Before that other presence could even gather itself to respond, Tasha was whisked around the corner.
And everything went dark and still.
Tasha?
Tasha?
“Tasha?”
She opened her eyes slowly, the effort demanding total concentration. Her body felt heavy, impossibly tired, and the brightness of the sunlight hurt her eyes. For a moment, she couldn’t really focus. But, finally, she did.
A sidewalk table at the coffee shop. Brodie sitting across from her, leaning toward her, his face intent.
She looked at her wrists, at his fingers wrapping them warmly.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice husky. “Yeah, that’s what I thought they were. Your hands. Thank you, Brodie.”
“For what?” His expression remained intent, and he didn’t release her wrists.
“For saving my life, I think. At least the part of my life that really matters to me.”
—
Astrid accepted the handkerchief Duran gave her and held it to her nose. Her still-bleeding nose.
“Well?”
Her head was pounding in a way she knew was going to linger, possibly for days. For a moment, she wasn’t sure how to answer his demand, but Duran wasn’t a man to whom silence was an acceptable answer, so she finally said, “Remember that thing that happened with Sarah Gallagher and Tucker Mackenzie?”
“Of course I do.”
“I think you may have the same sort of problem with Tasha Solomon. And Brodie.”
“They haven’t mated.”
“No. Still.”
“That’s impossible. He isn’t psychic.”
“No. He isn’t, is he? Or, at least . . . he wasn’t.” Astrid held the cloth to her nose and looked at Duran, feeling despite everything a flicker of real enjoyment. “That’s what makes it all so very interesting.”
—
Tasha was somewhat surprised that no one around them seemed to have noticed anything out of the ordinary going on.
“You didn’t make a sound,” Brodie said, finally releasing her wrists. “Just turned about five different shades of pale and almost stopped breathing. That’s when I grabbed your wrists.”
She looked at him, still feeling impossibly tired. “Did you just read my mind?”
He looked surprised. “Did I?”
“You know, I think you did. Pathways. Maybe they don’t just form between psychics. Maybe that’s it. Or maybe because I was so deep. I bet they didn’t count on that. I bet Duran is not going to be at all pleased. Even if it was his idea.”
She wondered why everything around her, including Brodie, seemed to be just slightly . . . out of focus, somehow. Was this something the other psychic had thrown at her in those final seconds? Was it because she had been so deep in Brodie’s mind? Or because she had actually been somewhere else, some place out of time and space where a psychic would always, instinctively, go to forge pathways? Or look for them?
“We need to leave,” Brodie said. “Right now. Your apartment is closest.”
“Okay.”
Except there was no way she was going to be able to get up under her own steam. Because she didn’t have any steam. She wanted to sleep for about a week. And then take a nap.
Brodie left a few bills on the table, setting his coffee cup on top of them, then came around and more or less lifted her out of her chair.
“Better?” he asked after a moment.
“I think so.” The dizziness had passed. Mostly. She thought she could walk. As long as he didn’t let go of her, at any rate.
He kept an arm around her as they walked across the streets to her building.
“You are definitely reading my mind,” she told him.
“Let’s not discuss this until we’re in your condo, okay?”
“Right. Right. Civilians.” She fished in the shoulder bag that had somehow ended up hanging from her shoulder and produced her keycard. “Gotta swipe this. And then the code.”
“Yeah, I know.” He continued to hold her upright as they reached the front entrance of her building. “I just hope security doesn’t think I slipped you a mickey.”
“Slipped me a mickey. That’s an old phrase. You like old movies, don’t you?”
“I rarely have a chance to watch the newer stuff. Tasha, it’ll look better on the security monitors if you swipe the card and enter the code yourself. Can you do that?”
“Of course I can.” She managed, though didn’t doubt that she might easily appear to be . . . impaired.
Brodie got them through the door when it buzzed. And as soon as they were in the lobby, the one security guard manning the front desk was on his feet, eyeing them.
“Hey, Ms. Solomon,” he said. “Are you okay?”
She peered at him. “Stewart. Hey, Stewart. Yeah, I’m okay. I mean, I got dizzy. So it’s a good thing my friend John was with me.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sir, if you wouldn’t mind—”
“Not at all.” Brodie produced an ID card.
His driver’s license, Tasha thought. She watched the guard study the card carefully.
“I really am all right,” she told him. “Not drunk or drugged or anything like that. Just really tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Stewart handed the card back to Brodie, still clearly undecided for a moment, then said, “I hope you can get some rest, then, Ms. Solomon.”
“That is a very good idea. I will do that.” Even to herself, Tasha thought she sounded out of it, to say the least, and added what she hoped was a reassuring parting comment. “John is going to stay with me, so everything will be just fine.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
In the elevator, Brodie said dryly, “Bet he’s either on the phone or on the computer checking me out as we speak. Former cops are always the most suspicious. Not that I blame him. I’m not entirely sure what happened at the coffee shop, but you really are out of it. He has every reason to worry about you and to make sure I’m not on the books as a serial killer or rapist or something.”
