When Rebecca put in a sleepy-eyed appearance begging for coffee, Brenna went upstairs with a tray of food for Jeremy and Margaret.
“How’s our hero feeling this morning?” she asked as she pushed into his room. “I brought you some breakfast.”
Margaret sat in a chair on Jeremy’s left side, holding his hand. She had showered but not put on any makeup or done her hair. She looked at least twenty years younger.
Jeremy had his right arm in a sling, his bicep bulging with a bandage.
“I’m a bit sore. Thank you. The healers said you did a bang-up job on me.”
“Yeah, well, check your health insurance and see if it covers designer silk gowns. You owe me, boyo.” She sat the tray down on his lap. “It’s herb tea for you, no caffeine. You’re officially a convalescent, my man. Margaret, how are you this morning?”
“Confused, relieved that he’s okay, worried, and confused. In that order, I think.”
“Have some coffee and a bran muffin. I did, and it made the whole day look a lot better.”
Margaret looked at Jeremy, “Is she always this cheerful early in the morning?”
“Unfortunately, yes. In fact, she must really be worried about me because she’s nowhere near her usual bouncy self,” he replied with a sorrowful expression.
“Worried about you? Don’t flatter yourself. Don’t you know better than to throw yourself in front of a bullet?” Brenna said, shaking her head.
“I wasn’t trying to. I just tried to push Carlos out of the way.”
“Well, I think you may be in line for an Ecuadorian medal,” Brenna said with a smile. “If you play your cards right, maybe you can scam a plantation or something as a reward.”
She turned to Margaret, and her face grew more serious. “We need to talk about last night. Do you need to call your office? Whatever you might have scheduled for today is going to have to wait.”
Margaret nodded, with a slight shudder. “You spoke to me with your mind.” Brenna nodded. “This morning, I can hear people’s thoughts. I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Margaret’s face displayed her anxiety. She glanced at Jeremy, then back to Brenna. “Are you human?”
The question caught Brenna by surprise, which she saw mirrored in Jeremy’s face. She sighed.
“I’m going to give you one of those Washington answers. Yes and no. Technically, we’re human. We interbreed with normal humans, which scientifically means we’re the same species. But some of our scientists consider us a subspecies. If norms are Homo sapiens sapiens, then we’re Homo sapiens telepathicus.”
“No one knows how we evolved,” Jeremy said, “but our history goes back thousands of years. The monuments in Ireland and Britain, such as Stonehenge, were erected by our ancestors. The Inquisition was part of the on-off war we’ve had with humans. We’re a small minority, perhaps a few million at most among six billion norms.”
Brenna took her hand. “Margaret, last night when Jeremy was shot, you screamed in your mind, and every telepath within a six-block radius heard it. Normal humans don’t do that. Only a telepath can. Do you understand what I’m saying? You’re one of us.”
The woman’s eyes glazed. For a moment, Brenna wondered if she’d gone too far, too fast. A knock on the door distracted everyone’s attention.
“Come in,” Brenna called, and felt a surge of relief as Moira walked into the room.
A Harvard-trained psychiatrist, Moira O’Reilly had the Healing Gift. Tall and slender with auburn hair, she was elegantly dressed in a tailored business suit. She was in her forties and looked as young as a new medical school graduate. Brenna had always thought her smile was a healing force in itself. Moira seemed to convey exactly the proper emotion to make someone feel better.
“Dr. Moira O’Reilly, may I introduce Representative Margaret Townsend? Representative Townsend is rather confused this morning.”
Moira sat down and took a sip from the cup she was carrying. Meeting Margaret’s eyes, she told her, “For me to help you, you’re going to have to suspend belief for a while. I talked to Rebecca, and I think I know what happened to you. You’re going to have to want to believe me, and want to understand. Otherwise, my dear, you’re probably going to go crazy.”
Shock showed on the faces of the other three people in the room.
