A Deadly Web (14 page)

“That maze.”

Tasha nodded. “It was inside your mind, but . . . at the same time it wasn’t. Maybe just an image meant to
symbolize something to us, but . . . it felt like something real but alien to you, something artificial that had been placed there, in some deep part of your mind.”

Brodie grimaced. “Don’t much like the idea of artificial things being put inside my mind. How would they even do that?” She was confirming for him what Murphy had suggested earlier, and that made it even more real for Brodie. More real—and more uncomfortable.

But, more than that, it was new information for him, something else to add to the list of things he knew about how the other side operated. And that sort of information was always good to have.

“I have no idea how they’d do it. But they’ve done it before, to others. I’m sure of that. Some kind of test they’ve constructed, used. There was something familiar about the way Astrid was there, a . . . comfort she felt in that place.” She shook her head. “I’m willing to bet if I read you now, I wouldn’t find that maze no matter how deep I went. Because it was only there for a while. Only there while she was there.”

“As a test for you.”

“Exactly.”

“A test you passed or failed?”

“I think . . . it was a result that surprised Duran. I know it surprised Astrid.”

“Surprised her how?”

“That you were able to help me. Able to reach into the maze and strengthen me, help guide me out. How did you do that, by the way? Not being psychic, I mean.”

“No idea.”

“Seriously?”

Brodie shrugged. “I can tell you it’s never happened before, not like that. And not just the maze part. I’m usually aware of being scanned, read, but it tends to be a surface thing. Thoughts, strongest memories. With you, it was definitely something different. You weren’t just reading thoughts, you were feeling emotions. My emotions.”

He didn’t, she noted, seem especially disturbed by that.

“So why am I different?” she said slowly.

“It was new for you?”

“Feeling your emotions, no. That happens, but usually only when I’m trying to scan or read only one person. When my focus is narrow. If it isn’t narrow, if I’m just . . . looking around in a psychic sense, I usually just get surface thoughts, and bits and pieces of those. I can gauge emotions from the thoughts sometimes, but I don’t actually feel the emotions unless it’s those of one person. And never before so strongly.” If it didn’t bother him, why should it bother her?

“Do you think you might have had help?”

Tasha was more than a little startled by that question, and answered honestly. “You made a comment before about me being aware of an alien voice in my head, and I have been, from time to time, a voice that made me uneasy, even frightened me, and I got the sense that was the whole point of it. But the last few days . . . it’s been different. It’s
felt
different. Almost like a debate or argument going on in my head, me and someone else, someone different, new.
As if that someone else were communicating with me. And I believe someone was, even though it took me a bit to catch on.”

“Their side or our side?”

“Well, I was more than a little rattled by it,” she admitted, “but I didn’t sense anything negative or frightening. In fact, it was more like whoever it was, was trying to help me. Do we have anyone on our side capable of that?”

“I can think of one psychic I know of,” he replied slowly. “But that person shouldn’t be anywhere near here.”

“Where should she be?”

When he stared at her, Tasha found herself saying apologetically, “Sorry, but there seems to be an open connection between us. As soon as I asked you the question, I saw her face. And her name. Sarah, right? Sarah Mackenzie?”

—

“Any luck?”

Sarah Mackenzie replied to the voice on the phone without hesitation. “Duran wants Tasha Solomon. Badly. And he suspects there’s more than one psychic from our side watching out for her and Brodie.”

“Since nobody we know can read Duran, should I ask how you obtained that information?”

“Oh . . . just a little out-of-body visit.”

The cell was on speaker, so Tucker didn’t hesitate to say, “I tried to talk her out of it, but she’s convinced Duran will go to bloody extremes to get his hands on Solomon.”

“He will,” Sarah affirmed. “I’m not sure if it’s because she’s just plain powerful or whether he has some idea of exactly what she’s capable of doing.”

“Which is?”

“She has an incredible range, able to read nearly anyone she wants to read. But it’s more than that. She doesn’t know it yet, but I believe it’s just a matter of time before Tasha finds out that she can see them.”

