by Eileen Wilks
“I know what the word means, Miss, ah . . .” He couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”
“I know yours, Mr. Turner.” She sounded sulky.
He could have sworn he’d kept his face in shadow. That was strike two for tonight’s plan. “Call me Rule. What should I call you?”
“Danny.”
“You aren’t a boy.”
“You didn’t ask if I was a boy. You asked what you should call me, and I told you.”
“True. So tell me, Danny, where were you going in such a hurry tonight?”
She jolted as if he’d goosed her. “My computer!” Quickly she slid the backpack off her shoulders. “I can’t believe I forgot—if you’ve damaged it with all your grabbing and rolling and running, I’ll—I’ll—I don’t know what I’ll do, but you better not have hurt it.”
He watched, bemused, while she unzipped the backpack and carefully pulled a laptop out. She dropped onto the ground, legs crossed tailor-style, opened her precious computer, and powered it up. It seemed, to his inexpert eyes, to be working fine. “Now that you’ve reassured yourself, perhaps you could answer a few questions. Let’s start with why Homeland Security believes you’re a terrorist.”
“I expect Mr. Smith told them that.” She didn’t seem bothered by the idea. Her whole attention was focused on her computer. “That works . . . the drive’s okay . . . but there’s no Wi-Fi here. I can’t check the modem.”
“Is Mr. Smith with Homeland Security?”
“No, he’s NSA. I’ve been on the run from him for eleven months, one week, and three days.”
“Have you now.” Should he add the NSA to his list of federal agencies who were out to get him, Ruben, and one or both Units? Or was that one of her fantasies? Or a simple lie, he reminded himself, but he didn’t believe it. She didn’t smell like she was lying, and instinct agreed with his senses. She was telling the truth—or what she thought was true. “And are you a terrorist?”
She snorted and at last looked up, but only for a second. Her gaze skittered away from his face. “About as much as you’re a distributor of child pornography.”
Rule considered her for a long moment. Frightening the girl hadn’t worked. Try another tack. “It seems you and I are both on the run. I’ve got a place to hide and a great many questions. Would you care to hide with me for a time?”
She shook her head, slid the laptop back in its pocket, stood, and slipped the straps of her backpack in place. “I’d better stick to my plan. It never works if I change plans when I’m panicked.”
She assumed he’d just let her walk away. That wasn’t an option, but he decided not to point that out. “Are you panicked? You don’t smell like it.”
That startled her. After a moment her eyes narrowed, as if her current lack of panic was highly suspicious. “Not as much,” she said grudgingly. “I think I need to think.”
His lips twitched. “All right.”
Thinking apparently involved staring over his shoulder while her fingers moved in an odd, deliberate pattern. Spellcasting? It didn’t look like any spell he’d seen Cullen use, but to be safe, he moved a few silent paces away. Most impromptu spells had to be aimed, and he doubted she could see him. It must be very dark here for her.
Not for him. The light was dim, but he saw her face clearly and marveled that everyone had taken her for a boy. Even Lily had done so, from what José had said, and she wasn’t easy to fool. Perhaps his sense of smell informed his viewpoint too thoroughly for him to see what others did, but she simply didn’t look like a boy to him. Not that she was conventionally pretty. Her features were more intriguing than that. Her mouth was as Anglo as his; her buzzed-short hair was pure African; her skin and nose split the difference between the two continents. Her face was long rather than rounded, which must have helped her disguise. So did her build. She was a skinny thing, all angles. But her eyes, with those long, curly lashes, struck him as innately feminine. So did the curve of her chin.
Her fingers paused in their repetitive motion. “Where are you hiding?”
“In the wildlife area south of Whistle. It will be a bit of a hike, I’m afraid.” Not that they really had to walk the whole way. Kevin and Tucker were in a car parked on a nearby road and could easily meet them. He didn’t mention that.
Find Lily. Find the enemy.
