The Psy-Changeling Collection (253 page)

“
In a way that makes it clear he was assassinated. In a way that leaves no room for doubt about who did the task
.”

“
Why?
”

That threw her. “You didn’t tell me why
.”

“
Good.” A single, ice-cold word. “Your job isn’t to understand, simply to do. Now repeat what you are to do
.”

“
Kill Devraj Santos
.”

“
And then?
”

“
Kill myself
.”

A pause, a rustle of fabric as he crossed his legs, his face as expressionless as when he’d shut her in the dark again though she’d begged and pleaded on her hands and knees
.

“
Please,” she’d said, scrabbling to hold on to his legs. “Please, don’t. Please, please!
”

But he’d kicked her away, locked the door. And now he sat—a god on his throne while she huddled on the floor—speaking to her in that cool voice that never changed, no matter how much she screamed
.

“
That task is the sole reason I’m leaving you alive
.”

“
Why me?
”

“
You’re already dead. Easily expendable
.”

“
If I fail?” She was so weak, her bones seeming to melt from the inside out. How could she possibly kill any man, much less one reputed to be as lethal as the director of the Shine Foundation?

There was no immediate answer, no movement from the spider who’d become the only living being in the endless pain that was her universe. He was a true Psy. He didn’t make gestures or movements without purpose. Once, she’d been like that. Before he’d torn into her mind and snapped the threads of her conditioning, wiping out all the things that had made her who she was
.

Before he’d killed her
.

“
If you fail,” he finally said, “Devraj Santos will eliminate you from the equation. The end, for you, will be the same
.”

Katya gasped awake, her clothing sticking to her skin, her head pounding. Fear and horror clawed at her chest until she kicked off the blankets, certain something was sitting on her ribs, crushing her bones.

Nothing.

Nothing but madness.

Shoving a fist into her mouth, she curled onto her side, wrestling with the jagged fragments of a dream that had drenched her body in the sick chill of fear-sweat. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t connect the pieces, couldn’t figure out what it was the shadow-man had wanted her to do.

She just knew that when the time came . . . she’d do it. Because the shadow-man never left anything to chance. Most especially his weapons.

PETROKOV FAMILY ARCHIVES

Letter dated December 3, 1970

My dear Matthew
,

It’s as I thought—the attempt to condition rage out of our young is failing. But that isn’t the most disturbing news. Today, I read a confidential report that says the Council has begun to consider the effective elimination of all our emotions
.

My hand shakes as I write this. Can’t they see what they’re asking? What they’re destroying?

Mom

CHAPTER 7

Three days later,
Dev had the answer to his question.

“We’ve rechecked with our source,” Dorian told him over the communications panel. “She’s officially listed as deceased.”

“Ming had to have taken her out beforehand. Unless your intel says otherwise?”

“No. With Ekaterina—”

“Katya,” Dev corrected automatically.

“Right.” The sentinel gave a single sharp nod. “Well, with Katya, he really cleaned up his tracks—apparently, there’s not even a whisper that she survived the explosion. Ashaya’s starting to think the amnesia could be the side effect of a psychic block of some sort, something that stops her from betraying herself on the Net.”

“We’re working on that.” The Forgotten had changed over the years, but they still had telepaths in their midst, still had those who could work with minds wrapped in a mental prison. Dev knew the painful certainty of that far too well.

“You need any of us, all you have to do is say the word. Sascha, Faith, Shaya,” Dorian said, naming three of the
powerful Psy in his pack, “they’re ready to drop everything to help Katya.”

“Until we know how dangerous she is, I can’t chance that,” Dev answered. “Shine might be the main target, but if I know the Council, they’ll use the opportunity to hurt anyone they can. DarkRiver is a real thorn in their side.” All true. But there was another truth—in asking him to end her life, Katya had put that life in his hands—he’d allow no one else to interfere. “I’ll let you know if we find anything more.”

Dev had just hung up when Glen paged him down to the medical floor. “She’s ready to be discharged,” the doctor told Dev as soon as he arrived. “I’ve given her several bottles of supplements—combine those with a steady diet and she should bounce back fairly quickly.”

