Strange Candy

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  "Yes, Dr. Roberts, I know I am." But Jasmine knew that everyone was evil, down deep when you scrape the skin away. Inside their heads everyone hunted, everyone killed, everyone was a monster.

  The thought that Dr. Roberts couldn't deal with was not the children's evil, but her own. That morning when she woke she saw a monster looking back at her from the mirror. She had set out to kill the monster and gotten killed for it.

  Jasmine knew the truth. You couldn't kill The Monster. It was always there just behind your eyes. You could kill a monster, though. Jasmine was a great believer in the death penalty. It was the ultimate therapy. It cured everything. The first stirrings of fear crawled in her belly, low and real. It would get worse. Jasmine knew that it would get worse.

  Dr. Cooper cradled her face on her arms, cheek pressed into the coolness of her desktop, and cried. The school, that was all it was ever called, it had no other name. A lot of secret government projects had no names.

  Thirty years ago, almost Jasmine's lifetime, psychic phenomena became a proven scientific fact. In fact, there were so many psychics that scientists started making jokes about pod people. It didn't stay funny for long. Most of the new breed were children. They had powers that were dependable and as testable as such phenomena ever would be. There were lots of theories as to why, suddenly, we had empaths and telepaths and dreamers coming out of the woodwork. The evolutionists said it was proof of their ideas; mankind was evolving. Others thought it was junk food, chemicals and preservatives in the American diet. The majority of talent did occur in industrialized nations. Maybe it was the pollution. Inoculations. The beginning of the Apocalypse. No one knew. Jasmine doubted anyone ever would.

  But a few of the children had been dangerous, their powers so far beyond the dreams of normality that their families couldn't cope. In most cases the families were afraid of their children. Glad to give them up to someplace that would care for them.

  Jasmine's family gave her up when she was five. Her mother cried and kissed her. Her older sister and brother hugged her dutifully. Her father said, "Be a good girl, Jas."

  The smell of pipe tobacco could still bring back the memory of her tall, dark-haired father. A twinge of memory like a badly healed scar.

  What she remembered most of her mother was the cool sense of fear. That red lipsticked mouth kissing her, laughing, and wiping the lipstick smear off Jasmine's cheek with a Kleenex. Laughing, golden hair, and the sick smell of fear. No perfume in the world could hide the stench from an empath.

  But then maybe Mommy didn't know, maybe she didn't understand, maybe she had done her best. Maybe.

  LISBETH Pearson was small for ten, with coppery red hair, almost dark enough to be auburn, but not quite. The hair fell in thick waves to her shoulders. Her face was that peaches-and-cream skin that some redheads have; no freckles, just creamy skin. Her eyes were a pale brown, almost amber. She wore a dress that seemed too young for her, with lace-topped white socks and patent leather shoes.

  She looked like she was dressed for Halloween, or like someone else had dressed her. She was playing alone with a dollhouse on the other side of a one-way mirror. Jasmine found that very funny. She remembered being on the other side of the glass. She had always known who was watching and what they were feeling. Always.

  Lisbeth looked up and stared directly at the mirror, and smiled. Jasmine smiled and nodded back.

  "Can she see us?" Dr. Bromley asked.

  "No."

  "You acknowledged each other, I saw it."

  "Did we?"

  "Don't bullshit me, Jasmine."

  She turned to stare at the infamous Dr. Bromley, protector and tormentor of her childhood. He was five foot eight, but the weight he had gained made him seem smaller. His curly brown hair was fading back from a gleaming expanse of scalp. His hands, which had once looked strong, now resembled uncooked sausages. His face was blotched with red. Was he sick? She stared into his small eyes and thought, yes, maybe.

  Beth could have told Bromley if he was dying. She had had a feel for death. Beth was dead, had been for twenty years. Tall, laughing, gray-eyed Beth. She had been able to think people to death, a wasting illness. She hadn't meant to kill people, just didn't know how to stop it. Neither did anyone else. So they killed her.

  "Jasmine...Jasmine."

  "I'm sorry, Dr. Bromley, I was thinking about something."

  "Are you all right?"

  "I was going to ask you the same thing."

  "Why?" he asked.

  "You don't look well."

