Willpower

by Anna Durand

  "You think your husband will avenge you?" He straightened, studying her without expression. "Or your father? They've already given up."

  She strained against the leather straps. They held tight.

  "It's irrelevant," Waldron said, "whether they would or not. I've no intention of killing you."

  He sauntered to the door. As he swung it inward, he clicked off the lights. In the light shining through the doorway, he looked back at her.

  "No, I won't kill you," he said, and stepped into the corridor. "Not today."

  He shut the door.

  The light from the corridor shrank into nothing, consumed by the darkness within the room. The cold stung her skin. The dark caressed her. She felt the room tilt and sway. Her ears rang. Her stomach lurched. She gulped back her gorge, and digging her nails into the chair's arms, concentrated on breathing. In, out. In, out.

  The dark. The cold. Buried alive.

  Directly above her, layers of concrete. Beyond that, earth and rock and sand. The weight of cars and human bodies and wild animals all rested atop her head and shoulders. An image of the roof collapsing flashed through her mind.

  Buried alive.

  The room whirled around her.

  The temperature plummeted. A wind gusted through the room.

  "No," she mumbled. "Don't, they'll know … "

  The restraints popped off her wrists and ankles. The forehead strap loosened and slipped free.

  The room tilted. Her breaths came short and fast. She tried to stand, stumbled, and landed on all fours. The ringing in her ears got louder as her muscles grew weaker. Her arms trembled.

  With great effort, she forced herself to breathe normally. In, out. In, out. The ringing lingered, though softer than before. Though she still felt weak, her muscles regained enough strength to push her up and onto her feet. She careened through the pitching, spiraling darkness toward the door — or where she thought the door was. She floundered into the wall. Concrete slapped her cheek.

  Cold. Hard. A crypt.

  She whimpered.

  The door was flung inward. It crashed into the wall, bounced twice, and stopped.

  A wedge of light shattered the blackness. Scuffling into the light, she collapsed onto the floor, panting. Sweat trickled over her lips into her mouth. The salty tang seeped over her tongue.

  The room leveled. The ringing in her ears faded away.

  She clambered to her feet and staggered into the corridor. Squinting, she palpated the back of her head. Her vision adjusted, and she spotted a figure across the corridor.

  Waldron stood near the opposite wall. He folded his arms over his chest, sneering at her.

  "You were trapped in a car trunk as a child," he said. "Suffered heat stroke before your aunt found you. Since then, you've had a paralyzing fear of dark, confined spaces."

  "How could you know that?"

  "Before you were cleared to work here, you underwent psychological testing."

  The muscles in her neck and jaw cramped. She massaged her neck. Grunting, she said, "That was supposed to be confidential."

  "Nothing is as it was supposed to be. Wouldn't you agree?" He strode across the corridor toward her. "I knew much about you before today. Now I know everything."

  "You know nothing." She resisted the urge to take a step away from him. "What was the point of this little exercise?"

  "To see if someone would rescue you." He took her chin in his hand. "And someone did. The test was not for you, Christine, but for our subjects."

  He mashed his mouth to hers. She wriggled out of his grasp, hit the wall, and groaned as a torrent of nausea broke over her.

  "You see," Waldron said, "they've been refusing to cooperate in our testing. I've read the reports written by you and your father. I know what these freaks can do. Since they weren't responding to Tesler's methods, I thought an experiment of my own design was in order."

  Moments earlier, the darkness had ripped fear through her soul like a serrated knife. Now another kind of darkness exerted the same power over her. The memory of the isolation chamber would linger for awhile. But the memory of Waldron's dark, soulless eyes would stay with her forever.

  She shivered.

  "Which one was it?" Waldron asked. "I want the name. Was it Janet Austen?"

  "Go to hell."

  A drop of sweat trickled down her temple. Waldron touched it with his fingertip, letting the drop roll onto his skin. He ran the back of his hand down her cheek.

