by Elana Brooks
Adrian swirled the ice in his nearly empty glass. “You’re not the first person to think so. But he is the strongest psychic currently in the Covenant. Plus, his visions are unusual. Most people with precognition see the event itself, but Steve sees the decisions that lead to it.”
He warmed to his subject. “He’s been studying the Covenant’s records, trying to piece together exactly how precognition works. As far as he can tell, the future isn’t set. At any given moment a million things are going on that can influence what’s going to happen one way or another. But sometimes a certain outcome becomes so likely it can be foreseen. People with the talent tend to get flashes when a decision is made or a chance event happens that will directly result in something dramatic. So for instance, one of the Eight had a vision of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. As near as we’ve been able to figure, it happened at the same moment the Japanese military gave the final order to proceed. Steve thinks that before that moment the future was in too much flux for any one course of events to be probable enough to generate a warning.”
“So if that had been Steve, he would have seen the order being issued, instead of the bombs falling?”
“Exactly. We think his talent is just different enough that the Seraphim’s shield doesn’t work on him.”
Rosalia’s eyes narrowed and she stared into the distance past Adrian’s shoulder. “I suppose that’s a reasonable theory.”
The silence stretched to an uncomfortable length. Adrian didn’t want to interrupt her thoughts, but it seemed as if Rosalia had forgotten he was there. Finally, he cleared his throat and offered, “We do know that foreseen events can be changed. Several times major disasters have been averted because a Covenant member had a vision, and someone was in the right place to get word and take action in time. Usually, though, it’s been too late by the time the warning arrived to do anything about it.”
Rosalia eyes came back into focus, and she nodded. “That’s been my experience, too. So you think what Steve saw just happened?”
“Yeah. Or at least, however long ago it took for the information to travel at the speed of light from wherever the aliens are now. Not long, maybe as little as a few days.”
Rosalia swirled her drink, drank the last swallow, and set it down. “Sounds like we have a good reason to celebrate.” She rose and moved behind his chair. With skillful hands she kneaded his shoulders. Keeping her voice light, she asked, “Would you like to come up to my room with me?”
“Rosalia, I—” Conflicting emotions assailed Adrian. Her hands felt good on his body, and in the past he might well have taken her up on her offer. But now his heart rebelled so strongly at the thought he had to lock down his reaction so Rosalia didn’t sense just how much the idea dismayed him. It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t respond to her invitation. “Much as I might like to, I can’t. I—it’s complicated. But it’s not a good idea. Not now. Probably not ever.”
She nodded and took her hands off his shoulders. “I understand.” Either she wasn’t terribly disappointed, or she hid her feelings well. “Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight.” He watched as she gathered up her purse and left the bar. Even the enjoyable view from the rear didn’t change the odd way that, though he could appreciate her sexiness in an abstract way, she held no appeal whatsoever to him personally.
He drained the last swig of his beer and thought seriously about ordering another. Had the damn soul bond destroyed his ability to be attracted to any woman except Beverly? If she remained cold to him, as seemed only too likely, was he stuck with celibacy for the rest of his life?
At least it looked like he’d have plenty of time to work on her, without so much pressure. If he couldn’t manage to win her over in eight years, maybe the Seraphim deserved to win. Laughing to himself, he paid for the drinks and headed for the elevator.
Chapter 9
Beverly glowered at the real estate agent. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she’d had way too much practice hiding her feelings to let them escape. “Fine. I’ll take it. What do I have to sign?”
The woman produced a lease and walked her through the process. After the landlord had signed and handed over the keys, Beverly shook hands all around and ushered them out the door. Then she stared around her new apartment numbly.
Nothing wrong with the inside. This was by far the nicest of all the apartments she’d looked at. It was furnished with a plain but attractive sofa, table, and bed. The kitchen was small, but complete. The walls were a lovely shade of pale blue that harmonized beautifully with the ecru carpet and navy curtains. The window looked down on Central Park.
That was the problem. Beverly hadn’t particularly noticed the phrase “walk-up” in the description—it wasn’t something she’d ever seen when she was looking at apartments in Cleveland. But in New York, apparently many of the buildings had been built before elevators became common, and no one had ever bothered to retrofit them. So people used the stairs.
Even when the apartment was on the fifth floor.
None of the other places were better. There was one on the ground floor, but it was twenty blocks from HBQ headquarters, and it was a dump compared to this one. This building was only five blocks away.
She flopped on the couch. Later she’d transfer her stuff over from the hotel and call the shipping company with her new address so they could deliver the rest. But she couldn’t face any of that now.
Today was her fourth at HBQ. Each of the following days had followed the pattern of the first, except that in place of the tour, she started each morning with another session in the gym, and the time in Rabbi Sensei’s office was spent learning about the history of the Covenant and the theory behind psychic powers. He hadn’t told her when she’d get to see the next Memory, but she was in no hurry.
Everyone at headquarters had been buzzing about the lengthened timeline for the aliens’ arrival. Beverly couldn’t bring herself to get excited about it. Five years or eight, she couldn’t imagine she’d be able to learn all Rabbi Sensei wanted her to master. And she was still deeply skeptical about whether the aliens existed at all. Just watch. When time got short, some new vision would conveniently extend the deadline even farther. The threat would remain always in the future, never actually arriving to end the farce.
