The Psy-Changeling Collection (169 page)

Following the link, she cautiously lowered her shields and swept her psychic eye across the area she now occupied. Familiar minds began to appear within seconds. She withdrew at once. That was the problem with the PsyNet. Though her initial position was based upon her physical location, because the PsyNet was a psychic construct, the instant she lowered her shields, it began to shift to accommodate her—as if each version of the Net was unique to the individual.

It made no logical sense because the PsyNet followed no laws of physics or math. No one had yet found out what rules it did follow, but one thing was clear—Ashaya couldn’t venture into the Net again without taking precautions to ensure none of her “knowledge” of others leaked out. She knew it
could
be done, even knew some of the mechanics of how—Amara had taught her.

She began moving and shifting her mental shields, devising fail-safe upon fail-safe. The next time she opened her psychic eye, she saw everything through a dull haze. Her shields were so bulky as to hinder any attempt to actively surf the Net, but that was fine. Right now, it meant she was an invisible dot among millions of other dots. If she “knew” no one, no one knew her.

Taking a chance, she slit a tiny gap in her shields and listened to the chatter of the Net. Thousands of pieces of information filtered through, but as none of it was relevant, she forced herself to return to the shell of her mind, the claustrophobic prison of her body, wondering how much it would hurt when she ripped the tape off her eyes. Pain was a relative concept. Losing Keenan had taught her that more clearly than even Amara’s cruelty.

Tape.

She could feel it now, sticky and abrasive on her lids. Focusing, she began a step-by-step checklist of her body. On the first pass, she found her feet dead but her calves waking up, while her torso remained numb. By the second pass, both her legs were cramping excruciatingly and her stomach felt as if it was trying to crawl out through her throat.

The third pass—her entire body a mass of searing pain.
Agony sloughed away the lining of her gut, flayed the skin from her flesh. And still she forced herself to lie unmoving. She wasn’t a trained soldier, hadn’t been tortured so she could learn to withstand pain. She lay frozen for one single reason—she wanted to see her son again.

Because if she was alive, then there was a chance that Keenan, too, had made it out alive.

A psychic brush.

Amara.

Ashaya withdrew deep into Silence, fortifying her mind behind another wall of ice, even as her body punished her for the sting of death. The speed with which Amara had tracked her was no surprise, but the connection between them was the weakest it had ever been. Ashaya intended to keep it that way.

She didn’t know how long the pain lasted.

When it was over, she lay stock-still and let the world filter in through her senses. She was on a cold steel table. So not an examining or a patient room. A morgue facility of some sort. Air whispered over her body.

Naked. She was naked.

This deep in Silence, that didn’t disturb her. She took in the antiseptic smell in the air, the absolute quiet. But tempting as it was to move, she didn’t. There had to be cameras. Her body would never have been left unguarded. They had to have scanned her by now. Since she wasn’t cut up, it meant that either the chip’s protective coating had worked, or something had delayed the normal autopsy process.

Her mind snap-shot to a piece of data she’d absorbed during her peek into the PsyNet.

A virulent flu had swept through several sectors without warning, raising fears of a pandemic.

Unless she’d caught an extremely lucky break—unlikely—it seemed that Zie Zen had gotten the note she’d smuggled out and been ready for her to act. That left the cameras—she’d have to take the chance that the morgue itself wasn’t monitored. Why should it be? But just as she was about to attempt to move, she heard footsteps. A door opened, smooth, silent, but for the whish of air. A single pair of feet, boots clicking against the plascrete floor. They came to stand beside her. She lay immobile … then realized she was breathing.

“Ms. Aleine, are you conscious? I know you’re alive.”

It had all been for nothing.
Refusing to show any reaction, she raised her hands to her eyes and peeled off the tape, blinking against the stark white light. The russet-haired woman who’d woken her was already taking things out of a small pack and putting them beside her. Clothing, shoes, socks.

She rose to a sitting position. Swallowed. “Liquids?” Her voice was gravel and dust with a topcoat of broken glass.

