one from the top, and one from the bottom. She pressed her hand and face against the cool glass. Her hand felt warm against it, and her breath made a circle of steam. A phrase lingered at the edge of her consciousness, waiting to be let in. Her hand felt warm against the cool glass.
Her hand felt warm.
Ethan's hand felt cool. His hands were deft and cool on her skin. She felt the pulse of sexual longing just thinking about it. Big magic, that. And yet she'd refused it. Why?
There.
That phrase again, meandering randomly across her brain. The hand of something is always cool. The hand of something is always cool. She pulled back from the window. It was an old phrase, an old bit of lore she'd picked up from The Etiquette of Empaths.
The hand of the something is always cool. Something. No. It started differently. The hand of the empath is always warm. That was it. The hand of the empath is always warm. And the hand of the Telekine is always cool.
The hand of the Telekine is always cool.
As simple as that. Just a cool hand run delicately over her face.
The hand of the Telekine.
Ethan's hand.
Shit, she thought.
Telekine.
Planetoid Three, Toronto Replica
Alex sat in the middle of a great dark forest, where the trees were black marble columns reaching up toward a night that reeled around the sky. He tried to determine where the top was, peering up and up. They were, as far as he could see, endless.
He squatted at the base of a tree, listening.
There was silence.
There was the sound of breathing, a scooped-out sound like a respirator or breath within a cavernous chamber of echoes.
There was no sound of walking.
There was no sound of gliding motion as two figures approached, woman and shadow cat. He watched as she put her hand on the great black head, and the two merged, woman into shadow cat, cat into woman, two separate beings who shared the same soul.
They walked toward him.
Go. Go now. The Moon is waiting to carry you. . He sat very still, not sure what they were saying. Not sure what they wanted from him.
He sensed impatience.
Go. The Moon is leaving. She'll carry you.
"I don't know what you mean," he told them.
They lifted themselves and wrapped great hands around his shoulders, held him down with their eyes. The great teeth sank into his face, claiming him, and he pressed forward to let them enter even more deeply. He felt nothing like pain.
Wake up. Go. Now.
The dream dissolved and he was suddenly, fully, and urgently awake, standing at the telecom in his living room, his hand punching in the telecom code for Jaguar's office.
"Answer," he said into the screen. "Come on, Jaguar. Pick up. Pick up. I have to tell you."
He didn't even get a busy signal. Just static. He stared at the telecom.
"Jesus," he mumbled. "What'm I doing?"
Last thing he remembered, after he returned from his talk with Paul, he went and sat in his rocking chair, meaning to take a few minutes to clear his mind, expunge the emotional detritus of the day so he could figure out what to do next. But he'd fallen asleep and had this dream. About the moon carrying him somewhere he wanted to go.
"Damn," he said. "Moon Illusion."
The band was scheduled to go to Jaguar's class and play. They had a private shuttle booked. He knew, because he'd booked it for them after he spoke with Jaguar. And they were leaving—when? Today? Tomorrow? He looked around and saw that it was dark. It wasn't today anymore. It was at least tonight.
He reached for the telecom and punched in Gerry's code.
A groggy male voice mumbled something that was either hello, or f
uck off. He couldn't quite tell which.
"Gerry," he said. "It's Alex. What time does your shuttle leave?"
"I didn't do it," Gerry said. "Honest to God, I didn't."
"Gerry," Alex said, "it's okay. You're not in trouble. It's Alex. I just want to know when you're heading out."
There was a pause. "Alex?" the voice said tentatively.
"This is right," he replied.
"It's—kinda late. You know that?"
"No. I don't have a clue what time it is."
"About—well, exactly three thirty-seven a.m."
"Thanks for the update. When are you heading to Jaguar's place?"
"Shuttle leaves at seven. We're there for Wednesday rehearsal and Thursday night class."
Alex swallowed his impatience. It was the best he could hope for, the best he could get.
"Great. I'll be riding with you," Alex said. "There's one thing. I don't have a shuttle pass."
