Last Guard

by Nalini Singh

  “This way,” he said, his voice harsh with need. “So I can see your face.”

  She touched her fingers to his lips, then looked down between them and positioned herself just right. The first touch of her scalding heat on his cock snapped his spine rigid and made his hands clench on her. He fought to loosen his hold, but Payal murmured that it was okay.

  Then his telekinetic lover, movement her gift, undulated her hips as she sank onto him. Canto felt her pleasure in his mind, felt her break even as he broke. They rocked together hard and fast and probably without rhythm.

  But it didn’t matter.

  What mattered was her desperate kiss. What mattered were his arms wrapped around her. What mattered was the pleasure he felt shake her body before the same wild pleasure erupted in him, shattering him to pieces.

  * * *

  • • •

  PAYAL lay cradled in Canto’s arms, her inner shields in shards at her feet, and the screaming madness in her oddly quiescent. As if it, too, had been drugged by the pleasure that had turned her body boneless.

  She thought about moving, did nothing about it. She just kept her head against Canto’s shoulder, one hand on his chest, the scent of salt and sweat and Canto in her every breath, and wallowed in this moment.

  Stirring, he brushed a kiss over her shoulder.

  Payal snuggled into him even more. The way he’d touched her . . . the way he held her . . . She’d never be the same. If he ever decided against her, it would break a fundamental part of her.

  Unable to stop, she reached out to touch their bond.

  It was still there, deep in the Substrate, a gossamer thread as strong as steel. It made her happy to touch it, to know that she wasn’t alone as she’d been for so long. It felt even better with Canto wrapped around her.

  He nuzzled at her hair, strands of it catching on his stubble. “That’s nice,” he murmured, his voice a lazy lion’s. “Like you’re stroking me.”

  Shy, startled, she pulled back her psychic hand . . . but then because he’d sounded like it was a good thing, she touched the bond again. He made a rumbling sound of contentment in his chest before saying, “I’m sweaty as hell.”

  Payal could feel the stickiness between them, the stickiness between her thighs, but she didn’t care. “I don’t want to move.” It’d probably get uncomfortable in a while, but not yet. She wanted to wrap this moment around herself until nothing could take it away, wanted to hoard it deep inside her mind, a secret treasure.

  “Me, either.” He yawned. “God, I feel like I could sleep and sleep. As if you’ve wrung a lifetime of tension out of me.”

  Her own eyes were heavy. “Hmm.”

  She didn’t know which one of them fell asleep first, but when she woke, Canto was flat on his back and she was on top of him. He stirred with her, and when his lashes lifted, she saw galaxies. “I love your eyes,” she whispered. “You carry the universe in them.”

  “They’re weird eyes,” he said with a laugh that made lines fan out from the corners of his eyes, then kissed her with an ease and an affection that made her want more and more. “But they meant you knew me when we met again, so they’re my lucky charm.” Another kiss.

  Smiling wasn’t an act Payal had ever tried, but she didn’t fight it when the warmth within her wanted to reach her face. “Do you have a bath? I’ve never had a bath.” Showers were far more efficient.

  “No,” Canto said. “But let me send you an image.”

  A clear pond surrounded by lush green forest shimmered into her mind. “It looks cold.” She shivered.

  “Dare you.”

  She teleported them both into the water. A shriek was torn out of her at the cold, while Canto said, “Fuck!” Then he dived underneath. When he came back up, he was a sleek seal of a man. Even though he could only use his upper body for floating, he had no trouble, having clearly spent a lot of time in water.

  “How often do you come here?” she asked.

  “Few times a week. It’s not far from the house.” Then he splashed her.

  Crying out at the cold, Payal manipulated the water using her Tk so that it fell on him in gentle waves. He grinned and began to “chase” her around the pond. It was silly and fun and it was a wonderful coda to the most pleasurable experience of her life . . . even though her mind was already going sideways, her thoughts skittering out of her control.

