by Jaye McKenna
Miko gave him a rueful smile. “You don’t want to let it happen. You might not be able to stop it. Don’t worry. I understand the risks. I’ve been protecting myself ever since I got here. No one will find out. Federation tech can’t track me. I can move through the data structures like a ghost.”
Cameron clearly wasn’t convinced.
“You either trust me or you don’t,” Miko said.
“I trust you,” Cameron responded immediately. “It’s the Federation Senate I don’t trust. Or this damned investigator they’ve sent.”
* * *
Cam started going through his messages while he waited for the investigator to arrive. Director Iverson’s return had set off a firestorm of communication within the department, and there were already several screens worth of messages to sift through and prioritize.
He’d only gotten halfway through them when his phone buzzed.
“Yeah, Asada here,” he said, not even glancing at the screen to see who it was.
“Hey, Cam, got a minute?” It was Anja, and she sounded down.
“Hey, yourself. You dirtside?” He almost hoped she wasn’t; there was no room on his calendar for socializing.
“Yeah, we wrapped up the sale of the Pagan Lady the other night. Got drunk with the crew, said our goodbyes, what with most of them staying with the ship…”
“Wait, what? You sold the Lady?”
“Can’t afford docking fees for the Wanderlust, otherwise.”
“What about the Wanderlust’s cargo? Did you manage to offload it?”
“Nope. Can’t even try to sell it without knowing whether or not we’re going to be welcome anywhere else. We’re locking things down and giving the crew leave until things get sorted.”
“I’m sorry, Anja. I know how hard you guys have worked to build your fleet.”
“Easy come, easy go,” she said. The flippant tone of voice didn’t quite come off, and the underlying pain would be loud and clear to anyone who knew her well. “We’re due for a change in luck any damn time, though. Any word from the Federation Senate?”
“Senator Cottrell and Director Iverson got back last night. I met with Iverson this morning, and I’m still trying to make sense of what the Senate wants. Nothing’s been decided yet. Iverson and the senator have been ordered to gather information and return for another session in two months.”
Anja sighed. “Two months,” she repeated gloomily. “I’m not sure we can afford docking fees for that long. I’ll have to see about doing some in-system hauling… assuming I can get rid of this damn cargo.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything,” Cam offered.
“Thanks, kiddo. You planning to be at Mom and Dad’s this weekend?”
Cam raked a hand through his hair. “Depends on how things shake out here over the next few days. I’ll let you know.”
“Better let Mom know, too. She was asking me, like I have any control over you.”
Cam smiled at that. “Tell her I’ll do my best.”
No sooner had he said goodbye to Anja than a text message from Tarrin arrived. He’d just met the investigator at the main entrance and was bringing him up to Cam’s office.
Showtime.
Cam was on his feet when the knock came on the door. He opened it and stared at the man standing next to Tarrin, shock freezing him for a fraction of a second. Tarrin gave him an odd look, but Cam didn’t have a thought to spare for him.
The face he was confronted with was one from his nightmares. It wasn’t quite as he remembered it; this face was clean shaven rather than stubbled and bruised, and the clear brown eyes that met his were sharp and focused rather than hazy and dilated from drugs and fear. The hair was different, too, a neatly-trimmed light golden brown, not the tousled, sweat-dark mop Cam remembered.
But the face was the same.
No question.
“Jake Sylvester,” the man said, starting to extend his hand and then drawing it back suddenly, as if he’d just recalled that psions generally didn’t shake hands, a courtesy extended to those whose empathic senses were made more sensitive by physical contact.
Cam managed a nod. “Cameron Asada, director of the Institute.” Cam didn’t extend his own hand. “Thank you, Tarrin. I’ll call you when we’re finished, and you can show Mr. Sylvester around.” Years of undercover experience allowed him to keep his voice steady while his heart pounded and his thoughts raced.
Seven years ago, Special Agent Jacob Sylvester had been Cam’s ticket into Nikolai DeMira’s inner circle. Under DeMira’s scrutiny, Cam had raped Sylvester’s mind, stolen his secrets, and condemned him and his FedSec contact to death. Or in Sylvester’s case, mind-wiping, a chemical process that destroyed a man’s memory.