He heard a long, drawn-out rasping sound, which he understood to be Gerry at thought. "You could have Casey's. He's not going."
"Then," Alex said, "I'll need his chip, too. Mine's Supervisor-coded. His would be—"
"Service. He's a garbageman."
Of course, Alex thought.
"I'm on my way to you," he said, and hung up.
Before he left, he punched in the telecom code for Jaguar's apartment. Rachel was staying there while her apartment got put back together. When her face appeared, sleepy and confused, he said simply, "Hear anything from O'Brien?"
"Nothing. He should've called in by now. Gail's with him, too. She's good."
"Not that good," he said. "They won't find her. Be lucky if they get back alive."
Operation School of Fish. Jaguar the bait. They'd use her to get at him. Soul thief, trying for his gift. Who's their man on campus? Esper, Telekine, Adept. No. Not Adept. If it was, why would they want him?
"Rachel, I need you to do something for me," he said. "Get into the ID codes and reset Casey Maloney's chip to my scan and prints. Can you?"
"Yes," she said. And he appreciated her more than he ever had when she asked just one more question of him. "When?"
Not why. Just when.
"I'd kiss you if you were here," he said. "Now."
"Now is when you'd kiss me? Or now is when you need it."
"Both," he said. "And what size are you?" At this she showed surprise. "What size is my what?"
"Like, skirts and whatnot. Would they, by any chance, fit me?"
Rachel cleared her throat. "I'm a small woman, Alex. Size three. Jaguar's about a ten, though."
"Pick something out for me and bring it over around six a.m., would you?"
"Anything in particular? Evening wear, day wear?"
"Try the category of something I can wear," he suggested. "Something that'll keep any surveillance off me if I want to take a walk alone."
"Oh. Right. I got it. Okay. I'll see you at six." He signed off, and sat drumming his fingers against his desk. He realized that his hands were sweaty and his heart was beating hard. Once Jaguar had stolen a shuttle and blown it up to save his life. What had gone around was coming around, he thought. Which was certainly fair, if only it would carry them both safely home.
17
JAGUAR WAS RELIEVED WHEN BOTH STEVEN AND Katia showed up for class. She had been afraid they'd be absent, that it would be already too late.
Shit.
Telekine.
Katia was quiet and Steve looked exceptionally nervous, and a Telekine was on the loose. A Telekine who had been toying with her since she arrived. Pressing the neurons to release the memory of Alex's voice. Pressing at her for sexual response. Pressing into Emily until her mind snapped. And what damage had he already done to Katia? To Steve?
Telekine. Damn and hell.
And why hadn't he killed her yet?
She wondered if he read her night walks. If he knew enough to catch that graceful spirit in flight. No. If he did, she'd be dead by now. Probably he was waiting to learn enough to steal it from her.
Telekine, and a soul thief.
The Mertec and Maya called Telekines Lightning Fingers. You can't outrun lightning, her grandfather told her when she was little. You have to curl up in a ball and ground yourself. Or direct the lightning somewhere else.
Divert it. He brought her out during a storm and let her feel the crackle against her skin, showed her how to become small and smooth and unreachable. Showed her how to stay calm when she felt the lightning approach.
Telekine.
When she was wandering Manhattan after her grandparents were killed, afraid to go back to the apartment where their bodies lay rotting, unsure where else to go, she'd seen one, without knowing how to name what she saw. A woman wearing diamonds. She remembered the diamonds, and the way the sun sparked off of them. She wanted to touch them, hold them in her hand like magic. She remembered the woman's eyes, which were large and ice blue. They had something of sorrow in them that Jaguar also wanted to touch, as if she could stroke out tears and let the running water melt that ice the sun sparked off like diamonds. She walked toward the woman, mesmerized by the diamonds. Then a man bumped into the woman.
She whirled toward his receding back and held up a finger. Cut a swath in the air with it. He spasmed as if he'd stuck his hand inside a transformer, blood pouring from his ears and nose.
Jaguar remembered how quickly she turned and walked away.
