Unbinding

by Eileen Wilks

  “Mark. Mark Weinerman. 4322 Harrow Drive. I should’ve gone with him. In the ambulance.”

  “They’ll call his folks from the ER. Does he live here?”

  “Yeah, yeah. We all do. Penny.” He sat up straight. “Shit, poor Penny. She and Phil, they’re a thing. I need to find her.” He stood. “I need to find Penny.”

  Out on the white sand, one coil of the glass monster looped around an abandoned volleyball net. Of the ten young people who’d been playing beach volleyball, seven had been taken to the ER. So had twenty more people of varying ages. No deaths, not yet, but at least two were in critical condition.

  Two more had vanished. One of them was named Penny.

  “Come on, Michalski,” Ackleford said impatiently. “The people you need to talk to are up at the lifeguard tower.”

  “I . . . just a minute.” The young man’s colors were dark, but so were those of most people here. But something was wrong with him, something that wasn’t wrong with the others. “I need to see his patterns better,” she said abruptly, and turned.

  “Hold on. Is he possessed or something?”

  “No. It’s not that. He needs me.”

  “Damn it—”

  She didn’t stay to see what else he had to say. Her Gift was pulling too hard.

  The young blond officer was trying to calm Mark down, telling him again that Phil was at the hospital, that the doctors were taking care of him, and he could call his friend Penny in just a minute.

  It wasn’t working. He’d started jittering from foot to foot. “I need to go. Where’s Phil? Where’s Penny? I need to find them.”

  “Mark,” Kai said. She moved in front of him and stopped. “My name is Kai. I’m a mindhealer. I’d like to help you. May I?”

  He looked at her, but not as if he saw her. His eyes were glassy. His colors were dark, dark, but it was the pattern she saw overtaking them that worried her—a turbulent, disruptive pattern. “I should’ve gone in the ambulance.”

  “Miss,” the officer began.

  “I can help him,” Kai said, “if he gives permission. Mark?”

  “All that blood. They took his leg, too. In the ambulance. It wasn’t on him anymore, so they took it with them. I didn’t want to sit next to his leg. I should have gone.”

  “Look,” the cop said, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but—”

  “Mark.” Kai put her hands on either side of his head and sent a tiny pulse of shaped power through them: calm. Not enough to interfere with his thoughts permanently, or make this any less his choice, his decision. Just a brief respite. “I can help you, but only if you say it’s okay.”

  Someone seized her arm. “Hey,” the officer said. “I’m talking to you.”

  Vaguely Kai heard Ackleford’s voice. She tuned it out. The hand on her arm fell away, and at last Mark’s eyes focused on her. Drowning eyes. “Help Phil,” he whispered.

  “Phil has other people helping him now. I want to help you.”

  “I didn’t get hurt. Everyone else did. I ran away.”

  “You’re hurt. Will you let me help?”

  Mutely he nodded.

  She hated to trance in public, especially without Dell or Nathan to watch over her. Half the time she couldn’t do it with strangers around, but that wouldn’t be a problem this time. Not with her Gift pulling so hard. “We need to sit down.” She took his arm, guiding him to sit on the wall again. She sat beside him and took both his hands in hers.

  The smallest intervention possible—that was always the goal. Eharin had told her so over and over, often accompanied by a disparaging glance or a comment about how powerhouses like Kai seldom developed any delicacy. It was too easy for her to hammer in her amendments.

  There’d be no hammering today. Her headache might be gone, but she was still depleted. Kai reminded herself of that as she took a slow breath and slid into healing trance.

  * * *

  NATHAN reached for the next handhold. When he, Benedict, and Dell came this way before, they’d followed a narrow valley that ran between the two impossibly high peaks on either side. That valley was gone now, filled in by a mini-mountain. Much lower than the peaks on either side, it had still presented them with a challenge: Dell couldn’t climb it. Not this part. She’d indicated that she wanted them to take this route, however, and after a bit of discussion they’d agreed. Once they started the climb, she’d led her little harem away to find another route.

