1. food and drink
2. beverages
3. non alcoholic beverages
4. coffee and tea

CHAPTER ONE
During my decade as a field intelligence operative for Advanced Global
Protection’s Psychic Section, I’d been involved in a lot of shit. Seen stuff that would
haunt me forever. But before Friedrich Weber elbowed his way onto my team I’d never
hated my job, and until Operation Star, I’d never wanted to kill a colleague.
What kind of human being leaves a little girl whose leg is blown off to bleed out on
the street simply to satisfy his personal desire for power? What kind of man tasers the
person applying the tourniquet because she tells him to screw himself, his report to Head
Office, and his fucking ego sideways?
And what kind of idiot actually expects no retaliation?
Let me think . . . That would be Weber. Which meant he wasn’t only a gutless
control freak, but he also hadn’t learned a thing about me during our previous three
missions.
It wasn’t enough for him to direct his security guys to haul me into AGP’s Berlin
office through the underground entrance while he swaggered through the front doors.
He wanted to watch and snigger as his goons dragged me out of the van—my eyes
running, my face covered in snot and drool—and dumped me onto the concrete floor.
He didn’t even have the sense not to gloat within arm’s reach as they hauled me to my
feet and sliced through the plastic ties cuffing my hands.
I couldn’t have resisted the temptation, not even to save my job, which was now
well and truly screwed. Every part of me hurt like hell, but the moment I was free, I let
go the rage I’d kept leashed and muzzled in the van, and slammed my fist into Weber’s
face.
“That’s for the little girl,” I said as he howled and clapped his hands to his nose.
“This”—I followed up with a knee to the groin—“is for the taser, and this”—I rammed
an elbow into the back of his neck and he folded, gagging, onto the concrete—“is just
because I feel like it, you unutterable bastard.”
As I swiped at the drying crud on my face and watched him writhe on the ground,
it occurred to me that I should have been on the ground myself by this time. But there
hadn’t been a sound from Weber’s boys. I looked up to find them standing, their hands
frozen in mid-reach for weapons, staring at something over my shoulder.
“Easy, Emma.” It was Helmut Becker, an AGP Task Force officer. “I was at the
incident and saw them take you down, but I couldn’t get there fast enough to stop it.” As
he spoke he moved into my line of sight. “Beat them home though. You okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” But I’d never been tasered before, so what did I know? “The
kid?”
SHADOW SEER
Gracie O’Neil
1
“Still alive when the medics arrived, but it didn’t look good.” Somewhere in the
vast car park tires squealed. “That’ll be the team now.” One of Weber’s guys started
forward as, behind me, the elevator dinged a single chime. “Don’t,” Helmut said. “Don’t
move, you sons of bitches, or I swear to God I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
The idea was a tempting one. I refused to acknowledge the burning return of
circulation in my hands, and stared at the tallest of Weber’s bodyguards. “Does Head
Office only employ fuckwits and morons? Did you not see what happened out there?”
Weber’s moaning curses were becoming more coherent. Any second now, one of
these fools would decide to get involved.
The bodyguard shifted his feet. “Mr. Weber said—”
“The hell with Mr. Weber. Read your own regulations. I don’t care what you do in
the States or in bloody Timbuktu. Here in Germany we have this little thing called
section thirty-two, paragraph six, subsection three C: A military client’s refusal to take a PSection operative’s recommended action does not mean an automatic withdrawal of AGP assistance to
civilian casualties in any emergency generated by said refusal.” I sucked in breath. “Military
casualties, yes. Civilian? No. There were kids in that facility when it blew. Hostages, for
God’s sake. What kind of men are you?”
I was saved from doing something completely asinine by the arrival of an AGP
incident van. It barreled the wrong way down the one-way lane, screeched into the
parking space next to where I stood, and had barely come to a rocking halt before one of
its occupants leaped out and stood, braced and ready, beside Helmut. A moment later
the driver shoved his door open and swung down, steaming cold fury.
“Did the kid make it?” I asked him.
The bleakness in his eyes told me the answer before he shook his head.
I leaned over a groaning Weber, tempted to give him more to groan about. “And
that’s on you, you dickless wonder. You killed that little girl as surely as if you put a gun
to her head and pulled the trigger, and my operation report will say so. In triplicate.”
“Bitch.” Weber hauled in breath and spat out blood. “I’ll have your job for this.”
“Maybe, but not before I have your arse for her.” The elevator dinged again, and
Weber attempted to get up. “Stay down or I’ll put you down.”
“That was a threat.” He subsided back to the floor, scrabbling at his pocket with
one bloodied hand. “She threatened me; you’re all my witnesses.” He pulled out a white
pocket handkerchief and pressed it to his nose, so his next words came out muffled.
“Head Office will back me up, Fraulein Braun. You don’t scare me.”
Sure I didn’t. Which was why he was sliding frantic looks toward the now open
elevator.
“I scare the crap out of you.” And in that moment I was livid enough to make
certain of it. “You bring your self-righteous, know-it-all arse within ten meters of me
again, and one night you’ll wake up to find yourself in the middle of Potsdamer Platz
naked and howling at the moon. And that’s no threat. It’s a promise.”
“Howling—” His eyes went wide. “That’s just psychic woo-woo crap; it’s not real.
You can’t make someone do that.”
Ethically, no. In practice? “Want to bet?”
His gaze skittered away from me. “Colonel St. Clare will hear about your actions
tonight.”
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Gracie O’Neil
2
“Yes, he will.” Probably already had, so I had nothing left to lose by making my
feelings quite clear. “And he’ll hear about yours too. You might be Head Office’s blueeyed boy, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re a gutless sack of shit.” I straightened,
stepped over him, and stalked into the elevator. “Come on, guys. Let’s go.”
Helmut and the others marched in, executed a smart about-face, and stood
shoulder-to-shoulder in the doorway. None of Weber’s guys had moved to help him up,
possibly because they realized how close to danger they were sailing.