Her training was going nowhere. She’d seen exactly zero improvement in her strength, endurance, and skill. Rabbi Sensei assured her that it was still too early to notice results, and that perseverance would yet pay off. But with every grueling workout she forced herself through without effect, she became more convinced her body was congenitally incapable of becoming anything but the fat, weak, ugly lump of flesh it had always been.
And of course Rabbi Sensei remained adamant about blocking her ability to astral project. During their sessions in the meditation garden they’d advanced to strolling around the paths, with Rabbi Sensei constantly reminding her to focus on her tether and keep it strong and thick. But soaring above the earth might as well have been a dream after all, for all the possibility of it ever happening again.
Groaning, she dragged herself off the couch and headed down the long, long flights of stairs. Going down wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been for the knowledge that very soon she’d be climbing up again.
Outside, twilight was falling. She grabbed a greasy slice of pizza from one of the hole-in-the-wall restaurants that were everywhere to tide her over until supper. At least now she could buy some groceries and cook for herself. Eating at restaurants every night got old after a while.
At the hotel, packing her stuff only took a few minutes. She turned in her key at the desk and dragged the wheeled suitcase through the streets.
Close to her apartment she spotted a corner grocery and went in. It was tiny and alien-feeling compared to the supermarkets she was used to, but it had milk and cereal and eggs for breakfast, and a package of chicken thighs and a can of green beans for supper.
On her way to the front she spotted a box of graham cr
ackers peeking from behind a package of ramen noodles. She hesitated. She surely didn’t need them, but damn, she could use some comfort right now. She bit her lip, then grabbed the box and dropped it on the tiny counter with the rest of her purchases.
She had to stop and catch her breath a dozen times on the way up to her apartment. The suitcase in one hand and bag of groceries in the other seemed to gain twenty pounds with every turn. What had she been thinking, buying a whole gallon of milk? She’d either have to swear the stuff off or buy it a pint at a time from now on.
Finally she reached her floor and fumbled with the key that let her out of the stairwell, then with the one for the apartment door. Holding the door open with her shoulder, she dragged her stuff in. The door crashed shut when she released it, and she put down the groceries to lock everything up tight.
Home at last. She forced herself to stash her purchases in the fridge and cabinets. Her clothes could wait; she dumped the suitcase on the chair next to the bed. Then she returned to the kitchen, threw the chicken and beans into a pan together, and put it on a burner. While it cooked, she found sheets and a blanket in the closet and made the bed. As she finished, an acrid smell sent her rushing back to the kitchen. The unfamiliar stove had heated the food unevenly. Half was burnt, the other half still almost raw. She rearranged the chicken, then hovered until it lost the last traces of pink. She cut off the worst of the black bits before sliding it onto a plate. It tasted smoky, but it was edible.
She ought to wash the dishes, but she couldn’t face scrubbing the mess out of the pan, so she dropped it into the sink along with her plate and ran water to soak them. She flopped on the sofa, grabbed the remote, and flipped on the TV. At least the shows were familiar. She let her mind slide into the usual numb daze that let her survive the hours until it was late enough to fall asleep.
The news came on. The anchors were strangers, but the stories of crimes and disasters and controversies were depressingly the same as always. Beverly imagined the glamorous woman reporter stumbling over her words as she told the city about a spaceship full of hostile aliens appearing in the sky. Wouldn’t that make her perfectly made up face beneath her elegantly coifed hair go slack-mouthed and goggle-eyed with shock!
Beverly’s smile faded. She still doubted it would really happen, but what if it did? If what Rabbi Sensei had so earnestly been telling her was true, a bunch of people were pinning their hopes on Beverly. They expected her to be some sort of savior for the whole human race.
And she was going to fail them. There was no way plain, dumb, never-going-to-amount-to-anything Beverly Jones was going to step up to the plate and hit a homer. She’d strike out, and that would be it. Game over. Bye-bye, humanity. You should have known better than to count on a born loser like her.
“Shut up,” she said out loud. The counselor at UC had told her the defeatist voices in her head came from what she’d heard as a child from her parents. They weren’t the voice of objective truth. She didn’t have to believe them. She could reprogram her brain with more encouraging voices if she made the effort.
She tried. Framing the positive statements the way the counselor had taught her, she thought them fiercely at an image of her mother’s face. I graduated from high school, no thanks to you. I finished two years at community college. I got accepted to UC. I graduated with a 3.9 GPA. I got a job that paid my rent and bought my groceries. I didn’t end up dropping out or getting pregnant at sixteen or doing drugs or living on the street like you always told me I would. That was you, not me. I’m better than you could ever be.
For good measure she addressed her father’s image as well. Hear that? I may not be a sorority princess or a valedictorian like my half-sisters, but I support myself. I never asked for a dime of your money after I turned eighteen, and I never will. You don’t have to worry about your youthful indiscretion coming back to intrude on your perfect family ever again.
