“Her mind,” he said, “do you think you might be able to unravel the programming?” His grandmother was only a midrange sender, but she was very, very good at untangling psychic knots—an odd skill that the Psy in the Net seemed to have lost. Perhaps it was no longer necessary now that they were Silent.
It was very much necessary for the Forgotten.
Nani was the one who’d untangled the ribbons of madness that had ravaged Dev’s father. The ribbons always came back—faster each time—but now they knew what to watch for. The first time . . . Dev shook his head in violent repudiation.
For a second, his attention split between the psychic and physical aspects of his nature as Katya stirred. Putting his hand on the back of her head, he gentled her into sleep once more before returning to his grandmother.
“I’d have to see her.” Her mental tone was serene, yet no less sharp for it. “But you know the problem—we’re not the same as the Psy in the Net. I may not even be able to sense the bonds that lock her in, much less the deeper programming.”
“I don’t want you trying yet in any case.” A midrange Psy telepath could do a lot of damage to one of the Forgotten who’d lowered her shields.
“You call me when you need me.” Another psychic brush. “Do you want to talk to your nana?”
“No, let him sleep.”
“You know he never sleeps while I’m awake. Stubborn man.”
He sent her a good-bye kiss before dropping from the ShadowNet. Coming back into his own mind was an easy glide, a familiar truth. He understood exactly how the woman in his arms felt at being cut off from the psychic plane. It must be akin to having a limb amputated, a claustrophobic terror.
If, of course, she was telling the truth.
This woman, this Katya, she plays on your weaknesses.
How could he not have seen it? It was as if someone had gone into his very psyche and created a woman he simply could not harm, no matter what he’d told himself to the contrary. Even now, with the truth of his grandmother’s words ringing in his head, he couldn’t repudiate Katya ... couldn’t send her back to the dark.
Her hand spread over his chest.
He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. He was a healthy male in his prime—he liked women, and most of the time, women liked him back. But never had he felt so close to the edge, so close to going out of control. Too many emotions clashed inside him—including a dawning possessiveness that might yet spell his death.
“Dev.” It was a complaint. “Stop broadcasting.”
He froze. “Have you been listening to my thoughts?” That should’ve been impossible. He’d never been able to send to anyone but his mother. When she’d died, that part of him had simply gone silent.
A shake of her head, fingers rubbing at sleepy eyes. “It’s a drumbeat against my skull—bam, bam, bam.”
Intrigued, he ran his fingers through her hair. “How do you know it’s me?”
“It feels like you.” A yawn and her lashes lifted. “And you’re giving me a headache.”
He should’ve been penitent. Instead, he moved to brace himself on his arms, her body slender but intrinsically feminine beneath his. It was her eyes that did it, huge pools that asked something from him he’d never be able to give—to her, to anyone. He’d left that part of himself behind in a sun-drenched room the day he watched his father close those always careful hands around his mother’s throat.
Shadows moved in the clear hazel, awareness sparking out of sleep. “Dev.”
“Shh. No words.” He ensured that by claiming her mouth, by stealing her breath. There was no gentleness in him this time. He crushed her to the bed, used his teeth on her neck, fisted his hand in her hair.
Just one kiss, he thought, just one.
Then she wrapped her arms around him. And he gave himself leave to take this much of her. Their lips came together in a darkly sensual connection, every gasp filled with the inevitable truth—this moment, this kiss, was a stolen one. All too soon, reality would claim them both. And when it did, Dev would either have to destroy her fledgling smile, savage her heart... or betray every vow he’d ever taken.
PETROKOV FAMILY ARCHIVES
Letter dated March 4, 1972
Dear Matthew,
Something extraordinary happened today. I’m still not sure I believe it. Catherine and Arif Adelaja appeared in public for the first time in a decade—with their twins, Tendaji and Naeem. The boys are teenagers, strong and quite beautiful. And they are Silent.
Arif made a speech, said that he and his wife had—wait, I have an idea. I’ll paste a copy of the relevant part of his speech into this letter. When you’re older, it will give you a glimpse of the strange world in which you grew up, in which your sister will be born.
Like many of you, Catherine and I have lost too many family members to the ravages of their gifts. Some have simply crumpled under the pressure, while others have broken in a more violent way, taking countless men, women, and children with them.
We lost our infant daughter to a psychotic outbreak that destroyed a close family friend, turning her into a malevolent creature no one could recognize. Tilly was a sweet, gentle woman who loved children, and yet that day, she used her telepathy to shatter our Margaret’s mind as our precious baby screamed and screamed.
In truth, we lost two people that day. Margaret to Tilly’s madness, and Tilly to her own horror and guilt.
We refuse to lose any more of those we love. Which is why we’ve been working to condition emotion out of our sons since the moment of their birth. Perhaps some of you will call us monsters, but today, our children stand alive beside us, in full control of their gifts. We’ve given them life.
I understand Arif’s grief—I was only twenty when he and Catherine lost Margaret, but I’ll never forget his keening agony the night he found their poor, sweet baby. It ravaged him, ravaged them both. The man I saw today bears the emotional scars still. They’re so deep and true that he can’t see the paradox in his own words. To save those he loves, he’s willing to destroy the capacity to love itself?