I pressed the button for P-Section’s public floor and waited till the doors slid shut.
Then I said, “For heaven’s sake, Helmut. Don’t move, you sons of bitches, or I swear to God I’ll
shoot you where you stand? Were you trying to start a fight?”
“I merely followed your example, fearless leader.” Helmut glanced at my reflection
in the mirrored wall. “Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking the same thing.”
Leon swung round on me. “If you want him dead just say the word. That bastard
was laughing. Laughing. While that kid fucking bled to death he was laughing. By the time
I got to her. . . ” His fingers curled into fists at his sides. “I couldn’t save her. She was my
niece’s age. Eight. Nine at the most.”
And scared. So scared. “It wasn’t your fault, Leon. No one could’ve done better.”
“Fuck that.” Victor didn’t turn around. “It shouldn’t have happened. Me? I’m
going to rip Weber’s tongue out of his throat and strangle him with it.”
“Sounds good. But if we’re voting here”—Helmut cleared his throat—“I want the
Potsdamer-Platz-naked-and-howling-at-the-moon deal first.”
“Oh yeah,” Viktor said. “Emma, could you really make him do that? Please say yes.
I want to dream about that tonight.”
I couldn’t blame him. “Dream away then. I’ll run the idea past the colonel.”
“If you do,” Helmut said, “I’ll give a month’s pay to be there to watch his face.”
His lips went tight. “He’s going to go apeshit about tonight.”
“Which is why I’ll see him alone.” I stopped their protests with a shake of my
head. “Chain of command, remember? My mission. My screw-up.”
Viktor snorted. “Your mission, sure. Your screw-up? Hell, no. Weber’s no more
liaison material than I am. And Head Office thinks he can take Beth’s place? He’s worse
than useless; he’s asshole material—probably why your last four mission results have
been shit.” He stopped as Leon elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “What?” Viktor’s chin
lifted and his mouth went hard. “Like Emma doesn’t know?”
“Leave him alone,” I said. “He’s right.” The elevator stopped, the doors slid open,
and they stepped out. I held the doors.
“Just a moment.” Why was it so hard to find the right words? “Whatever happens,
I want you to know that you guys are the best damned Task Force unit in the European
section. Thanks for what you did tonight, all of you. Now, go clean up, have a couple of
beers. Wind down. If Weber’s guys come into the bar and get pissy, walk away.” I
released the doors. “See you in the morning.”
As I spoke, all three had turned various shades of embarrassment.
Helmut cleared his throat. “Emma, why don’t you co—”
Whatever he’d been going to say was lost as the doors swished closed. Just as well.
I couldn’t have faced beer and pizza. All of us would be remembering other times,
celebrations at the end of successful missions. There’d been a lot of them. For six years
SHADOW SEER
Gracie O’Neil
3
Helmut, Leon, Viktor, and Matthias had enjoyed the kudos of being the Task Force unit
assigned to P-Sec’s top operations team—Beth and me. Then disaster hit us. Now
Matthias and Beth were dead, and I’d returned to them a broken stranger. Nothing could
ever be the same again.
The elevator beeped, a reminder I was being watched, so I leaned forward for an
iris scan and requested the thirty-second floor.
I’d marched out of the elevator and had a moment of disorientation before I
realized I’d been operating on autopilot and requested the offices floor, not that of my
apartment. I swung around, but it was too late. The numbers above all four elevators
plummeted toward zero as the entire bank headed for ground.
Great. Just great. I could either stand there like an idiot or I could take the stairs. It
was only another five floors.
I’d have taken the stairs too, if my body hadn’t chosen that moment to remind me
it was heading for its fourth day without sleep and getting grouchy about the lack.
Fortunately, I wasn’t far from several stashes of good chocolate and a coffee maker. My
office. Weaving slightly on legs that were beginning to tremble, I headed for the end of the
corridor.
“Operative Braun,” one of the night staff administrators said as I staggered past
her. “Are you okay?”
I blinked. The dark gray flooring had been so highly polished it reflected the light
from the fluorescents. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Thank you.” I wasn’t the one who sounded about three degrees from panic.
What was wrong with her?
“Because the colonel asked to be informed when you arrived. I’ll do that now, shall
I?”
“Good idea.” But, now I thought about it, trying to have a sane and civilized
discussion with my boss while I was seething and wanting to rip a chunk off a co-worker
was probably not a bright idea.
So I stopped. Turned carefully. Formed my mouth into a smile. “On second
thought,” I said, enunciating with painful precision and wondering why the girl had put
the reception desk between us and turned a subtle shade of green, “tell him I’m fine. Say
I’m going to write my report and it’ll be on his desk first thing in the morning.”
She nodded, swallowing convulsively, and darted off into the night supervisor’s
office.
I continued down the corridor and into my office. Nice try, Emma. But no cigar.
Coffee would have to wait. Five minutes, and the colonel would be hammering on my
door to find out just what the hell kind of mess I’d dumped in his lap.
.oOo.
I’d been optimistic. One minute thirty-eight seconds after I walked into my office
the International Director for P-Section, Colonel Luc St. Clare, rapped on my door. As
he was rude enough to march in without waiting for a response, I swallowed my
mouthful of chocolate before I spoke, and didn’t bother to turn away from the window
SHADOW SEER
Gracie O’Neil
4
as I greeted him.
“Good evening, Colonel. What an unexpected pleasure.”
“There’s nothing pleasurable about it.” His tone was as controlled as a tightrope
walk between high-rises. And just as terrifying. “I’d like an explanation, please.”
“The client didn’t follow my recommendations.” Somehow it was easier to say
those words if I stared out the window at the hypnotic dance of Berlin’s late night traffic,
a swan-song’s dive below. “People died. I’m sure the fallout’s already started.”
