Shards of Hope (9781101605219)

by Singh, Nalini

  In contrast, Naoshi’s and Marjorie’s vision of the squad would’ve produced interchangeable carbon copies. And while they might not have done as Ming had and executed “malfunctioning” or “worn-out” Arrows, she didn’t think they would’ve given those Arrows any real quality of life, either.

  “Alejandro won’t make it if we’re trapped here more than another day.” His compulsions would tear him apart from the inside out. “I have to find a way to let him know I’m alive.”

  “Ivy knows about him,” Aden reminded her. “She’ll help keep him calm, and if that’s not possible, Vasic knows to sedate him.” He spread his fingers so she could weave her own into them, strengthening their private two-person network. “That’s why else you’re perfect,” he said, returning to the argument he had no doubt decided he would win. “You have the capacity to stand against the old Arrows who many obey without question.”

  A valid point, but it didn’t alter her decision. “You’ve seen me snap, seen the carnage I can cause.” Broken bones, broken faces, broken bodies, she’d created it all with little more than her hands and the power of her mind. “Your partner can’t display such irrational rage, and if I break discipline to embrace a ‘normal’ existence, I can’t guarantee I won’t have an episode.”

  And she couldn’t guarantee the violence wouldn’t one day turn on him. It could be his face she smashed in, his bones she crushed, his incredible mind she turned to mush. “The risk,” she murmured as his eyes turned jet-black in repudiation, “is too high.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Stalemate.

  PSYNET BEACON: BREAKING NEWS

  Aden Kai, rumored leader of the Arrow Squad, has disappeared. Sources say he was abducted over forty-eight hours ago and is presumed dead. The squad could not be reached for contact at time of press. Further updates to come.

  PSYNET BEACON: LIVE NETSTREAM

  Who is your source? Until you name him or her, this is nothing but scaremongering.

  K. Benedict

  (Tunis)

  Who would dare abduct an Arrow? The individual or individuals involved must have a death wish.

  Z. Ek

  (Vancouver)

  If even the Arrows aren’t safe now that Silence has fallen, how can we expect to survive?

  Concerned Citizen

  (Bogotá)

  —

  Deep in a quiet room in a reinforced building deep underground, senior Arrow Blake Stratton considered the PsyNet Beacon report. News of Aden’s disappearance had spread through the squad, but Blake hadn’t seriously considered that anyone could kill Aden. If this report was true, however, his path was now clear of obstructions. Aden was the only one who might have stopped him, the only one who might have put all the pieces together.

  Without Aden, no one aside from his mysterious “friend” would ever know.

  Aden alone had seen Blake as a child. Aden alone understood the jagged crag on which he stood. On one side lay the screaming abyss of insanity and violence that made his mouth water and his blood thunder. On the other side a civilized existence where his instincts and desires were kept under strict control . . . and fed just enough blood to keep him from giving in to the furtive hunger that beat beneath his skin.

  Ming had fed him that blood. Ming had known that his soul was parched without it, needed the sustenance. Not that Blake had ever felt any loyalty toward the ex-leader of the squad. The other man had simply been useful. Ming had sent him on assassinations his fellow Arrows wouldn’t carry out, assassinations against people who had simply gotten in Ming’s way.

  Blake could still feel the slender neck of the twenty-three-year-old technician who’d been his last kill. He’d taken his time with her. Ming didn’t know; he thought Blake had completed the task that first night. But why should he rush things? No, he’d kept her alive for a month. Watching her bleed and beg and die had given him something he thought might be labeled as pleasure though it didn’t register as emotion on the dissonance triggers in his mind.

  There had been no punishing starburst of pain, no warning stab inside his head.

  Aden had removed dissonance triggers from the minds of many in the squad, but not all. Either he suspected their mental state and/or their impulse control, or the task was too complex in certain situations. It didn’t matter, not to Blake. He’d worked out that he was a psychopath. He had no empathy for others.

  The term “narcissist” was also used to describe those like him.

  It struck him as a great irony that the most Silent among his kind had apparently always been the narcissistic psychopaths. Maybe it was amusement he felt at the thought, but that, too, didn’t register on the dissonance triggers. If he did possess emotions, they were buried so far beneath his psychopathy that they were like stones trapped beneath the surface of a frozen lake.

  He wasn’t sorry about that, didn’t care.

  He didn’t care about anything except his own needs.

  Sliding out a knife from his boot, he looked at the gleaming blade. It had been months and months since Aden had deposed Ming. No one had fed him since, and he’d known better than to ask Aden. He’d also known better than to exercise his need. It was a secret thing. Not a thing that could be exposed to the light.

  He thought again of the message that had come directly to him, the message that invited him to feed and told him he was safe from discovery. The source had even given him the details of a target who fit his tastes.

  Was it Ming? He was almost certain it must be—the former leader of the squad was clearly attempting to undermine Aden by nudging one of his senior Arrows to unsanctioned murder. If so, he’d chosen the wrong target: Blake might be a psychopath but he was a smart one.

  Politics didn’t interest him. All he wanted was to feed.