  "I know," he whispered, "Janet Austen is a pseudonym. And she's been missing from the facility since I took control a month ago. None of the other subjects will reveal her true identity." He patted her cheek. "You, however, will."

  She glowered at him but said nothing. He would not goad her into blurting out the information in a fit of anger.

  His smile made her stomach twist. He growled, "You will tell me her name."

  "You should've killed me."

  "Locking you in that room." He shook his head slowly. "It's not the worst I could do to you."

  He strolled down the corridor, entered the elevator, and was gone.

  Christine dropped onto her knees and cried.

  Present Day

  Grace stared at the computer screen without seeing the words displayed on it. The world around her had become a kind of dream, detached and blurry. The more she learned about her mother's ordeal, the deeper the numbness infiltrated her. Although she understood David's words, and recognized their meaning, she felt nothing in response. Nothing.

  And that frightened her more than anything else.

  Maybe she was too exhausted to feel anything. Maybe the truth overwhelmed her.

  She had asked for the truth — no, demanded it — and now that David had told her, she wondered if she really wanted it. Her life might end today. What did the truth matter?

  It did matter, though, a great deal. Despite the numbness, despite the ice spreading through her veins, she needed to understand.

  "Was it you?" she asked. "Did you rescue my mother? And what took you so damn long? He was torturing her."

  "I wasn't there. Tesler had me conducting RV sessions at the time and, well, I couldn't sense anything outside of the session parameters. Later, Christine told me what had happened because, like you, she assumed I was the one who helped her. But it wasn't me."

  "Then who was it?"

  "You."

  She glanced at him sideways. "Me?"

  He nodded. "Your parents had sent you back to Texas, but even from that distance, you felt your mother's anguish and couldn't keep from intervening." His lips twisted into a wry smile. "You always have been stubborn."

  A warm feeling melted the ice inside her. It wasn't desire this time, but something gentler and more meaningful. Comfort. Familiarity. Affection.

  "What else did you see?" she asked. "While you were spying on my mother, I mean."

  "I wasn't spying."

  "Yes, you were. It's not a criticism, it's just a statement of fact."

  He made a face, one she'd learned to interpret. The one that conveyed exasperation and fondness simultaneously. The one he gave her quite often.

  "Tell me what you saw," she said.

  "A month after the scene with Waldron, I sensed a psychic disturbance — a big one — and I followed it." He hesitated. "Into Andrew Haley's room."

  She swallowed, but the rock that had formed in her throat wouldn't budge.

  "I watched them die," David murmured, "and I did nothing. I couldn't — "

  He shifted sideways, turning away from her. She cleared her throat to regain his attention. He tensed but refused to look at her.

  "I couldn't manifest," he said. "Without that, I can't affect the environment. To manifest, you need a connection between the host and the traveler. I didn't have that with Christi
ne or Mark. I've only ever had that with you."

  "But Sean manifested for me too. I don't feel very connected to him."

  "He didn't manifest. At least, not on his own."

  She opened her mouth. No sound came.

  "You understand," he said, finally turning to face her again. "Don't you?"

  Her throat was dry, her voice paralyzed.

  "It was you," David said. "Without knowing it, you helped Sean manifest. You are the most powerful of us all."

  She managed a weak "uh" before her voice choked off.

  Snap out of it. The mental order yanked her back to reality, and she met David's gaze. He arched an eyebrow.

  "Fine," she said, "I'm the queen of psychic crap. Doesn't help me much at the moment."

  "Well — "

  "Wait," she interrupted, as a realization hit her. "If manifesting requires a connection to the host, then this other traveler — the slimeball who attacked me in my car — has a connection to me? That's impossible. I don't know him and I don't want to."

  "Sometimes when you follow someone around for awhile, you can develop a connection with them. It's rare, but it happens. And he's clearly obsessed with you, so I guess it's possible the intensity of his obsession somehow forced a connection between the two of you."