“It has,” he said, with a politeness that made the hair on the back of my neck snap
to attention. Practically salute. “I’m not concerned about fallout at the moment.” My
office door clicked shut, and his tone softened, sliding from boss to concerned associate.
“Are you all right, Emma?”
I was breathing. Standing upright. Alive. My vision blurred, turning the distant
lights into a kaleidoscope of color. Sparkling. Twinkling. Like little stars. Like the
rainbow glitter on the dead child’s fake tattoo. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I heard you broke protocol. That you had to be physically restrained.”
I blinked hard and lowered my gaze from the rain-slashed window to my hands.
Black elastic supports now wrapped around each wrist. The memory of the sick
fascination in Weber’s eyes when he’d seen the jagged scars usually hidden by my leather
wrist bands still made my skin crawl.
“How did you hear that?” I pulled my gaze back to the darkened glass. “Been
rummaging around inside someone’s head?”
“Don’t be defensive,” the colonel said quietly. “Talk to me. This isn’t official.”
In a pig’s eye. If a P-Sec operative sneezed, it was official.
I jerked away from the window and toward my desk, registering for the first time
the fist-shaped bloodstains on the desk pad next to my computer, and what had once
been a plastic container now in several pieces among a litter of pens on the carpet.
Registered, too, the look on the colonel’s face as he scanned me head to toe. Raw
fury.
A lump of adrenaline-laced fear rocketed into my throat, and I gave the office a
quick inventory. Everything else seemed in order. Everything else was fine. I swallowed
the lump. Held it down. Breathe, Emma. He doesn’t know. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s—” He made a sharp gesture in my direction. “Look at yourself. What the
hell have you been doing?”
Following his movement, I glanced down. Sweat and blood covered my overalls
from the waist up. Soot and blood decorated the knees and legs. Mud and blood
spattered my boots. “Oh.” No wonder the admin had looked green.
“Oh is not good enough.” The chill in his voice could have frozen my ears. “What
were you thinking to get in such a state? To take such a risk?”
Whatever I’d thought, it had blown up in my face, and whatever I’d done after that
hadn’t been enough. “I’ve had basic paramedic train—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he snapped. “You’re brains, not brawn. You
interpret data and stay in the van. Period. No operative risks exposure b—”
“Not even to save lives?” Although there’d been stuff-all lives saved tonight. God,
I hadn’t yet hit thirty, but the ache in my chest made me feel three hundred.
“Not if it means dashing into the middle of a bloody firefight.”
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Gracie O’Neil
5
It’s what has to be done—if your actions caused it all. “I screwed up. The client
didn’t buy what I was selling. You want it in writing? Fine. You want to ream me out?
Feel free. But right now, I’m going to shower and change.” Clean, dry clothes sang their
siren’s song from my locker, and oblivion beckoned from my apartment upstairs. “I’ll be
in your office first thing tomorrow morning.”
“No,” the colonel said, “you won’t. Head Office has called for a special debriefing
in twenty minutes. Both you and Weber are required.”
My head jerked up. “Already? Can’t they wait until the corpses are cold?” The
venom that’d been threatening to poison me for the last few days boiled up my throat
and into my mouth. “Well, screw Head Office. And screw Weber.”
My boss’s face returned to its usual impassivity. His indifference infuriated me
even more.
I slammed my palms down on the desk pad. “And, while I’m at it, screw you. What
the hell were you thinking? I told you I couldn’t work with Weber, that he wasn’t liaison
material, but no, you know better. I need an empath who can read the client and make
the mystical sound normal. You tie me up with a moron who couldn’t read a takeout
menu.”
Not a flicker of emotion. “I had no choice.”
“The hell you didn’t.” In spite of the pulse pounding in my throat, I stared him
down. “You want my expert opinion?”
“I don’t.”
Too bad. “The guy’s dangerous. I don’t care whose son he is or who his bloody
brother-in-law is or what Head Office has supposedly sent him to do. Friedrich Weber’s
a political agenda wrapped in a Rambo complex and with a time bomb strapped to his
ego. You knew it. You knew it, and you assigned him to me anyway.”
The colonel adjusted the gold and onyx links in his pristine white cuffs. “I assigned
him to you because you’re the best I’ve got.”
Not anymore. Not after today. “Don’t feed me that line, Colonel. I don’t salute
and bend over.” I drew in courage and breath. Let them both out. “All the years I’ve
worked with you I’ve never said anything I didn’t mean, so listen carefully. Thanks to
Operation Star, I’m behind on my paperwork. Which means I haven’t signed my new
contract yet. Consider this official notification of my intention not to renew.”
“You can’t—”
I shook my head. “I can. I am. Anyway, if you think AGP will continue to pay my
salary after tonight’s disaster hits the media, then you’re crazier than I am.”
“They’re not all fools.”
I snorted. “They still employ Weber, don’t they? If it comes to a choice, they’ll
protect their own.” Anger and frustration drained out of me, along with my remaining
energy. “Look, we both know things aren’t right.” Hadn’t been right for months. “It’s
time for me to go.”
He regarded me with his cool gray gaze, as though evaluating my sincerity. “I don’t
believe so. You’re making a decision based on emotional—”
“There’s nothing emotional about it. Cold fact, Colonel: I will never again allow
people to die on my watch because of a mistake I make.”
“The mistakes weren’t yours.”
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Gracie O’Neil
6
“If I can’t convince the client to listen, then the mistakes are mine. Beth and I—” I
felt the pain like a stiletto in the chest. “We were good.”
The colonel’s mouth tightened. “You were more than good.”
He was right; we’d been phenomenal. “But Weber and me? No. When you
assigned him to me, I didn’t hold to my initial refusal. That was my mistake too.” And—
like the others—far too late to fix.
A breath of stillness hung between us. In that moment, with the harsh fluorescents
reflecting off his silvering hair and deepening the furrows from nose to mouth, the
colonel looked every one of his fifty years. Then he shifted slightly. Consulted his watch.