  He fidgeted, glanced away, and knew that it wasn't his eyes she could read. He laughed, abrupt and harsh. "No, I'm not well. It's none of your damn business what's wrong, Dr. Cooper. Let's get back to Lisbeth. You're here to save her, not me."

  "Could I save you?"

  "No."

  "I'm sorry, Dr. Bromley." And Jasmine realized she really was sorry. She didn't want to be sorry for him, to feel anything but hatred and contempt, and fear. Not sorrow, not for Dr. Bromley.

  "Tell me what you think about Lisbeth Pearson."

  "I don't think anything yet. I want to talk to her alone." Jasmine smiled. "As alone as this place allows."

  "We have to monitor the children. It's part of the project."

  "I remember the arguments, Dr. Bromley."

  LISBETH was placing tiny gilt-edged chairs around a miniature dining room table when Jasmine entered. The child ignored her and continued to rearrange the furniture. She seemed completely absorbed in the task, but Jasmine felt the child's interest, her power, glide over her skin like a cold breeze.

  "My name is Jasmine."

  Lisbeth looked up at that, one small hand cradling a flower arrangement. "I've never met anyone named Jasmine before."

  "And I've never met anyone named Lisbeth before."

  The child grinned, perfect lips, eyes sparkling. "No, you've never met anyone like me."

  Jasmine looked into those brown-amber eyes, shining with humor, and felt the threat. The words were subtle; the power that emanated from the child was not.

  The power climbed over Jasmine's skin, raising the hair on her body, like insects crawling, or a faint buzz of electric current. You could breathe in Lisbeth's power, choke on it.

  The child smiled, even white teeth flashing, but her eyes didn't sparkle anymore. Games were over; Lisbeth didn't have to pretend to be "normal," so she didn't try. Jasmine stared into her eyes and found--nothing. Inside her head was a great roaring silence.

  Jasmine had never met a sociopath at such a tender age. She knew that they were born broken, but to feel it, to feel that emptiness stretching inside this lovely little girl, to feel the void...was the most frightening thing she had ever felt.

  The child laughed, sweet and joyful. "You're afraid of me, just like all the others."

  Fear meant control. It meant Jasmine was controllable, so Lisbeth lowered her defenses; she allowed Jasmine to glimpse what was there. Or what wasn't.

  Jasmine's power eased through the girl, along her mind, and found other things missing. She was an empath; no empath could be a sociopath and bring harm to people, because they would feel that pain as their own. Unless they couldn't feel anyone's pain but their own.

  Lisbeth was blind to positive emotions; she could only absorb the negative. As far as she was concerned, she alone felt joy, happiness, love. Everyone else was full of hate, fear, shame, or nothing. It was an empath's version of hell. And the child had never known anything else.

  The curling auburn hair had little pink barrettes that picked up the small pink design in the dress. Perfectly matched. Perfect. If she hadn't been a psychic, Lisbeth Pearson would have been the perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect worker, or wife, or mother, until the day that she broke. The day that The Monster came out.

  But The Monster was too close to the surface in Lisbeth; there was almost nothing else left.

  The child had gone back to her dollhouse, ignoring Jasmine. She no longer considered her
a threat.

  Dr. Jasmine Cooper turned abruptly on her heel and walked out; the sound of her high heels was loud and echoing. She leaned against the door trying to breathe. She was shivering uncontrollably, fear soaking like frost into her bones. Jasmine tried to gain control of herself and knew that Lisbeth felt her falling to pieces. Knew that a closed door was no barrier at all.

  An echo of the child's joy filtered through Jasmine's nerves like distant, mocking laughter.

  JASMINE entered Bromley's office all cool professionalism. No seams showed; she had swallowed the fear whole. Years of practice.

  Dr. Bromley was sitting behind his paper-strewn desk when Jasmine entered. His eyes looked tired, wary. "Well?"

  "Just being in the room with her raises the hairs on my arms. You don't have to be an empath to know that."

  "She's evil," he said.

  "If you've already made up your mind, Dr. Bromley, why did you bring me here?"

  He stared at her, without saying anything.

  "You want me to save her."

  He nodded once up, once down.

  "Do you know what she is?"

  He rubbed his fingertips over his eyes. "She's a sociopath. She's an empath that can only feel negative emotions."