“Then I hope your record is clean,” she told him seriously.
“It is.”
“Good. But they often aren’t, you know. On the books. Serial killers and rapists. I mean, lots are caught, but lots more fly below the radar until somebody finally realizes what they are. And by then the body count can be . . . really high.” She blinked up at him. “I used to work for a lawyer.”
“It shows,” Brodie told her, polite.
“And you’d know,” she heard herself saying. “You used to be a lawyer, didn’t you?”
He nodded slowly. “You get that out of my mind?”
“I guess.” She thought about it. “I guess I had to.”
The elevator doors opened on the third floor, and Brodie kept his arm around her all the way down the hallway to her apartment. She managed to unlock her door without his help, which she supposed was a good thing given that Stewart was probably still watching them.
“So how did they miss the goon squad the other night?” Brodie mused. “We’ve never been sure how they get into secure buildings, but they have it down to an art.”
“Magic,” she offered.
“Smoke and mirrors? Maybe so.” He opened the door and continued to partially support her as they went inside. Brodie paused just a moment in the entrance hall, his free hand slipping into the pocket of his jacket.
Tasha felt something. She wasn’t sure what it was, but something told her some kind of device had been activated.
“What did you just do?” she asked, dropping her bag and keys on the table.
“I just jammed the signal,” he said.
“Signal? What signal?”
“The one coming from the cameras the goon squad planted in your apartment before they left.”
&n
bsp; Tasha stepped away from him, suddenly more alert. “What? They left cameras?”
“I’ll have to check to be sure, but probably. They usually do if one of their visits doesn’t net them the psychic they’re after.”
“But I never saw—”
“They’re very small, Tasha. They can be stuck on a wall at the edge of a picture frame or mirror, under a bookshelf. You have to know what to look for.”
“They’ve been watching me. They’ve been watching me? All the time since then?”
He eyed her. “They aren’t watching you anymore, I can promise you that. Look, I think you really do need to rest. Why don’t you take a nap?”
“It’s not even noon. I think.”
“I’m betting you really haven’t been sleeping well, not since their visit, at least. And after what happened at the coffee shop, you definitely need to rest.”
“I don’t think I can. Cameras . . .”
“I’ll check the bedroom for cameras, and you’ll see me get rid of them. Then you can rest. I’ll stay here, watch TV or something. And reassure the security guard when he shows up in a few minutes to check on you.”
“You think he’ll do that?”
“I’d be disappointed if he didn’t.”
Tasha didn’t wait to find out. She was able to stay awake long enough to examine the elegant cameras, no larger than the little chalk boxes used on pool sticks; Brodie found two in her bedroom, one hidden on a picture frame and one under a bookshelf. But none in the bathroom.
“Why?” she asked him. “I mean—I’m glad, but why?”
“No idea. Maybe the sight of naked people offends them.” Under her stare, he relented. “We think it has to do with all the tile in most bathrooms, and the plumbing. Not sure just how; you can get cameras similar to these in electronics stores and they work most anywhere, but these are a lot more sophisticated than what the average consumer finds. Sometimes being more sophisticated is a weakness, not a strength.”
Tasha handed the camera back to him. “Were they listening?”
“We think so. But everything’s been deactivated now, I swear.”
“In that case, I think I’ll take a nap. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. There are a few take-out menus in the drawer by the stove, most from places open on Sundays. Just buzz the security desk if you’re expecting a delivery.”
“Got it.” He eased out of the bedroom. “Rest as long as you need to. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“Thanks.” Tasha thought it was rather remarkable that she felt comfortable enough to go to sleep with a relative stranger in the apartment. Then again, she was pretty sure she knew John Brodie a lot better than she would ever know most anyone else in her life.
Deciding to think about that later, she pushed the door to but didn’t close it completely, shed her clothes and pulled on a comfortable sleep shirt, and crawled into bed.
There were naps . . . and then there were naps.
—
“So you’re in?” Murphy asked when she checked in with Brodie a bit after noon.
“I’m in.”
It was difficult to read nuances over cell phones sometimes, but . . . “That was brief even for you,” she observed.
“Nothing else to say. Yet, at any rate. They had planted cameras in the apartment. I disabled them.”
“And Solomon’s asleep?”
“Yeah. Hasn’t been sleeping much, I gather.”
“Not a surprise.”
“No.”
She had worked with Brodie for years, and aside from her extra senses Murphy was also highly intuitive when it came to people. So she knew he was bothered by something. And in their world, being bothered by something was seldom a matter best kept to oneself.
“What happened?” she asked bluntly. “Something out of the ordinary, I’m guessing?”
He was silent just long enough to make it obvious, then said slowly, “She needed to read me to know she could trust me.”
“Yeah, we both knew she would. And?”
