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"Just don't touch my skin." The strain of moving showed in the tightness around his eyes.

I paused, my hand a few inches from touching him. "Why is that again?"

"What happened in the diner and in the car, what you refer to as weirdness," I flinched at hearing my thoughts come out of his mouth, "I believe that is caused by skin to skin contact." 49

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I frowned, thinking about it for a minute. "But you touched me before, when you warned me to leave the diner, and it didn't happen then." He'd frightened me half to death, but nothing else, no weirdness.

"I think my injury may have something to do with the onset." He sat down on the edge of the bed.

"All right, sure. It makes perfect sense now." When he seemed to be taking my answer seriously, I lifted my hands in a come-on gesture. "Tell me already." He let out a soft breath of air, seeming to search for words to explain. "We have the ability to read thoughts. But we can control this ability consciously. We can block our thoughts from being heard by others as well as prevent the thoughts of others from intruding upon us. This blocking mechanism allows us some measure of privacy and sanity. Without it, we would hear the thousands of thoughts of all those around us, yet not be able to understand any of them clearly because of noise. So, we use this block or shield at all times, selecting what to listen to and when–that was how I missed your sheriff's approach."

"You were listening elsewhere?" I asked, starting to understand.

He nodded.

"Okay, and?" I was still waiting to hear how this connected back to the weirdness.

"As with anything set forth with conscious effort, the shield is less effective in situations of extreme pain or pleasure. We believe it is because the mind is too distracted to maintain the level of concentration necessary."

"So, you're saying because you were hurt, this shield of yours was weakened," I said.

"Yes." He was watching me closely with a little bit of that same intensity that had frightened me in the car. "And when we touched, something in your gift cut through what remained of the 50

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barrier, allowing you access to my mind."

"But that doesn't make any sense. I can't do stuff like that." I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Why? Because you never have before?" he asked.

"Exactly," I snapped.

"But you have never met one of my kind before." I stopped, my next snippy comment held in check by the idea of what he'd just said. That I was the one responsible for the weirdness and the only thing that had kept me from discovering it earlier in life was simply my lack of contact with injured Observers.

"Wait a minute, earlier today...I mean, yesterday, I was just some crazy woman with horrible nightmares about aliens and now you're telling me I have some kind of super power that works only when I'm around injured Observers?"

"You keep mentioning your dreams–"

"You're nuts," I said, like he hadn't said anything at all. I dropped into the rickety chair in the far corner, ideas buzzing around in my brain like somebody had just squashed their hive.

"If so, how do you explain what happens when I am injured and we touch?" He seemed undisturbed by my disbelief.

"Your power," I said instantly. "You're trying to trick me." But why? And if he were trying to trick me, why did he seem so surprised when it happened for the first time at the diner?

"I knew of your role in the prophecy, not of your gift," he responded to my thoughts before I had time to voice them. I frowned. "But–"

He let out another shaky breath. "Zara, I promise I will tell you everything, but first, I–"

"Need to rest," I filled in. "No, first you need to show me what's wrong with you." I stood up and came toward him, clenching my trembling hands into fists.

He started to say something, but I cut him off. "I promise I 51

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won't touch your skin."

My words seemed to relieve whatever anxiety he had left on the matter. That, or he'd just grown tired of arguing about it. He stood and eased one arm and then the other out of his jacket. By the end of that operation, sweat rolled down his face, and he was shaking so hard I could hear his teeth clacking together. I went to his back and lifted up his shirt, then immediately dropped it back into place, fighting the need to gag.

"It is bad then," he said.

That could only be classified as an understatement. His back was a raw, bloody mess. In just that brief glimpse, I'd seen a dozen places or more where glass and debris had shredded his shirt and pierced his flesh.

I swallowed hard. "Please, let me get someone to help you." By throwing himself on top of me at the diner, he'd saved me from these injuries or worse.

"No, I need to rest. They will heal." He struggled briefly with the shirt before managing to remove it. I had to look away.