  Jasmine didn't try to keep the surprise off her face. "If you know, why is she still alive?"

  "Because, Dr. Cooper, I'm tired of killing children. So many of them come through with talents we can't begin to understand. They can do things that make Lisbeth look safe. But most of the time we just don't understand them enough to help them. We destroy them because we don't know what else to do. But Lisbeth is like you were, in some ways; I hoped you could help her, understand her. Keep her alive."

  "And if I can't help her? If I think she's too dangerous?"

  He shrugged. "I fill out a form, submit it to my superiors, and in a month she'll be dead."

  "Just like that," Jasmine said.

  "Just like that," he said.

  She stared at the doctor, tried to feel what he felt. Sorrow, an almost unending sorrow. The school had eaten him alive, just as it had the children. There was nothing left of him but sadness, fear, and a dogged sense of duty. A fragile wish for hope, for meaning. He was looking for peace.

  "I can't give you absolution, Bromley."

  He flinched. "Is that what I want?"

  Jasmine nodded. "You're wondering if you played God, or were just a murderer."

  He gave a weak laugh. "You are merciless."

  "I had good teachers."

  He nodded. "All right, no absolution for me. Can you save this child?"

  Jasmine knew she should say, "Kill her." Lisbeth Pearson was too dangerous for words. But she looked into Bromley's tired, sick eyes, and said, "Maybe."

  JASMINE was walking to her room, down the familiar empty corridors. No matter how many children were in the school, there were never people in the hallways. Always there was the feeling of abandonment, emptiness. She walked the halls alone, tracked by the blinking red lights of cameras.

  A woman came from around the corner; long yellow hair swept nearly to her knees. She had the height for the hair, slender and graceful. The face was dominated by pale blue eyes. Jasmine stopped and waited for the woman to come to her. A feeling of horrible deja vu swept over her. An almost claustrophobic sense of time spinning backward. "Vanessa?" It came out a question, though it wasn't meant to be.

  The woman smiled, and held out her hands. "Jasmine, it is you." Vanessa hugged her tight, and Jasmine fought the urge to pull away. She relaxed into the arms of her best friend from childhood, and one of the most powerful telepaths the school had ever had.

  When she could, Jasmine pulled back, and said, "Are you visiting?"

  Vanessa turned away. She hid her eyes, and her mind was as tight and closed as a locked door. She stepped back from Jasmine. "No, I'm an instructor." Her voice made it bright, cheerful.

  "An instructor. For how long?"

  "Since high school."

  "You went away to college, just like I did. We rode to the airport together." Jasmine felt panic like a cold weight at the pit of her gut.

  Vanessa paced back and forth, then whirled, smiling. "I didn't finish college. They needed me here to help with all the little telepaths."

  Jasmine worked very hard at keeping her own mind locked tight. No empath's control can match a telepath, but she tried. Her face was absolutely blank, pleasantly so, practice, years of practice. "Do you enjoy...teaching?"

  "Oh, yes, I really feel like I make a difference--you?"

  Jasmine nodded.

  "You've done really well. My best friend, the famous doctor." Vanessa laughed and hugged her again.

  Best friend--they hadn't seen or talked to each other in ten years. Jasmine found herself crying, hugging the tall stranger who used to be her friend, and crying.

  "Hey," Vanessa said, "Hey, what's the matter?"

  She pulled away and shook her head. What could she say that wouldn't hurt Vanessa? You betrayed our dreams. You gave up and came back here to hide. We swore an oath that we would never come here to hide, better death than this tomb. Jasmine wanted to scream it all out. To find out why Vanessa had failed, the ultimate failure, she had come back here. Once you came back, you never left. No one ever left a second time. The words echoed in her head, and the walls seemed to be closing around her, narrow. Jasmine hadn't noticed how narrow the halls were. The roof was close enough to touch. The school was crowding her, crowding.

  "Jasmine, what's wrong?"

  She drew a deep, shaking breath. "Panic attack."

  "Do you still get those?"

  "First one in..." Breathe deep and even, breathe. "Twelve years."

  "Open your mind to me. Jasmine, I can help. Remember." Jasmine backed away until she hit the wall. She pressed against it. Vanessa took a step forward, reaching.

  "No!"

  "Let me help you."