“You need to clean up,” he said, as though I hadn’t spoken. “I’ll put the debrief
back another ten minutes. Room eighteen oh six. Be there.”
Or what? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. I was just too . . . something. Drained. Sad.
Angry. Tired. My hands were starting to tremble with fatigue. “I’m running on empty,” I
said in a last-ditch attempt to make him reconsider the timing. “I need—”
“Food. I know.” He waved acknowledgement on his way out the door. “It’ll be
waiting for you. Clock’s ticking.”
The door snicked shut behind him.
For a couple of heartbeats, I simply stood there, staring blindly. Then a solar flare
of fury rose up in me. This time I had no control over it. The metal box of files I’d
manhandled with some difficulty onto the spare office chair in front of my desk suddenly
shot off the seat and hurled itself across the office. It slammed into the wooden
doorframe at about the height of the colonel’s head, buckled, and then dropped to the
floor writhing. As it split apart, files spilled everywhere, their innards flapping among the
pens on the carpet.
“Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.”
Stumbling over files, I made it to the door and clicked the lock home. The room
began to blur and swim in a slow waltz around me. I clutched at the wall, steadied myself,
and closed my eyes. Take a minute. Just a minute.
Truth was I’d need more than a minute if I was going to clean up this mess. In
more ways than one.
On the screen behind my closed eyelids, an imaginary conversation with Hilde
Meier flickered and echoed like a pre-World War II newsreel.
“Emma,” she was saying with that professionally calm yet disappointed air at
which all psychiatrists seem to excel, “why haven’t you told me about this new aspect? I
thought you said you had everything under control?”
I sighed and opened my eyes, ending that scene before it got nasty.
It would be nice to have everything under control. And I did. Normally. When I
wasn’t running on mad. When I’d had more than three hours sleep in seventy-two. When
I didn’t face the prospect of another couple hours of psychic and emotional battering.
When my extrasensory ducks stayed in their intellectual row.
But I was and I hadn’t and I did and they weren’t.
So I didn’t have anything, much less everything, under control.
What I had was a slow disintegration from obsessive self-discipline to no discipline
at all. And it was getting worse. Changing. All kinds of things were changing. Things I
couldn’t tell anyone. Things I hesitated to acknowledge even to myself.
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Gracie O’Neil
7
Things like . . .
Several scars now scored the wooden doorframe. Maintenance was going to go
spare. Sure, this was just a graze on their baby’s knee, and I hadn’t called them in to
repair anything since I’d moved apartments, but that wouldn’t matter. They had long
memories and I was still their equivalent of DEFCON 1.
When the tingling in my fingertips began, my decision about how to deal with the
situation became easier. I wasn’t a normal person. Why should I pretend to be? Closing
my eyes, I slipped inside myself to a place of peace and silence. Serenity settled around
me. Warm. Heavy. I focused my mind. Took a careful breath. Felt the prickling in my
fingers turn to heat. Burn. Reaching out to the scratched and dented doorframe, I
brushed my fingers over its blemished surface.
“Shift,” I whispered.
Under my touch, the dents in the wood warmed, then rippled, a cat’s fur ruffling.
The surface moved, realigned, settled, and solidified.
I leaned in for a closer look. Perfect. Freaking perfect. Staring down at my hands, I
rubbed my thumbs over fingertips from which all burning and prickling had now
dissipated. Hey, here’s a fun idea, Emma. Why don’t we tell the nice shrink about this new game?
At the thought, a thousand ice cubes slithered down my spine. Expose my
escalating madness? Not. A. Chance.
The sound of an incoming call pulled me back to reality—of a sort. Max and Sigi,
two of the R&D boys, always welcomed operatives home in some idiot fashion after an
assignment. This time my desk phone glowed a vibrant red. Then it bleated, oinked,
mooed twice, and farted. The last at considerable length and escalating volume.
I considered ignoring it, managed to do so—for the first six rings—and then,
suddenly furious, scooped up the receiver. “Very adult, Max. Very funny.”
“Miss Brown?” The voice was unfamiliar, male, elderly, and spoke English. “Am I
speaking with Miss Emma Brown?”
Oops. I slipped from German back into my native tongue—and tried to pretend
the last few seconds had happened to someone else. “Yes. How may I help you?”
“Miss Brown, I’m Jonathan Turner, from Turner, Hagen and Donald, your sister’s
solicitor.”
Great. Just freaking great “Which sister?”
“Miss Thalia Brown.”
Thalia—Lili—sister number two. “And how does that affect me?”
“She left instruction with me to contact you at this time.”
“Did she?” Trust Lili to turn her neuroses into a big production and involve a
solicitor. I felt another surge of fury. Clamped down on it. “In that case, Mr. Turner, I
suggest you call her and tell her that if she wants to talk to me, she can pick up the
damned phone and do it herself.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.
“Miss Brown,” Turner said quickly, correctly guessing I was about to hang up in
his ear, “you seem to be under some misapprehension. When was the last time you spoke
with a member your family?”
“About three years ago,” I said, feeling pressure building behind my eyes at the
memory. “And not by choice. Look, Mr. Turn—”
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Gracie O’Neil
8
“Not within the last ten days?”
“Not unless three years and ten days changed their definitions drastically while I
wasn’t looking, no.”
“Then you’re unaware of Miss Thalia’s situation?”
Was the man deaf? “She could be raising miniature snow leopards in Brisbane,
Australia, for all I know.”
“Oh dear.” There was a beat of silence before he spoke again. Slower this time and
with a studied solemnity. “There’s no way to break this gently, Miss Brown. I regret to
inform you that your sister, Miss Thalia Brown, is dead.”
I think, just for a moment, the universe stopped. Froze solid. I heard the words,
but their significance didn’t sink in. I stood, holding the telephone receiver and staring at
its still glowing cradle, my mind utterly blank.