Calmly, Moira continued, “I think that when you were young and the voices started, instead of going crazy then, or learning to block them out, you buried your ability to hear them. It’s rather unusual, but it happens occasionally. Only a very strong telepath can do it, someone with extraordinary shielding ability and extraordinary will. So I’m going to assume that you’re a very strong-minded person. Considering your position, I don’t think that’s much of a leap.”
Moira leaned close to Margaret, capturing her full attention. “But if you decide that you don’t want my help, that you don’t want anything to do with us, you’ll walk out of here and discover you’re completely without defenses against the thoughts of millions of people. You don’t know how to build a shield against them and you don’t know how to filter the inputs. You’ll be living with everyone else’s thoughts in your head twenty-four hours a day. Of course, you can move by yourself to a ranch in Montana. But I doubt you’ll be able to deal with Capitol Hill.”
“If I believe you, then how did this happen?” Margaret asked softly.
“When you were five or six years old and the voices started in your head, they terrified you,” Moira said. “In a panic, you built a shield, not against others, but against yourself. You shielded your own ability to hear them, encapsulated it, shoved it into a sub-basement of your mind and forgot about it. Last night, you experienced a trauma so great that it broke free. You’re no longer the little girl who built the original shield, and I’m afraid there’s no putting the genie back in the bottle.”
“And if I let you fix it, what happens to me? I assume there’s some way to fix it,” Townsend said.
“It’s going to take some time,” Moira told her. “Normally we send wilders to our estate in West Virginia, a place where it’s mentally quiet, and spend some months teaching them how to construct the proper shields and filters. After that, you can go anywhere you want to, do whatever you want.”
Brenna sent a spear to Moira, She’s an O’Neill.
I think so, at least a Kilpatrick. Someone with normal shielding ability wouldn’t have the strength to do it.
Moira, she has nine Gifts, including the O’Neill, O’Byrne and Rivera. She needs more than basic shield training.
Moira turned her attention to Brenna, astonishment evident in her expression
“What did you say? What are you talking about mentally?” Margaret asked anxiously.
“I was telling her that you need more than shield training. You have several very powerful Gifts. You’re possibly dangerous without proper training in how to control them.”
You and I need to talk, Moira sent, when did you discover you can see people’s Gifts?
Recently, Brenna replied. Other things, too. You have a beautiful soul. The gold sparkles and the lavender streaks are quite unique.
Holy fucking Goddess, Moira’s thought exploded in her mind. Brenna was shocked at Moira’s reaction, the psychiatrist was always so ladylike and contained.
“How many Gifts, Brenna?” Jeremy asked calmly.
“Nine, including the Rivera,” she answered.
He reached to Margaret, cupping her face in his good hand and turned her face toward him. “They’re telling you the truth. Please, I don’t want to lose you. Please, stay with me. It will be all right.”
She gazed into his eyes. “Promise?”
“Yes, dear heart, I promise. I’ll be with you every step of the way, no matter what.”
“And if I say no, if I want to walk out of here and go back to my life?”
“Then I’ll go with you. I’m not the best person to train you in what you immediately need, but I’ll do my best.”
“I think I can put together a press release and talk to your senior aides,” Moira said. “We need to decide on your medical condition, something that requires several months of treatment and rehab but is not permanently debilitating or politically damaging.”
Surprised, Margaret said, “I hadn’t thought of that. It almost sounds like you’ve done this before.”
Brenna snorted, “My family is good at that sort of thing. Looking at me, you’d never know that I had to go through almost a year of rehab after getting run over by a truck. And it really didn’t hurt at all.”
Moira and Jeremy laughed. Margaret looked blankly at them all.
“My car was run over by a truck,” Brenna explained, “and it was reported that I’d been in an accident. The police and ambulance personnel on the scene were telepaths, as was the staff of a hospital we own.”
“Your official history is that you were an orphan, only finding your family recently. Is that a real story?” Margaret asked.