  Nathan hoped she knew what she was doing. He was getting increasingly frustrated by the inability to communicate with her. No doubt Dell was frustrated, too—but not enough to change forms. Not so far.

  From what they could tell about the passage of time, they were overdue for a load of salad, or whatever other meal their host might offer. The lupi were feeling it, too. “Maybe he wants to see which of us turns cannibal first,” Benedict said. “His kind of bastard might be amused by that.”

  “Too easy,” Cullen said. He was winded and trying to hide it. “Where’s the drama when the answer’s obvious?”

  The first part of their trek had been easy enough. Even this stretch wasn’t bad . . . for Nathan and Benedict. Benedict had taken the rear position so he could keep an eye on Cullen, help out if necessary. Not that anyone said this out loud. Instead, the two lupi had been alternatively speculating and bickering since they began the climb.

  “My control’s better,” Benedict agreed. “I don’t know about Nathan, though.”

  Cullen snorted. “Not what I meant. You’d be first to chow down.”

  “You’ve got a damn poor idea of my control.”

  “You’d eat me with plenty of control,” Cullen assured him. “But if the god stops feeding us, obviously I’ll die first, given how underfed I already am. Therefore, I’d get eaten first. Not by Dell, who needs blood, not flesh. Not by Nathan, because I’m pretty sure he can’t starve to death.”

  “Is that true?” Benedict demanded. “You can’t starve?”

  “I’m unlikely to die of it.” Especially in a place this rich in magic. He’d lose weight, he’d get very, very hungry, but his healing wouldn’t let him actually starve to death. “Your healing doesn’t keep you alive if you go without food?”

  “I don’t think so,” Benedict said slowly. “Now that I think about it, though, I’ve never heard of a lupus dying of starvation. That’s not to say it’s never happened, but I haven’t heard about it. What about you, Cullen?”

  “Never heard of it happening, no, but that doesn’t mean we can’t starve. We’re very capable predators, though we may eat things we shouldn’t if we get too hungry.”

  “I always figured we’d starve faster than a human would. Healing itself makes us hungry. How could it cure what it makes worse?”

  Nathan spoke curtly. “Healing keeps you from starving, but it doesn’t cure hunger. At least, my healing kept me alive. I don’t know what yours does or doesn’t do.” He reached for the next hold, wanting to climb faster, as if he could escape what he carried with him. Foolishness, but he did not like those memories.

  “You’ve experienced it,” Cullen said quietly from below him. “Not simple hunger. Starvation.”

  “Yes. The rock’s not as stable here as I’d like,” he warned them as he moved the toes of his right foot off an outcropping that felt a bit crumbly. Almost at the top now. “Whatever it’s made of, it acts like sandstone. If you . . . eh.” The smell was faint, but it stood out in air so nearly dead. “I guess we won’t have to find out who eats who just yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I smell chicken. Barbequed chicken.”

  * * *

  AS the world dimmed and faded, Mark’s color’s sharpened into a glowing darkness, a writhing forest of murky grays, browns, and purple. Flickers of his natural green and yellow showed, but they were being overwhelmed by
the tangled pattern of wrongness.

  Kai’s thoughts faded, too. All was instinct, the imperative of her Gift pressing on her. Showing her what to do. She squeezed off a nubbin of power. It hung in the air in front of her, an iridescent soap bubble the size of her thumbnail. Yes. Yes, that should do.

  Now she had to watch, to study the turbulence, waiting for the prompt of her Gift. There. She pushed her thought-bubble forward . . . and it entered Mark’s thoughts, drawn into the churning mass, yet still separate from it. Wait, wait . . . now. She popped the bubble and the iridescence flowed out, coating his thoughts.

  Time to do the real work. That iridescence was hers to order, and she did, using it to slow the turbulence, then to amend it . . . just a nudge, the tiniest of nudges here, and over there, now breathe a momentary calm and see how that settled—yes, a hint of green reappeared. Not hers. His. That’s right, that’s what she wanted, for his thoughts to form their own links, the patterns native to him. The turbulence was less now, especially at the center, and oh yes, there was the weak part, the spot she had to brace. The pattern there, deep at the base of his thoughts, was so thin it was almost gone. That’s what her Gift had dragged her here for.