"Before you bleed to death?" I yanked the top covers off the bed, praying for the best with the sheets. But they appeared clean, and I thought I even smelled bleach, though that might have been wishful thinking.

"Without movement, a half an hour should be enough." He grimaced as he lay down on his side and rolled to his stomach. Blood ran wet and red onto the sheets as his muscles and skin stretched.

"You're just going to carry that stuff around with you for the rest of your life?" I demanded. "What happens the next time you bend to pick something up or try to sleep on your back?" He looked up at me, his struggle against the weariness and pain showing in the tight lines of his face. "It will be fine." He closed his eyes.

I stared at him for a second, waiting for him to say more, but 52

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that was it. His breathing, though ragged, was still regular, so I knew he was doing okay, for the moment. But for how long? I wondered.

My God, Zara, how did you get yourself into this? I began to pace, wearing another path in the thin carpeting. Five minutes, then ten went by. His breathing sounds grew deeper, and I suspected he was either asleep or unconscious. I hoped for the first over the second.

I couldn't just sit here. I had to do something. I headed for the phone on the bedside table, intending to call Scott. If Mike had gotten into the house and found me gone, he or someone from the Sheriff's Office would have called Scott by now. He was probably worried sick.

I lifted the receiver on the phone, pinching it gingerly between my thumb and first finger, and started to dial, only to see the big sticker at the base of the phone. "Local Calls Only, If No Calling Card."

Great. My calling card was with everything else in my wallet, either buried in the diner rubble or collected as evidence by the sheriff and his men. I slammed the phone down. Caelan didn't even twitch at the sound.

I checked my pockets, but I didn't have any change, even if I knew where a pay phone was. I probably could have gotten change and the location of the nearest pay phone from the desk clerk, but who knows? She might have fainted if I'd shown up again. I had already started to pace again, when I spied Caelan's leather jacket lying on the floor.

You shouldn't do this, I told myself as I checked over my shoulder to make sure Caelan was still sleeping. I scooped the jacket off the floor and carried it into the bathroom. It needed to be hung up anyway, so the lining could dry from all the...blood. I grimaced as I laid it on the counter. The lining was black so it didn't show the blood as much, but some parts of it were darker, 53

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and wetter, than others. I searched the outside pockets first. Nothing. Not even a gum wrapper or credit card receipt. Then I wrinkled my nose, held my breath, and sent my hand into the pocket inside the jacket. And there, I met with success. No change or random phone card, but a cell phone, one of the tiniest I'd ever seen. But definitely Earth-made. It said Motorola right across the back of it. An alien with a cell phone, how bizarre was that? No, a telepathic alien with a cell phone, even stranger. I'd have to ask him about it, if he didn't die, that is. And if I could figure out a way to bring it up without tipping him off that I'd found it while snooping.

I flipped it open and pressed power. It sang its little opening sounds which I tried to muffle by closing the bathroom door. I started to dial Scott's number and then stopped. All cell phones these days, even my antiquated one from last year, allowed you to program in numbers so you wouldn't have to remember them or dial while driving. What were the chances that an alien with a cell phone would have preprogrammed his most important numbers?

I cleared Scott's number off the screen, then I pressed 1 and held it down, hoping this phone worked like mine. After a second, a number with an area code I didn't recognize flashed across the screen, followed by the designation of "A." I nearly hung up right then, but when it started to ring, curiosity got the better of me. Who would he have programmed into his phone?

It rang five or six times and right as I was about to hang up, someone answered. A woman.

"Who is this?" she demanded. Her voice was rich but deep with suspicion.

I snapped the phone closed immediately, my heart pounding in my chest. What was I thinking?

As I stared down at the phone in my hands, I wondered if she had Caller Id, and how long it would take for her to try this number back. Hastily, I opened the phone again and dialed Scott's 54

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number. If Caelan had call waiting on this thing, I wouldn't answer it and if she left a voice mail, assuming he had that feature...well, I'd worry about that later, I guess.

"Hello?" Scott answered. He didn't sound sleepy, which he should have at–I checked my watch–four-thirty in the morning. Actually, it was three-thirty in the morning for him.