“Yes, it is. They lost me for fifteen years. It’s an adjustment. My entire worldview has changed. So much of what I grew up believing is so different. But at least I knew I was a telepath. I just didn’t know there were others like me, or how to find them.”
“MacIntyre and Associates,” Margaret said, making the connection. “I saw Karen last night. You’re all telepaths. God, no wonder you’re so good at what you do.”
Brenna smiled, “And now I can tell you my real story, and satisfy your curiosity about me. If you think telepathy sounds like science fiction, you’ll really have to swallow disbelief to understand me. Well, I need to get dressed. Margaret, Moira is fantastic. Trust her. She’ll take care of you.”
“What does she mean?” Margaret asked after Brenna left. “I know she’s an amazing young woman. How amazing I didn’t know, of course. But how can she be more incredible than the rest of you?”
Jeremy laughed, “As she said, sometimes when things are strange, you have a hard time imagining stranger. Brenna is a succubus.”
At that point, Margaret Townsend decided that she’d stop listening for a while. Jeremy was right. Things were getting too strange.
~~~
CHAPTER 11
Good girls go to heaven; bad girls go everywhere. – Mae West
It's the good girls who keep the diaries; the bad girls never have the time. - Tallulah Bankhead
Brenna had just finished dressing when Moira came to her room.
“I want to know about your new abilities,” the psychiatrist said.
After Brenna told her about being able to see auras and tell what Gifts telepaths had, she stood and walked to the small table in the center of the room.
“I’m not sure if those abilities are separate or part of the same thing,” Brenna said. “They developed at the same time so I’m inclined to think they’re manifestations of the same Talent or Gift. But this is completely different. It may have something to do with Telekinesis, but it triggers from a different area in my mind.”
She sank her hand into the table, and Moira was able to see it emerge underneath. “Holy Goddess,” Moira breathed.
Brenna told her the story of how she discovered it. “Moira, sometimes I’m almost afraid to go to sleep. I’m afraid I’ll wake up someplace completely different. I mean, if I can trigger something I don’t even know about in a dream, what happens if I teleport?”
Moira considered this. “I’m not going to tell you it’s an unfounded fear. Telepaths have hurt people by triggering weapons in their dreams.”
“Oh shit. Thanks. That’s all I need to hear. Moira, I’ve channeled a lightning bolt. I could destroy the whole house. What do I do?”
“Don’t allow yourself to lose control in your dreams.”
“That simple, huh? Oh, well, no problem then, right?” Sarcasm dripped from her voice.
“Actually, it is that simple. You just have to spend a little time before you go to sleep reinforcing your control. Just declare consciously that you won’t do it. That consciousness, being strong in your mind when you go to sleep, will provide the control you need. You’re very strong-willed. Use it.”
“Would that have prevented me from discovering this new ability?”
“Possibly. More likely you would have a choice as to whether you want to allow it.” Moira shook her head, “I can’t imagine what else you might be able to do, but I’m afraid there’s probably more. It never would have occurred to any of us that a person could change their resonance to match a solid object.”
A slight smile grew on her face, “Have you tried to change shape?”
“Huh? Oh my God, please, don’t put that kind of idea in my head.”
“I have a question for you. If you can change Rebecca’s resonance to take her through a door with you, does she resonate on exactly the same frequency you do? Is it that simple?”
Brenna thought about it. “No, she’s slightly different. Not as different as the table, but not exactly like me.”
“Take your hair in your hand. Now take mine. What is the difference in resonance between them?”
“There isn’t any. Hair is hair. It’s not really alive.”
“But you take it through a solid object with you. It’s not like your clothes.”
Brenna concentrated. Yes, there was a very slight, almost imperceptible difference between her hair and Moira’s. It helped to close her eyes and lock down her shields, shutting out all other sensory input. Yes, there was a difference. “Yes, a very, very slight difference. Maybe an Angstrom difference in frequency vibration.”