  Everything she’d done so far was temporary. Most of her work was. Minds usually healed on their own, given time. She helped them heal faster and more completely by encouraging some thought patterns and blunting the effects of others, but her amendments were usually temporary.

  Not this one. What she did next would be permanent. No one but another mindhealer or a dragon would be able to change it. Mark would live with what she did now for the rest of his life, so it had to be right.

  Kai created another thought bubble, this one milky, not transparent. She studied it and the place it would go, the thin place that needed reinforcing. Something still didn’t feel right. She watched his thoughts arise, watched them filter through the weak place deep in his mind . . . oh, there it was. A thread had broken entirely. Such a tiny thing, but without it, he’d never be whole.

  She’d need more power. She fed the bubble carefully, forcing it to stay small. When it gleamed hard and bright like a pearl, she moved it into place. Careful, careful . . . stretch it out and anchor it here and here. Leave the base free to complete this portion of the pattern while wrapping the top part around this delicate arc. Now breathe motion into it. Motion meant resilience, room for growth and decisions and changes . . .

  Yes. Done. With an effort, Kai pulled herself back. All the way back. “There,” she whispered, and withdrew her hands along with her Gift. “Mark. How do you feel?”

  His eyes were wide and startled. Abruptly he burst into tears.

  She sighed in relief.

  “What did you do to him?” the female cop demanded.

  “He’s good. Tears are good. You might get a paramedic over here, though. No, wait.” A girl about Mark’s age had broken free of the officer interviewing her and was hurrying their way. “A friend is even better.” Kai started to stand—and nearly toppled.

  An arm slid around her waist and hauled her upright. “Damn fool,” Ackleford muttered. “You okay?”

  “More or less.” Her headache was back and had shot into ohshit territory, but she was okay. And so was Mark. Hurting, shocked, scared, but okay.

  “People who are okay can stand up all by themselves.”

  “I can do that.” When he withdrew his support, she hardly wobbled at all.

  Kai lingered long enough to see the girl and Mark make a teary connection, complete with hugs and questions. The girl was one of the volleyball players. She needed Mark’s support as much as he needed hers, and that was perfect. They’d help each other.

  Time to see if she could walk. She took a few steps and nothing fell off. “A couple ibuprofen would be welcome,” she admitted. “Speaking of which, where’s Arjenie?”

  “Getting you some water. She figured you’d need it when you, uh, came to.”

  “How long was I tranced?”

  “Twelve minutes,” José said.

  Ackleford snorted. “Twelve freaky as hell minutes. The two of you just sat there. Didn’t move, speak, didn’t do a damn thing but stare at each other. Listen up, Michalski.” He stopped and looked at her with his usual scowl . . . but while his words remained caustic, his voice wasn’t. “I need you to focus on those four goddamn persons of interest we’re sitting on. They know something about this, or so they claim. They sure as hell knew your name. Don’t go haring off fixing people. You can’t fix everyone.”

  “I know that.” She was pretty sure she wasn’t going to throw up, but oh, her head . . . “Almost everyone here is traumatized to some extent. Several of them could use help getting over that trauma, but it doesn’t necessarily have to come from me. Except for Mark. He would have kept getting worse, not better.”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  “My Gift. It doesn’t insist often. When it does, I’m needed.”

  Arjenie came hurrying up, trailing three of the guards—two of them on two legs and one in fur. One of the two-legged lupi held three paper sacks like the one in Arjenie’s hand. She also held two bottles of water. She handed one of them to Kai. “You didn’t eat at Clanhome, and ibuprofen on an empty stomach is not a good idea.”

  True. Kai took the sack and found several fish tacos inside. They smelled wonderful.

  The guard with the other sacks started passing out tacos. Arjenie dug in her tote, retrieved the ibuprofen, and shook two of the capsules onto the palm of her hand. “What was wrong with that young man?”

