Mind of My Mind (40 page)

attack.

DORO

Doro stood still, gazing at the girl, wondering why he waited. "You have time to try

again to get rid of Karl if you like," he said.

"Karl's made his decision." There was no fear in her voice. That pleased Doro

somehow.

"Apparently you've made yours, too."

"There was no decision for me to make. I have to do what I was born to do."

Doro shrugged.

"What did you do with Vivian?"

"Nothing at all after I thought about it," he said. "Faithful little pet that she is now,

Vivian hasn't looked at me for well over a year. Karl's women get like that when he stops

trying to preserve their individuality—when he takes them over completely." He smiled.

"Karl's mute women, I mean. So, when Vivian, who no longer had initiative enough to go

looking for lovers other than Karl, suddenly came to me, I realized that she had almost

certainly been sent. Why was she sent?"

"Does it matter?"

Doro gave her a sad smile. "No. Not really." In his shadowy way, Doro was aware of

a great deal of psionic activity going on around her. He felt himself drawn to her as he

had been two years before, when she took Jesse and Rachel. Now, he guessed, she would

be taking a great many of her people. As many as he gave her time to take. She remained

still as Doro sat down beside her. She looked at Karl, who sat on her other side.

"Move away from us," she said quietly.

Without a word, Karl got up and went to sit in the chair by the window. The instant

he reached the chair he collapsed, seemed to pass out. Mary had finally taken him. An

instant later, Doro took her.

At once, Doro was housed with her in her body. But she was no quick, easy kill. She

would take a few moments.

She was power, strength concentrated as Doro had never felt it before—the strength

of dozens, perhaps hundreds of Patternists. For a moment Doro was intoxicated with it. It

filled him, blotted out all thought. The fiery threads of her Pattern surrounded him. And

before him . . . before him was a slightly smaller replica of himself as he had perceived

himself through the fading senses of his thousands of victims over the years. Before him,

where all the threads of fire met in a wild tangle of brilliance, was a small sun.

Mary.

She was like a living creature of fire. Not human. No more human than he was. He

had lied to her about that once—lied to calm her—when she was a child. And her major

weakness, her vulnerable, irreplaceable human body, had made the lie seem true. But that

body, like his own series of bodies, was only a mask, a shell. He saw her now as she

really was, and she might have been his twin.

But, no, she was not his twin. She was a smaller, much younger being. A complete

version of him. A mistake that he would not make again. But, ironically, her very

completeness would help to destroy her. She was a symbiont, a being living in

partnership with her people. She gave them unity, they fed her, and both thrived. She was

not a parasite, though he had encouraged her to think of herself as one. And though she

had great power, she was not naturally, instinctively, a killer. He was.

When he had had his look at her, he embraced her, enveloped her. On the physical

level, the gesture would have seemed affectionate—until it was exposed as a strangle

hold.

When Mary struggled to free herself, he drank in the strength she spent, consumed it

ecstatically. Never had one person given him so much.

Alarmed, Mary struck at him, struggled harder, fed him more of herself. She fed him

until her own strength and her borrowed strength were gone. Finally he tasted the familiar

terror in her mind.

She knew she was about to die. She had nothing left, no time to draw strength from

more of her people. She felt herself dying. Doro felt her dying.

Then he heard her voice.

No, he sensed it, disembodied, cursing. She was so much a part of him already that

her thoughts were reaching him. He moved to finish her, consume the final fragments of

her. But the final fragments were the Pattern.

She was still alive because she was still connected to all those people. The strength

that Doro took now, the tiny amounts of strength that she had left, were replaced

instantly. She could not die: New life flowed into her continually.

Furiously, Doro swept her into himself, where she should have died. For the fifth

time, she did not die. She seemed to slither away from him, regaining substance apart

from him as no victim of his should have been able to.

She was doing nothing on her own now. She was weak and exhausted. Her Pattern

was doing its work automatically. Apparently it would go on doing that work as long as

there were Patternists alive to support it.

Then Mary began to realize that Doro was having trouble. She began to wonder why

she was still alive. Her thoughts came to him clearly. And apparently his thoughts

reached her.

You can't kill me, she sent. After all that, you can't kill me. You may as well let me go!

He was surprised at first that she was still aware enough to communicate with him.

