The Astral Traveler's Daughter

by K. C. Archer

  “Teddy.” Clint’s brow furrowed. “Molly was guilty. She got caught up in a bad situation. She tried to fix her mistakes, but . . .” He trailed off as if unable to finish the thought: they had all let her down in the end. “You’re not being objective here,” he said.

  “I am being objective! The Patriot Corps must have done something to my mother, just like they did something to Molly. We’re missing something here, Clint. I can sense it.”

  “You sense it?” he said, his tone just incredulous enough to set her teeth on edge. “With psychic insights? Are you simply projecting your wishes here? Or have you seen something you’re not sharing?”

  She’d seen something, all right, back in Sector Three. “You just have to trust me on this.”

  Clint waved that away. “I trust proof. I know this is hard for you to accept, but if your mother played a part in that bombing, she has to face the consequences of her actions.”

  Teddy said nothing.

  The silence stretched to uncomfortable lengths. He studied her for a long moment, then sighed. “I wanted to do you this courtesy. We’re investigating this lead. And we’ve got to do this right. We’re all under scrutiny this year. You, after that stunt you pulled breaking in to the FBI offices last year. Me, due to my mishandling of Yates’s case and his subsequent escape. I now have higher-ups questioning whether I’m qualified to teach law enforcement, let alone run this place.”

  The admission—that Clint’s position as dean of Whitfield Institute had come under review after the discovery of his role in last year’s Yates scandal—was news to her. But she couldn’t say she was entirely surprised. Clint, Mr. By-the-Book himself, had broken his number one rule to put Yates in prison, psychically tampering with Yates’s mind to coerce a confession. A move that was so far outside the policies he preached that she’d been stunned when she’d first learned of it. A move that proved how committed Clint was to putting members of the PC away. For good.

  “Yates hasn’t made contact, has he?” he asked.

  She sent another burst of energy to her shield, watching the electricity climb higher in her mind’s eye. “I thought he might reach out over the summer,” she said, finding another way to hide the truth without lying. Her fingers brushed the necklace in her pocket. “He promised to help, but you know Yates.”

  “Right,” he said. “I guess I’m not surprised that he used you, just like he uses everyone.” Clint reached for the photograph of Marysue, tucked it back in the manila folder, and filed it away. “What matters is that we both have the same goal. Stopping the PC. Which means stopping Yates. Marysue will lead us to them. If you want to make amends for your actions last year, you’ll be on board with this, recruit.”

  Teddy paused, considering her options. She could end this now. Report her meeting in Jackpot. Give Yates up. But Yates was the one person in the world who could help Teddy find her mother—and not because he wanted to put her in jail. As she considered which man to trust, Teddy stacked Clint’s track record against Yates’s. There was no question that her allegiances lay with Clint. But she couldn’t let him get to Marysue first. She couldn’t give up Derek Yates yet.

  As though sensing her resistance, Clint said, “You got that, Teddy?”

  She snapped her attention back to Clint as he rolled his stiff shoulder. “Got it. So, we done?” She stood, anxious to put an end to the conversation.

  “Almost.” Clint thumbed through another file on his desk. “I’ve been reviewing the plan for our tutorial sessions. Last year you told me about your dreams of a yellow house.”

  “The yellow house?” she said, voice cracking. She was a better liar than this. Maybe Pyro was right. She was losing her poker face. She cleared her throat and tried again. “What about it?”

  “Astral travelers often have their first out-of-body experiences through altered states. Dreams, specifically, when their minds are relaxed. If those dreams felt different, it’s not a stretch to assume that if you’re able to extend your astral body for telekinesis, maybe you’ve also had OBEs during sleep.”

  “I think I would know if I was having an out-of-body experience,” she said.

  “You didn’t know for years that you were psychic.”

  True.

  Teddy mulled that over. Astral travel. First Yates and now Clint. Had Yates been right about her mother’s necklace unlocking some sort of potential in her ability? Immediately, she released her grip on the stone and crossed her arms over her chest, conscious of keeping her hands as far from the necklace in her pocket as possible.

