“Because they could, or maybe Joe and Gerry got in the way.”
“But we have no proof, sir,” Elkin said in his nasally voice.
Warren winced. “We know that, you dumb shit. But they died in the Palace. Who else was there that night?”
“Oh.” Elkin sat back. “The ments was there that night.”
Warren rolled his eyes.
“Listen to me,” Meacham said. “Louis Blake and his bunch have to go. We can accuse them of crimes until we’re blue in the face, but as long as half the town supports that slimy prick, there’s not a whole hell of a lot I can do. They already brainwashed my son. My own god damned son.”
“He was a lost cause,” Warren said. “Ments always stick together. You couldn’t have helped him.”
“Bullshit,” Meacham said, leaning back again, his belly jutting out over his thighs. He’d gained weight and was shaving less often than he used to, which had given him a grizzly appearance. “Blake isn’t his father. Those boys aren’t his brothers. They don’t even realize what he’s capable of. Goddamned ments. I’m sick to death of ’em.”
“They’ll be gone soon, anyway,” Warren said. “The NDR’s recruiting telepaths now. It’s what Blake wants, to send them away. All we got to do is wait.”
“NDR my ass.” Meacham slammed his fist on the desk. Ash fell from the cigar and landed with a powdery burst. “You think they won’t come back here with a battalion of men? That’s what those NDR imperialists are after. One government to rule the Eastlands. That’s what Blake really wants. To take over my town.”
Warren grit his teeth to keep from speaking. He didn’t buy it. Blake wasn’t after power; that much was clear when he stepped down from his position as Overseer to let John Meacham take control. But then, what did the old man want?
It didn’t matter. He was dying. Warren had seen him cough up blood in the town hall. Only a matter of time now.
If only Meacham would wait.
“Here’s the deal, boys”—John Meacham stood up with a grunt—“we don’t wait for them to leave. Two of our ministers are dead, and I know those boys are responsible. We could never admit Joe and Gerry went to Praetoria, least not with my knowledge, much less with the town’s money. And we can’t risk those boys or their sluts spreading the word about it, you understand? The boys have to die. There’s no other way.”
Warren shot up from his chair. “Those boys are trained killers.”
“And so are you.” Meacham glared at him, red patches standing out on his face and neck. “Jesus, is that what you’ve been afraid of this whole time? This is our town, God damn it. We call the shots, not them.”
“Then how do you suggest we do it?” Warren said, resting his hand on the pistol hanging at his belt.
If Meacham wasn’t going to wait, then to hell with it. Warren wanted to shoot a ment in the brain box. Better now than later.
Seeing Warren’s hand on his gun, John Meacham let a sly smile inch across his face, like he knew something Warren didn’t and was eager to share it. He reached down and jerked open the middle drawer of his desk, reached in, and pulled something out with two fingers.
“When you’re up against a gun, you wear body armor.”
He held up a tiny bottle filled with a clear liquid that glinted in the light from the crackling fireplace.
“But when you’re up against a ment…”
He shook the bottle. A smile spread across Warren’s face when he finally understood.
Chapter 12
Blake’s office was unusually cold.
When Michael entered, the old man was sitting with his chair turned so he could look out the window at the sun-filled street across the way. He was wrapped in a flannel sheet and his silver hair fell around his head in filthy shreds. Had he showered at all since leaving the jail? Didn’t look like it.
“Dominic told me about the smoke,” Blake said without looking at him. “You’re adapting and learning at a rate that I…” He shook his head, then reached for the cigarettes on his desk and pulled one out.
“It’s time you quit smoking,” Michael said, taking a seat. “It’s not too late.”
“Not that it would matter if it was. I’m too old to make the trip to the NDR. Too old to do any kind of work once I get there. I’m not feeling sorry for myself, boy, so don’t look at me like that.”
He hadn’t even looked at Michael, nor was he an empath like Arielle, and yet he always seemed to know what Michael was feeling.
“The important thing is that you continue with your training, that you get stronger and better without abandoning your morals. Swear that you will serve and protect, Michael. Not force and corrupt.” Blake looked up at him, smoke obscuring his face. “Swear it.”
Michael swallowed. “I will. I swear it.”
“Say it.”
“I swear to serve and protect people, not force them and treat them like slaves, and corrupt their livelihoods like Harris Kole and his father did to my country.”
Blake gave him a proud smile. It carried a hint of amusement.
“This is your country, now.”
“I know,” Michael said.
“You used a mental domination technique in Praetoria, and you did it without bleeding.”
Michael nodded, absently touching one of his eyes. “But I can’t just do it whenever I want. It comes out only when I really need it.”
“And the headaches are gone?” Blake peered at him, two fingers up by his lips to hold the cigarette.
“Yeah. They’re gone.”
“It’s still dangerous. It’ll always be dangerous.”
“I know, but it feels right, almost like—”
“Like you were born to do it,” Blake finished for him.
Michael shrugged.
“Then you’re ready.” Blake put out his cigarette and rose shakily off the chair, the blanket slipping down past his knees. He looked thinner and more frail than usual.