Then he was angry. She was helpless. She should have been his long ago, yet she would

not die.

If he could manage to leave her body—a thing he had never done before without

finishing his kill he would only have to try again. He couldn't possibly let her live to

collect more of his latents, to search until she found a way to kill him.

He would jump to Karl, and perhaps from Karl to someone else. Karl would already

be more dead than alive now that she had taken strength from him. Doro would move on,

find himself an able body and come back to her in it. Then he would simply cut her

throat—decapitate her if necessary. Not even a healer could survive that. She might be

mentally strong, but physically she was still only a small woman. She would be easy

prey.

Mary seemed to clutch at him. She was trying to hold him as he had held her, but she

had neither the technique nor the strength. She had learned a little, but it was too late. She

was barely an annoyance. Doro focused on Karl.

Abruptly Mary became more than an annoyance.

She tore strength from the rest of her people. Not one at a time now. This time she

took them all at once, the way Rachel had used to take from her congregations. But Mary

stripped her Patternists as Rachel had never stripped her mutes. Then, desperately, Mary

tried again to grasp Doro.

For a moment, she seemed not to realize that she was strong again—that her act of

desperation had gained her a second chance. Then her new strength brought her to life. It

became impossible for Doro to focus on anyone but her. Her power drew him.

Abruptly, she stopped clutching at him and threw herself on him. She embraced him.

Startled, Doro tried to shake her off. For a moment, his struggles fed her as hers had

fed him earlier. She was a leech, riding, feeding orgastically.

Doro caught himself, ceased his struggles. He smiled to himself grimly. Mary was

learning, but there was still much that she didn't know. Now he taught her how difficult it

was to get strength from an opponent who not only refused to give it away by struggling

but who actively resisted her efforts to take it. And there was only one way to resist. As

she sought to consume him, he countered by trying to consume her.

For long moments they strained against each other, neither of them gaining or losing

power. They neutralized each other.

Disgusted, Doro tried again to focus on Karl. Best to get away from Mary mentally

and get back to her physically.

Mary let him go.

Startled, Doro brought his attention back to her. For a moment, he could not focus on

her. There was a roar of something like radio static in his mind—"noise" so intense that

he tried to twist away from it. It cleared slowly.

Then he noticed that he had not drawn away from Mary completely. He was still

joined to her. Joined by a single strand of fire. She had used her mental closeness with

him to draw him into her web. Her Pattern.

He panicked.

He was a member of the Pattern. A Patternist. Property. Mary's property.

He strained against the seemingly fragile thread. It stretched easily. Then he realized

that he was straining against himself. The thread was part of him. A mental limb. A limb

that he could find no way to sever.

The Patternists had told him how it felt at first—that feeling of being trapped, of

being on a leash. They had lived to get over their feelings. They had lived because Mary

had wanted them to live. Doro himself had helped Mary understand how thoroughly their

lives were in her hands.

Doro fought desperately, uselessly. He could feel Mary's amusement now. He had

nearly killed her, had been about to kill the man she had attached herself to so firmly.

Now she took her revenge. She consumed him slowly, drinking in his terror and his life,

drawing out her own pleasure, and laughing through his soundless screams.

Epilogue

MARY

They cremated Doro's last body before I was able to get out of bed. I was in bed for

two days. A lot of others were there even longer. The few who were on their feet ran

things with the help of the mute servants. One hundred and fifty-four Patternists never

got up again at all. They were my weakest, those least able to take the strain I put on

them. They died because it took me so long to learn how to kill Doro. By the time Doro

was dead and I began to try to give back the strength I had taken from my people, the 154

were already dead. I had never tried to give back strength before, but I had never taken so

much before, either. I managed it, and probably saved the lives of others who would have

died. So that I only had to get used to the idea that I had killed the 154 . . .

Emma died. The day Rachel told her about Doro, she decided to die. It was just as

well.

Karl lived. The family lived. If I had killed them, Emma's way out could have started

to look good to me. Not that I would have taken it. I wouldn't have the freedom to

consider a thing like that for about twenty years, no matter what happened. But that was

all right. It wasn't a freedom I wanted. I had already won the only freedom I cared about.

Doro was dead. Finally, thoroughly dead. Now we were free to grow again—we, his

children.