  "You're saying he's been following me. Watching me. Stalking me."

  "Maybe."

  "Yuck." She froze. "Maybe?"

  "There's another possibility. He might be so strong that he doesn't need a connection to manifest."

  Her stomach churned at the idea. "Great, he can break into my head anytime he wants."

  "I don't think so. To break into your mind like that, he must've needed a tool for picking the lock, so to speak."

  "A connection."

  "No, something else."

  The creep and his "tool" could wait. She had other things on her mind right now.

  Knowing the facts of her parents' deaths would give her a clue. To what, she didn't know. She simply knew she must hear the story, must understand the events, before she proceeded with whatever she would do next. Well, she knew she must find the facility. After that, her plan got a little fuzzy. Okay, a lot fuzzy.

  "Finish the story," she said. "Tell me how they died."

  Seven Months Earlier

  Inside her pocket, the tablet beeped. Christine pulled out the device and brought up the message that awaited her perusal. "RV15 agitated," the message read. "Need your assistance — Tesler."

  Andrew was acting up again. She stuffed the tablet in her pocket. Rubbing her neck, she thanked God the facility had gone into night mode an hour ago, plunging the corridors into twilight. Even that half-light, however, stung her eyes and she squinted. Her head throbbed and her neck ached. The day, which had begun at dawn, now dragged on past dusk. Ever since Waldron and his gang had taken over the facility, the term work day had ceased to mean "working in the daytime." These days it meant working whenever and for as long as Waldron commanded. He hadn't been exaggerating for effect when he called the facility's employees his vassals. They were more like indentured servants whose terms of service Waldron could extend for as long as he liked.

  Christine scuffled down the corridor. At Andrew's room, she unlocked the door and entered. The lamp in the corner bathed a quarter of the room in milky light. On the bed, within the cone of illumination, Andrew lay still. No one else was in the room.

  Tesler had sent the message. He'd summoned her here.

  In that message, sent mere seconds earlier, Tesler called Andrew "agitated." She crossed the room, stopping at the bedside. Andrew's eyes jiggled beneath his closed lids. His chest rose and fell in a shallow rhythm.

  Agitated? He was asleep.

  As she reached into her pocket for the tablet, the door opened. Mark stumbled into the room, leaving the door open as he shuffled to the bedside. Shoulders slumped, eyes bloodshot, he stopped beside Christine.

  "You called me?" he said.

  "No, I got a message from Tesler to come right away."

  "Message I got said it was from you."

  She brushed a strand of greasy hair from his forehead. "Honey, you look tired. Go get some rest. I'll handle this."

  "It's him."

  "What?"

  Mark stared at Andrew. He stood immobile and stiff, his unblinking gaze locked on the man who slumbered on the bed.

  "Get out," Mark hissed. "Run."

  "What?"

  "Dammit, Christine, run." Mark lifted his gaze, eyes wide and staring into an empty, shadowed corner of the room. "He's coming."

  She took a step backward. A voice inside urged her to heed his advice. She couldn't leave, though, couldn't abandon her husband with … what? Who was he talking about? Who was coming? What was coming?

  Her gut twisted. Deep in her mind, she knew. Oh God, she knew.

  Andrew's eyes opened. He turned his bleary gaze on her. His eyes shimmered green, as if lit from within. When travelers engaged their psychic abilities at a high level, it caused an eerie green or blue glow in the eyes — but only in the eyes of their astral bodies, not in their real eyes.

  She wanted to back up to the doorway, turn, and run out of the room. Her body refused to obey her commands, though, staying frozen to the spot beside Andrew's bed.

  "He comes for you," Andrew said, his voice rough and dry as sandpaper. He thrust a hand out to her, and she stumbled backward another step, out of his reach. Andrew's fingers worked as if trying to find her by touch. He said, "He wants the golden girl. Save her. The golden light is too bright. Save her."