“Ready for what?”
Blake gave him a sober look, like he was surprised to find Michael still standing there. “To go to the NDR, of course. That’s been the plan all along. I have contacts there that’ll take you in, give you a home, maybe even an army post if you fancy being an officer for the rest of your life.”
Michael shot up from his seat. “But what about everyone else? What about my friends?”
“You mean Arielle.”
It wasn’t even a question. Blake understood exactly what Michael was thinking.
“Her and everyone else. Peter and Ian and Eli—and you and Dominic and Reggie.”
Blake sighed and approached Michael, hesitantly, like he had only bad news to deliver.
“I can’t control who goes with you, Mike. Those who choose to leave Gulch can do so freely, but they can’t ever come back.” He thought for a moment. “Unless you’re Dominic, but that’s a different story. You could try to convince Arielle and Peter and the others to accompany you to the NDR, but it’s a fool’s errand. They’ve grown up here. These mountains are all they know. You’re different. You’re meant for something better, a life of service and honor in a community where your ability would make you capable of bringing about great changes and reform.”
“But who are you to say that?” Michael said with a defiant lifting of his chin. “It should be my choice.”
Blake sighed and gave Michael a weary look. “Gulch is just a bus stop on the way to your final destination. By staying here, you’re putting yourself in danger, as well as the rest of the people here.”
“Then why don’t we all go?”
Blake’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “The entire town? Move to the NDR? And where would they get all the passports they would need to become citizens? Could you afford to buy them citizenship? Do you even know how much that costs?”
Michael looked down at the floor. You could buy entry into the NDR, but it cost more than most farmers here in Gulch made in a lifetime. Wealthy merchants went bankrupt just getting their f
amilies into the NDR in order to start new lives in the prosperous state.
Michael didn’t care about all that. Why should he get to just walk in when all of his friends had to stay behind?
“Teach me the mental dominance technique,” Michael said, meeting Blake’s unwavering gaze. The old man’s face hardened.
“I already told you—”
“I don’t care what you told me. If you were serious about giving me a new life, then teach it to me.”
“It’ll corrupt you. You’re not nearly old enough.”
Michael made his hands into fists. Blake’s eyes darted up and down, taking in the sight of him. The old man stepped back.
“You see what I mean?” Blake’s chest quivered as a series of coughs tried to leap out of his chest. He held them down with a noble effort. “You’re angry, Mike. You want what you want, but you’re not prepared for the consequences.”
“To hell with the consequences.” Michael glared at Blake. “If I could use my ability at will, I could bring my friends with me to the NDR. I could make it so no one blinked an eye if they showed fake passports. You know I could.”
Blake shot an empty smile at him. “You must think you’re some kind of hero now. Fine. I’ll help you learn the mental domination technique.” He wagged a finger at Michael. “But I won’t make it easy. I’ll give you a hint. The rest you can figure out yourself.”
Michael braced himself and listened. Blake took his time lighting another cigarette before he finally spoke.
“Your anger is like a mirror. It redirects your power back into you until you shatter. Only one thing can reverse that process so it’s the mirror that shatters instead of you.”
Michael blinked absently as he absorbed this information.
“And?”
Blake shrugged. “That’s it. Now go and think about what I’ve just said.” He glanced at his wrist even though he wasn’t wearing a watch. “It’s about time for my afternoon nap. You can see yourself out, right?”
With a grim sigh, Michael left the room.
An hour later, he was meditating by the lake when Arielle showed up. He had sensed her approach long before she arrived but kept his eyes closed. Listening to her, he knew she was taking off her sandals, getting ready to sit.
She did, and he could feel the warmth coming off her body, and smell the breath of flowers still caught in her hair.
You found me, he sent.
He sensed her bitter amusement. How do you know I was looking for you? Maybe I just wanted to sit here.
Maybe.
He opened his eyes to drink in the sight of her. She was dressed in an old pair of jeans and a white, sleeveless top with dirt smudges all over it. Her hair was down, strands of it floating in the wind, catching the sunlight. Her smile had stopped halfway, like she wasn’t sure what to make of this conversation but was curious nevertheless.
I’m glad you came, he sent.
“You can talk to me, you know.” It was almost strange to watch her lips move in actual speech, he had been using telepathy so frequently.
“I know.”
Her smiled widened, causing her eyes to narrow slightly. Michael reached over.
“You have a twig in your hair,” he said, going to remove it. Her eyes followed the movement of his hand, and he could sense her wariness. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “Really.”
“Are you afraid of me?”
She said nothing and looked away.
“Why?” he asked.
“I’ve been hurt before.”
“Tell me,” Michael said.
He sent his next words directly into her mind. I would never hurt you.
“You don’t need to hear it.” A blush had risen in her cheeks. “We all have dark times in our past. I know yours because you showed me once. But mine…”
Her voice trailed away. After a pause, she finished the thought. “Mine keeps me from being—open the way boys like Peter want me to be.”
“Is that why he broke up with you?”
She nodded. “I don’t blame him. He’s just a boy, like you.”
