Mindwalker (33 page)

I shake my head.

“I was trying to keep my thoughts quiet.” He smiles nervously. “Guess it worked.”

I wonder what sorts of thoughts he was having. I want to ask, but I don't quite dare.

The bedsprings creak as he slides closer to me, and the mattress dips a little. “Will you do something?”

I nod.

“Look at me. Don't say anything. Just look me in the eye.”

I hesitate. But I told him that I didn't want there to be any more barriers between us; if I hide everything I'm feeling, it defeats the purpose. I meet his gaze. His expression doesn't waver, but deep in those eyes, behind the layers of battered shields, there's something soft and hungry. An overwhelming tenderness sweeps through me …
and something else, something hotter and fiercer. I tense instinctively, resisting the feelings, then force myself to relax and let them flow through me, let myself feel everything—the fascination with him, with all his light and darkness, his scars and beauty, his pain and strange innocence.

He draws in a shaky breath, pulling back a little. He closes his eyes, as if to collect himself.

“Steven?”

“You once told me that saving people is your vice. You remember?”

“Yes.”

He opens his eyes. “Is that the only reason you've done so much to help me?”

I freeze. Steven's expression is neutral, guarded. Cautious. “No. It's not the only reason.”

“Why, then?”

My heart punches my ribs so hard, I'm certain it's going to crack them. “Because I didn't want you to disappear from this world,” I whisper. “I wanted—” I stop myself before I can finish the thought. But I don't need to finish. He knows. He
sees.

Steven reaches up to cup my face. His thumb brushes my cheek, touches my lips, and runs across them, leaving a trail of tingles. “When you kissed me before, in the forest,” he says, “did you mean it?”

My heart seems to stop.

His eyes burn bright, hot. “Tell me the truth.”

I should pull back now. I know that. Slowly, I slide my fingertips along his jaw, over his cheek. “Yes,” I whisper. “I meant it.”

He draws in his breath sharply. Every line of his body is
tense, quivering like a bowstring drawn too tight, as if it takes all his effort to hold himself back.

He leans down and touches his lips to mine. They're cool and slightly rough, chapped from the cold weather. I feel the flutter of his breathing. He tastes like the ocean. Like tears.

My muscles relax as my resolve softens and begins to crumble. A heady euphoria spreads through me like a drug, and I struggle to control my breathing. The room is suddenly too warm. My body tingles lightly. It reminds me of immersion, of the first time I plunged into Steven's mind, every nerve ending alive and ablaze, every sensation magnified.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to silence my thoughts. I feel like I'm sliding perilously close to the edge of a chasm.

Steven's lips press harder against mine. A faint whimper escapes my throat, and a tremor runs through me.

I can't—I shouldn't—

“It's okay.” He pulls off my helmet and drops it to the bed. His own joins it a moment later. His lips brush my neck.

It would be so easy to let go. So easy to just do what I want. What we both want.

I brace myself and—with every shred of willpower I possess—pull back. He starts to lean toward me again, but I place my hands on his shoulders, stopping him. His brow furrows. “There's something I need to know.” I swallow, trying to moisten my dry mouth. “After all this is over … are you still planning to have your memories erased?”

He tenses. Then he turns his face away, his jaw tightening. My hands fall from his shoulders. A wall of silence hangs between us. He bows his head, resting his elbows on his knees, and buries his fingers in his hair. “I don't get it,” he says. “Why do I have to forget
you
? Or this? Why can't you just erase the bad stuff and keep everything else?”

If I tried to explain the neurochemistry of memories and the ways they're conceptually bundled together in the brain, it would probably sound like gibberish to him. So I give the best answer I can: “Because nothing is ever simple.”

“Tell me about it,” he murmurs.

What if he
does
choose to forget? Can I really do it? Can I go into his mind and erase myself from it, delete the neural networks that hold this conversation, this night, the sensation of my lips against his? And I wonder what else will disappear if I take away his pain. His caustic wit? His empathy, his fierce desire to protect others who've been hurt? Everything is woven together. Trying to extract his suffering without destroying the rest is like trying to remove the grain of sand from the center of a pearl.

“It's your choice,” I say.

His gaze meets mine. Slowly, he pushes a loose tendril of my hair behind one ear. “It must be hard.” He cups my cheek, his palm warm and rough. “You spend so much time inside people's heads, getting to know them. And then when it's all over, they just walk away and forget about you, as if none of it ever happened.”

A lump fills my throat, cutting off air and voice. I choke it down. “It's better that way,” I whisper. “Better for them.”

“But painful for you.”

We sit, just looking at each other. After a while, he averts his gaze.

My chest feels hollow. I wish I'd just kept kissing him. I
wish my stupid conscience hadn't intervened. Why does doing the right thing so often feel like doing the wrong thing?

Finally, Steven stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I don't know about you, but I don't think I can sleep tonight. And I'm sick of not knowing what really happened to me. I can't decide whether to erase my past until I know what my past
is
, right?” His jaw tightens. “We still have one pill left.”

A chill washes through me. “You're not thinking about taking it
now,
are you?”

“Not here. I want to go to St. Mary's and take it there.”

I stare, stunned, then shake my head. “It's too dangerous. Too strong. We don't know what will happen. And what difference will it make, being in St. Mary's?”

“When we came over the hill and I saw the town, this wave of déjà vu hit me. Even if there's nothing left in St. Mary's, just
being
there might make me remember.”