“Miss Brown? Are you there, Miss Brown?”
I don’t know what he expected me to do. Cry, maybe. Scream. Faint. But the truth
was, I didn’t have any emotion left.
“I’m here.” I swallowed back the denial of death. Mr. Turner didn’t seem the type
to play games. He’d said something about ten days. “Had she been sick? Was she in
hospital? An accident? I’m sorry, Mr. Turner. I don’t understand.”
“According to the coroner’s report, Miss Thalia took her own life while of
unsound mind.”
“No.” I couldn’t swallow that. Not in any sense. That was wrong, wrong, wrong.
“I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it.”
Maybe not in his mind. But in mine there was. Leave it, Emma. Deal with it later.
“Okay.” It seemed to take a long time for my brain to click into gear, any gear. “Okay,” I
repeated. “She wanted you to contact me. Why? Do I need to see you personally? Will
you be at the funeral? When is it?”
Again there was an infinitesimal pause. “The funeral took place a week ago.”
“A week?” I shivered. Felt the chill from those words move through my ear to my
head, through my mind to my chest. To my heart. “She’s been dead a week.”
“Ten days,” Mr. Turner corrected.
“Ten days.” Of course. My sister kills herself. Lili kills herself and they bury her
and no one tells me. Cold, even for them. And I couldn’t think. “Mr. Turner, I
don’t . . . I can’t . . . ” Can’t believe it.
The elderly voice gentled. “I understand, Miss Brown. This is a shock. I’m more
sorry than I can say, but I must add to your distress and ask you to come immediately to
London and”—he hesitated only briefly—“to tell no one in your family that you are
doing so until you’ve met with me.”
The second part was easy enough. No one in the family cared where I was. The
first part might be more difficult.
“If it’s that important, I’ll try to get over in the next few weeks,” I began, but he
cut through my excuse without any finesse.
“A few weeks is far too long.” His voice softened even more. “You must believe
me when I say I would not insist were this not most critical.”
I hated being pushed, and this felt like a shove. “Really, Mr. Turner, now is not a
good time.”
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Gracie O’Neil
9
“In that case,” he said, brisk and businesslike once more, “Miss Thalia left a letter
for me to read to you if you felt unable to respond positively to her request. May I do so
now?”
Why not? “Go ahead.”
I picked up the shooshing of steel through paper. The crinkle of a document being
opened. Then Mr. Turner said, somewhat puzzled, “It appears to be a prayer.”
Something inside me went liquid and chill. She’d sent me a prayer? Beside me, the
top desk drawer jerked and rattled against its lock. “Read it, please.”
Mr. Turner cleared his throat. “It says: ‘Thee, Nemesis, I call, winged balancer of
life, messenger of justice, to intervene on behalf of the innocent, to wield the sword,
revealing the wickedness in the mind concealed and rescuing the sons of thunder, bright
stars of the night.’” He paused. “That’s the entire message. Does it convey anything to
you?”
Thee, Nemesis, I call . . .
“Yes,” I said, while the chill began to turn to molten fury. What it conveyed was
that she’d gotten into something she couldn’t handle. Something she hoped to use me to
fix. “Yes, it does.”
Lili hadn’t killed herself. If she’d sent me any sort of communication, then she was
certainly not planning to die. Not by her own hand. She’d enjoy yanking my chain too
much to suicide. Which left accident. Or murder.
But what could she possibly know—or have done—that would lead to murder?
Stupid question. There were a thousand rationales for killing.
By this time, I was shaking as hard as the contents of the drawers. Calm down,
Emma. Don’t feel. Think.
“What would you like me to do for you or on your behalf?” Turner asked in a
rolling-up-the-sleeves kind of voice.
I wanted him to do nothing. I wanted to do nothing. But I couldn’t. Lili, sister of
my blood. Beth, best friend and sister of my heart. How could I choose to avenge one
and not the other? I couldn’t. It was as simple as that. “Is the invocation all she left with
you?”
For ev’ry thought within the mind conceal’d
Is to thy fight perspicuously reveal’d.
If I guessed right, there’d be some sort of key.
“She left a second envelope.” There was a pause. Some rustling. “It feels as though
it contains a key.”
“Don’t open it!” The words came out fast. And harsher than I’d intended. “I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. But don’t open it, Mr. Turner. Don’t touch it. Seriously.
Don’t. Put it away somewhere secure.”
The silence sang between us. “Very well,” he said, finally. “I’ll deposit it into my
personal safe in my office. It will be quite secure there. May I assume you’ll be here in the
morning?”
I thought of Operation Star. Of a broken little girl with a unicorn tattoo. Of the
black hole my future was spiraling into. Who knew how long I had before this escalating
psychic meltdown took all that was left of me? Could I afford to leave now? Even more
importantly, what would happen if I didn’t?
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My brain said stay.
My gut said go.
My mouth said, “I will.”
“Excellent. If you let me know your arrival time, I’ll have my driver meet you at
the airport.”
“I will,” I said again. “Thanks.”
“Good night, Miss Brown. I’m sincerely sorry for your loss.”
I must’ve said something else—I’m not sure what. I also must’ve put down the
receiver, because when I came back to myself, it was no longer in my hands.
I was still standing in my office though. Still staring into space. Still surrounded by
a spent storm of folders and paper. And, dead sister or not, still expected to attend Head
Office’s meeting.
For an instant, a brief flash of longing, I wanted to stop. To stop thinking. To stop
breathing. To stop it all, whatever “it all” was. To let go.
But I couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
Not yet.
Instead, I unlocked my office door, closed it on the carnage, and headed for the
women’s locker room.
There were several occupants, but no one greeted me—a sure sign that Operation
Star’s outcome had reached the grapevine. It was a relief; silence was preferable to
questions and pity. I’d had a lifetime’s worth of those in the last year.