“No one is like me.” Michael winced a little, as if he had just admitted something embarrassing. “I like you, Arielle. Too much to ever hurt you. You have to believe that.”
“I do,” she said. “That’s why I want you to know.”
“Know what?”
She reached out and gripped his arm. As their skin met, a flurry of images and sounds flashed into his mind and within seconds arranged itself into a vision.
He closed his eyes and let it take over.
Outside Gulch, on the land sloping up to meet the canyon’s rock walls, someone was whistling an upbeat tune.
It was a man walking up the slope, arms swinging at his sides. He was handsome and strongly built; his well-coordinated movements, the confident steadiness of his shoulders, spoke of military training in his recent past.
A familiar presence, and yet Michael was sure he’d never seen this man before.
Still whistling that joyful tune, the man stopped and looked over his shoulders. Satisfied, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a thing made of metal that bounced back glimmers of light.
A knife?
No—a flask. Resuming his walk, he unscrewed the cap and took an eager swallow.
Charlotte was nearby, in the forest. She rose out of a crouch and watched the man approach. In this memory of that day, she was slender, you could even say skinny, wearing a blue sundress that seemed too conservative for the Charlotte he knew. She seemed so young, maybe seventeen or younger still.
She was seventeen. I was thirteen.
Michael was seeing Charlotte from the point of view of someone much smaller. Long, blonde hair fell around the shoulders of the girl whose mind he had entered into.
Arielle…
“What’s wrong, Charlotte? It’s just Paul.”
Even then, Arielle had been a capable empath, receptive to her sister’s fear. Charlotte never took her eyes off the man. She had stopped moving altogether.
Paul was still whistling as he ducked under a hanging branch, his muscular left arm lifting to push it away, the mat of black hair on his chest visible through his white cotton shirt. He was wearing those army pants with all the pockets that Charlotte complained about because it made respectable men look like raiders. His big leather shoes took clomping steps, crushing leaves and twigs underfoot.
He took another sip from his flask and smacked his lips.
“Hey there, Little Bunny”—watching Arielle—“and my long-legged gazelle”—glancing at Charlotte—“picking flowers in the forest like good girls.”
Arielle dropped the flower she was holding into the basket. Michael caught a glimpse of her delicate wrists and hands flashing white in the sunlight streaming down past the leaves. She brushed hair out of her face, the smell of her own sweat filling her nose.
“Hi, Paul,” Arielle said in a voice high in pitch, weak and uncertain. The voice of a child.
Paul winked at her.
Charlotte watched him with the alertness of a guard dog. “You’re drunk.”
“What, are my brain waves scrambled or something?” He was grinning at her now, tilting back a little like he was laughing deep inside his chest.
He spread his arms wide as if to catch her in a running jump. Charlotte stayed in place, arms crossed. Arielle watched her, confused now.
“Go away,” Charlotte said. “We’re busy.”
“What’s going on?” Arielle said.
Charlotte ignored her. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t. It’s almost lunchtime. We need to get back.”
“No you don’t, sweetheart,” Paul slurred.
“Just go!”
Arielle stiffened, aware of the strain in her bladder. She had to pee. She was going to pee herself if she stayed like this much longer.
The flask slipped from Paul’s hand into the leaves with a sloshing thud.
He made no motion to pick it up. There was a knife in his other hand now. Arielle hadn’t seen him move to get it.
Like a magic trick. Like the magic tricks Dominic’s always showing us. Is this a game?
Paul was studying Arielle.
“You’re going to stay right where you are, Little Bunny. Me and your sister are gonna have us a talk. You scream or try to run away”—he sliced the air in front of him—“and I’ll make her scream. You got me?”
The memory gets blurry as tears flood Arielle’s eyes.
Charlotte is in the bushes now with the man over her. His pants are down to expose half of his hairy backside, the muscles clenching each time his body shifts.
A small voice in Arielle’s mind screams, Help! Help her!
Soon the sky and the forest darken, but it is just the man—just Paul looming over her, his tongue sliding over his lips. Arielle’s turn now. First Charlotte and now her.
Then she sees it, jumping at her from between his legs, an offensive weapon he will use to hurt her. She screams. Paul’s body lands on hers, thick and heavy and hot, a musky smell she will never forget.
She is thirteen years old. Her birthday was last week. Over her thirteen candles, she wished for Paul to like her, because he was just so handsome and strong. She never expected this—this prodding, poking thing seeking to tear her apart inside.
A voice streams through her head.
Go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep…
It’s Charlotte, and her voice is soft, pervasive—consuming. Arielle’s vision dims and darkens. The grunting of Paul’s lust begins to fade.
Before she blacks out, the view changes. Dominic leaps toward her and Paul like a deer springing from the bushes, knife in hand, his face twisted with rage.
He makes the blade disappear into Paul’s neck, and something wet sprays Arielle in the face. It’s the last thing she remembers from that day.
The taste of another person’s blood.
“Jesus,” Michael said, gasping for breath.
He sat hunched over his knees, hands gripping the sides of his face. Arielle kneeled beside him.
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