Dev’s shoulders tensed as he was reminded of exactly how badly she’d been treated, but he made himself focus on the issue at hand. “Any indications of her abilities?”

“According to the tests we’ve run, she’s midlevel in terms of strength. Can’t yet tell you what type of ability she has, but what I can tell you is that she doesn’t appear to be accessing it at present.”

That lowered the level of threat, but—“We need to keep her close until we figure out why she was sent in.”

“I can’t justify holding her down here.” Glen’s boyish face set in stubborn lines that might’ve surprised many. “It’s a nice-enough clinic, but she needs sunlight, fresh air.”

“I can’t set her free, Glen, you know that.” Yeah, it made him feel like a bastard, but his ability to be a bastard was why he’d been chosen as director. Metal was his gift, and perhaps his curse, but that growing layer of metallic ice meant he didn’t hesitate to do what needed to be done.

The doctor pinched his nose. “The Hippocratic oath doesn’t differentiate between friend and enemy.”

“I know. That’s why you have me.” Squeezing the other man’s shoulder, he turned toward Katya’s room.

“Dev.” Glen’s expression was troubled when Dev looked back at him. “You can’t keep being responsible for all the tough decisions.”

“I made that choice when I took the job.” Or perhaps he’d made it decades ago, the day the cops found him lying half-broken in the corner of his parents’ bedroom. That was the day he’d first felt the metal, first begun to sense the cold intelligence of the machines around him.

Glen shook his head. “It doesn’t have to be you. Shine has a board.”

Yes, it did. And that board was now made up of men and women who wouldn’t simply look the other away when reality became too harsh, too uncomfortable. But—“A good leader never asks his troops to do anything he can’t.” Shifting on his heel, he said, “Go home, Glen. Get some sleep.”

“Not until I know what you’re going to do with her.”

That was when Dev realized Glen didn’t trust him to not hurt the woman who, by her simple existence, her
survival
, reached parts of him he preferred to leave in darkness. It was a blow . . . and it showed just how much he’d changed from the man Glen had first called friend. “I’m not that far gone yet,” he said softly.

“No . . . not yet,” the doctor echoed as Dev crossed the doorway into Katya’s room.

He found her sitting on the bed dressed in a new pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt, having thrown on a heavy gray sweatshirt over the top. Her shoulder-length hair had been plaited into a tight French braid, and there were out-of-the-box-white sneakers on her feet. Her lips lifted in a tentative smile when she saw him. “Hi.”

And that quickly, the metal threatened to retreat, to leave him wide open to the raging protectiveness that slammed into his skin with brutal force. “Where’re your boots, your coat?” he asked, and the words were hard.

“In here.” Smile fading, she patted a khaki-colored duffel
with a quietly possessive hand. “Thank you for the clothes. And the other things.”

“Maggie bought them.” He jerked his head toward the door as he reached for her bag. “Come on, you’re leaving this place.”

She tugged the bag away from him. “Where are you going to take me?” The finest thread of steel.

Not that surprised, he dropped his hand. “For now, to my place in Vermont.”

“What about your work?”

He looked into that still-pale face, wondering if the question was simple curiosity or something far more sinister. However, the answer wasn’t exactly a state secret. “I can handle things remotely.” His team was solid, used to working with him regardless of location. “If necessary, I can commute.” Shine had access to several jet-choppers, but Dev preferred to drive most of the time—the trip took less than three hours in a high-speed vehicle, and it gave him time to think free of distractions.

“Why?” Katya’s eyes were crystal clear as they met his, each shard—brown, green, yellow—perfectly defined. “Why not just dump me on someone else?”

“Because I don’t know how big a threat you are,” he answered, and it was
a
truth. She had no need to know about the complex, unwanted emotions she aroused, the buried memories she unearthed. “You’ll be staying with me until I can figure out what to do with you.”

“You could let me go.” Her fingers curled on top of the duffel.

“Not possible.”

“So I’m a prisoner again.”