  She barely got them home, her ability to maintain a teleport lock erratic as her concentration fractured. “I can’t think.” Wrapped in a large towel, she walked jaggedly back and forth across the bedroom floor. “Broken things inside my head.” She held the sides of that head. “The screaming part is awake.” A whimper escaped her control. “Mad. Mad. Mad.”

  Canto was already in his chair, having pulled on a pair of sweatpants in the interim. Intercepting her, he gripped her hips and said, “Focus on the calming exercise the empath taught you.”

  “I can’t remember!” It came out a scream, panic jabbering inside her. “I’m mad! I’m mad! I’m mad!” A singsong litany. “Insane murderous Payal who stabs people and isn’t sorry. Mad. Mad. Mad.”

  Hauling her down into his lap, he crushed her in his arms. “Shh. You’re safe. And you’re not mad. You just have to learn to deal with a kind of mental paralysis, as I had to do with my legs.”

  Payal clung to that imagery with feral claws. “You’ve adapted.”

  “Using tools. Remember?” He continued to squeeze her close, as if aware that being contained this way by him, warm and safe, helped her find coherence. “You need the help of the framework your E has started to teach you. Reach for it.”

  Wet heat in her eyes. “I can’t. It’s lost in the chaos.” Pieces of a thousand memories and thoughts floated in her mind.

  “Hold on to our bond.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “Use it, use me, as you made me use you to handle my pain.”

  Payal clung and clung and he didn’t shove her away, didn’t tell her it was uncomfortable or unwanted. Not even when her jittering self pulled at the bond in jagged bursts, desperation making her rough. He just held her to his heartbeat until her breathing evened and she found her footing.

  No longer too confused to think, she did what she should’ve done from the start and began to build the framework Jaya had begun to teach her. It was less solid than her shields, and it allowed her to be herself while corralling the part of her mind that was damaged and broken.

  “You’re not broken,” the E had said in her gentle voice. “You have trauma that’s calcified and exacerbated a chemical imbalance in your brain. We work with one element at a time, step-by-step, to bring you to a place where you feel good. No one else gets to make that call. Just you.”

  Shaky in the aftermath of the build, she whispered, “I lost control.” Shame was a wildfire in her veins.

  “Baby, I threw full-on tantrums when I was initially in the hospital.” He kissed her hair in that way that had already become so familiar, so affectionate that it made her feel precious. “Cut yourself some slack—you’ve held it together for three decades on your own. It’s okay if you lose it now and then. Jaya didn’t promise overnight success, remember? You have to build those muscles as I build my leg muscles.”

  Again, the analogy worked for the way she thought, giving her a physical analogue that offered her something to grip. She’d been falling back on thinking of the new framework as ropes around her mind, handcuffs to keep the madness at bay. She had to consider it a tool, as Canto considered his robotic exercise machinery.

  “I’m not broken.” It was the first time in her life she’d ever verbalized such a thing. “I just function differently than other people.”

  “Got it in one.” Another one of those nuzzles that made her feel so warm and . . . There was another word she couldn’t say, couldn’t think, because it was too big, too huge a promise.


  So she just lay against him and used the tools she’d been given.

  MESSAGE STREAM BETWEEN YAKOV AND PAVEL STEPYREV

  Pasha, the weirdest thing just happened.

  What? A woman looked at your ugly face and didn’t turn to stone in fright?

  I’m going to tell on you to Mama.

  Tattletale. Also, if you tell, I’ll tell her who stole that entire chocolate cake when we were thirteen. What happened anyway?

  I’m just walking through the forest, minding my own business, when this big old tree starts creaking and groaning . . .

  ???? I’m growing old here.

  It fell over. Right in front of me!

  You okay?

  Yeah, yeah, it was making so much noise before it fell that no one could’ve missed it. And even when it began to fall, it was in slow motion. The thing came down with a boom that I swear caused a quake.

  A tree falls in the forest. And thanks to the great explorer Yasha, we know it made a noise.