Taking clean clothes with me, I went to the decontamination room, peeled off my
bloody overalls, and then tossed everything I’d been wearing into the black laundry bag
for contaminated clothing. Then, wrapped in a towel, I retreated to the privacy of a
shower cubicle. Once there, I stood under the cold spray until warmth was a memory
and I couldn’t smell the blood or taste the fear or hear the explosions in my head for the
pounding of the water on my temples.
But even that was not enough.
Not nearly.
So I stayed.
I stayed until my body chilled. Until my temper iced. Until Lili’s face no longer
wavered behind my stinging eyes.
Only then—when I was, once again, as dead inside as I could get without ripping my
heart out—did I dry myself, dress, clean my teeth, and take the elevator to room 1806.
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CHAPTER TWO
Each of AGP Berlin’s seven meeting rooms was a pleasant space painted a
pleasant blue with pleasant pictures hung in a pleasant fashion.
I hated them all.
To me, the only thing that made this particular soulless meeting room bearable was
knowing that on the underside of the conference table were several anatomically
improbable cartoons entitled Kama Sutra for the Karma-Challenged. I found the drawings
comforting. The same way some dealt with public speaking by imagining the audience in
their underwear.
Unfortunately, Weber, the one person I didn’t want to encounter—even fully
clothed—had already arrived and was in full mouth-off. As the door was open I heard
him long before I got to the room.
“This is ludicrous.” He spat the last word. “Simply ludicrous. Where is the
woman?”
“She’ll be along in a moment.” The soft voice belonged to Dr. Hilde Meier—PSec’s resident shrink. I imagined Weber’s blood pressure rising in inverse proportion to
her calm self-possession. Thought I might help it along. So I stopped at the small group
of comfortable chairs outside the doorway and sat down to eavesdrop for a while.
Weber barely drew breath. “. . . that Fraulein Braun made a severe error in her
recommendations. It is becoming obvious that she—and P-Section—are trying to shift
the blame. Head Office will hear of this unwarranted attack on its staff, Colonel St. Clare,
and—”
“Herr Weber,” the colonel said, “before we go further, let me ask you this: how
many children did Operative Braun tell you were among the hostages?”
“My reports said there were four.” Weber was all self-righteous indignation. “I
have written statements—”
“Did Operative Braun indicate that there were five?”
“She can’t have known th—”
“Was there a fifth child?” the colonel enquired.
“As it turned out, yes. But that’s—”
“And,” the colonel continued, “did Operative Braun inform you that there were
IEDs along the designated path of entry?”
“Yes. However, as my intel did not indicate explosives—”
“I thought you said Operative Braun told you.”
“She said there was, but she’s only a—”
“Yes?” The colonel’s voice held nothing but polite interest. “She’s only a what?”
Uh oh. Surely even someone with the psychic ability of a melted chocolate bar, the
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charisma of a mange-ridden ferret, and the charm of a rabid hyena had to have some
sense of self-preservation.
“A civilian,” Weber said quickly, proving me right. “Fraulein Braun isn’t military.
She’s not even law enforcement. Her formal training is in languages, for God’s sake.”
All of which was true, and if he’d left it there, he might’ve been okay. But, being
Weber, he didn’t.
“She doesn’t have the emotional discipline necessary to stand back and look at the
big picture,” he blustered on, “or to make rational decisions in a life and death situation.
I had to have her physically restrained to get her to leave the area.”
Silence. Like a tomb.
I’d wondered if Weber had realized his actions had caused his hairy toe to flop
over the colonel’s personal line in the sand. Apparently not. I doubted he realized it even
now.
When the colonel spoke again, it was in his boardroom voice. “Let me,” he said
quietly, “make sure I understand. You’ve been with this section for six weeks and liaised
between Operative Braun and our clients on four missions, including this one.”
“Yes, that’s right. And—”
“And in the previous three missions you provided our clients with the exact intel
Operative Braun gave you. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“And did each of those missions end successfully? By which I mean,” the colonel
elaborated with gentle emphasis, “did they end with everyone walking away alive?”
“That’s not suc—” Weber stopped.
Too late. Oh yeah, way too late. I hauled myself to my feet and moved so I could
see into the room without being seen.
The color of Weber’s face changed from that of a slightly green tomato through
several darkening shades of red. “I mean—”
“You meant precisely what you said.” The colonel, seated at the conference table,
appeared to be carved from granite. “You measure success in terms of maximum
bloodshed. The difficulty, Herr Weber, is ensuring that only guilty blood is spilled.”
Weber bridled. “I answer to Head Office, St. Clare, not to P-Section. You have no
jurisdiction over me. I do my job. As part of that job, I took what I was given by Fraulein
Braun and passed it on.” He surged to his feet and his chair tipped backwards onto the
gray carpet. “Why should they have listened to her anyway? Her recommendations were
blatant rubbish.”
I wasn’t going to let that pass. “They were not,” I said, walking in and closing the
door behind me. “And if our clients choose to ignore my instructions, that can hardly be
classed as my fault.”
“You had no idea what was happening,” Weber shot back. “No idea.” His glare
could have scalded lava. “I will not be made to look a fool. I will not be made a laughing
stock.”
“Laughing stock?” The sheer effrontery of the man nearly took my breath. “People
died, and you’re worried about being laughed at?”
“We don’t need a bunch of smart-ass, self-styled psychics telling normal people
how to do their jobs.” He swung round to Hilde, who was sipping from her teacup as
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daintily as if she were in some upper-class English drawing room. “As P-Section’s
psychiatrist, your evaluations allowing her to remain operative will be under severe
scrutiny. She’s a damned liability, and I’ll be making a recommendation for her removal.”
He reached down and scooped up his papers. “This meeting is over.”
He shoved past me, wrenched the door open, and stormed off.
For three heartbeats after the door slammed behind him, no one moved.