There wasn’t even a hint of recognition in the eyes that studied him now. The man had no idea that he’d been betrayed by one of his own, his life and his mission having both been deemed expendable. Cam knew it all too well; he was the one who’d made the decision to sacrifice Sylvester in favor of preserving the integrity of his own mission.
“Come in,” Cam said smoothly. “Can I get you coffee?”
“Coffee would be great,” Sylvester said. “We got in pretty late last night. And of course, ship time and Iral time are off by about twelve Standard hours.”
“Happens every time.” Cam led the man over to the sitting area at the far end of his office, then refilled his own mug and poured a fresh one for Sylvester. “I met with Neil Iverson this morning, and he hadn’t slept yet.”
He ought to be feeling relief that the agent he’d condemned had survived and had done all right for himself. There was no way Sylvester could possibly recognize him. That memory — all of his memories — had been wiped from his mind.
Shards of guilt still tore him up inside, and Cam had to take a moment to steady himself after pouring the coffee. “I’ve assigned you a guest suite on the main floor of this building. After we’ve got the preliminaries out of the way, Tarrin can escort you straight there. If you want to take a day or so to let yourself adjust to the time change, we can accommodate that.”
“Thank you.” Sylvester flashed him a warm smile. “I appreciate the offer of some downtime, and believe me, I’d like nothing better than to take advantage of it, but I’m afraid I don’t have the luxury. The Senate is eager for this report. As I’m sure you’re aware, the violence we’ve seen on Alpha, Indigo, and Earth is likely only the tip of the iceberg. They’re moving fast on this. I’ve only been given a week for the observation and interviews, and they’ll be expecting a report upon my return to Earth. I don’t imagine I’ll be getting much sleep between now and then.”
“I don’t envy you,” Cam said, handing him the cup of coffee and seating himself in the armchair opposite the couch where Sylvester had settled. “I’ll make my staff aware that they need to do whatever they can to facilitate your investigation. What can I do to help?”
“If you could assign me an aide, that would be a great start. Someone who knows the place, has a decent understanding of the various programs you’re running here, and can give me a good overview of what you folks are about.”
“My assistant director, Kyn Valdari, would probably be the best man for that job,” Cam said. “He’s worked here at the Institute as both an instructor and a search-and-rescue operative, and he’s also worked in our law enforcement branch as a psi hunter. Let me buzz him right now. Then you won’t be repeating yourself to him after you’ve spoken to me.”
“It’s not necessary for you to deprive yourself of one of your administrative staff.”
“The Senate has ordered us to suspend all operations,” Cam said. “So Kyn’s just cooling his heels right now, anyway. I’m sure he’d welcome the chance to put off his paperwork for another week.”
“Well, in that case, I’ll gladly accept the offer. Sounds like he’s exactly what I need.” Sylvester sounded pleased, and his genial smile only made Cam feel worse.
When Kyn left the
office with Sylvester in tow, Cam closed the door behind them and sagged against it, bringing his hands to his face.
As Eleni would say, the chickens were coming home to roost.
With a vengeance.
He wondered which of the old-world gods he’d pissed off this time.
* * *
For the first time since he’d been brought here, Draven was alone for the entire day. He spent some time in the morning carefully easing his body back into a modified version of the do-anywhere workout routine he’d developed over the years.
Riptide withdrawal and illness had certainly taken their toll. His strength and endurance were nowhere near what they had been before his ordeal, and at forty, he was well aware that he wasn’t going to bounce back as fast or as easily as he had at twenty.
In fact, the morning’s workout took so much out of him, he fell asleep on the couch after lunch. When he woke, it was dark. There was no sign of Cameron, but that wasn’t so surprising. Cameron was the sort of man who was on a mission, and the people he protected would always come first, no matter what else was happening in his life.
Draven made a sandwich for dinner and sat in front of the vid, watching the news nets, as had become his habit when he’d worked for DeMira.