Lightning. You can't stop it. You can only divert it or ground yourself, stay close to the earth.
Poor Emily. She never had a chance. And Jaguar, not knowing, couldn't have saved her or Brad. But she wouldn't let it happen to anyone else. Now that she knew who, it was time to call a halt. If only she could figure out how.
She looked around the room. Steven, nervous and closed. Katia, quiet. Glen, relaxed behind a certain guardedness. Maria, drumming her fingers on her desk. Taquana, fierce and angry. Ivy, her eyebrows furrowed in thought. First, though, she had to deal with this.
"Okay," she said, perching herself on the desk. "Let's talk about Emily Rainer."
She looked directly at Steven, and waited.
"You killed her," he said, glaring at her. "You're one of them."
Jaguar looked to Katia, who lowered her head and would not meet her gaze. Then she let his words pass over her own lips. "One of them?" she asked. "Meaning what?"
He stared at her belligerently. "You're an empath," he said. "Katia told me."
"Perhaps," she said, looking directly at Katia again, "it takes one to know one."
Steven pushed himself up from his seat with such force that he knocked it over. He turned to the class and pointed a portentous finger. "I only came tonight to warn you," he said. "She's an empath and a murderer. She killed Professor Rainer, and she's fucking with your minds."
He clumsily gathered up his materials, papers and disks falling from his hands, and walked to the door. Katia cast one apologetic glance at Jaguar before she hustled out the door after him.
She watched their retreating backs, then turned to her students.
They were uncomfortable, unsure, afraid. So was she. She pulled a student's desk over to them, placing it within their circle. To her surprise, nobody pulled away from her.
"If you think I killed Professor Rainer, you shouldn't be here," she said. "You should walk out right now and not listen to anything I say because I'm not fit to teach you. I promise," she added, "I won't fail you for it."
Nobody moved. Nobody got up and left.
"Dr. A," Selica said, "I think everybody who believes you're a killer just left the room. I mean, the cops cleared you, and to my mind, it just doesn't seem like your style. I think if you killed someone, you'd stand right up and say it, because you'd have good reason."
Jaguar bowed her head, feeling somehow pierced by this. Trust. Such trust. It was frightening, and it humbled her. Two new experiences.
"Thank you," she said simply. "I appreciate that more than I can say.
And if there's anything you want to ask me, well, I'm here. Don't be afraid to know something, or to say what you believe. That's how you learn. By—by facing the fear, and speaking to it."
A student raised a tentative hand. "What Steve said about you. Being an empath. Are you?"
That was direct enough, and to be expected, but of all the questions they might ask, for some reason this was the last she felt prepared to answer. Maybe because it was so true, and a truth she was so used to hiding.
"What would it mean if I was?" she asked quietly. "How would that matter to you?"
"It might mean that you could—like, control us?" Jesse suggested.
"That I could make you believe, for instance, I'm not a murderer when I am?"
Murmuring, and shifting. Yes. That was some of their fear. They might trust her, but how could they trust themselves to be putting their faith in the right place?
She nodded. "A shadowed empath will try to control you. Someone who's—sick with fear and power. But so will someone who's sick with fear and power and not an empath. They'll just try it in different ways."
"But this way—with an empath," another student said, "we can't do anything about it."
"Because why?" she asked.
"Because we don't know how it works?" one student suggested.
"Mm," she said. "Seems like that's a good reason to have the empathic arts course on campus. Or a good reason to learn from empaths what they really do and are."
A voice from the circle—a face she couldn't see— said some words.
"Can we learn from you?" the voice asked.
"Yeah," Jesse said nervously. "Are you an empath?"
Should she tell them the truth? They placed trust in her. Should she?
She felt danger, and smiled grimly at it. As if, she thought, this will put me in more danger than I am in already. No. It was just the epicenter where the new stories grow.
Are you an empath?
"Yes," she replied, "I am."
She ducked her head down, and brought it back up, her sea eyes scanning their silent faces. She had liked them very much, and they had liked her. She hoped that wouldn't change.
LEARNING FEAR Page 21