Instead of making her feel better, her defiant thoughts sent her mood spiraling downward. Who was she to think a stupid accounting degree proved anything except that she was competent to keep track of numbers of potatoes bought and french fries sold? How was that any more meaningful than flipping the damn burgers herself? Had it been worth accumulating debt she’d probably be paying off for the rest of her life, even at the ridiculous salary HBQ was paying her? What did it matter that she’d survived on her own for the past ten years? What did she have to show for it? No friends, no family, certainly no one who loved her or whom she loved.
Now she’d gotten caught up in some crazy cult shit. With her luck, she’d joined just in time to drink her share of the Kool-Aid.
Without really thinking about it, she got up and drifted into the kitchen. The graham crackers were there, in the cabinet where she’d stuck them. She wanted one, so badly, right now. She could taste its gentle sweetness, feel how its delicate crunch would perfectly balance the creaminess of cold milk in the moment when it had been dunked just long enough.
She deserved a treat after her crappy supper. And with all her work in the gym and all the running up and down stairs she’d done today, she’d burned off more than enough calories to afford a little dessert.
As soon as she decided, anticipation of pleasure washed away all the dark thoughts that had tormented her. She hummed to herself as she poured a nice big glass of milk and carried the box of graham crackers to the couch. Even the news seemed more cheerful accompanied by the pop of the seal on the cardboard flap breaking and the crackle and rip of the plastic sleeve pulling apart. Nothing but cool, sunny days forecast for at least a week.
The first cracker tasted amazing. Even better than her imagination. It brought back the secure feeling of being five years old, before she realized her mother resented the child who had ruined her life, before her father had other little girls he loved more than he’d ever love her. When people liked her and told her how cute she was. When other kids would play without teasing her or being mean. When books and toys and TV shows cheerfully filled her hours. When all it took to make her happy, to make her life wonderful, was a box of graham crackers and a glass of milk.
A rich warm glow radiated from her stomach to her brain as she neared the end of the first sleeve of crackers. She should probably stop, but there was still milk in her glass, and she was enjoying this so much. She hadn’t felt this good since long before that stupid yoga workshop turned her life upside down.
A few crackers into the second sleeve, the level of milk got too low to dunk the crackers satisfactorily, so she refilled the glass. A late-night comedian came on after the news was over. His monologue set her laughing even though his jokes were pretty lame.
She opened the third sleeve of crackers. She wasn’t full yet, although she was getting there. She was enjoying this pleasant interlude far too much to end it yet. Her milk needed topping off again, so she took care of it.
She looked at the last sleeve of crackers for a minute before she shrugged and tore it open. There weren’t enough left to make a decent snack another night. Besides, she probably shouldn’t indulge like this again. Once she finished the package, they’d be gone, and she wouldn’t buy more. It was the same amount of food whether she ate them now or some other time.
The last few crackers strained the capacity of her stomach, but it still felt okay. The milk would soothe any acid reflux the excess provoked. She finished the glass to make sure, even though it didn’t really taste that great any more.
Vague guilt washed over her as she gathered up the empty box and stuffed the sleeve wrappers inside. She shrugged it away. Manufacturers made packages smaller every year while keeping the price the same. Just another way of tricking you out of your money. A whole box was nothing, really. Probably not even half as much as one would have held when she was a kid.
She visited the bathroom, brushed her teeth, pulled on her pajamas, and climbed into the strange bed. Wiggling, she tried to get comfortable. The mattress wasn’t bad, but it was different than she was used to.
She flipped over again. Her belly felt enormous, bloated and blobby, impossible to shift into a comfortable position. Her distended stomach strained at its bounds. Acid pushed its way into the back of her throat. She swallowed, forcing it down.
Damn it, why had she been so stupid? She should have known this was how she’d feel after eating so much. How many times had it happened before? Too many to count. Somehow she never remembered in time. Or if she did, the recalled bad sensations were so dim beside the present good ones that she ignored them.
She tossed, more nauseated with every passing moment. The heartburn was awful. She didn’t have any antacids in her bathroom bag, and she hadn’t thought to stop by a pharmacy and buy some. It had been a while since it had hit her this bad. Her esophagus felt like it was on fire.
There’s a way to make it stop, a seductive little voice whispered in the back of her brain. It would be easy.
It would. She felt so sick already, she might not even have to use her fingers. One quick trip to the toilet, and all the aching pressure in her stomach would be relieved.
No. She couldn’t. She was past all that. It had been years. Maybe she still wasn’t very fond of her body, but she’d quit abusing it that way.
Still, would once really hurt? This had been a graphic reminder why binging was such a stupid thing to do. She wouldn’t forget again. Let her get rid of this mistake, and she wouldn’t make another.
She rolled over resolutely, her back to the door that led to the bathroom. She wouldn’t. The pain in her stomach was a fitting punishment for gorging like a glutton, when she should have known very well where it would lead. It would be cheating to take a shortcut out of the suffering. It would serve her right if she lay here all night, in too much pain to sleep.
The counselor at UC had said bulimia was a way to exercise control over something when the rest of your life was out of control. Even if you couldn’t make your parents love you, you could make your body feel good by eating. You could make your body feel bad by eating too much. And then you could make it feel good again by purging. It made as much sense as any other explanation.