Then I sighed, walked to the table, and dropped into the chair beside Hilde. She
replaced her cup in its saucer, lifted the porcelain teapot, and poured me a cup of the
fragrant brew.
“Well,” I said after the first sip of the slightly cool peppermint. “Wasn’t that fun?
And to think I missed most of it.”
The colonel’s mouth tightened. “You were outside listening.”
I lifted one shoulder. Sipped again. “You didn’t need me. However, while we’re
speaking of removing me from my job . . . ”
“We’re not.”
I ignored him. Kept my face impassive. Replaced the cup on its saucer. “Well, I’m
saving you the trouble. I’ve just been informed of my sister’s death.”
“Oh, Emma,” Hilde said. “I’m sorry. Which sister?”
“The middle triplet. Thalia.” Something pricked behind my eyes. I raised my hands
to rub at the grit. Saw they were trembling. Put them back in my lap. “So, I’m taking
leave beginning now.”
“To go to England?” The colonel picked up a pen. Jotted a few words on the sheet
in front of him.
I nodded. “I need to pack and organize a flight.”
“I’ll arrange everything for the morning.”
I shook my head. “I have an early meeting in London.” I started to rise. “But
thanks for the offer and the tea. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . ”
“We’re not finished.”
I sighed, feeling as close to finished as I’d ever been. “We are. Honest to God,
Colonel, I need to go tonight, while the adrenaline is still keeping me awake and
functional. I don’t want to fly more tired than I am now.”
“I’m sorry, Emma,” he said and, oddly enough, he sounded it. “Operation Star will
wait, but this won’t: Strohmann’s killed again.”
.oOo.
Strohmann.
The teacups and saucers clattered on the table. The colonel and Hilde both stared
at them.
Damn. “Sorry. I kicked the table.” My saucer made a couple more token jitters
before stopping. I ignored it. “The victim—does she fit Strohmann’s profile?”
“Yes.” The colonel was still giving my cup and saucer the same concentration a cat
gives the refrigerator door at one minute past dinner time. “And no, she isn’t one of
ours.”
Not one of ours.
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The relief I felt was wrong. I knew it shouldn’t make any difference, but it did. To
our knowledge, Strohmann—the sobriquet was one we’d given him—had been operating
for the last eighteen months. In that time he’d killed eight women. All had been in either
military or law enforcement jobs, mostly non-sworn, and all, with the exception of Beth
Davidovich, had been tall, slim, blue-eyed brunettes.
Like me.
And, while I’d later seen what he’d done to each of them, I’d been in the same
room when he’d done it to Beth. There was a difference.
“Emma! Are you listening?”
I looked up into the colonel’s gray eyes and noted the hint of concern under his
impatience. “Sorry. I wasn’t.”
“I said he sent you a disk.”
“So?”
Since Beth’s death, he’d always sent me a disk of his work, and I’d go over it,
looking for something—anything—that would nail his arse to the wall. “This has you all
bent out of shape because?” I was missing something. I leaned forward, suddenly alert.
“You’ve watched it?”
He nodded.
“Is it the same MO?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” There was something else too, something they weren’t saying. “I guess it
was accompanied by another I’ll get you and your little dog too message.”
Their silence confirmed my guess.
“So? What’s different? What’s got you worried? We’ve always known he’d come
after me again.” In fact, I counted on it.
“It was sent to you through AGP.”
I frowned. “All the disks were sent to me through AGP.”
“Not via your personal mailbox.” The colonel tapped his pen on the writing pad in
front of him.
“Are you telling me you intercept my personal mail?”
He regarded me as though I were making a big deal of nothing. “I’m telling you I’ll
do whatever it takes to find this son of a bitch, including going through your personal
mail or anything else I deem necessary. Including, if you’re going to England, sending a
bodyguard with you.”
The words hit hard. “No. I’m not—”
“If you don’t take someone, then you’re not going.”
Could he stop me? Probably. But would he? “The answer is still no. And yes, I
damned well am going.”
He didn’t even look up from his jottings. “Kurt Traugott returned from Prague
this morning. Julia Sankt is also available. If neither appeals, you can wait until tomorrow.
Martin Devereaux is flying in and—”
“No.” I stood. “I said no, I mean no. This is not a mission and I’m not Weber. I
don’t need round-the-clock bodyguards to show how important I am. Nothing against
Kurt, Julia, or Martin, but I refuse—refuse—to be responsible for another death if
Strohmann come after me. Not now. Not ever again. This trip has nothing to do with
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you. It’s personal business and I go on my own.”
The colonel pushed back his chair. “You’ll do as you’re told.”
When I’d joined AGP, the R&D boys had told me Colonel St. Clare met every
situation with “all the emotion of a frozen herring.” I don’t know where they got their
intel from. It had never been that way with me. Now, we met each other’s glares across
the table, a clash of wills that flared like light off naked blades.
“Enough,” Hilde said into a silence that still rang with steel. “I’m responsible for
the mental health of every member of P-Section, and in that capacity, I’m telling you
both to sit down. There’s been enough foolishness spoken in here this evening; let’s not
have more. Emma, drink your tea and eat that protein bar, please. Colonel, using AGP
personnel for Emma’s private security while she was recovering from her injuries was
one thing. Continuing to do so now she’s back on the active list is quite another. ”
“Thank you, Hilde,” I said. “Nice to know someone thinks I can look after
myself.”
Hilde inclined her head. “You can. But will you?”
“Yes.” I sat down. “I will.”
The colonel also settled back into his seat. “Very well. For the moment. But I don’t
like how Strohmann’s obsession is evolving. This is one step closer. He’s learned too
much about you, Emma.”
And I’d learned far more than I wanted to about him. Strohmann was an actor, an
egotist. He recorded his performances. He always wore a mask. He favored knives.
Enjoyed torture. He liked to listen to his victims scream and beg and plead. Got pissed as
hell when they didn’t. Oh yeah, I knew that last bit really well.