“You mean as something other than shadows?”

“Yeah. I think she’ll eventually be able to see what they really are. Not the shadows they project, but
them
. The first of us able to do that. Assuming, of course, that we can keep her alive and out of their hands long enough.”

“You think Duran will try to kill her or take her?”

It was Tucker who said, “We think he’s already shown his hand there. He could have arranged an accident any time in the last few months. When his goons visited her condo, he could have made sure there would have been a gas explosion later that night. A dozen different things Sarah and I have both thought of. Bottom line, if he wanted her dead, she’d be dead. He was on to her before we were, before Brodie could be put in place to help protect her. She was a hell of a lot more vulnerable, even with all the precautions she’d taken instinctively, yet he didn’t move against her when the odds of success were very much in his favor.”

“So he wants her alive.”

Sarah said, “He needs her alive.”

“Any idea why? That’s one question we’ve never been able to answer.”

“I’m still not sure why, because I can’t read Duran, either, and the others are still shadows to me when I try to see past the surface of them. I could only hear what they said, and we all know Duran rarely says much, even to his own people. But I’m convinced that Tasha Solomon, alive and in his hands, is vital to Duran’s plans.”

“Okay. Not really a surprise there.”

“No, but one thing surprised me. We all know Duran doesn’t show what he’s feeling, assuming he feels anything. Cynical amusement seems to be all he generally allows to escape. That and the cold anger when somebody screws up that definitely scares the shit out of his people.”

“Yeah. And so?”

“I caught a glimpse of something just now. Maybe I’m reading more into it than is there, but I get the sense that Duran is feeling pushed, rushed. I think something has happened, something’s changed. Just sending Astrid to look for a second psychic here to watch out for Tasha shows he’s suspicious, but I think it’s more than that.”

Tucker asked, “
Has
anything changed recently? Something that might have put Duran off his game?”

There was a brief silence, during which they waited patiently, and then she spoke slowly, “We have a new ally. A very powerful psychic. Inside national law enforcement.”

“That,” Tucker said, “would certainly give him pause.”

“He shouldn’t know about it, not this soon. Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

She was once again silent for a moment, then said, “We
aren’t the only ones monitoring psychics, Tucker. And neither are they.”

Tucker looked at his wife, brows rising as realization dawned. “I’ll be damned. An ally in national law enforcement who monitors psychics. I know who it is. There’s nobody else it could be, not with those credentials. He’s in federal law enforcement, right? As in FBI?”

“Let’s not mention names.” The voice was quiet even through the phone’s speaker. “Not out loud, anyway.”

Sarah was nodding. “I got it when Tucker realized. And, yeah, I’d say Duran would be worried about that ally if he knew. A very powerful psychic, but beyond his reach. Somebody he can’t disappear, somebody who won’t play for his side, and who commands almost unlimited resources. Somebody who has spent years learning to understand and control psychic abilities, his and those of his team. Somebody who cares about psychics, deeply. And if a psychic or two that ally is or has been monitoring suddenly disappeared . . .”

“That might bring him here even though he’s supposed to be a background source for us. And, if we’re right about newly abducted psychics being read by Duran’s people, they might have given away more than they intended, even calling out in a psychic sense for help.”

Sarah said, “So whether he’s close or not, Duran could easily know about him by now. And if there’s anyone with the kind of connections to make Duran very nervous, it would be him. Law enforcement at the highest levels—
and
a formidable psychic.”

Tucker said, “Why do I think this war of ours just moved into an entirely new arena?”

—

“What do you know about Sarah?” Brodie asked Tasha.

“What you do.” She shrugged. “Sorry, but it’s . . . sort of automatic with you. I have no idea why.”

“Can you turn it off?” He didn’t sound especially bothered, but his face was more than usually expressionless.

“I guess I could recite multiplication tables in my head or something, but otherwise—”

“Never mind.” He sighed. “Who knows, it might come in handy. I’m thinking I won’t have to explain nearly as much whenever we talk.”