With her eyes closed she didn’t see Moira’s startled expression.
“Can you change your hair to my frequency?”
“Oh yeah, that’s easy.” She did it.
“Go look at yourself in the mirror.”
Stunned, she stared at herself with long flowing auburn hair, straight as Moira’s, not the wavy, curling raven mane she was expecting.
“God damn.” She whirled, fixing Moira with an expression of shock in her eyes. “I … I …” she whirled back to stare into the mirror again. “I’m not ready for this. Not this morning. Holy Goddess.”
She sat down with a loud thump on the floor, still staring at the mirror. “I don’t think I should talk to you so early in the morning. You’ve just scrambled my whole day.”
Something at the back of her mind was pestering her. Finally it fought its way to the surface. Rebecca, you need to come to my room. Moira … well, just come.
On my way
When Rebecca walked in and saw her sitting on the floor, she stopped and stared, the expression on her face almost as dumbfounded as Brenna’s.
“That’s real, isn’t it?” she asked in a tone of voice that invited Brenna to deny it.
“Uh huh.”
“How did you do that?”
“She changed the resonance of her hair to match mine,” Moira answered.
Rebecca slowly approached her, reaching out to touch her hair. “My God, it even feels different.”
Brenna turned toward Rebecca, and something she read in Rebecca’s face gave her a chill.
“Oh, no. No. I’m not going to try it. No.”
“But, don’t you want to know?” Rebecca cajoled.
“No. Oh God. All I ever wanted to be was normal. I don’t want this.”
Moira cocked her head and studied them. Brenna could see her in the mirror. “No. Moira, I don’t need this, not this morning.”
With a slight smile, Moira nodded. “But you will try it. Curiosity will drive you crazy.”
“No, curiosity will drive you crazy. I’m already nuts. I don’t need any more craziness in my life.” She shut her eyes and with an effort remembered the resonance of her own hair. When she opened them again, the
Brenna she was used to sat in front of her, looking out of the mirror. With a shudder, she stood.
“Let’s go see our assassin. I didn’t get a good look at her last night.”
Dona Carlotta Paloma Hernandez y Garcia was a woebegone sight. Dark hair in disarray and black eyes blank due to her mind being held in thrall, she lay on a cot in a rumpled sky-blue taffeta evening dress.
“What does her aura look like?” Moira asked.
“Murky-gray with splotches of blood-red, muddy-brown and black. It’s really ugly.”
“If that’s a true reflection of her soul, then that’s pretty ugly,” Moira allowed.
“It is. That’s exactly what her soul looks like. Moira, she’s only thirty-five. What could do that so quickly?”
“The blood red is usually evidence of abuse. The larger the blot, the younger she was and the more traumatic it was. I see it in children who have been raped. The muddy-brown spots are venal sins, often the result of acts of cruelty she’s committed. The black is major cruelty and death. Larger blots might mean multiple deaths, or the death of a true innocent, a child.”
“Well, from what I picked up last night, that describes her pretty well. She’s had an incestuous relationship with her father since she was a child, and it’s still going on. She’s a sadist. She enjoys torturing and killing people. And she’s a sexual sadist, a really nasty dominatrix. She also thinks she’s a succubus.”
Rebecca’s head jerked around and she asked, “Thinks?”
“Yeah, she’s an S-carrier. She’s never met a real succubus, so she thinks that’s what she is. She also has a very imperfect understanding of the Kashani Gift. She’s mixed a lot of mythical demon crap into her persona. She actually does drain men to death, thinking she’s sending them to hell.”
“God,” Rebecca whispered, “if she’s a carrier … how many men?”
“Oh, she doesn’t drain all of them. She knows she doesn’t have to. Her father beats her if she drains him. Only those she thinks deserve to die. No society would allow someone who kills several times a day to remain free,” Brenna told them.
Succubus Rising, An Urban Fantasy (The Telepathic Clans Saga) Page 11
