Blaze of Memory

She opened her mouth, then closed it. “Tomorrow. Good night, Dev.”

He wondered if she’d been about to ask him to stay before thinking the better of it. The sense of loss lay heavy on his shoulders as he got off the bed and picked up his T-shirt. Then, unable to simply leave, he moved back to the bed to press a kiss on the exposed curve of her neck. “Have good dreams.”

Half an hour later, as Katya finished dressing, she held Dev’s final comment close to her heart. There’d been such care in those words, such tenderness. It had made her hesitate, but this was her only option now that she’d given up on getting him to enter her mind. He would be furious, but he’d also be safe—she couldn’t hurt him from so far away.

Doubt hit again.

What if her actions weren’t her own? What if she was meant to run, to go wherever it was her heart and soul insisted she go? What if the compulsion was only another clever trap?

“No.” She knew these thoughts were her own. She knew. But how? Frowning in concentration as she laced up her sneakers, she felt a headache coming on. But this time she didn’t retreat. . . and the answer appeared from the mists.

“You’re a blunt instrument, nothing more.” A single fingertip touching her forehead. “There’s no room for subtlety.”

“Why?” she asked, too numb to be afraid anymore.

She didn’t expect an answer, was surprised when he spoke again. “Subtlety requires mind control. You’re not worth that much of my time.”

“What am I supposed to do until the triggers activate?”

“You’ll exist. Though, of course, not much of you is left anymore.” A spreading blackness in her mind, tentacles digging deep, clawing and vicious.

Swallowing a cry of agony, Katya bent over, fist pressed to her stomach. Oh, God, it had hurt when he’d done that. It had hurt so very badly. She’d been little more than the most primitive of creatures by then, but she remembered the final torture, the final obliteration of her psyche.

“But I didn’t die, you bastard,” she whispered, rising to a standing position though nausea continued to churn in her stomach, a trickle of blood snaking out of her nose. Wiping it with a tissue, she stared at the door. “And when you locked me in this prison, you also freed me.” Because no one could strike at her through the PsyNet. No one could spy on her. No one could stop her.

All she had to do was get out of this house.

Which might’ve proved very difficult had there only been the three other adults in the house. All three were dangerous. And Dev . . . well, she wasn’t even going to think about taking him on in a physical fight.

But there was a fifth person here. A telepath.

He’d contacted her yesterday, while Sascha was visiting—Katya didn’t know how he’d circumvented Tag. When that curious mind had brushed hers, she’d been so startled, she hadn’t pulled back. And he’d talked to her.

I’m sorry they scared you away last time.

Surprised at the clarity of that voice, she’d answered without projecting, hoping he’d pick it up. They were trying to protect someone. This telepath, she’d realized at once, knowing that there was no way to wipe the information now that she had it. So she’d have to make sure no one would ever again rip open her mind. You shouldn’t be talking to me. Go back before you get in trouble.

A quiet pause. You’re like me. You’re scared, too.

I’m trying not to be, she’d answered honestly. How about you?

I like Dev—he makes me feel safe.

Me, too.

Another pause. How come you want to leave?

She’d sucked in a breath at the ease with which he’d picked out that thought, even if it had been at the forefront of her mind. That’s not good manners, to read someone’s thoughts.

He’d been silent so long, she had thought he’d gone. Sorry. Quiet. So quiet. I don’t know all the rules.

It’s okay. We all had to start somewhere. Wanting to help, she’d taken a chance and carried on the conversation. Just remember—if it’s not something you’d want someone else doing to you, you shouldn’t do it to them.

I understand. I won’t take your thoughts again.

Thank you.

But since I already did—how come you want to leave?

I have something I need to do. Something that pulled at her until it felt as if her tendons would tear from her bones, a pounding, secretive need. But how could she have any secrets? Ming had taken everything.

A tendril of mischief had brushed her mind and it had had a sense of newness to it, as if the boy had never played. I can help you.

No. I don’t want you in trouble.

My mom used to say that boys are meant for trouble.

The utter sadness in that sentence had broken her heart. She’d heard wonderful things about Sascha Duncan—she hoped all those rumors were true. Perhaps the cardinal Psy could mend this boy telepath’s own shattered heart. That sounds about right.

I have a plan. A hesitant whisper.

Charmed despite herself, she’d asked, Okay, I give. What is it?

And when he’d told her, she’d realized the stupid simplicity of it might just work better than every other thing she’d come up with. However, it all depended on whether the child could keep himself awake till the right moment.

So she waited, ready.

But when the scream came, she jumped sky-high. Moving to the door as she heard footsteps running toward the front of the house, she twisted the knob and stepped out into the corridor, heading toward that very area. Her breath stuck in her throat as she passed the open doorway of a room from where she could hear a number of voices. The front door was locked and alarmed in spite of the unexpected interruption.

She moved to the windows. Alarmed and locked, all of them.

Aware her time was about to run out, she told herself to think. She could break a window, but knew she wouldn’t get five feet before Dev, Tag, or Tiara ran her down.

You’re a scientist.

Heart thudding, she crept back down the hallway, made a quick stop in her bedroom, then headed to the kitchen, hoping against hope that her young co-conspirator would be able to keep them occupied for a few more minutes.

As she’d expected, a fresh pot of coffee sat on the counter. One of the three would likely not drink it, being off shift, but it would dramatically change the odds. Sliding out the medications she’d lifted from the apartment in New York, she dissolved a highly specific combination into the liquid.

A quick stir and she was done.

The drugs wouldn’t hurt the others, just make them lethargic, and if she was lucky, sleepy. She could’ve used more but she hesitated—the Forgotten did have Psy genes . . . Unwilling to do serious harm, she retreated, the rest of the drugs still in her possession.

She was back in her room pretending to read when her door opened a fraction. “What was that noise?” she asked Tiara.

“A nightmare.” The other woman didn’t explain whose. “Wanted to tell you not to worry.”

“Thanks.”

And then Katya waited.

There was some movement for the next hour, people murmuring, steps to the kitchen, back to the living room. Sometime after nine thirty, a door closed with a quiet snick—one of the three going to bed. Waiting another