The woman put a bottle in her hand, nothing but cool efficiency in her brown eyes. “Zie Zen sends his regards.” She opened her palm to show Ashaya a small gold coin stamped with the Chinese character for “unity.”

There are only ten. Each carried by an individual worthy of trust.

Ashaya didn’t need any more proof. “He got my note.”

A short nod. “You have a limited window of time,” the woman said. “The panic we created with a viral bioagent is starting to die down. Councilor LeBon will be here very soon to take charge of your body.”

Finishing the juice, Ashaya got off the table, holding herself steady with her hands flat on the table. Her head swam, and she knew without a doubt that she was about to throw up. Staggering to the sink, she slotted in the plug just before her stomach revolted. What came out was mostly juice, but the spasms felt like muscle tearing and ripping.

“Are you all right?” The stranger passed Ashaya a box of tissues and another bottle—this time of water.

“Yes.” Her voice came out husky. “Give me a minute.”

As the other woman turned away, Ashaya focused on the contents of the sink and, to her relief, found the chip she’d swallowed—her digestive tract had shut down with the rest of her body, leaving the chip in her stomach. Rinsing it clean as she washed out the sink, she wrapped the priceless object in a piece of tissue and went back to the table.

The stranger had laid out an outfit, and Ashaya wasted no time in pulling it on—underwear, jeans, and a long-sleeved white T-shirt followed by a short-sleeved navy blue one. Spring was heating into summer, but the nights could be cool depending on the location. Putting the chip into a pocket, she braided her hair and stuffed it under the black beret her rescuer held out.

Contact lenses came next. Her pale blue gray eyes were unusual for her dark skin tone. Now they turned brown. That done, she pulled on the socks and sneakers laid out on the morgue slab. Remnants of the poison continued to send twinges through her body, and her stomach was a raw mess, but it was nothing compared to when she’d first woken.

“There’s a small stunner in the front pocket—it’s a weapon you’re trained to use, correct?” Not waiting for an answer, the woman helped Ashaya with the pack. It fit neatly across her back, with straps across her chest and around her hips. “Cosmetics and cheap jewelry in the side pocket. Use them to further your disguise. Misdirection is key. You’re not Ashaya Aleine, M-Psy, you’re Chantelle James, art student. I’m telepathing the profile.”

“I have it.” But Ashaya had no intention of using that profile, of escaping one cage only to enter another. To force her child— and he
had
to be alive—into a lifetime spent looking over his shoulder, a lifetime of secrets and lies … no, she would not do that to Keenan. He’d been hurt enough.

“Stick to the profile, and keep your PsyNet shields at maximum. We were able to hide your reentry into the Net, but we can’t spare the manpower to give you around-the-clock protection.”

“I understand.” She turned to face her rescuer. “Thank you.”

“Keep yourself safe.” The woman’s eyes were dark, but there was a strange awareness in them. “When this breaks and the war begins in earnest, we’ll need your skills to battle the bioagents they use against us.”

This.
Silence. The protocol that kept them sane while removing their emotions. The protocol that put sociopaths at the top of their hierarchy. But when that Silence fell, minds were going to crack. Emotion could not simply come rushing back … not without causing permanent, irreversible fractures in the psyche. Ashaya knew that far too well.

“I’ll try my best.” But she would not deviate from the path she’d set herself. “How do I get out of here?”

“A teleporter will take you out.” She went motionless. “We’ve run out of time.”

The same man who’d teleported Ashaya to the Center— Vasic—was suddenly beside her. An instant later, her bones melted from the inside out and she was falling, falling. She staggered and almost crashed to her knees as they reached their
destination. “Where—” she began, but Vasic was already blinking out.

She rubbed her forehead, guessing things had gotten hot very fast. Vasic had most likely returned to get the other woman out. The man had to be the rarest of the rare—a Traveler. Most strong telekinetics could ’port, but not even a cardinal Tk could do so with such effortless speed. Only a true teleporter. A Traveler. Designation Tk. Subdesignation V.

But where had this Traveler brought her?

