by Kay Hooper
“Duran?”
“Far as we can tell, he heads up their field operations. He’s smart, he’s ruthless, and he commands a great deal of power. We don’t know who he reports to.”
“But you’re sure he isn’t the one calling the shots.”
“In the field, I believe he is. Doing whatever he needs to do in order to further their goals. But we—I—have always believed it is bigger than that, more complex. Many more players involved, and higher up the food chain than he is.”
“And it’s all about psychics.”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know why? Why the other side wants them?”
“We know they want to use them in some way, that they have a definite plan in mind. Just not sure how they want to use them. Other than to find more psychics, I mean.”
“Just psychics?”
“We don’t know. Maybe there’s a larger plan involving others. But we do know that for years, decades, their energies have been concentrated on finding and taking psychics. That’s what they do, and what we stop them from doing whenever possible.”
“Which brings me back to my earlier question,” Tasha said. “If I don’t decide to go it alone, if I accept protection from your side of this . . . war . . . is it for life? Will my life ever be normal again?”
“No,” Brodie replied bluntly. “No matter which choices you make, once they found out about you, once they noticed you, your life changed forever.”
—
Astrid opened her eyes and shook her head. “Sorry. She’s got good shields, and they’re up. Typical for born psychics, you know, especially when they’ve been approached by a stranger and told an insane conspiracy theory.”
“I know,” Duran said, without turning from the window. His gaze was focused on the corner of a coffee shop he could—just—see in the distance. “Keep trying. She’ll let those shields down any minute.”
“I thought she was cautious,” Astrid said.
“That’s why she’ll let the shields down.”
Astrid eyed him, too accustomed to his habits to take offense at having to address his back. “You sure?”
“Positive. Try again, Astrid. And keep trying.”
“Until what? Until I have a migraine or a nosebleed?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“You’re a bastard, Duran, you know that, right?” Her voice was on the edge of mocking.
“Of course. Keep trying.”
“Yes, sir.” Astrid relaxed in her chair, closed her eyes, and concentrated.
—
“So far,” Tasha said slowly, “you’ve talked about a mysterious conspiracy to abduct psychics and possibly use them in some way, but you can’t tell me who they are or what they want with the psychics. You can’t tell me who’s in charge. You can’t tell me the endgame. You can’t even tell me much about this organization you’re supposed to be part of, a group fighting the supposed bad guys.”
“It does sound unlikely,” Brodie admitted.
“It sounds insane. No offense.”
“None taken. What can I do to convince you?”
Caught a bit off guard, she replied, “I . . . have no idea.”
“You’re a telepath,” he said. “So read my thoughts.”
“I thought you said most psychics couldn’t read you.”
“Unless I let them. I’m letting you. Once I let my guard down, most telepaths can read me.”
Tasha frowned, then shook her head. “Just because you honestly believe something doesn’t make it true.”
“Look deeper,” he invited calmly. “Look as deep as you need to.”
“It’s not fun, dropping my walls all the way,” she told him. “There aren’t a lot of people around, but there are some. And I’d have to sift through all their thoughts in order to find yours.”
His brows rose slightly. “You can read everyone around us?”
“Probably. Why does that surprise you?” She was still frowning at him.
He didn’t answer right away, and when he did, it was slowly. “It’s . . . unusual. Most telepaths have limits. The thoughts of each individual, the electromagnetic energy in the brain, produces a unique . . . signature. Think about radio frequencies; not every receiver can pick up every frequency. To my knowledge, it’s the same with telepaths. You have a finite range of frequencies you’re sensitive to, therefore you can only read people whose unique electromagnetic energy signatures fall into your range.”
“I guess I’ve been meeting all those people, then.”
“Your whole life?”
A little impatient, Tasha said, “I tend to go to a lot of trouble to avoid trying to read people, especially in crowds. All I can tell you is that I’ve never not been able to read someone when I tried. Sometimes the thoughts are only surface, bits and pieces, phrases, and sometimes it’s hard to understand them because they’re jumbled or confused. But I’ve always been able to pick up something.”
If anything, Brodie just looked grim. “I see.”
She stared at him. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No. It’s just that you may have just answered a question I’ve had since we stumbled on Duran’s goons watching you.”
Distracted, she said, “That’s how you found me? By finding them?”
“That’s how. Not so unusual. He has better resources, or at least knows how to best use them. You weren’t exactly hiding, but you weren’t using your abilities in any way as to attract attention.”
“So how did they find me?”
“I have no idea,” Brodie confessed. “But the strength of your abilities may have something to do with it.”
“You aren’t filling me with a lot of confidence here, Guardian,” Tasha told him.