“There is that.”

“Okay, well, then we’ll learn to live with it.”

“You mean you will.”

He eyed her, then slid off the stool and began clearing up in the kitchen and putting away leftovers. “I mean we will. Most people don’t filter their thoughts, and I’m usually no exception. I can project a kind of shield if I’m concentrating, but that tends to be short-lived. I tend to have more important things on my mind than the need to guard my own thoughts. You may pick up things that make you . . . uncomfortable. Memories triggered that flash into my mind without my conscious volition. Emotions that flare up before I can tamp them back down.”

Tasha was making a concerted effort not to pick up anything at all, but the instant he said that, she saw
something she wished she hadn’t. “Oh, God. You had a partner, a young woman. She—”

Brodie interrupted her with utter calm to say, “I don’t work with partners anymore. What I risk is mine to risk. I came into this war with my eyes wide open, and I can take care of myself. I can also take care of a psychic in my charge.”

“As long as you don’t have an inexperienced partner to worry about,” Tasha murmured.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Cait was fragile. I’m not.”

“Tasha,” Brodie said in a warning tone.

“Look, you’re thinking about it. Her. Remembering. I’m sorry, but I can’t tune that out.”

“You can stop talking about it,” he said with more than a suggestion of gritted teeth.

Tasha slid off the bar stool and took her iced tea into the living room, settling down at the far end of the couch. She was wondering if putting even a little distance between them would at least dim the awful images and muffle the emotions in him.

It didn’t.

She started reciting the multiplication table in her head, having a mental argument with herself about the fact that she should have paid more attention in school, because for the life of her she couldn’t remember all the nines—

“Tasha.”

She blinked, finding him sitting on the coffee table right in front of her. “Well, that’s interesting. If I really occupy my mind, maybe I can block you at least a little. Or for a little while. Because I didn’t know you were coming over here.”

“I’ll do my best to keep my mind and emotions quiet,” he told her. “As much as I can, at any rate. But leave that to me, okay? I honestly don’t know if it’s wise for you to even try to shut down the connection. Even temporarily.”

“Why not?” It wasn’t a question she found answered in his mind, which was something of a relief.

“Because one of the things we’ve figured out about all this is that experience—and pressure—tend to cause a psychic’s abilities to evolve. Sometimes get stronger. Sometimes change in ways nobody can predict. For whatever reason, what comes of it is almost always a kind of self-defense mechanism, or can be used that way. An extra weapon you might be able to use somehow to save yourself if you’re facing a threat.”

“And no matter where I go or what I do, I’m bound to face a threat,” she said. “Sooner or later.”

“It’s a war,” he said simply. “The other side wants you.”

“But you’re here.”

“I’m here. And I’ll
be
here as long as you need me. Unless they manage to take me out. The way they took out Cait.”

“They could never take you out that way. Not you.”

“Not that way, probably. But I’m a realist, Tasha. I’ve been in this war long enough to see a lot of our soldiers
fall, some taken, some killed or otherwise destroyed. We’ve saved psychics—and we’ve lost psychics. Those of us who protect or fight are committed, and most of us are highly trained, some former military or law enforcement, or trained by others on our side once we join up. And we can be well armed when we need to be. But we’re not invincible. And not knowing their plans, their endgame, puts us at a disadvantage. All we know, all we can really be sure of, is that they want psychics.”

“But
why
? Why are psychics so important to them?”

“If we knew that, we could at the very least fight them more effectively. All we can really do now is try to gather information, locate and protect psychics, and keep growing our organization of . . . soldiers.”

Tasha drew a breath and let it out slowly. “You’ve been in this war . . . almost ten years. Right?”

“Right.”

“Then you must have some sense of whether we’re winning or losing. Don’t you?”