  “It’s hard to put in words.” Kai took the capsules and washed them down with a healthy slug of water. That felt good, so she drank some more, then stuck the bottle in one pocket of her vest so she could unwrap one of the tacos. “I know what I saw, but what kind of diagnosis would a psychiatrist use? Extreme PTSD? Psychotic break?” She shook her head, winced, and reminded herself not to do that. She took a big bite of the taco. Her taste buds rejoiced.

  Ackleford shook his head. “You don’t know what was wrong with him, but you tried to fix him anyway.”

  “What’s the word for that particular shade of blue in your tie, Special Agent?”

  His scowl looked more confused than anything else. “I have no goddamn idea.”

  She nodded. “And I don’t know the psychiatric term for what I found, but I know what was wrong. There was a weak place in Mark’s patterns, something innate. Maybe something in his brain chemistry.” She’d had to use more power than she’d intended to; that and the location of the fix suggested she’d made a physical change. “Whatever it was, it left him unable to deal with what happened. People say that sort of thing all the time—that we’re falling apart, going nuts, coming unglued. However true that might feel, it usually isn’t, not in a permanent way. But Mark . . . Mark really was coming apart.”

  “And you fixed it.” Arjenie gave a firm nod and accepted a taco from the guard named Casey. “That’s a wonderful Gift you have. Eat now. I’m going to.”

  Casey held out a paper-wrapped taco to the special agent. He scowled.

  “You might as well,” José said. “We are.”

  Ackleford looked disgusted, but he took the taco. “Multitask. Walk while you eat. Michalski. You can tell when people are lying, right?”

  Kai swallowed quickly. “Yes.”

  “These assholes aren’t talking. Can you make them?”

  “It depends on why they aren’t talking. If they’re compelled to silence, I can remove the compulsion. Not quickly,” she warned him, “and with me so low on power, not at all until I recharge. But eventually I can remove it. If they’ve decided on their own not to talk, though, I can’t make them.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both. I’m a mindhealer. Technically, the ability to force someone to talk may be within my skills, but I can’t descri
be how repugnant the idea is. I won’t do it. However, there’s a way to get around someone’s self-imposed silence. People react mentally when you mention something they’re trying to hide. They might be able to control everything else—expression, body language, even blood pressure. Elves with good body magic can do all that and more, but their minds still react.”

  “But you can’t read their minds.”

  “No, but I see the reaction. I may not know what they’re thinking, but I know they reacted. That kind of interrogation is like playing a game of hot and cold—one that can go on a long time,” she admitted, “because people react to lots of things, not just their secrets. But if I keep talking, asking questions, and watching their thoughts, eventually I’ll find the spot they most want to hide.”

  “Huh.” Ackleford stuffed a last bite of taco in his mouth, chewed. “So you can learn something from these people, even if they don’t say a word.”

  “Oh, yes.” She felt a grim sort of optimism. “We wanted to find the god’s followers. Now four of them have delivered themselves to us.”

  “Which means either the god has made a big mistake, or that we are. Guess we’ll find out which.” He looked at the guard with the white sack. “You got any more tacos?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  DYFFAYA was waiting about thirty feet away from the cliff’s edge when Nathan reached the top. He sat in a bright red recliner that was elevated, throne-like, by the large, flat rock it rested upon. He was gnawing on a chicken wing. A trio of green recliners faced his, their backs to Nathan, with a large open space between his chair and the others. Next to each green recliner was a TV tray; each tray held a big bag of Fritos and what looked like a bowl of salsa.

  There were twenty feet between the green recliners and the red one. Dyffaya seemed to like that distance. How damnably sensible of him.

  The god was using a different body again. This one reminded Nathan of Dell’s hiding form. It was hardly inconspicuous, but it mixed several racial types. The skin was dusky, the hair long and black, the features an arresting, androgynous blend—full lips, strong nose, sharp cheekbones. The eyes were dark and large, with a slight epicanthic fold. He wore jeans and a bright red ball cap. Hard to judge height accurately with him in that recliner, but his build was lean and supple, almost elfin.