  “You should’ve used me, Aden,” he said aloud. “You should’ve believed in the monster you glimpsed as a child.” Instead, the squad’s leader saw Blake as a soldier he could trust, a soldier who had risen above his past.

  Aden didn’t understand—or didn’t accept—that some wounds could never be repaired. Blake knew he’d been born this way, but the fact that he’d been abandoned by his family unit only to be tortured by the squad’s trainers had polished his psychopathic tendencies to a gleaming shine. Without that history, he might’ve simply become a narcissistic CEO or a coldly venomous politician, but that ship had sailed long ago.

  He was who he was.

  The light glinted on the surface of the blade.

  Chapter 16

  ZAIRA WOKE TO find her back pressed up against Aden’s chest, her head pillowed on his arm. She froze, the position one that should’ve never happened. The fact that she’d been asleep shouldn’t have mattered; her training should’ve held, had always before held when she’d had to rest in close quarters with another member of the squad.

  But when she went to pull away, she felt a stubborn hesitation within herself. If she stopped touching him, she’d be alone again. As she’d been in that cold, barren room so long ago. Aden was warm, was alive, was a living being she could trust. And her head, it remained a dark, empty place filled only with her own thoughts and her own madness.

  Her stomach tensed, a dull throb of pain reminding her of her recently mended injury.

  In a psychic network bursting with data feeds and broken fragments of other people’s conversations, she could forget the twisted thing inside her, forget the stunted creature that had been deprived of light and kept in isolation for the first seven years of its life, until it was permanently deformed, its thoughts disturbing.

  That rage creature had taken over her body the day she’d beaten her parents to death, taken over her mind, too. She’d come to covered in blood and screaming like a being created of horror as others in the extended family unit attempted to pull her out of the room she’d turned into an abat
toir. Seven years old and the creature had given her such strength that it had taken two adults to rip the bloodied pipe from her hands, force enough to rip off the skin on her palms.

  And the screams . . . that had been the creature’s laughter.

  It was quiet now, but it was very much awake and aware and with her. It always was. She could simply ignore it better in the tumult of noise created by other minds. The instant she left this bed, she wouldn’t have Aden’s presence to assuage the rage, turn it quiescent. In the quiet, in the aloneness, it would whisper to her.

  But she couldn’t stay in this bed forever. And she couldn’t depend on Aden’s proximity to control it—because with each instant that passed, the possessiveness inside her grew and grew. If she wasn’t careful, she might one day wake to find that she’d murdered him as she’d murdered that butterfly, permanently stopping his heart with its capacity to care that astonished her.

  Lurching from the bed on that thought, she used all her strength to shove away the insane part of her psyche and slammed the door shut on it. The psychic lock wouldn’t last. The stunted, enraged creature would emerge again, sly and slippery and vicious. It always did, always would—because it was an indelible part of Zaira, its black tendrils entwined around the core of her soul, a malignant tumor no operation could remove.

  Her eye fell on the clock by the bed. Six thirty a.m.

  Morning, and the rain continued to lash the window, the tree leaves in her line of sight twisted back in the wind that pummeled the aerie.

  More time alone with Aden.

  It was a secretive thought born in the possessiveness that might one day end him.

  Her heart pulsing with the same wild beat as the storm, she stripped and showered under an ice-cold spray to remind her body and her mind of the discipline necessary to ensure she stayed sane. Any fracture could turn her once again into that girl who’d smashed her parents’ brains to pulp with her telepathic abilities, then beat their weakened bodies to death with a piece of pipe she’d found on one of her excursions outside; the creature had hidden it inside her hole in a rare moment when no one was watching.

  It was the latter that had led PsyMed to label her a deadly risk.

  A child striking out in a moment of physical danger is understandable. However, a child who shows this level of premeditation at such a young age is a candidate for rehabilitation.

  Zaira didn’t often think about the time she’d spent strapped down in the PsyMed center as they dug around in her brain. When she did, she wanted to ask the psychiatrists and medics what exactly they thought a seven-year-old girl should’ve done against much larger and older opponents.

  She’d known her parents were going to beat her. That was a given. She’d known they were going to try to break her so they could enslave her abilities. That, too, was a given. She’d also known that if she struck out in an attempt to protect herself, they’d just hurt her more. They’d trapped her in their shields so her screams didn’t hit the outside world, and her small hands and body couldn’t do any real damage.

  She knew because she’d tried. So many times.

  The only rational, reasonable thing to do had been to plan it. She had to make her parents incapable of keeping her in their shields, incapable of ever again hurting her. That was why she’d discarded all possible weapons she’d come across—planks of wood, a brick, even a small sheet of metal—until she’d found a piece of pipe she could swing, but that had enough heft to it to stun at least. That was why she’d put her chair by the door; so she’d have the height to swing from behind as soon as a parent entered.

  It was also why she’d cunningly built shields beneath her public mind. Her parents thought they saw everything she thought and felt, but they had no idea about the angry and twisted part of her that had lots of secrets. Including the capacity to plan and carry out a murder.