His wolf’s priorities were clear. They were the man’s priorities, too. Rule had two reasons for not taking the car. The first was obvious: cars travel on roads, and so do cops. But he had a second, equally important reason. He didn’t just want to hear whatever she decided to tell him. He needed to learn the things she didn’t plan to tell him, too—everything he could about this girl who wanted him to call her Danny. How could he know what to believe, what to check out or dismiss, without context? And she herself was the context.
She didn’t trust him, and no wonder, given how he’d treated her. He needed time to change that.
After frowning into space for several moments with one hand hovering in midair, ready to resume its motion, she dropped that hand and shook her head. “I was planning to walk, so hiking is not a problem, but I’m not much for camping out. I like nature, but I like showers and toilets more. And Wi-Fi.” She sighed regretfully. “I won’t get any of that for a while. But I guess I should tell you about Mr. Smith before I go. You won’t believe me, and it isn’t going to help you much since you’re on the run, too, but I guess I should tell you. You probably don’t know what’s going on.”
That was certainly true. “I’d appreciate that.”
“All right.” She continued to look over his shoulder rather than at his face, took a deep breath, and began. “For many years Mr. Edward Smith, a special assistant to the director of the NSA, has illicitly channeled federal funds to support a clandestine operation that purports to help children with magical Gifts learn to control their Gifts. Operating through a nonprofit organization called Bright Haven Refuge—”
“Bright Haven? In West Virginia? That’s—”
“Don’t do that!” She cleared her throat and resumed what was clearly a prepared speech. “—Bright Haven Refuge for Gifted Young People, which obtains legal custody of orphaned and abandoned minors who meet his criteria, he’s conducted experiments on the children. These experiments include the administration of a secret drug that greatly increases the strength of their Gifts. He controls these children—and their Gifts— through a combination of psychological brainwashing and mind control.”
Rule was silent for several heartbeats before saying softly, “You really are going to have to come with me, you know.”
TWENTY-TWO
DEMI didn’t know what she felt. Everything was such a stew—a hot, lively stew, zingy with spices that tangled in her gut and tingled in her brain. “You believe me?”
“I believe you’re speaking the truth, as you know it,” Rule Turner told her.
Rule Turner. It was hard to believe he was right here, in front of her. Talking to her. Listening to her. It was as if Gandalf had stepped out of the pages of Lord of the Rings, or Jean Luc Picard had stepped out of the screen, to have a little chat.
Or Darth Vader. “I don’t want to.” She was almost sure of that.
“Danny, do you even know where you are?”
She didn’t answer.
“You can’t follow through with whatever your original plan was. I interfered with that. Even if you could figure out where you are, you can’t see where you’re going. It’s too dark for you.”
She scowled and looked down. “I brought a flashlight.” Which she did not want to use in case someone saw it. But maybe that wasn’t an issue. Maybe she was too deep in the woods, too far from any road, too lost . . . a bubble of panic rose, stopping in her throat. Her hand lifted, playing the flute she hadn’t actually held in eleven months, one week, and three days.
“You’re fingering an instrument,” her fantasy-destroying companion said suddenly. �
�A flute?”
No one had ever guessed correctly. Mostly they just told her to stop being weird. Maybe the fantasy wasn’t entirely shattered, after all. “It used to be. Now it’s just stimming, to help me calm down. Why did you grab me? Were you trying to scare me into telling you things?”
“That was the general idea.”
“It was a stupid idea.”
“Yes,” he said meekly. “But I didn’t yet know you. What if you’d really been a terrorist?”
She snorted. After another moment’s thought she asked a hard question. “Am I your prisoner?”
“I’d rather not do it that way.”
What did that mean? That she wasn’t his prisoner now, but she could be? Demi swallowed. “You don’t break your word. Not ever, not for anything.”
“That’s true.”
“If I go with you voluntarily, will you promise not to make me your prisoner? Or—or give me to Mr. Smith or to Homeland Security. Or to any law enforcement. Or let them get hold of me.”