  Her breathing was beginning to slow, pulse going down. The corridor was still hot and too close, but it was going to be all right. It was going to be all right. "I'll be all right, Vanessa."

  "I can help you with whatever is wrong. Telepaths are great counselors."

  Jasmine stared into her eyes. "You wouldn't like what I was thinking."

  Vanessa froze, hands still outstretched, smile sliding away from her face. It was one of those moments when you don't need empathy. When truth stretches between two people. Truth could be violent, could strip you of dignity and hope just as quickly as a gun.

  It was one of those moments when you can look in someone else's eyes and see your own reflection so sharp and true that it slices like glass.

  Vanessa turned away first and began to walk down the hall, then to run. Her footsteps thundered against the narrow walls.

  Jasmine stared up into the watching monitor, red light blinking. She spoke to it. "The monitor in my room better be disabled before I get there, Bromley. If it's not, I'm going to tear it out of the wall." She took a deep shaking breath. "You should have told me Vanessa was here. What else haven't you told me?"

  There was no answer from the whirring monitor. She hadn't expected one. If Bromley had answered, she wouldn't have believed him anyway.

  THE room was like all the other rooms. It was rectangular with pale blue walls. A single bed was against the right-hand wall, white sheets, brown blanket. When Jasmine was a child, she had longed for colored sheets. The kind with animals and clowns on them. In her house were bright-colored sheets, and none of the rooms were painted blue.

  There was a white bureau with mirror against the left wall, and a closet in the far wall. That was all. Small or not, the rooms always seemed empty.

  There was a monitor up in one corner. The red recording light was off, no whirring, no moving to scan the room. Bromley had turned it off; supposedly that meant that Jasmine was alone, unobserved.

  Jasmine pressed her palms on top of the perfectly clean bureau top. She leaned forward until she was almost touching
her own reflection. The old litany came back, "This is not the whole world. You will get out. You will make it on the outside. You can do it. This isn't forever." How many nights had she told her reflection that? How many years?

  This wasn't the whole world. She had gotten out. She had made it on the outside. She could do it. It hadn't been forever. And now she was back. To save another little girl. The thought came, But does she deserve saving?

  Jasmine answered aloud, "I save monsters all the time." Fear had settled in the pit of her stomach, hard and thick. This place pressed so many of her buttons, so much shit to wade through here. And the child, that frightening, beautiful child. Why was so much evil pleasant, pretty on the outside, like poisoned candy? Most mass murderers were the nicest people.

  Lisbeth Pearson was already in bed. It was an hour past dark. She would be out there in the dream network, hunting. For the first time someone would be hunting Lisbeth. Did the child suspect? No. There was one other trait of the serial killer that Lisbeth shared: arrogance. The predator never expects to be hunted.

  Jasmine had never been hunted either. It would be a night of firsts.

  That night Jasmine dreamed. Her own dreams first. Nothing pleasant; fears about the school, Lisbeth, Bromley, childhood nightmares, she brushed them away. Then the sensation that her skull evaporated and her mind eased outward like mist. She floated through one dream at a time. She could touch more than one mind at a time, bringing other people into the same dream, but they had to share a single dream. Multiple minds, but not multiple fantasies. No one was sure why that particular restriction. It was just the way it worked.

  Jasmine swam through the colors of other people's dreams, searching. A boy played catch with his dead father, sorrow, things left unsaid; a woman held a stranger in her arms, naked, unafraid, private, lust flowed warm and felt like anger; Bromley dreamed of flowers surrounding a coffin, rage, hate. Jasmine moved on before she could see who was inside the coffin. She could have wandered all night from dream to dream like a butterfly in a field of fantastic flowers, but something burned through her mind, screamed along her nerves: terror.

  Jasmine followed it like a beacon. The silent rush of fear called her as surely as a scream for help. She appeared in the dream with an almost physical jolt. She had rushed, hadn't taken her time; the reality of the nightmare was concrete, touchable, breathable, visible, real. A boy stood with his back to her. He was tall, slender, hair neatly buzzed next to his scalp, skin the color of dark coffee. He was struggling to lock the door to a dingy room. Windows leaked gray daylight through dirty glass. Wallpaper fell in strips from yellowed walls. The place reeked of damp, rot, urine.