  Christine stared at Andrew. Her heart pounded so hard against her ribs that her chest ached. She felt light-headed, but oh dear heaven she could not pass out. Not here. Not now.

  Andrew jerked. His eyes rolled back in his head. In a strangled voice, he shouted, "Go! Go!"

  Then he collapsed onto the bed. His eyelids fluttered shut as his body went still.

  Mark seized her arm and dragged her toward the doorway.

  The door slammed shut in front of them.

  A chilly wind gusted through the room. Goose bumps rose on Christine's arms. Mark grasped the doorknob and twisted. The knob refused to move. He yanked on it until his face turned red with the effort, but still the knob would not budge.

  From behind them, an inhuman voice spoke. "I know your secret."

  The hairs on the back of her neck stiffened. She turned sideways to search the shadows for a silhouette, but saw none. A traveler had entered the room, though not one of the travelers she knew. Only three remained at the facility, and of those only David could've managed to track her. But even if he had, he lacked the ability to manipulate the environment. This new traveler, she sensed, called upon more power than anyone except Grace.

  "Give her to me," the voice demanded. "The golden girl is mine."

  Christine hugged her arms to her chest. Golden girl. She had a horrible feeling she knew exactly what the traveler wanted. No way in hell would she grant it to him. Her own life didn't matter. She could not let this man, whoever he was, have what he wanted. She must stop him. He must never get his hands on her daughter.

  Stop him how? He wasn't here. Come on, Christine, think of something.

  Andrew's limp body lay crumpled on the bed. He'd tried to warn her.

  "I won't help you," she said to the empty air.

  Mark stopped fighting with the doorknob. "No, Christine, don't — "

  "You came when I called," the voice said. "I am more powerful than you can imagine."

  The message on her tablet. The traveler had sent it.

  He knew how to control electronic devices and the environment, both of which indicated high-level abilities. And the green glow in Andrew's eyes …

  Suddenly, she understood. This new traveler must've taken control of Andrew, and some
how that action triggered the paranormal glimmer in Andrew's eyes. But the new traveler seemed to have lost control of Andrew quickly, a fact that gave her a smidgen of hope. The new traveler couldn't read minds, she knew. No one could — or no one would, rather. She had one chance. Tracking her at the facility was easy, because it was a confined space. Most travelers, even the beginners, could track someone through a finite area like a building, especially a building well known to the traveler. Once a target got outside the traveler's familiar, confined areas, things got more complicated.

  "All right," Christine said. "I'll tell you how to find her."

  Mark stopped twisting the doorknob. He turned his wide eyes toward her.

  She gave him a tight little smile. After twenty-nine years of marriage, he ought to know what the look meant. It was a request that he trust her and not interfere.

  Narrowing his eyes, he frowned. Oh yes, he understood. But he wasn't happy about it.

  "Who is she?" the traveler demanded.

  Christine took a quick breath and said, "Her name is Allison Monroe and she's hiding out in the Salmon River Mountains in Idaho. That's all I know. For her own safety, I wouldn't let her tell me more. I knew you'd come after her eventually."

  She hadn't known, and still didn't know, who he was. But she knew what he wanted from Grace.

  Power.

  And dear heaven, if he got it, the world was doomed. No living being should have the kind of power this traveler craved. She didn't even know for certain it was possible to achieve a state of such awesome power, much less survive it intact. The level of psychic energy required must be astronomical.

  The feasibility hardly mattered right now. The traveler wanted Grace. He must never get anywhere near her.

  "You lie," the traveler hissed.

  Christine squared her shoulders. "If you want her, you'll have to search the Salmon River Mountains. That's where she is."

  The air stilled. Silence descended over the room like a heavy curtain.

  Her college roommate's family had owned a cabin in the Salmon River Mountains. She couldn't explain why that name had popped into her brain when she needed a location far from where Grace actually lived. She prayed only that the traveler would take the bait she'd dangled in front of him.