He answered slowly. “Because my word is binding, I’m careful about how I phrase my promises. If you come with me and place yourself temporarily under my authority, answering my questions freely and honestly, I will offer you the same protection and privileges I would provide for a child of my clan.”
“I’m not a child.”
“You are, however, a minor under human law and according to the custom of my people.”
His people. A thrill shot through her. She forced herself to think carefully about the meaning of each word he’d used. “There are things I don’t want to tell you, and ‘temporarily’ is too vague.”
“Very well. If you come with me and place yourself under my authority for the next forty-eight hours—”
“Twenty-four.”
“—for the next twenty-four hours, answering my questions honestly—and ‘I don’t want to tell you’ is an honest answer—I will give you the same protection and privileges I would a child of my clan.”
Demi swallowed and held out her hand. “All right.”
He took it. Her skin tingled from his magic. He shook hands, sealing the deal, but he didn’t let go.
She tugged. “I don’t much like touching.”
“I can guide you better if I hold your hand, but you could hold on to my shirt instead, if you’d rather.”
“That would be better.”
He let go. “May I carry your backpack for you?”
“No.”
“We’ve got about twelve miles to cover.”
“No.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.” He turned his back to her. “Grab hold of my shirt.”
She had to move uncomfortably close to him to do that, adding a new ingredient to the stew, one that made her heart pound. At least it was dark. She latched on to the stretchy tail of his T-shirt and they started off.
She expected him to start asking his questions right away. He didn’t. He didn’t say anything, except to tell her things in a quiet voice now and then, like to watch out for a branch or step over a big rock. She couldn’t hear anything except the sound of her feet scuffing along behind him.
Normally Demi was fine with a lack of conversation. It bothered her this time. “How did you find me?”
“Two HSI agents showed Lily an old photo of an alleged terrorist. Shortly before she was kidnapped, she realized where she’d seen that face.”
“Is she why you’re in Whistle?” That must be it. He hadn’t known Demi existed until . . . “I’m really sorry about Lily Yu.”
His voice stayed even and low. “What do you know about her?”
“Lots,” she assured him. “But she isn’t my fault, even if it feels like . . . but it’s all tangled up together.” She hesitated, then went on in a very small voice, “I think Ruben Brooks is my fault. I don’t see how they did it or what I did wrong, but somehow I must have messed up.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t do that! Your voice sounds . . . don’t do that.”
“I’m not trying to be scary, but I really need to hear what you know about Lily.”
Her brow wrinkled. “Everything I know?”
“Start with why it isn’t your fault that she’s missing.”
“I didn’t make Mr. Smith kidnap her, but he probably did it because he couldn’t find me. I’m not responsible for what he does, so it’s not my fault and I shouldn’t feel guilty.”
“You think your Mr. Smith has her?”
“That’s a theory, not a fact, but it fits the facts.”
“Why would he consider Lily a good substitute for you?”
That was one of the things she’d decided she could tell him. “Because I’m a touch sensitive, too. Just like her. That’s how I recognized you.” The second she’d felt his magic prickling along her skin, she’d known her attacker was a lupus. Lily Yu had described the feel of lupus magic in an interview she’d given People magazine: like fur and pine needles. “You could have been some other lupus, but I saw the bottom part of your face, too.”
“You stopped being scared then.”
“Lupi don’t hurt women. Even if I was wrong about which lupus had grabbed me, I knew I wasn’t going to be hurt.” She added with remembered indignation, “I did not know you were going to throw me over your shoulder.”
“You seem to know a lot about me. Or about lupi.”
That wasn’t a question, so she didn’t say anything. Maybe it was okay to tell him she was in his fan club. She wasn’t sure, though, so for now she wouldn’t.
“Why does Mr. Smith want a touch sensitive?”
