The assassin shivered. Why him? As far as he could see there was only one kind of help he was qualified to give, and very few people ever asked for it for themselves. In fact, they usually paid large sums for it to be given as a surprise present to other people. He wondered what was happening to Wonse that made any alternative seem better . . .
Wonse sat alone in the dark, ruined hall. Waiting.
He could try running. But it'd find him again. It'd always be able to find him. It could smell his mind.
Or it would flame him. That was worse. Just like the Brethren. Perhaps it was an instantaneous death, it looked an instantaneous death, but Wonse lay awake at night wondering whether those last micro-seconds somehow stretched to a subjective, white-hot eternity, every tiny part of your body a mere smear of plasma and you, there, alive in the middle of it all ...
Not you. I would not flame you.
It wasn't telepathy. As far as Wonse had always understood it, telepathy was like hearing a voice in your head.
This was like hearing a voice in your body. His whole nervous system twanged to it, like a bow.
Rise.
Wonse jerked to his feet, overturning the chair and banging his legs on the table. When that voice spoke, he had as much control over his body as water had over gravity.