“We’re . . . fighting a holding action, most of the time. Or so it seems to me. Win some battles. Lose others. Save some psychics. Lose others. Face off with the other side rarely, in the flesh. And even when they’re right in front of us, it doesn’t seem to help. We have hardly more information about them than we had ten years ago.”

“But your army has grown.”

“It has. When I joined up, we had maybe a dozen cells, and all in this country. Now my guess is that we have close to a hundred cells. All over the world.”

Tasha knew her shock showed. “All over the world?”

“Psychics are born and created all over the world; the other side hasn’t shown a preference, really. Except . . .”

“Except?”

“We have people whose only function in our organization is to collect and assimilate information. From all over the world. To look for patterns that might identify players on the other side. To look for psychics. Computers and social media have made that easier for us—and the other side, unfortunately. But if our estimates are on target, America has a disproportionate number of born psychics. Highly disproportionate, relative to the nonpsychic population.”

Tasha frowned at him. “You’re visualizing an ocean. And that’s working, by the way. But I can feel there’s something you’ve left out. Something you haven’t told me. What is it?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, still frowning. “I would say it’s something that doesn’t really matter with you, but . . . we’ve learned to our cost not to think in absolutes. So . . . something else we’re reasonably sure of is that new psychics, those who have suffered some kind of trauma that triggered their abilities, have about a six-month window.”

“What kind of window?”

“Before the other side really pulls out the stops trying to get their hands on the psychics. They follow, they watch, they apparently have some way of determining how strong a psychic is, what abilities exist and how they’re used, presumably by using their own psychics to probe—possibly why that window exists, because it takes them a while to
be sure. Once they are . . . they act. Most of the time they take a psychic by stealth, sometimes leaving an unidentifiable body behind, or the psychic becomes just another missing person with no family to care very much. A very few, they walk away from. Don’t take, stop following, stop watching. We don’t know why.”

“A matter of strength, maybe?”

“Doesn’t seem to be. They’ve walked away from strong psychics and weak ones. Walked away from psychics with every variety of ability. So we don’t know what criteria they use to determine which psychics can be . . . useful to them. But whatever it is, once they make that determination, they move. With utter speed and ruthlessness.”

—

Annabel Blake looked younger than her ten years. But she felt old, far older than ten. It was visible in her eyes to those who could look deeply enough, past the still, placid surface she had learned to show the world. But few in her short life had seen what she hid so carefully and used only when she had to—to stay one jump ahead of her abusive foster parents.

And sometimes that extra sense failed her.

The bruises were easier to hide this time of year, when long sleeves were common. And they were certainly warmer when she chose to huddle outside, as she did tonight, barely a couple of blocks from home and sheltered from the slight breeze by the inset door of an old-fashioned specialty candy store.

It was a quiet night, peaceful. Such a change from her
house, where her foster father was drunk and getting drunker. Ironically, Annabel knew she was less likely to be punished by him for staying out all night
because
he was drunk and would pass out eventually; sober or with only a couple of drinks in him, he usually picked out a target on which to vent his unceasing, blind rage at the world.

Annabel didn’t ever want to be that mad. Not at the world. Not at anything or anyone. It seemed a miserable way to get through life. For him and everyone around him.

But at least he would be out cold when morning came, and Annabel knew she could creep back early and get herself ready for school before he woke.

And hopefully before her foster mother woke. She didn’t drink, but there were pills and she was . . . mean. Unpredictably mean. Annabel didn’t need to be told that her foster mother was mentally unstable, kind one day and explosively angry the next, as likely to backhand the nearest foster child as she was to order them to stand in different corners of the house for hours on end, or lock them in a closet—or buy them a new toy or something pretty to wear.

Annabel actually dreaded the unexpected gifts more, because they usually preceded one of the explosive rages. And that meant punishment. Annabel didn’t like being locked in the closet. That was the worst. She had nightmares about that. So she did her best, when she had to be in the house, to be quiet and still and no trouble. To break none of the Rules of the House—even though that was often difficult because they changed on a whim and were more often than not puzzling.