“Because that’s how he finds them. The kids. Or how he used to. I found them for him.” Guilt swamped her, as it sometimes did no matter how often she told herself she wasn’t responsible for what Mr. Smith had done. “It’s my fault he has them. I’ve been trying to fix it, but everything’s g-gone wrong.” Tears welled up.
He stopped, turned, and put his arms around her.
She stiffened. “I don’t much—”
“—like touching. I know. I’m fulfilling my word. There’s no way I would let a child from my clan cry and not comfort them. I’ll let go of you the second you tell me to.”
His arms were warm. He was warm all over. Demi felt stiff and awkward like she always did when someone hugged her. She was supposed to hug him back, but she couldn’t. She was doing it wrong. She always did it wrong. But it felt okay to stand there and let him do the hugging. It felt . . . not alone.
She didn’t start sobbing. Demi didn’t know how to cry all-out that way. Her eyes burned and her nose ran, but she didn’t sob. She stood there all stiff and awkward and sniffed several times, and her nose got stuffy, and then she told him that was enough comforting.
He stepped back right away and waited while she dug a tissue out of her backpack so she could blow her nose. Instead of asking her more questions about Mr. Smith, he told her to grab hold of his shirt and went right back to leading her through the trees. He didn’t say anything at all for a while. Then he confused her all over again. He asked if she was an orphan.
So she told him about her mother, who’d been Mr. Smith’s secretary at the NSA. “Officially she was an administrative assistant, but that’s not what she called herself. She used to say that a secretary by any other name will still be underpaid.” As they walked through woods, where owls hooted and her feet stirred up the rich perfume of leaf mold, she talked about HER2-positive breast cancer and how she came to work for Mr. Smith.
She remembered that day so clearly, which was funny, because there were big gaps in her memory. But the parts she remembered were as clear as if they’d happened yesterday . . .
* * *
FOR the last two days, Demi and Zipper had been staying with her mother’s friend Sara, who already had two kids and two cats in her two-bedroom apartment, so Demi slept on the couch. Sara was a hugging kind of person, but she’d known Demi all her life so she mostly managed not to hug Demi. Not always, but
mostly. Demi liked her a lot. She liked Sara’s kids, too. They were a lot younger than her, but that was okay. She liked playing with little kids, even if they were really loud sometimes. But she did not want to stay with Sara and her kids and her cats, who did not like Zipper. She wanted to stay at home, in her own room and her own bed, until Mama was better. Zipper would be happier at home, too. Demi knew how to do everything she’d need to do, how to take care of herself and Zipper, but no one would listen to her.
She’d cut school that day, which she never did, and taken the bus to the hospital. When she walked into her mother’s room, Mr. Smith was there, too. The bed was cranked up so that Mama was almost sitting up. She hardly looked like Mama anymore, with her beautiful red hair gone and her skin so pale. Even her freckles were pale. She wore a green scarf on her head. Sally was African-American and knew how to wrap and tie scarves so they made really cool turbans. When Mama started radiation, Sally had taught her and Demi how to do that, but Mama didn’t have the energy for that anymore, so she just tied the scarf at her nape. Sometimes Demi rewrapped it for her, making a cool turban.
Mama still sounded like herself, though. When Demi walked in, she was saying something to Mr. Smith about Zipper. She stopped, looked at Demi, and instead of asking why she wasn’t in school, she told Demi to say hello to her boss and shake his hand.
Demi frowned, confused. Mama knew she didn’t like to touch people. But she’d used the voice that meant Demi had better not argue, so she didn’t. She held out her hand and shook Mr. Smith’s. His hand was soft with stubby fingers and a little tingle of magic.
“Now,” Mama said, “tell Mr. Smith what you felt.”
“But, Mama—do you mean—”
“Yes. Tell him.”
That was unprecedented. They never, ever told anyone about Demi’s Gift. She darted a glance at Mr. Smith. “You’ve got a little bit of a charisma Gift. It’s really small,” she said apologetically, as if it might be her fault he had so little magic.
