Blaze of Memory

CHAPTER 12

Dressed again after the welcome chill of the shower, Dev picked up his phone to see three missed calls. One from Maggie, two from Glen. Maggie had left a message saying she’d rescheduled his meetings, but Glen had hung up both times.

Running his fingers through his damp hair in lieu of a comb, he coded through a call to the doctor as he headed downstairs. The house’s security was undisturbed, which meant Katya was inside somewhere. Deciding to finish the call before he tracked her down, he walked into the kitchen and pulled out the blender.

“Dev?” Glen’s voice came on the line. “Where were you?”

“Busy.” He put the milk on the counter. “What is it?”

“One of the Shine Guardians picked up a kid in Des Moines. Looks like a true telepath.”

Dev froze. “They sure?” True telepaths were extremely rare outside the PsyNet—after their exodus, the Forgotten had intermarried with humans and changelings, had mixed-race children. Their abilities had changed in remarkable ways, but they’d lost things, too. The first to go had been the purity of certain Psy abilities—some Psy in the Net could telepath around the world without blinking an eye. None of the Forgotten had been able to do that since the rebel generation.

“Very,” Glen said. “You know the Guardian—Aryan—he has some low-level telepathy himself, and he did a phone consult with Tag and Tiara. All of them agree the kid’s showing clear signs of strong telepathic abilities.”

Tag and Tiara were the strongest telepaths in the ShadowNet—the neural network created by the original rebels when they dropped from the PsyNet—but even their range was limited to a distance comparable to the length and breadth of the United States. Of course, that was impressive on its own. “Is he salvageable?” Dev had to ask that question, though the weight of it was a rock on his chest. He hated losing any of his people, hated it with a vengeance that had turned him merciless.

“Kid was in a state home.” Glen’s voice was tight. “Parents died in a car crash, leaving him an orphan. The grandparents apparently never passed on the fact that the father was descended from the Forgotten, so the poor kid’s been doped up on meds most of his life for his apparent schizophrenia.”

Anger roiled in Dev’s gut. That knowledge should never have been lost. All the Forgotten who’d scattered after the Council began hunting them had been told to keep precise records for the very reason that latent genes could awaken with devastating results in their children. “Mother had to be one of us, too, if the kid’s a true telepath.”

“Aryan tracked her records down. Her great-great-grandmother was part of the original rebel group.” Glen muttered something blue under his breath. “The boy’s fragile, Dev. He’s going to need you—you’ve got a way of getting through to these kids. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had some kind of empathic ability.”

Dev knew it was the opposite the children sensed in him—that he was a pit bull, one who’d let no one and nothing get to them. “I’ll be there.”

“What about Katya? You want one of the others to keep an eye on her?”

“No. She comes with me.” It was an instinctive response, threaded with an almost brutal possessiveness. Something in him flinched at that description, at the realization that he was losing the cold faster and faster.

But Glen didn’t argue. “With the meds currently in his system, the boy isn’t going to be coherent for at least two days, so we don’t need you until then.”

Hanging up after getting a few more details, Dev set his senses to searching. This aspect of his abilities, while very minor in the scheme of things, was an interesting offshoot of telepathy. He could literally scan a discrete area, correctly identify the individuals in each room, and if he was emotionally linked to someone, accurately guess at his or her mood.

Katya was sitting in the sunroom out front.

Her mood was opaque to him, her secrets hidden.

Slamming a glass on the counter, he poured the milk into the blender and scooped in some vitamin-laced protein mix. “Katya!”

She appeared in the kitchen doorway a minute later. “Yes?”

“What fruit?”

For an instant, he thought she’d tell him she wasn’t hungry, in which case, this would’ve gotten ugly—his need to take care of her was a fucking fist in his gut, a violent protectiveness that demanded release. But she stepped closer and picked up a mango.

He gave her a knife. “Peel and chop.”

Taking a second mango, he quickly did the same. He was done before she got halfway . . . because she kept licking at her fingers. His entire body became one giant pulse as he watched her close her lips around a finger and stroke it through. “Katya.”

She colored, misreading that single strained word. “It tastes so good.”

He couldn’t help it. Raising a piece of the juicy yellow flesh to her lips, he said, “Open.”

Eyes locked with his, she obeyed. Her lips—soft, lush, wet—brushed his fingertips as he fed her the fruit and it was the most erotic thing he’d ever felt. “Good?” he asked, his voice husky.