  You suck. But it fell down for no reason! Like it was pushed over by a giant hand. But that’s not the weirdest part.

  You have my interest, young man. Proceed.

  It AVOIDED all the other trees in its path, and managed to lie down right in this fine gap. Like the giant finger couldn’t stop from pushing it over, but they controlled it.

  Huh.

  Yeah.

  Log it.

  You think?

  Yeah, just in case. I mean, I don’t think rogue telekinetics are out there pushing over our trees, but you never know.

  PSYNET BEACON: INTERVIEW WITH PAYAL RAO

  COCO RAMIREZ

  No one expected Payal Rao.

  That statement is no hyperbole. We’re all used to hearing of Ms. Rao’s business dealings, but even those mentions are never anything but restrained references in financial newspapers. She has a reputation for keeping her head down and getting on with the work of running a major family empire.

  Certainly, none of the political pundits predicted this move, and yet to have a hub-anchor as part of the Ruling Coalition makes sense in every possible way, especially given the PsyNet’s current instability.

  Today, I sit down with Payal Rao and attempt to uncover the anchor behind the enigma.

  Beacon: Were you surprised when the Ruling Coalition approached you?

  Rao: They didn’t. I approached them as the chosen representative of Designation A. There is every reason to have an anchor at the highest level of power, and no reason to keep us out.

  Beacon: Do I have this right? You demanded a seat at the table?

  Rao: Yes.

  Beacon: Not many would dare such against the most powerful people in the PsyNet.

  Rao: Do you know what happens to the PsyNet if the anchors go on strike? The PsyNet disappears and we all die. The end.

  Beacon: Are you saying Designation A is the most important designation of them all?

  Rao: Anchors would be drowning in a sea of insanity without the empaths, would’ve fallen to Pure Psy and others with warlike ambitions without the strength of the telekinetics and telepaths and more who protected us. Foreseers have saved us from countless disasters, while psychometrics and Justice-Psy and many others solve problem after problem.

  We are the foundation. The foundation holds, but it can’t actively do battle.

  To state the skillset of one designation does not negate those of every other—the hierarchy is a continuous flux based on need, and right now, A is the critical designation.

  Beacon: You don’t pull your punches.

  Rao: I know my own value—and I know the value of the designation I represent. We were once content to be the silent party to the health of the PsyNet. But since the powers that be made such a mess of that over the past century, a passive presence is no longer a viable option.

  Beacon: Do you blame the current Ruling Coalition, too?

  Rao: Your comprehension skills need work. I made it clear that my problem is with past leaders. That includes past anchors. Our ancestors in the designation are not blameless.

  Beacon: What will your new responsibilities mean for your duties as the Rao CEO?

  Rao: Why don’t you ask Kaleb Krychek what his responsibilities mean for his status as the head of Krychek Industries?

  Beacon: A good point, but the question had to be asked.

  Rao: No, it didn’t—it was nonsensical and I have little time to waste.

  Beacon: Then let us ask a very important question—as an A, what do you see in our future? Can the PsyNet be saved? Or are we fighting a losing battle, death a whisper on the horizon?

  Rao: I’m no foreseer. All I can tell you is that I have the cooperation of every single A in the world, and we intend to work with the empaths and with every other power in the Net to repair the psychic fabric on which we all depend for life. If we fail, you’ll die. If we succeed, you’ll forget about anchors all over again—except this time, forgetting us will no longer be an option.

  Chapter 39

  We are Designation J.

  Justice.

  But where is our justice?

  Where is our peace?

  I’m so tired of the horror that lives inside me now.

  —Note left by Arnaud Smith, J-Psy (missing, presumed dead)

  CANTO BURST OUT laughing as he read the Beacon interview. “God, you’re magnificent.” He kissed the woman who was sitting on the sofa next to him, her back leaning up against his side.

  She had an organizer on her lap and was doing complex financial transactions as part of her job as the Rao CEO.

  “That comeback about asking Krychek was perfection.”