One day she was backhanded for simply asking, while in the process of clearing the table after supper, if her foster mother was ready for her plate to be taken to the sink and washed. The next day her effusive foster mother had lavished praise on her for being “such a good, sweet girl” because she had set the table for supper, carefully laying out the plates and forks and spoons as she’d been taught.

Something she had done every single day for over a year, one of her regular chores. But never before to praise.

Fosters came and went in the house, some running away or getting into trouble that sent them to juvenile facilities, and a very few lucky ones forced to live in the rambling old house only a few weeks before going to new homes where kind people wanted to adopt them.

The younger kids, usually.

Annabel had no such hopes for herself. She’d heard too often that she was skinny and ugly, that her unusually dark eyes were “witchy,” and that nobody wanted to adopt a girl like her. Her foster mother seemed to take great delight in reminding her of that daily.

All Annabel wanted to do was survive with as few broken bones and bruises as possible until she was old enough to escape. Because as bad as her situation was, she also didn’t need to be told that the foster system was overloaded and underfunded, and that there were worse places she could find herself.

Much worse places.

She had thought she could stick it out at least until she was sixteen, but she knew herself well enough to
understand that the deadline was less about age than it was the lack of an escape plan. She had no way of earning money, wasn’t brave—or perhaps foolhardy—enough to try stealing from her foster parents or anyone else, and was too bright not to know that she could hardly trust to luck or a cold world to provide for her.

Still, in the last few months, Annabel had felt something shift in her lonely world. While reaching out with her extra sense one day to judge whether she could safely enter the house after the school bus let her out on the corner, Annabel had become aware that someone else nearby had an extra sense as well.

It was only a tendril, she thought that day, a brief probing much as she probed herself. She immediately wanted to seek out that person, because brief though it was, that light touch in her mind had felt warm and kind. But before she could do that, she sensed something else, another probing, and it was dark and cold and very, very dangerous.

Someone, something was . . . hungry. It wanted what it didn’t have. It needed what it didn’t have.

It wanted what that other person had.

And what Annabel had.

It wanted. And it was meaner than Annabel’s foster mother and foster father put together. It didn’t put little girls into corners or closets or hit them with an open hand or a fist unexpectedly. It did worse things, much worse things.

Annabel had been very careful after that in using her extra sense. As badly as she still wanted to seek out that
first, warm contact, all her instincts warned her to keep to herself, to watch and listen and wait.

It had been hard to do that, but if her young life had taught her nothing else, it had taught her the value of patience. So she watched, and used her extra sense sparingly and briefly, and she waited.

But right now, tonight, she was just really tired. Really, really tired. She needed to sleep. And she was so tired that she did, even in that chilly doorway. She curled herself into the smallest ball she possibly could, and she slept.

—

“That’s the . . . disappearances, the bodies burned or mangled beyond recognition. That?” Tasha asked, already knowing the answer.

He nodded. “That. After that point, or if it’s a psychic like you, born with abilities, the actions of the other side become less . . . predictable. It becomes more difficult for us to figure out who their real target is and when they’re most likely to act, especially if we know they’re watching at least a dozen psychics.”

“And are they?”

“At least. Virtually all the time. Just in this country.”

Tasha felt herself frowning. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to bring this up now, except that she hadn’t gotten anything from him to know whether it was something he was aware of.

And she needed to know.

“You know, that’s been bugging me. If this thing is as huge as you believe, we have to be talking about an awful
lot of psychics. I mean a
lot
, especially over years, decades. Plenty with their abilities triggered by trauma, but even more born with their abilities. And correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that a fairly recent thing? I mean, fifty or sixty years ago, we didn’t have nearly as many psychics, did we?”

“You’re quick,” he said matter-of-factly. “Most don’t seem to pick up on that.”

The ocean in his mind was very calm and very blue. Impenetrable.

“So what’s the deal? Accidents I get, though I don’t see how they could arrange an accident that just happens to trigger psychic ability in someone. A greater danger of killing them, I’d say.”