Around midnight, a flyer buzzed overhead. It was Cameron, mythe-shadow vibrating with so much tension, Draven had to adjust his shielding pattern to block most of it out.
Had Cottrell decided to turn him in after all? Draven’s fingers twitched with the need for a weapon, and he was keenly aware that he had none.
Cameron didn’t even see him at first. He came in and shrugged out of his coat, threw it over the nearest chair, and pulled off his boots. His shoulders were slumped, and he looked exhausted.
Tired, red-rimmed eyes widened as they fixed on Draven, and before Draven could even ask what was wrong, Cameron had closed the space between them and was leaning into him.
A hug?
Cameron wanted a hug?
Draven wrapped his arms around him, only then noticing that Cameron was shaking.
“What’s happened?” he murmured.
“There’s… I didn’t expect…” Guilt and self-recrimination flickered through Cameron. He pulled away, eyes meeting Draven’s. “Jacob Sylvester is at the campus. He’s… he’s a Federation investigator… sent by the Senate to report on the Institute.”
“Jacob Sylvester?” The name meant nothing to Draven.
Cameron drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “He was… he worked for FedSec Alpha’s Department of Substance Control. He was investigating Nikolai DeMira at the same time I was trying to work my way into DeMira’s inner circle. Four years of work, and I was so close I could taste it. One psionic interrogation was all it would take to get me in. It was him. Sylvester. I could have saved him, could have told DeMira he didn’t know a damn thing, but… my own mission was too important, and I knew it might be a test. Couldn’t risk it. I… I raped his mind and handed him to DeMira on a silver platter. Betrayed a fellow agent. DeMira had his contact killed, and Sylvester was mind-wiped.” Cameron blinked, and a single tear tracked down his cheek. “He stood in my office today, looked me in the eye, and didn’t remember a fucking thing. I’m the guy who destroyed his life, and he didn’t even recognize me.” Cameron’s voice broke, and he dropped his head back onto Draven’s shoulder.
Draven remembered now; he’d been the one who’d carried out DeMira’s sentence: mind-wipe the bastard.
“You couldn’t have saved him,” Draven whispered. “He was doomed the moment he was caught. If you hadn’t interrogated him, it would have fallen to me. And if you’d lied to DeMira to save him, you wouldn’t have left that room alive. That, too, would have fallen to me.”
Cameron squeezed his eyes shut. His mythe-shadow was suffused with the dull, muddy colors of guilt and regret. Draven stood stiffly, mind spinning as he tried to decide what to do.
He knew what Cameron needed right now. Knew it right down to the core of him. Didn’t know if he could give it. Hadn’t ever been that to anyone before, wasn’t sure he knew how to be.
All he knew was that he had to try.
Cameron had done that and more for him, hadn’t he?
He reached out and pressed his palm to Cameron’s cheek, then slowly lowered his defenses, inviting Cameron into his mind to see himself the way Draven saw him.
Dark eyes snapped open and locked onto his own.
A moment later, Cameron dropped his shield.
No words were needed. Open to one another as they were, Cameron understood the meaning behind the words Draven couldn’t find. Knew every flicker of emotion and what it meant. A spark of recognition flashed between them: two lost boys, each doing whatever it took to survive. One saved by Angus McKinnon, one by Nikolai DeMira, a twist of fate that had set their feet upon such different paths. Surprise and relief filled Cameron at the insight that in many ways, Draven was simply his own dark reflection.
You could have been me… I could have been you…
The truth of it resonated right down to the core of Draven’s deepest self. He might not have been able to put it into words at the time, but he’d known it the first time he’d been in Cameron’s mind, back on Alpha. Known it, bone deep.
It was the reason he hadn’t pulled the trigger the night he’d interrogated Cameron. The reason he’d come to Cameron when he was desperate and had nowhere else to go.
The ground shifted beneath him again. He didn’t recognize this terrain at all, had never been so open to someone else before, and it terrified him. Slamming down shields and backing away looked to be the safest course, except at that moment, Cameron whispered, “I know you,” and lifted his hand to press it gently against Draven’s cheek, mirroring his own gesture.
Draven couldn’t look away.