  “Interviewer was an idiot. Does she ask Nikita the same question? Does she ask Aden Kai if he can still run the Arrows?” She continued on with her transactions. “Entire thing was a waste of time.”

  “No.” Shifting his arm around so he could put his organizer in front of her face, he showed her the trending subjects in the PsyNet—once collated by the NetMind and available to any Psy who wanted to look, they were now collected by psychic bots seeded by the media. Those bots had nowhere near the NetMind’s scope, but it was better than nothing.

  “I’m at the top of the list.” She did not sound impressed. “At least Designation A is number two.”

  “Visibility helps us.” Canto pulled back his organizer when he saw an incoming message. “Sophia Russo is happy to meet with us.” It had taken this long to organize a meeting because Sophia had been involved in an emergency situation to do with a former Justice colleague.

  “I know what you’re asking is important,” she’d said, “but the PsyNet won’t fall in two days. My colleague may.” The rich blue-violet of her eyes had been potent with emotion, the thin tracery of scars on her face—whitish against skin of a cream hue—speaking to a violent past that had come up in none of the research Canto had done about her.

  He hadn’t known too much about J-Psy at that point, but he’d dug deep in the time since. Both he and Payal had been stunned by the level of attrition in the designation. So many dead and damaged, so much pain. There had to be a better way.

  * * *

  • • •

  SOPHIA didn’t know what she was expecting from the mysterious Canto Mercant and Payal Rao. After reading the Beacon interview with Payal, she’d braced herself for an abrasive personality who took no bullshit, but that wasn’t quite what she got when they teleported into a small outdoor garden at Duncan HQ.

  Payal was wearing flowing pants in dark gray, matched with a pale green top with sleeves cuffed at the wrist. Her hair was up in a ponytail, but that ponytail was loose, not tight. There was nothing sleek about her. She was . . . softer than she’d come across in that interview, at least on the outside.

  A
s for Canto Mercant, she was surprised by the chair, but only because she knew her race’s desire for perfection had meant terrible, criminal acts in the past. It was rare to see a Psy adult who used assistive devices; those who’d survived childhood but ended up injured later tended to either disappear or be hidden away.

  Yet so-called perfect Psy were often the worst monsters of them all—she carried the marks of that cold truth on her face, and in her memories of three innocent children who’d never gotten the chance to live. Sophia would never forget them—and she’d made sure the world wouldn’t forget them, either.

  Carrie O’Brien.

  Lin Wong.

  Bilar Baramichai.

  All three names were now listed as “lost on duty” in the official J-rolls. A small thing, but it mattered. Their names mattered. Their lives had mattered.

  As did the lives of Designation A.

  Canto Mercant’s hair was silky black like her husband Max’s, and he had eyes with just a hint of an upward tilt. Those eyes were the most unusual cardinal eyes she’d ever seen. Her overall impression was of a handsome man, but one with a dangerous edge to him.

  “Hello.” Meeting them halfway, she kept her hands loosely linked in front of her. “We can sit over there.” She nodded to an outdoor seating arrangement put in place when Nikita began to make deals with non-Psy.

  She saw both Payal and Canto glance at the fine black leather of her gloves. When neither asked a question about them, she figured they’d dug around and knew she was a Sensitive after her years of work as a J. Skin-to-skin contact led to a telepathic connection she couldn’t control and didn’t want.

  To be buried in another person’s thoughts and memories, fears and horrors, it was akin to being buried alive, having the life suffocated out of her. In the worst-case scenario, the overload could crush the brain, collapse the psychic pathways, and kill.

  Her friend and fellow J, Cèlian, had turned Sensitive six months earlier. Touch could kill him—yet he was starved of it, too. The divergent needs had been tearing him apart, pushing him closer and closer to choosing self-termination. Sophia had lost too many friends to that terrible final choice, and she refused, refused to let anyone else fall. She’d managed to haul Cèlian back thanks to Max and his huge heart: her husband had natural shields that nothing could crack.