“Just because I don’t have all the answers doesn’t mean I don’t know how to keep you safe. Now, are you going to read me, or not? Because this won’t work unless you at least believe I’m trying to help you.”
Tasha hesitated for another moment but finally closed her eyes and very carefully lowered her walls. But as careful as she was, she was immediately slammed by the thoughts of those all around her, thoughts and fragments of thoughts she had to pick her way around and through.
They so need a new cook in this place, this muffin sucks.
. . . really don’t know why I should listen to his mother . . .
. . . and if I’m really convincing, he’s probably good for another thousand at least . . .
. . . thinks she can take my kids . . .
. . . should have spoken up at the meeting, dammit, they’ll never notice me at this rate . . .
I can trade my car in for something cheaper, and that’ll help.
. . . poor little thing . . .
Christ, you’ve never heard of tipping the waitstaff?
. . . how anyone could be so cruel to something so helpless . . .
Why do they keep sending me so damned many catalogs?
. . . why he thinks I have to go to church . . . sitting in church doesn’t make me a Christian any more than sitting in a garage makes me a car, and it doesn’t make him one either.
First thing tomorrow I’ll just ask for the raise, they can only say no, right?
. . . something back on my taxes this year, so . . .
I really should just kill the bitch.
—
“Wow,” Astrid said softly, her eyes still closed.
Duran remained at the window, but his head turned toward her.
“Now I know why you want her so badly.”
“Are you in?” he asked.
“Almost. Give me a sec.”
—
. . . shouldn’t blame me . . .
. . . and one more bet won’t break the bank . . .
. . . j
udge’ll give me custody, I’m sure . . .
Tasha?
She went very still and focused on that voice, not at all surprised that it “sounded” to her like his speaking voice, because that was usual, she had discovered. She methodically closed out the other voices, the other thoughts, until only that quiet question sat in her mind.
Tasha?
“Yes.” She spoke aloud because it was less confusing to her.
So you can read me?
“Yes.”
Okay. Look deeper.
Tasha hesitated, because she had looked beneath the level of surface thoughts only a few times in her life, and it had never been a pleasant experience.
Look deeper. You have to know. Have to understand. You have to trust me.
She drew a breath and braced herself, making what she knew would be a futile attempt to protect herself from what he had felt.
Everything he had felt.
That was something she hadn’t told him. That it wasn’t just thoughts she picked up from others.
It was emotions too.
There were jagged pictures, like pieces cut from a movie, a scene here, an action there. Calm moments. Desperate moments. Flashing past her, faster and faster, years of moments. Some in color, some in black and white. And with them came the pain and the loss, the anger and frustration, the brief triumphs and more lasting grief.
There was violence in his past, and danger, and a black rage and sorrow so deep and overwhelming she knew he had not yet dealt with it consciously.
So deep . . .
She was too deep.
It was dangerous to be so—
Tasha.
Something tugged at her.
Something pulled her even deeper, deeper than emotion and into a raw, primal place that was dark and terrifying.
You aren’t Brodie. What’re you doing in his mind?
At the extreme edge of her awareness, she thought Brodie became aware that something was wrong, became alarmed, but then she was pulled deeper still, and she no longer heard or felt him at all.
How are you doing this? It’s his mind, I’m still there—
Are you? Are you really, Tasha?
She opened her eyes with a start. And she was no longer sitting in a chair outside the coffee shop. Instead, she found herself in what looked like a maze, with hedges towering much taller than she was, their branches reaching inward above her head, blocking out the light.
If there was light.
She stood at a junction, with mossy paths leading ahead of her, to the right of her, and to the left. And even from where she stood, she could see other junctions, paths leading off in many directions. Dim green tunnels that led to places she instinctively knew were very, very bad.
Oh, how do you know until you try, Tasha? Don’t you want to explore what’s possible? I know you’re curious.
I want out of here.
Then find your way. Mocking. Careless.
Cruel.
She was being tugged toward the left and wanted to resist the guidance, but something told her that fighting this—whatever this was—would make it far harder on her.
Smart girl.
Who the hell are you?
Don’t you mean what am I?
You’re another telepath, you think I don’t know that?
If you know that, then you must know who I am.
Tasha turned to the left and began walking, feeling colder with every step, aware that there was less and less light. And when she concentrated, probed, when she tried to find identity in that strange voice, all she found were . . .
Shadows. Shadows all around you. I can’t see you. But you’re there, aren’t you? Hidden by the shadows. Protected by them.
Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Hidden, yes.
But not protected?
Hidden because it suits them. Can’t you feel them, Tasha? Don’t you know what they are?
No. No, just . . . shadows. Sliding away whenever I try to get closer to them.
Just as well, I suppose.
Why? Why is it just as well?