The point hit hard, stabbing into the core of honor he’d somehow managed to retain. He wondered if it would still be there after this was all over. “No, you’re the enemy.” This time, he took the duffel without waiting for her agreement.

Katya watched the broad wall of Dev’s retreating back and
forced herself to get off the bed. For the first time since she’d woken in this place, she felt not fear, not terror, not worry. Instead, something else burned in her, a hot and sharp and violent thing.

“Move it.” It was a command from the doorway.

That raw new emotion flared so high, she had to fight to find her voice. “Are we going on the train?”

“No. I’ll drive.”

She walked to him, then with him down the corridor, aware he was keeping his stride short to accommodate hers, his big body moving with a grace that told her she’d never be able to move fast enough to escape him. Still, a pulse of excitement bubbled through her, lighting up her mind—the car, she thought, it had to do with the car.
If she had the car, she could find
—

Another black screen, her memory cutting out like a badly tuned comm panel.

Her nails dug into the soft flesh of her palms so hard she felt skin break. Relaxing her fingers with effort, she lifted her hand to look at one palm. It was hers, she knew that. Those life lines, they were hers. But there were other lines, thin white lines that crisscrossed skin unbroken except for the bloodred crescents she’d just created. How had she gotten those lines? Head beginning to pound in a dull, heavy beat, she stared, determined to divine the truth, no matter how ugly.

Warm male fingers gripped her hand. Startled, she jerked up her head—to meet Dev’s scowl. “Don’t force it,” he ordered, squeezing her fingers. “Glen said the memories will return when it’s time.”

She didn’t pull her hand from his, in spite of the violent chaos of her emotions. When he touched her, she felt real, a living being instead of a ghost. “I can’t help it. I hate not knowing who I am.”

“Hate—strong word.” He led her through a pair of automatic glass doors. “Emotions come easily to you?”

“Yes.” She swallowed as he paused in front of the elevator. “There’s only so much the mind can take. After that, it splinters.” Taking the lines of conditioning with it.

The elevator doors opened and Dev tugged her inside. She took one step across the threshold before freezing, her breath stuck in her throat, her spine so rigid she literally couldn’t move.

Dev’s hand flexed around hers and for an instant she was terrified he’d pull her inside. He was so much bigger, so much stronger, she’d never be able to stop him. Fear was a fist in her throat, blocking her airway.

Then he dropped her hand to wrap an arm around her waist, carrying her out and back into the corridor. “You don’t have to go in there.” One palm cupped the back of her head as he spoke in a voice as harsh as sandpaper. And yet his hold . . .

Her entire body began to shake, terror transmuting into a painful kind of relief. Not stopping to think, she buried her face in his chest, her arms locking around him. A rough word. The thud of the duffel hitting the floor. Then his own arms came around her with bruising strength. She wanted more, wanted to strip him to the skin and touch his heartbeat, convince herself that he existed, that
she
existed. Deep inside, she was so scared that this was all just another madness-induced fantasy, her mind trying to come up with something to fill the endless void.

“Shh.” Spoken gently against her ear, the hot brush of his breath another tactile anchor.

Daring to move her hand, she placed her fingers against the side of his neck, feeling his pulse strong and steady against her fingertips. Real. So real. “I can’t be in a box again.” The last was a whisper as she caught a wisp of memory. “There was no light, no sound, no touch, no Net.” How could there be so much pain in nothingness? But there was, excruciating, agonizing, relentless pain—pain that had turned her from a sentient being to something lower than an animal. “It was like I didn’t exist.”

Dev stood unmoving under Katya’s hesitant touch. What she was describing was one of the cruelest forms of torture known to man, one that left no marks but destroyed the victim from within—sensory deprivation. Leave a thinking, living being without feedback long enough and the mind began to break, to turn inward, going so deep that many never came back out. And for a Psy to be cut off from the Net—

He blocked the wave of pity before it could rise. Because sensory deprivation wasn’t only about hurting the victim until that person shattered. It could be used for a far more ominous purpose—to break down an individual and then build him or her back up again according to the torturer’s requirements.