  Maybe that was what had triggered her experience back at Sector Three. Which meant she couldn’t have gone back to that memory without the necklace. No, she corrected herself, it wasn’t a memory. If what Clint said was true, astral travel had taken her back in time.

  “The point is,” Clint continued, “it’s worth exploring in our tutorials. Especially since your OBEs seem connected to your experiences with your mother. This year you’ll be working with Dunn on psychometry—”

  “I’m not a psychometrist,” she protested. She only knew one psychometrist who had the ability to glean psychic information through touch: Jeremy Lee.

  “I know. But all students will learn to use psychometry to hone their abilities. Another tool in your arsenal. It’s especially useful for evidence investigation. I believe that if we find an object of Marysue’s, it may be able to focus your travels. We may be able to find her.”

  The knowledge that she had a conduit to Marysue in her pocket filled Teddy with more hope than she’d felt in a long time. Maybe ever. She was about to embark on a dangerous game, though it was one she’d played before: keeping secrets from Clint while trying to stay one step ahead of Yates.

  He dismissed her with a curt nod. “I’ll see you at the end of the week for our first session.”

  “I’ll be ready.” She already was.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IF ANYONE HAD TOLD TEDDY Cannon a year ago that she would willingly sit on a Zen meditation lawn—actually meditating, mind you, not because she was trying to avoid someone to whom she owed money—she would have laughed out loud. But when she was confronted by the familiar sign (Meditation Lawn: Please Remove Shoes) after leaving Clint’s office, Teddy kicked off her combat boots and sat cross-legged on the grass.

  She took a deep breath and felt in her pocket for her mother’s necklace. She wished it had come with operating instructions, or at least a warning, like Jillian’s natural vetiver-patchouli essential oil: not to be taken orally. She tried to center herself, to pull up Dunn’s meditation techniques. She could do this on her own. She’d done it a day ago in Sector Three.

  But no matter how calm she willed her mind, and how hard she pushed to try to connect to the necklace, nothing happened. The sky began to darken, the wind picked up, and Teddy had to face the facts: she was still sitting barefoot and cross-legged on the grass and about to get rained on.

  Teddy pulled on her boots and climbed the stairs to the third floor of Harris Hall. As second-years, Teddy and Jillian had been given a bigger room than the year before. It had the same austere pine furniture and cots as their previous quarters, but with two large windows and a sunny exposure, it was definitely a step up. If only the view was a little more inspiring than Alcatraz.

  Jillian had already made her mark. Potted ivy, lavender, and sage lined the windowsills. A colorful quilt was draped over one of the beds, a framed vinyl album cover of the Grateful Dead hung by a dresser. Teddy’s gaze settled on what lay beneath it: a photo of Jillian and Eli in an antique silver frame. She picked it up for a closer look. Eli and Jillian stood in front of an animal shelter. Jillian held a rangy-looking mutt. Eli held Jillian. They both beamed.

  The door opened and Jillian entered, wrapped in a brightly patterned bathrobe, hair dripping wet from the shower.

  Teddy put down the photograph. “How’s it possible that you’ve already unpacked, decorated, and showered? I’m still wearing the same underwear
from before we left for Jackpot,” she said.

  Jillian shrugged, set aside her shower caddy, and tugged a comb through her tangle of long blond curls. As she did, Teddy noticed the new earrings again, the bars glinting in her friend’s ears. She’d messed up by forgetting Jillian’s birthday.

  Teddy was determined to make amends. She made her way to her side of the room, unzipped her duffel, and pulled out her sheets. “How about we hit the Cantina Friday night?” she said. “I hear since we made it through our first year, we can leave campus as we please.” Jillian remained silent, so Teddy kept rambling. “Or would you rather venture to San Francisco? I owe you birthday drinks.”

  “Actually, I’ve already made plans to meet someone at the Cantina on Friday.”

  “Already? You’ve unpacked, decorated, showered, and made plans?” Teddy let out a laugh that sounded pathetic even to her ears. “Second-year meet-up I didn’t know about?”