"Scottie, it's me."

"Zara. What the hell is going on? Are you okay?" Scott sounded angry and scared at the same time.

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm going to come home as soon as I can. I'm not sure I can explain all this over the phone," I said.

"You better try," he snapped. "They've got people out looking for you."

Panic clutched at me. "What? Why?"

"Brigham called me a couple of hours ago. He thinks you've been kidnapped or murdered or something."

"Oh, crap."

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. Where are you?" I started to answer and then looked back toward where Caelan still slept, even though I couldn't see him. "I don't think I can tell you that."

Scott lowered his voice immediately. "Are they holding you hostage? If they are, just say...potato." I fought against a hysterical giggle. "No, I'm fine, Scott. There's just some...alien trouble, I guess you could say." Silence hung heavy for a moment, then he sighed. "Oh, Zara, not again."

Stung, I almost hung up on him right then and there. "No, Scott, this is different. This isn't some nightmare or delusion, okay? I'm with one of them right now and another of them is trying to kill me." I didn't even get to the secret power part before I realized how crazy I sounded.

"Look, just tell me where you are. Stay put, and I'll come get 55

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you when I get home. I'm at the airport now. My flight leaves in an hour." He sounded weary and overly patient, like he was talking to a small child. Or a crazy person.

"Never mind. I'm fine." For now, I almost added. "Just listen to me. If you see an alien, an Observer named Nevan. He's got silver hair and–"

"Silver eyes, yeah, I know. Just like the other ones at the house?" Scott had been witness to too many of my episodes. I'd run out of the house in my nightgown. After that, I'd started sleeping in my clothes.

"Listen, I'm serious, okay? Stay away from him." He didn't say anything.

"Scott?"

"Yeah, I'm here." He hesitated, then continued, "I can see why Brigham believed you. You sound so...convinced that it's the truth."

"It is the truth," I shouted, forgetting that Caelan still slept nearby. "And what do you mean about Brigham believing me?" I hadn't talked to Brigham since he questioned me about the diner blowing up.

"Zara," Scott said, exasperation plain in his voice, "he issued some kind of report saying you'd been kidnapped by an Observer." Oh, God. Brigham had put two and two together and gotten three. He knew what had happened at the diner earlier with Caelan saving me and when he'd heard about the mess at my house and me being gone...

"What did he say the Observer looked like?" I demanded.

"What? Why?"

"Just tell me, damnit."

"I don't know. Six feet tall or so, like the rest of them, but dark hair not silver. It's all over the news." My heart stood still for a second. "What?"

"When word got out that an Observer was somehow 56

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involved, all the media people picked it up."

"I've only been gone two hours!"

"Yeah, but there's something about suspected violence because of the house." He paused. "What happened at the house, Zara?"

"Nothing." I ran my hands through my hair distractedly.

"Look, Scott, I have to go. But I'm fine, okay? Tell them to call off the search."

"Just come home and tell them yourself," he said, starting to sound upset.

"I can't, not yet." The words were out of my mouth before I even realized that I'd decided what to say.

"What do you mean, you can't!" Scott shouted on the other end of the phone. "Zara, for God's sake, they're bringing in members of the Council to investigate because they think an Observer is involved. Get home and straighten this out." The Council? At my house? No way. "I'm fine. I'm safe for now, okay?"

"Zara–"

"Just listen. Don't go home. Stay where you are, stay away from any Observers." Who knows, if someone else had heard Caelan's story about my special power or whatever, they might think it ran in the family. Or worse, Nevan might decide to find out what Scott knew about where I was. "I love you. Remember everything I told you. And don't talk to any of the aliens. I'll try to call you again soon."

"Zara, damnit–" He sounded like he was close to crying when I hung up. Tears stung my eyes, but I couldn't do what he wanted, not yet. Even though it killed me not to. We were all we had left. And we never turned against one another. Not when he got suspended from 10th grade for beating the pulp out of some kid who called him an orphan and not when Doc Heresford sent me to be tested for all manner of things, including schizophrenia. 57