How is that in any way an answer?
Mom
CHAPTER 15
Katya accepted Dev’s offer of a walk without hesitation the next morning. Something had shifted between them the previous night—she could feel it deep within: a subtle tug, a bond barely formed.
But that wasn’t the change that distressed her.
Dev walked beside her, but gone was the man who’d kissed her with a passion that had seared her to the soul. Only the director, hard, focused, unreachable, remained. As she watched his teeth sink into the crunchy flesh of a bright red apple, she couldn’t help but remember those same teeth grazing her neck, nipping at her ear. Yet it seemed impossible that this cool stranger was the darkly sensual man who’d taken her mouth until she felt branded to the very core of her being.
“Perhaps he did me a favor,” she said when the silence became too crushing.
“He?”
“The shadow-man.” The spiderweb in her mind pulsed, a constant reminder that she was, in the end, nothing but a puppet. Her hand clenched into a fist. “By breaking my Silence.”
“There are ways to do that without destroying the individual.” He threw his apple core into the undergrowth, his jacket dusted with snow that fell from an overhanging branch. “Let’s go down here.”
She followed him through the snow-covered firs, but her mind had turned inward. For the first time since she’d woken, she looked deep within, examining the strands of control—of compulsion—that swirled around her psyche. Each was barbed. Ripping them out would destroy parts of her, maybe cause brain damage. It would’ve been easy to give up—but she chose to let the brutality fan the simmering flames of her anger.
And when she saw the pathway, she didn’t hesitate to take it. The vines of control ripped at her from every side, drawing blood that felt real, the acrid scent of it thick in her nostrils, but she pushed through, determined to find a
nswers, determined to find herself.
Two steps later, terror silvered into her mind, into her very heart. “Dev.” A husky plea to a man who seemed to have frozen his own heart with the dawn.
He took her hand, the heat of him soaking into her skin, through her blood, into her very cells. The terror remained, but she understood it now. It was an implanted fear, designed to stop her from reaching the end of this road. Her mind felt as if it was awash in blood by the time she completed the task, but she didn’t stop.
And there it was, buried so deep that it was as much a part of her as her heartbeat—her link to the PsyNet, to the biofeedback that kept her Psy brain from dying. She looked at the solid column of light, brilliant and beautiful, and understood that it offered no means of escape. The link jacked her directly into the fabric of the Net itself, but it was no tunnel. No, this was the most solid of conduits, its only purpose to keep her alive. To get out, to actually surf the Net, she’d have to find a doorway.
She’d tried to do that once before, but then she’d been physically weak, her mind in chaos. It was possible she’d missed something. Today, she took every step with slow deliberation... and she found it. The psychic doorway was hidden behind several layers of barbed wire. Swallowing, she thrust her hands through the viciousness of the coils and cracked it open the barest millimeter.
Black.
Not the black of the Net, but the black of a shield. She knew the shield had been created by her torturer, that it linked back to him on some level. But . . . “It’s not mind control,” she said out loud. “It’s not an open link. That would take too much energy.” So he’d immured her in her mind, given her instructions, and set her free. “He doesn’t know what I know, doesn’t see what I see.” The fist around her heart fell open.
“You’re probably programmed to contact him if you discover something important.” Dev’s tone was flat as he came to a stop in a small clearing pierced by a ray of sunlight. “Could be as simple as a phone call.”
Closing the psychic door, she backed down the path and returned completely to the world. It was an effort to keep her feet on the glittering white of the snow, to tell herself she wasn’t truly bleeding. “I don’t think I was ever meant to come out of this alive.”
The tendons of Dev’s jaw pulled white over bone. “What did you see?”
“The roots of his control, they’re buried deep. I can’t see a way to pull them out—even if I could figure out how—without killing myself in the process.”
“He must have the psychic key to unlock it safely.”
“Not like he’s going to give it to me.” She slid her hands into the pockets of her coat, chilled to her very soul. “So since I’m dead either way, do you know what I want to do?”
Dev simply watched her with those amazing, amber-flecked eyes.
“I want to follow the only thing I have left—my gut.”
“What’s it telling you to do?”
She met his gaze, hoping for understanding, for freedom. “To go north.”
But it was ice that met her. Cold, blank ... metallic.
Dev had every intention of continuing their conversation, but returned home to find a situation in progress. “We’ll talk about this later,” he told Katya.
“There’s not much to talk about. Will you let me go?”
“You know the answer.”
“Say it.” Her body trembled, her hands fisted at her sides.
Angry at her for demanding something he could never give her, he answered with a curt “No.”
Still feeling the impact of her flinch several minutes later, he switched the clear screen of his computer to comm mode, dialing through to Aubry. “Maggie says we’ve got an uprising in progress.”
The other man nodded, face grim. “It’s the young ones, twenty-year-olds who think they know everything there is to know.”
“Are they with Jack?” His cousin stood on the opposite side of the fence to Dev on the most critical issue facing their people, but he’d never gone behind Dev’s back before.