He drowned in those eyes, in that mind that was so familiar, and yet so alien. Even open to each other as they were, Draven had no idea who the first flicker of desire came from. It came out of nowhere, blazing between them like wildfire.
Cameron’s need twined with his own, burning through him, turning his blood to lightning. He grabbed Cameron’s hand and dragged him upstairs, where he shoved him down on the bed, hands tearing at his clothing, mouth seeking, hips flexing. Cameron’s hands were hot on his bare skin, pressing, touching, stroking, and his own hands slid over the contours of Cameron’s body, squeezing, rubbing, lingering in the most sensitive spots.
The double awareness was almost too much. It was like being in two bodies at once. In one breath, he was tearing the clothing off of Cameron, in the next, he stared up at himself, drowning in wild amber eyes, desperate for someone to fuck. him. hard.
Want, need, and heat reverberated back and forth between them until he couldn’t tell who was fucking, who was being fucked. All he knew was that he wanted more, wanted it to go on forever.
The climax was incendiary, coming down, almost a relief. Their bodies were still locked together, drenched in sweat, aching from the exertion. As their minds separated, Draven became aware of his own body: the sting of scratches, the deep ache of bruises, a hard, lean body beneath him, and a deep, sated contentment.
He rolled off of Cameron and stretched, surprised to discover he’d been the one doing the fucking. He’d been so deep in Cameron’s mind, he hadn’t realized he’d been deep in his body, as well. With their minds tangled as they had been, it hardly mattered who was doing what to whom. They’d both felt every sensation.
Next to him, Cameron groaned as he rolled to his side to face Draven. His eyes were sleepy, but he looked a good deal more relaxed than he had earlier.
“I could lose myself in you.” Cameron’s words were slurred with exhaustion.
I’ve already lost myself in you. He didn’t say it. Didn’t say anything. Just quietly watched Cameron’s eyes drift shut.
* * *
Hours later, Draven was still awake. Careful not to disturb Cameron, he slipped from the bed and snagged an extra
blanket from the pile next to the dresser.
He crept down the stairs to the fireplace, threw another log on the fire, and stood in front of it, warming himself. His mind churned with might-have-beens and regrets, and he couldn’t shut it down.
When he’d first come here, the goal had been crystal clear, even in his riptide-ravaged brain: survive at any cost. Things weren’t so clear anymore, and Draven was at a loss to pinpoint the exact moment when survival had ceased to be enough.
A soft, sleepy touch at the edge of his awareness sent quiet ripples through him. Cameron, rolling over in bed and finding him gone… a flare of anxiety followed by relief… steps on the stairs. Cameron came up behind him, slipped his arms around him, and rested his chin on Draven’s shoulder.
Draven leaned back against him. “What happens next?”
“What do you want to happen?” There was a hint of uncertainty both in Cameron’s voice and in the otherwise solid presence behind him, as if Cameron, too, wasn’t sure of the ground he found beneath his feet.
“I want it to be easy for once,” Draven murmured. “I’m tired of always being the pawn in someone else’s game.”
“Stay here.” Cameron’s breath was warm against his neck, and the kiss that followed was soft, the scratch of stubble sending a shiver of heat through him.
“As what? Your executioner? Your dirty secret?”
“My friend. My lover. Maybe my—”
“Cameron—”
“Cam. The people I care about call me Cam.”
Draven’s breath caught in his throat. “Cam, then. Those people you care about would never accept me as your friend or your lover. Or your anything else.”
“Miko does. Kyn would.”
“Cottrell wouldn’t. He’d have me up on charges if he could do it without implicating you. And there are plenty of others who would help him. I can’t live like that.”
“I could find work for you,” Cam said.
Draven shook his head. “I’m a professional killer. You can dress it up in pretty words all you like, but that’s what I do. It’s all I know how to do. And I don’t care how hard you think you are, I’ve been inside you, right to the core of you. If you start using me like that, every time you send me out on a hit, a little piece of you is going to die. I don’t want that on me, and I don’t want to watch it happen. I think… I think it would be best if I disappear.”