“It might not even be the right St. Mary's.”

“It is,” he says. “I knew exactly where it was when we got here.”

I search his face. “Are you sure about this?”

He stares directly into my eyes. “If we go there, we'll find the truth. I feel it.”

I feel it, too, like a magnetic pull. And he's right. Even if there's nothing left in St. Mary's, the visual cues combined with the effects of the Lucid could trigger a flood of memory. If that doesn't bring back his past—or at least whatever's left of it—nothing will.

Do I really
want
to know the truth?

Slowly, I stand. “If we're going, we should leave now.”

“Are you sure about this?” Gracie asks us. She stands in the doorway, bundled in a wool coat.

“We're sure,” I reply. I haven't told her where we're going, just that we need to leave early. That there's something important we have to do before we cross the border.

“Well, take this.” Gracie offers us a bulging backpack. “There's trail mix, bottled water, and a couple of heavy-duty flashlights. And a map of the border. The entrances to the tunnels are marked in blue. Of course, there's a chance that some of them have been discovered and filled in since the map was last updated, but this will give you an idea, at least.”

“Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”

Steven is pacing the yard, hands in his pockets, breath forming small white clouds in the cold air. A rooster crows. A heavy fog lies over the yard like a damp blanket.

“Is there anything else you can tell us before we go?” I ask. “Anything we should know?”

“Move as quickly as you can. Stay on guard. And don't get caught.” She winks.

I thank her again, then we get in the car and start driving. The horizon glows with pale, ghostly fire. Steven stares out the window, faint dawn light illuminating the gray shadows beneath his eyes. Those dark circles never really seem to go away. It's as if, after years of insomnia, they've sunk permanently into his skin.

The world is still and quiet, the sky thick with clouds that spit halfhearted bits of rain on the windshield. As we near the edge of the pine forest, the shadows reach out to engulf us. The morning, already dark, becomes darker. The car slows.

“Do you think we'll be able to find St. Mary's?” I ask.

“I know where it is,” Steven says.

Thorn Road is bumpy, the pavement cracked and pitted. When I look in the rearview mirror, I can no longer see the town, just the cool, deep green of pine trees. A pristine hush hangs over the forest. Not even the music of birdsong breaks the silence. There's only the whisper of dead pine needles and the occasional crunch of a pinecone beneath the tires.

Steven's fingers are tight on the wheel. “Lain?”

“Yes?”

“After this is over, if we're both still here, and if I decide to keep my memories, will we … I mean …” He bites his lower lip, then takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “What happened back there—do you really feel that way about me?”

My pulse quickens. A memory flashes through my head—his scent, his warmth, the pressure of his lips against mine. My fingers drift up to touch my lips, tracing them.

I shouldn't have kissed him. Not the first time, and definitely not the second. Now he's thinking about keeping his traumatic past so he won't have to forget me. This is exactly why relationships between Mindwalkers and clients are forbidden. Guilt rips at my heart. I've been irresponsible and selfish. I was so overwhelmed with everything that was happening to us, I didn't think about the repercussions. But that's no excuse. “Listen, I…” A lump shoulders its way into my throat. I swallow it. “I made a mistake. It's forbidden for Mindwalkers and clients to get involved. I should have had more self-control, but I wasn't thinking clearly. I—”

“Just answer the question.”

“It doesn't matter how I feel. I told you, it's against the rules.”

He stares at the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Do the rules really matter at this point?”

“Yes! I can't—” My voice wavers. I close my eyes, collecting myself. I walk through the mental training exercises, and—with a skill born of long practice—I push my feelings down below the surface of my mind, leaving my thoughts calm and clear. My eyes open, and I take a deep breath. “Patients sometimes develop strong feelings for their psychologists.” Without meaning to, I find myself slipping into a neutral, clinical tone, reciting words from my training. “It's called transference.”

He frowns. “What?”

“It's a subconscious redirection of emotions that often manifests as an erotic attraction. What you're experiencing for me now is the same sort of thing.”

His shoulders stiffen. “What fresh bullshit is this?”

I continue, ignoring the remark: “It's not
me
you love. It's
the idea of me. It's what I represent to you.” I avoid looking at his expression. “Of course it's natural for clients to bond to the person healing them, but that's why the rules exist. It would be unethical of me to take advantage of your feelings—”

There's a thud as he slams one fist against the dashboard, and I give a start. The car lurches to a stop. He stares straight ahead, his hands locked around the wheel. “If you want me to walk away when this is over, I'll walk away,” he whispers hoarsely. “Tell me these feelings are wrong if you want. Tell me they're sick. But don't tell me they aren't real. Don't you dare.”

His shoulders slump. The fire dies from his eyes, and instead of furious, he just looks exhausted. “I can't trust my memories. I don't even know who I am. My feelings are the only thing that I believe in. If I can't trust them, then there's nothing left.”

I sit frozen, not moving, not breathing.

He takes his foot off the brake. The car glides forward. Still, I don't speak.

I've never felt so lost.

For years, I believed that following the rules meant doing the right thing. I don't know what I believe anymore, and I don't know who I trust—except Steven. Maybe that's crazy. After all, he's violent and unstable. He's upended my entire life. Yet I have more faith in him now than I do in the organization I've spent my life serving. And it would be cowardly not to admit that. “I
do
care about you,” I say quietly. “More than I should. You're much more than a client to me. More than a friend.”

There's a slight hitch in his breathing.