Aubry shook his head. “Looks like some kind of ‘radi cal’ college group. Snot-nosed punks aren’t as radical as they think.”
“Give me the short version.”
“They think, and I quote, that ‘there’s no need for their families to be tied to Shine.’ According to Beck, the pretty-boy academic leading the charge, we’re an ‘anachronism’ that serves no purpose in today’s society.” A snort. “I think it’s time we showed them the fucking reality—those tortured kids last—”
“No.” Rage infused Dev’s blood at the reminder of the children Shine had lost to the Council’s coolly logical evil, children who’d been murdered simply for being who they were.
Aubry’s scowl was pure thunder. “Why the hell not?”
“I won’t use those children again.” It was a line he’d drawn in the sand. He’d had to use them once, to save the ones who were still alive. It had scarred him. One more time and he’d be so far on the wrong side of the line there would be no redemption for him.
“Yeah, okay.” Aubry rubbed a hand over his face, having had the nightmare branded into his memories, too. “What do we do with Beck’s group, then?”
“Give them what they want. Take them off the Shine register, let them know we no longer expect them to come to our assistance if called.” Those with money contributed to the coffers, but the basic requirement was for service.
“Dev.” Aubry looked troubled. “They’re just stupid kids—they don’t know how much we do, how badly they might need us in the future. What about their own children? Some of the recessive genes can express out of nowhere.”
“I know. But we can’t afford to baby them.” It was a ruthless decision, but he had to focus on the ones he could help, could save. “They’re old enough—if they want out, give them out.”
Aubry met his eyes. “Tough love?”
“You don’t agree?”
“As a matter of fact, in this case, I do.” A sharp grin. “Let’s see how long they hold out without the Shine information line.”
“Yeah, yeah, crow all about it.” Aubry was the one who’d come up with the idea of setting up an information line manned by older members of the Forgotten, people who—between them, and with recourse to Dev and the board—could answer pretty much any question the descendants might have.
“I will, thanks.” Aubry’s eyes gleamed. “I did a shift on the phones the other night and had this anonymous kid call in. He wanted to know if it was normal to be seeing everything in triplicate.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“To get his eyes checked and call me back.”
Dev laughed, but it was a hollow sound. Nothing could ease the vise around his heart—because no matter how hard he tried to keep Katya at a distance, the metal still melted for her, still burned for her... for the one woman he could never have. “Anything else I need to know about?”
“Jack’s quiet—don’t know if that’ll last.”
That vise twisted, powered by another layer of emotion. “I understand what drives him,” Dev said, staring out at the snow-covered landscape that spread beyond the windows. “Makes it a hell of a lot tougher to play hardball.”
“The fact that he’s your cousin doesn’t help.”
“No.” Dev thrust a hand through his hair. “If he’s quiet, let it be for now. It’s not exactly an issue we have an answer for.”
“We’re going to have to think of something soon. Or there’s a chance the Forgotten will splinter again.”
“I know.” Leaning back in his chair, he caught a glint of pale gold on his desk ... a strand of Katya’s hair. It could’ve been transferred to the study on his body, but there was a chance she’d been in here. She’d have gotten nothing, but Dev was well aware she shouldn’t be this free to move, to sabotage.
Looking away from the golden strand, he made himself return his attention to the matter at hand. “You okay to keep an eye on these college kids?�
�
“Yeah. I’ll tag them in the files—if they do decide to go lone wolf, we need to be able to step in if they have children with active Psy genes.”
“That’s what Shine’s always been about.” Protecting the children. And if that meant the death of a Psy scientist . . . Dev’s hand clenched on a paperweight hard enough to crack it.
PETROKOV FAMILY ARCHIVES
Letter dated June 7, 1972
Dearest Matthew,
I don’t know quite what to write, so perhaps I should just write it as it was and let you make up your own mind. This morning, through the oddest sort of coincidence, I met Tendaji and Naeem Adelaja.
The family was scheduled to come to the government block for a meeting with the Council, and security, as you can imagine, was tight. Their older brother, Zaid, there’s such pain in him, and yet such conviction, too. As soon as I looked into his eyes, I knew he’d do anything for Mercury.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. My job as aide to Councilor Moran allows me a certain security clearance, though not high enough to meet the Adelajas now that they’ve become so very important to our race. Today I went in early, because I had a report to complete, and as I was heading through the lobby, I saw three men enter the elevator that goes up to the secure level. I thought nothing of it until someone called out my name.
When I turned, there was Zaid, holding the elevator open. He’d remembered me from when the Adelajas lived on the same street as your father and me—back when we were first married. Well, I went to them and all three boys stepped back out into the lobby, and we were able to talk for a few minutes before their meeting.
Zaid ... I always liked Zaid. He was such a solemn child—I knew in my heart that he carried the burden of terrible power. Now he reminds me of a soldier, strong, determined, proud. Beside him, his twin younger brothers were slender and so cold I could almost feel the ice on their breath. Tendaji spoke for them both—they were polite, precisely so, and their intelligence can’t be doubted. And yet I kept feeling as if I was talking to two shadows—it was as if something critical was missing.
Blaze of Memory Page 9