  Jillian shook her head. “I’m meeting Eli. We have to go over some HEAT business that I didn’t get to before I left for Jackpot.”

  “Eli’s coming here? To the Cantina? Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  Jillian shrugged. “He thinks Whitfield is for law enforcement training, just like everyone else.”

  “Still,” Teddy said. Though technically, it wasn’t against the rules, the fact that Jillian had invited a nonpsychic to Angel Island put her on edge. If Eli found out what really happened at their super-secret psychic training facility . . . What would the consequences be for Jillian? Expulsion? Teddy couldn’t lose someone else. “Don’t you think it’s a little risky?”

  Jillian turned to look at her. “Listen, Teddy, if there’s anything I’ve learned from being your friend, it’s that some risks are worth it. I like this guy.” She blushed. “Maybe even more than I should, considering how long I’ve known him.”

  That Teddy could understand. Hearts on the table. But there was something about Eli that Teddy didn’t like. And it wasn’t just his cargo shorts.

  But she bit back her criticism and any mean-spirited comments about Eli’s street style. “If you’re happy, I’m happy too,” she said. It was a lie. A big one. She hoped Jillian couldn’t see through her poker face.

  Jillian smiled. “Thanks, I am.”

  Teddy turned back to her duffel bag and watched as Jillian took out a notebook and a small manual about interpreting canine dreams. Jillian had always been Teddy’s shoulder to lean on when she needed it. And Teddy needed her now. The possibility of Marysue’s involvement in the darker aspects of the Patriot Corps remained something Teddy refused to accept.

  “So,” Teddy began, trying to change the subject, “I met with Clint today. He had a theory about my mom. He thinks she was an active participant in that New York bombing.”

  Jillian looked up from her notebook. “It’s definitely a possibility, right?”

  “Well, yeah. But . . .” Teddy took a breath. “He wants me to help track her down. Bring her to justice, like Yates.”

  “That makes sense, I guess. For Clint.” Jillian glanced down at her work. “Hey, I’ve got to get this done. Can we talk later? I’m going to the library to see if there’s a book on animal thought patterns and theories of consciousness.”

  What was Jillian saying? That Clint was right? Just whose side was she on, anyway?

  Teddy looked away, busying herself with tucking in her sheets. She was angry, embarrassed. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

  Jillian grabbed her bag, and then she was gone. Teddy studied the door. She knew she and Jillian were going through a rough patch, but her friend’s dismissal seemed plain cold.

  * * *

  Not wanting to be alone, Teddy wandered down the hall. She found Dara in her room, sitting cross-legged on her bed, a manila folder in front of her.

  “Studying already?” Teddy said. “You trying to make me look bad?”

  “Not studying,” Dara said. “Well, not schoolwork, at least.” She nodded to the corner of her plaid comforter. “Sit down.” Teddy sat. Dara went on, “It’s Molly’s Whitfield file.”

  “Really?” Teddy leaned closer. She had pulled a similar stunt last year, with the help of her occasional nemesis Kate. Teddy had been trying to verify a story about an altercation between Molly and another student. But she’d merely looked at the paperwork, not taken it outright. “How’d you manage to sneak that from the file room?”

  “I may have told the secretary in the main office that I had a death vision about her husband. Grabbed my head and groaned. She freaked and then ran out of the room to call him. Once the coast was clear, it was pretty easy to find the folder in the file room.”

  “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

  Dara tucked a platinum braid behind her ear. Like Teddy’s, her lobes were studded with multiple piercings. “I can’t stop thinking about Molly,” she said. “All summer long, I kept believing I saw her. I’d be walking down the street, and I’d see her turning the corner up ahead. In a coffee shop, I thought she was sitting at the table behind me. Like she was lurking at the edges of my vision, but when I turned to look, she’d just . . . vanish.”

  Teddy nodded, telling herself that was what a good friend would do.

  “I asked a hacker friend in New Orleans who dabbles on the Darknet to put a feeler out. He’s got his connections, but honestly, it’s a long shot.”