Because they’re killing you, Tasha. Right now, this very minute, they’re killing you.
SEVEN
Without opening her eyes, Astrid asked, “How far . . . do you want me to take this?”
“As far as she’ll let you.”
“She’s strong.”
“Be stronger.”
—
Tasha ignored the growing chill and kept walking.
Nobody’s killing me. I’m inside a mind.
You’re open. Vulnerable. You dropped your shields and let us in. Don’t you know about pathways, Tasha? You touch another mind, and the contact forms a path between you. Like the one you’re walking now.
I’m in a maze. A huge maze.
Well, you’ve touched a lot of minds in your life. Apparently. Every mind you touched formed a pathway. For some reason, this deeply a psychic’s mind almost always visualizes that as a maze.
Tasha reached a crosspath and turned right this time.
You’re moving away from the center.
I know. I want the exit. I don’t need to see what’s at the center.
Don’t you?
No.
Even if that’s where I want you to be?
Especially if that’s where you want me to be.
So distrustful.
You told me I was being killed. I’m supposed to trust you?
Look at your hands, Tasha. At your wrists.
She looked. And saw slashes across both wrists, with bright red blood flowing from the wounds. But there was no pain at all.
It’s not real. I’m in Brodie’s mind.
You’re getting weaker. Can’t you feel it?
No.
What she felt, what she saw, was green tendrils reaching out from the hedges on either side of her, wrapping her wrists and then slipping free of the bushes. They were warm in this cold place.
They gave her strength somehow. She could feel it.
Every step is harder than the one before. Your feet seem to weigh twenty pounds each. Thirty. Fifty.
Her feet did feel heavier, but the bands on her wrists had stopped the flow of blood, stopped her, somehow, from being so easily controlled by that other presence. Tasha wondered, but only briefly.
She was pretty sure she knew what the tendrils were. What they represented.
It was a surprise—and yet it wasn’t. It felt right. It made sense.
Though she didn’t know if Brodie was going to agree.
Feeling stronger, Tasha followed the path, refusing to stop.
I want out of here. I’ll get out of here.
Will you?
Brodie doesn’t know, does he? she asked that inner voice suddenly. And in response she was certain of surprise, of hesitation.
I don’t know what you mean.
Of course you do. Or maybe only Duran knows. Maybe you should ask him what I mean.
It was getting even easier to walk, step by step, and Tasha realized the voice in her mind, its force and control, could be . . . distracted. Maybe even blocked, its hold on her weakened. Perhaps even broken. She had a feeling Duran didn’t know that.
She wondered if he’d be told.
What are you trying to do, Tasha? Do you think I’d let someone like you, someone who doesn’t even know how to use her abilities, try to control what’s happening here?
I think you don’t want me to dwell on what I’ve just realized.
And what is that, pray tell?
This struggle, this war, it isn’t only a thing of the physical world, a visible thing. It isn’t even that. This is where the real battles are taking place, isn’t it?
Tasha slipped around another corner
, certain now of where she was heading, of how to get out of the maze.
Out of Brodie’s mind.
I don’t know what you mean.
Sure you do. We have all the power here. Psychics. But we tend to be loners, and that makes us vulnerable. To people like Duran, people who would use us. Duran has harnessed your power to do his bidding. He wants mine too. He’s testing me, isn’t he?
Definite surprise that time.
I don’t—
Oh, don’t waste my time as well as yours denying it. He sent you to test me. He wants to know how strong I am. And . . . he isn’t psychic, is he? He isn’t . . . And, somehow, that’s what all this is about.
Tasha looked at her wrists again, at the warm leafy tendrils wrapping them. No blood, no slashes. Her step was lighter, faster, with nothing weighing her down or holding her back. She turned another corner, and could see a break in the hedge not far ahead of her.
The exit.
Tasha—
Are you going to tell him how powerful I really am?
Why wouldn’t I?
Because you’re still psychic. Still one of us.
No. I’m not. Not anymore. Not for a long time now.
Did you go willingly . . . Astrid? Did you join them of your own free will?
Of my own free will. More or less. Grim now.
Did you sell your soul to them, Astrid?
You’re out of your depth, Tasha. You may think you can win this, but you can’t. None of you can. None of us. There’s less . . . damage done if you just give in.
You keep telling yourself that, Astrid. Maybe one day you’ll actually believe it.
Abruptly, the air changed, cold washing over Tasha again, and she realized that Astrid wasn’t distracted anymore, that she was reaching out with ferocity. With anger.
No. Wait. You—
Tasha felt a sudden tug, so powerful it nearly stopped her in her tracks, but then the tendrils around her wrists shot out, one end still holding her and the other finding the exit.
And pulling her toward it.
Tasha—
See you next time, Astrid.