A nod, blonde hair catching the light. “Where’s the ice cream?” An ordinary question, but the way she was looking at him said something else altogether.

Reminding himself that, everything else aside, she’d been unconscious not that long ago, he shut the door on a desire that threatened to undermine his every vow, his every promise. “I’ll get it.” Adding it to the mix, he finished blending everything and poured her a glass. “You’re eating a sandwich, too.”

“I’m not really hungry.”

“Tough.”

The glass she’d picked up met the counter with a bang. “What will you do if I don’t eat?”

“Tie you to a chair and wait until you decide to cooperate. Then I’d feed you every bite.” Shoving bread across the counter, he began to take out the fixings. “Start making your own, or I’ll do the choosing.”

This time, the look she shot him was pure female fury. “Just because you’re bigger doesn’t mean you have to be a bully.”

“Just because you’re a woman doesn’t mean I’m going to let you get away with bullshit.”

She slapped butter on her bread, then reached not for the ham or cheese, but for the raspberry jelly. “Quiet,” she said when he opened his mouth.

Raising an eyebrow, he went to the pantry and brought back a jar of crunchy peanut butter. “Goes well together.”

She shot him a suspicious look but took the jar. Not saying anything, he quickly put together his own sandwich, then took it and her smoothie to the table. Katya followed him a minute later, after putting away the jam and peanut butter with slow deliberation—as if hoping he’d be gone by the time she was done.

When she did sit, she kept her eyes resolutely on her meal.

He was, he realized, being ignored. Grinning, he sprawled back in his chair, his legs encroaching on her space.

Katya had spent her life in science. She might not remember much of it, but she knew she’d been cool, calm, collected, even beneath the Silence. But today, with Dev, she’d come startlingly close to losing her temper. And right now, she wanted to kick his feet away from her chair, aware he was deliberately pushing into her personal space.

Big shoulders, long legs, muscled power, and contained arrogance. No wonder he made her mad. But—She put down her sandwich, her mouth suddenly bone-dry. “Why isn’t my emotional state leaking out into the Net?” Betraying her, warning the others that she was a traitor to Silence.

“You said you were trapped.” The hairs on her arms rose in response to the ice in every word. “It makes sense that the shield isn’t only meant to serve as a cage. It has to hide you, too—the fewer people who know about a Trojan horse, the more damage it can do.”

“Why do you sound so calm about that?” She leaned forward, searching for answers. “For all you know, my task might be to kill you.” A chill snaked up her spine, and she found herself whispering, “There’s a good chance it is that.”

One shoulder lifted in a negligent shrug. “I’m not easy to kill.”

“Don’t be so overconfident. I’m a telepath, after all.”

A silence.

She blinked. Shook her head. “Yes, I’m a midlevel telepath. . . and M-Psy. Dual abilities, with both my telepathy and my medical talent measuring at around the same level. Below 5 on the Gradient.”

Dev knew the Gradient was the scale the Psy used to measure power, with 10 being the highest level. Apparently, cardinals were unmeasurable beyond that point. “Send to me.”

“Dev! If they find me—”

“Council already knows we’ve got some remnant abilities—and I don’t intend to let you go.” Soft words, lethal as blades. “I’ve only got a touch of telepathy. I want to know if it’s enough to ‘hear’ a Psy.”

She sent the first thing that came to mind. Don’t you consider yourself Psy?

Dev tipped his head slightly to the side, a furrow between his eyebrows. “I almost caught it. Like a too-soft murmur. What did you say?”

She repeated her question aloud.

“No.” His mouth firmed. “The Psy cut off my ancestors without a thought—then they tried to annihilate them. Far as I’m concerned, that removes any family connection.” He reached forward with a speed she had no hope of avoiding and gripped her chin, his hold gentle but firm. “Do you? Consider yourself Psy?”

“It’s what I am.” But his question raised ones in her own mind, stabbed phantom pain into her heart. “They threw me away.”

Dev rubbed his thumb over her chin, a slow, intent stroke. “Or you could see it another way.” Golden brown eyes watching her with the same absolute focus she’d seen in that tiger’s gaze.

“What other way?” she whispered, realizing she was leaning toward him.

But she couldn’t pull back, couldn’t be the Psy her fractured memories told her she was. Every atom of her being was focused on the roughness of Dev’s skin against hers, the angles and planes of his face in the sunlight, the shape of his mouth as he said, “That they gave you to me.”