  “It’s always worth taking a shot,” Teddy agreed, though in truth she had little faith that Molly would be found online. Yes, Molly was well-known in hacker circles, but under an alias. Or multiple. If someone with Molly’s skill set wanted to be found, she would be. And if she didn’t . . .

  Dara took a deep breath, as though summoning her courage. “So I promised myself I’d do some digging when I got back to school. I’m not going to let her just disappear.”

  Teddy nodded at the file. “What does it say?”

  “Haven’t been able to bring myself to look yet.”

  Teddy opened the folder and flipped past several pages’ worth of Molly’s Whitfield transcripts. Nothing remarkable. That was followed by a page with the heading: Molly Quinn—Known IP Addresses. Beneath was a column of numbers. She showed the page to Dara. “What does this mean?”

  “A way to track Molly’s presence online,” Dara said. “I’ll pass that on to my contact in New Orleans.” She folded the page and slipped it into her notebook. “What else?”

  “Eversley’s medical report from Molly’s accident,” Teddy said, turning to the next page. But before she could finish scanning it, Dara snatched it from her hand. “Hey, I was reading that,” Teddy protested.

  Dara ignored her. Her brows drew together as she skimmed the medical jargon. “This isn’t about Molly’s accident. Look at the dates. It starts from second semester last year. That was before Molly was injured in her fall.”

  She passed it back to Teddy, who scanned Eversley’s summary:

  Subject seems to have had temporary suppression of genetic expression (though not completely silenced). Markers still present in bloodwork. Further testing necessary to track. Subject reports altered mood, depression, fatigue, headaches, inflammation, trouble sleeping. Keep monitoring. Recommend discontinuing medication at this time until further trial research has been completed.

  Teddy turned to the next page. Another entry:

  Some ability returned, but not all. Still cannot determine what the cause of repression patterns—testing points to chemical intervention, but potentially paired with some sort of endoscopic surgery. Pituitary involved? Need to find way to examine—

  “He was experimenting on her,” Dara said.

  “Testing. Monitoring,” Teddy countered, not wanting Dara to get lost in the conspiracy theories she so loved. “After Molly came back from break. She was . . . different, we all noticed it. Jeremy hinted that maybe the PC had helped her curb her abilities.”

  “But Teddy,” Dara said, “Eversley doesn’t work for the PC.”

  “What else
could this mean?”

  “I don’t know, but we owe it to Molly to find out. To find her.”

  They sat there for a long moment. Trying to understand what could have happened to their friend.

  “Do you think the PC has her?” Teddy asked. Was Molly somewhere undergoing more experiments, like the ones her father had at Sector Three?

  “I don’t know.” Dara pointed at the jewelry around Teddy’s neck. “But if that thing really works, maybe it can help us find out.”

  Teddy’s hand went to her throat, where she felt the cool stone of her mother’s necklace. She hadn’t even been conscious of slipping it on. She pulled it off over her head and tucked it back in her pocket. “Jeremy must be involved,” Teddy said, recalling with a chill their toxic relationship.

  “I never understood what she saw in him,” Dara said.

  “Kind of like Jillian and Eli.”

  Dara shook her head. “I don’t personally understand that attraction, either. I tend to lean more toward those who eat less hemp.” She closed the folder. “Distract me.”

  Teddy smiled. “Are you sure? After . . .” She trailed off, indicating the file.

  “We’re not going to find Molly tonight. But maybe I can prevent you from smothering Jillian with a handwoven tapestry while she sleeps.”

  Teddy took a deep, grateful breath and launched into the whole story, starting with the disturbing vision she’d had of her parents in Sector Three, and ending with Clint’s promise to help her hone the ability to use an object as a conduit to astral travel.

  “You know what the travel stuff reminds me of?” Dara said. “The Stargate Project.”

  “What’s that? Another conspiracy?” Teddy asked.

  “You never heard of it?”

  “I don’t go as deep into the inner recesses of Reddit conspiracy theory forums as you do.”

  Dara laughed. “This one’s on Wikipedia. Government program in the eighties, designed to explore remote psychic viewing. Or traveling.”

  “I wonder why they stopped it.”