She turned, hoping to see some indication of her location. But there were no roads. No buildings. No lights. Just trees, what seemed like thousands of them in every direction. A solid wall of green. Realization dawned—Vasic had clearly had to cut her teleport short in order to get back in time to rescue the other woman. As a result, she was alone in the wilderness, when she’d spent most of her life behind lab walls.

Then something growled, the sound so lethal, the hairs on the back of her neck rose in primordial warning. Those reactions, even the Psy hadn’t been able to train out of themselves. Another growl, followed by a hissing sound that froze her to the spot.

Dorian was heading
back to Tammy’s after his run when the call came through. “Yeah?”

“How close are you to the Grove?” Vaughn’s voice.

“Maybe an hour at a hard run. Why?”

“Shit.” Vaughn muttered something to a third person, then came back on the line. “You’re the closest. Pickup ASAP.”

Who or what the hell was out there?
The Grove was a large tract of land deep in their territory, home to feral creatures with a hunger for blood and tearing flesh. “I’m on my way.” He was already changing direction.

“You have a gun?”

“Stupid question.” He was always armed, an automatic compensation for his lack of ability to go cat.

“Hope you don’t need to use it. Run fast.” Vaughn hung up.

Dorian shoved the phone into his pocket and set a brutal pace. Since Vaughn had given him no specifics about the pickup, the target had to be obvious—either highly visible, noisy, or with a distinctive scent. He hoped to hell it was one of the latter
two. Darkness had fallen over an hour ago, and, with the moon clouded over, visibility was low. His eyes were cat-sharp, but even a leopard changeling couldn’t magically find a needle in a very big haystack. A scent trail would speed things up.

Of course, that might be a moot point.

Because if it
was
a person out there, then he or she was in seriously deep shit. That area was home to a population of aggressive lynx. Real lynx, not changelings. They could be vicious little buggers when provoked. If the subject made that mistake, the only thing Dorian would find was a pile of bones, the flesh stripped off with bloody efficiency.

There were eyes
all around her, glowing, stalking. Ashaya stood in place, going over her options for the hundredth time and coming up with the same answer—she had none. She was a Gradient 9.9 Psy, but her power was medical. She had no combat-capable abilities, not even a hint of telekinesis or paralyzing telepathy. Her Tp status was barely 1.1, just enough to maintain her link to the PsyNet.

She could attempt to attack using that paltry bit of telepathy, but even if she gained a few seconds, what could she do? She considered trying to get to the stunner in her pack. But the instant her hand moved, teeth snapped in warning. It made her wonder why they hadn’t already attacked.

She found the answer in her next scan of the area—several of the large tree trunks bore fresh claw marks. Something big had passed through here recently, leaving behind enough of a lingering presence that these small predators—judging from the height of their eyes—were hesitating. But that wouldn’t last. She was warm, living prey. They wanted her.

Think, Ashaya,
she told herself, using the calm fostered by Silence. What would Amara do? The question was a stupid one, something she disregarded in the next instant. Amara had a different skill set, a different way of thinking. What did
she
have?

Medical. Basic telepathy. Basic psychometry. Some other passive Psy abilities. None of them useful in this situation.

The animals—cats?—were creeping closer in a stealthy whisper of claws against the dry vegetation that carpeted the forest floor.

Eliminate the psychic abilities and what did she have?

A quick mind, a body in good condition … and the genetic gift of speed.

The only problem was, the predators were faster than she was.

CHAPTER 5

Things to do …

… people to kill.

—Front and back of Dorian Christensen’s favorite T-shirt (gift from Talin McKade)

Dorian smelled blood
on the wind moments after he entered the Grove, followed by the angry sounds of lynx fighting over something. His hands moved with lethal grace, throwing knives hitting his palms as he prepared for whatever it was he was going to find. His scent was normally enough to cow the smaller felines, but if they’d blooded a kill, they might be in an animalistic rage.

The scent teased at him, sharp, iron rich. But beneath the spray of blood lay an exotic femininity, intriguing, seductive … and cold, so damn cold. “Fuck!” Sweat rolled down his spine as he covered the remaining distance at extreme speed.