“She’s . . . powerful. Read deep, and I mean deep. Quick. Thorough. Even touched a few places I don’t believe any of our psychics have touched before.” He didn’t explain that intriguing bit, just continued in a voice just this side of grim. “But then something else happened.”
“What?”
“I’m not quite sure. It was almost like . . . she was in my mind, but somewhere else as well, almost like she went through a doorway and into a dark place where I couldn’t see or sense her. That’s never happened before when I’m being read or scanned.”
“She wasn’t still there, in your mind?”
“I honestly don’t know. For a while, I couldn’t sense anything. Then I got the strong feeling she was in trouble. And somehow, I was able to find her, reach her. Hold on to her.”
After a moment, Murphy said slowly, “A few psychics have reported that when they dropped their shields and read one of our Guardians initially, they were pulled deeper, seemingly by a third party. Into some kind of dark maze.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Well, it’s never happened with you before, right? So there was no reason for you to know. Especially since we don’t know what it means. The few psychics reporting that said it wasn’t really a big maze, but a dark one, and that they felt compelled to follow a voice urging them toward the center of the maze.”
“One of Duran’s psychics?”
“That seems to be the consensus. One of his testing one of the psychics we find, early on before our psychics know they can trust us. Almost like they were . . . given a choice. Trust us—or go over to the dark side.”
Brodie didn’t appear to find that melodramatic. In fact, he sounded grim when he said, “Not being psychic has its disadvantages. Still, I can sense a psychic when I’m being read or scanned—at least as far as I know—so why didn’t I know someone else was there?”
“Not sure. Does Tasha know?”
“I think she knows something, but there hasn’t been a chance to discuss it.”
“She came out of it trusting you?”
“Yeah, I’m sure of that. But it drained her, and she was pretty out of it. She did say something about pathways, and Duran not being pleased.”
“Nobody’s ever been able to read Duran.”
“I know that.”
“Think she did?”
“No, I think it was something else. Something to do with the other psychic apparently communicating with her. I’m hoping Tasha will be a lot clearer-minded when she wakes up.”
“If she knows something helpful, I hope she is too.”
“I’ll let you know.”
A little amused despite everything, Murphy said, “Well, since you’re there, I think I’ll take a nap myself. And I’ll keep watch over the exterior of her building tonight while you do your Guardian thing.”
“I didn’t say I’d be here tonight.”
“No. You didn’t. Then again, you didn’t have to.”
EIGHT
“The cameras have been disabled, sir,” Alastair reported.
“Of course they have. No doubt the first thing Brodie did when he entered her apartment.”
“Yes, sir.” Alastair waited patiently, without fidgeting; like certain sentries in very visible posts around the world, he was capable of standing still as a statue for a long time.
Which, working for Duran, was something that came in handy more often than not.
Several minutes passed.
Finally, Duran said, “The watchers around her building. Pull them back another two blocks.”
“They won’t be able to see the building at all. Sir.”
Duran lifted his gaze from the papers before him, those odd green eyes of his unreadable. “Do you think I’m not awar
e of that information, Alastair?”
“I’m sure you are, sir. Apologies. I’ll send the order to the watchers immediately.”
“Yes. Do that.”
Alastair slipped from the office, without visible haste but without wasting a moment. All the while reminding himself yet again that it just wasn’t wise to question an order from Duran.
Ever.
Alone in the very nice suite on the top floor of the hotel his team had rented for the duration, Duran sat at his desk frowning in thought. It wasn’t an expression he usually allowed his team to see—and most certainly not one he allowed his superiors to see—but he was alone for the moment, and for the first time in a long while, he was more than a little disturbed.
He had grown accustomed to the fact that their psychics often had problems reading new psychics, especially in the early days before their resistance was broken down. But he was looking down at two names of new psychics one of his telepaths had been able, to a degree, to read. And both had thoughts of the same person in their minds. The same man. A man both had been convinced could help them, if they could only reach him. With their minds, their abilities.
Bishop.
Duran wasn’t at all sure they were wrong about that. It was something he had considered a possible danger for some years now, though he had hoped Bishop would be too busy with his own team and the considerable dangers they faced on a daily basis to even be aware anything else was going on among the rest of the psychic population.
He should have known better.
And now he was left with the worry that Bishop knew at least something about them, about what was going on, that he was likely to make contact with at least one of those opposing them, and . . .
And what? That was the problem. Duran wasn’t at all sure what Bishop would do if he knew what was going on. What he could do. And whether he was powerful enough to discover a truth they had managed to hide for decades.
All Duran really knew was that two psychics taken very recently had recent thoughts of Bishop on their minds.
And no matter which way he looked at it, that was not good.
—
Tasha was reasonably sure she had been asleep a long time, because night had fallen and her bedroom was lamplit. She could hear, dimly, the TV in the living room, too low to bother her. She felt rested and very relaxed.