  The only problem, of course, had been the fact that she had two targets, both with powerful shields even a Gradient 9.8 telepathic child couldn’t simultaneously destroy. So she’d had to wait for a day when she was certain they’d arrive one after the other, giving her just enough time to debilitate one and get the other before the second person realized what was happening.

  In the interim, she’d taken beating after beating, her body bruised black-and-blue. And each morning, she’d pressed her ear to the door and listened, until the day she heard her mother become delayed by a conversation with an older child, while her father continued on to Zaira’s cage.

  That murderous patience had saved her life and turned her into a menace in the eyes of PsyMed. If not for the squad stepping in to claim her for their own, she’d be a drooling vegetable by now, suitable only for menial tasks.

  The child shows tendencies toward criminal psychopathy.

  Switching off the shower as the words from the PsyMed report continued to scroll in her mind, that report having become available to her once she was no longer a minor, she shook her head. “I am not a psychopath.” Insane in a way that meant she could never lower her guard, but not an individual devoid of conscience or empathy. “I am not a psychopath.”

  She didn’t realize how loudly she’d spoken until Aden’s voice came through the door. “No, you’re not.”

  Another breach in her discipline, those words spilling from her lips. “I need fresh clothes.” That, too, was a mistake. She’d been so off center that she’d forgotten to prepare. “I can wear the pants again.” A few wrinkles were nothing when the fabric was strong and warm.

  “I’m leaving a change by the door. Finn came by a few minutes ago with a T-shirt that should be a closer fit—he borrowed it from a pack member who’s willing to share more if the size suits.”

  Picking them up, she got into clean panties and the same bandeau as the night before, then pulled on the cargo pants. Over that, she tugged on the white T-shirt Aden had left. It fit much, much better than the T-shirt in which she’d slept, but only once it was on did she realize it had a sparkly pink pony on the front. She stepped out of the bathroom. “Are they trying to subtly insult me?”

  Aden followed her pointing fingers to the pony that pranced over her breasts, a flicker in his eyes she couldn’t quite read. “It appears the only person in RainFire with a build close to yours likes color and sparkle,” he said. “The secondary option is for you to wear the larger clothes, but I thought you’d prefer a pony over having your movements hampered.”

  “I’m not so sure. It’s very pink.” Going to the cubby that held the other clothes, she found that the uniform top and pants she’d worn the night of her abduction had been meticulously repaired, laundered, and returned. Finn, she realized, must’ve dropped these off with the T-shirt. The scars of the repaired tears in Aden’s leather jacket made it appear as if someone—the healer?—had literally torn through the tough material with his claws. A note sticking out of the pocket said whoever had done the repair had wiped off all traces of blood, but hadn’t otherwise cleaned it, worried about causing damage.

  “That solves it.” Grabbing the uniform items, she headed toward the bathroom . . . and hesitated. “Are we attempting to blend in?”

  “We can’t blend in, but we should do our best not to appear so other that they close their minds against us.”

  Zaira looked down at the pink pony again. “For the good of the squad.” At least she could throw the leather jacket on over it. Because she wasn’t going to give that back to Aden. It was hers now. He’d given it to her. If he wanted it back . . . well, he couldn’t have it.

  Some things of his, she might give back to him if he really wanted them, but not the jacket. It smelled of him and when she wore it, she didn’t feel alone. “I’m keeping this,” she said to him in case he believed any different.

  His lashes, thick and long and curling, came down over his eyes, rose back up again. “You’ll have to shorten the arms.”

  “I’ll just fol
d them.” She began to do exactly that. “If I cut them, you won’t be able to wear it.”

  “I thought you were keeping it.”

  “I’m going to lend it to you sometimes.” Then it would smell like him again. “But it’s mine.”

  A slight incline of his head before he walked into the bathroom to refresh himself after their long and deep sleep. The changelings clearly had no problem finding clothing that fit him. When he came out after a quick shower, he was wearing the same pair of faded blue jeans as the previous night, but his T-shirt was plain gray, his feet bare, and his hair slightly damp in front and tumbled.

  It was the most casual she had ever seen him.

  “You look normal,” she said as she finished putting on her boots. “Not like an Arrow.”

  His eyes met hers, and there it was: the thing that made him an Arrow, the same thing that made her want to own him, keep him.

  “Good.” Sitting down to pull on his own boots, he said, “We should go to breakfast—but first, why did you feel the need to remind yourself you aren’t a psychopath?”

  Zaira should’ve answered him. It was a perfectly reasonable question from the leader of the squad. What she did was open the trapdoor that led to the corridor outside the infirmary and go down. Aden followed seconds later. Heading toward the breakfast area Finn had given Aden instructions on how to find, Zaira considered her own irrational behavior and found no answer.

  “This is it,” Aden said, nodding to a door on her left.

  Opening it, she found herself going up narrow steps that opened out onto a path laid along a sturdy branch. The outside world was blocked out by thin sheets of transparent plas, but there was no heat, the chill extreme. “Strong construction,” she said, tapping on the plas to find it was near-glass quality, the rain beyond rolling down the outer surface in crystalline beads. “Glass would be more dangerous if they have children around.”