I became aware I was cradling my abdomen only when I followed Hilde’s gaze to
my lap. Shit. I relaxed my arms, reached for the teacup, picked it up. Drank. It didn’t
rattle when I replaced it in its saucer. Full marks for me.
“Did you see this coming?” she asked.
“Not in a psychic sense, no. But it’s hardly surprising he should raise the stakes.” I
kept my face and my voice blank. “I’ve never been able to see things that affect my own
future, Hilde. It’s one of the very few blessings left to me.”
I had to get out of there before I did something really stupid. When I stood, my
feet felt rubbery and twice their usual size. “And don’t forget, I didn’t see it the first time
either.”
“I still believe we should—”
Hilde tapped the colonel’s hand, stopping his words. He blew out a slow breath.
“Never mind. We’ll discuss it later. And your contract, we’ll discuss that too. In the
meantime, pack. I’ll make arrangements for the flight.”
“Tonight.”
He nodded. “Tonight.”
I made it out of the room without stumbling, down the hallway without staggering,
pressed the elevator button without fumbling, and stepped into it without tripping. Then
I took two paces forward and it happened, as it often did, with the suddenness and force
of a train wreck.
Flashes of the future.
I saw Friedrich Weber seated at a highly polished oak desk, phone in his hand. I
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watched him stare at his phone, his face losing color, going grey, going blank. I watched
him reach into the desk drawer, remove a pistol, put the barrel into his mouth. Watched
him pull the trigger. I couldn’t see the desk calendar or the date of the newspaper spread
out on the desk, but I could see the photographs. The headlines. The curtains were
closed. The now blood-spattered wall clock showed 8:42.
I closed my eyes and fought to control my escalating heart rate. The future wasn’t
always written in stone, but if it was, it was written by the finger of Choice. Of Free Will.
In this case, not only his, but also mine.
When the elevator stopped on my floor, I opened my eyes and stepped out. As the
doors closed behind me, I took my cellphone from my pocket. Dialed.
Hilde answered on the third ring. “Yes, Emma?”
“Future flash.” I kept my voice as neutral as that of a CNN weather presenter.
“Weber. I saw him kill himself.”
A second’s silence. Then, “Tell me.”
“Eight forty-two. At his desk. Not sure if it’s his home or not. Antique oak, if that
helps. Curtains were closed and the clock was analog, so I don’t know if it’s morning or
night. Gun in his desk drawer. I don’t know why he decided to do it, but he’d been
talking on the phone. He’d also been reading a newspaper—it was spread out on the
desk. I couldn’t see the name of the paper or its date.” I sighed, closed my eyes.
“However, there were photographs of today’s fiasco. Would you let the colonel know?”
“Yes. Emma?” It was her professional voice, shrink to shrink-ee.
“Yeah?”
She seemed to search for words. “What we want to do,” she said, finally, “isn’t
important. What we do is important. And, no matter how hard it is, you try to do what’s
right. You’re the only one who sees it as a weakness. Remember that. Your weakness is
your strength.”
“Right. Weakness is strength.” I snapped my phone closed and slid it back into my
jeans pocket. I really hated being shrinked. Bad enough she knew as many of my secrets as
she did. It was embarrassing as hell to think she’d picked up on this particular struggle
with my dark side.
I remember crusty old Sister Mary Leonard once telling our class that temptation
wasn’t sin. Maybe it wasn’t. I didn’t take issue with its categorization. What bothered me
was the certain knowledge that deep inside my psyche lurked something that wished—
really wished—it could have let this particular future come and go, and said nothing at
all.
.oOo.
With the colonel’s help, I made it to the airport, through all the security and drama,
and onto the plane with twelve long minutes to spare.
Once we were in the air, I relaxed enough to lean back in my window seat and
close my eyes. My relaxed state didn’t last long. The low vibration of the engine was too
soothing. Too soporific.
I straightened up and stared out of the window into the darkness outside. Watched
the lights of the real world slide away beneath me. Watched them blur and shimmer. Stay
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awake. Think of something. Anything. Think of Lili.
Lili. My sister. Dead at thirty.
It didn’t matter how many coroners said she’d killed herself, she hadn’t. How did I
know? The same way I’d known about the IEDs in spite of intel to the contrary. About
the placement of snipers. The assassin’s target.
I just knew.
Add to that knowing the simple fact that, unless something had changed drastically
in the last couple of years, the triplets would still live and breathe each other. Lili would
never leave Clio and Calliope to grieve their hearts out. She wouldn’t leave them
wondering what they’d done or what they’d missed. How they’d failed her.
She might be selfish, manipulative, compulsive, and paranoid, but so were they.
Hell, so was I.
The difference between them and me was that they maintained an illusion of caring
for others while loving only each other, whereas I didn’t love anyone. And wouldn’t
pretend otherwise.
All the same, it appeared that—in the end—blood called to blood. Thalia was my
sister. She’d reached out to me. That had to mean something. Only trouble was, she’d
never done it in life, she’d done it as a last resort, and she’d included the invocation from
the beginning of Orphic Hymn 60.
The last fact most certainly did mean something.
It meant I was walking into a shitload of trouble.
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CHAPTER THREE
After Mr. Turner’s driver picked me up from the airport and dropped me off at a
hotel, I spent the rest of the night overloading on caffeine and watching re-runs of The
Sweeney and A Touch of Frost.
By the time daylight trickled through the curtains, my brain had moved beyond
exhaustion into that mental twilight where everything seems so clear and which generally
indicates any decision-making ability is screwed.
So I decided I wouldn’t decide anything. I’d interrogate Mr. Turner, retrieve Lili’s
key, and find a place to sleep without the risk of interruption. Then I’d do what needed
doing.
The same driver—“Just call me Hughson, Miss”—collected me from the hotel at
the arranged time and ferried me through the traffic to Mr. Turner’s office.
I didn’t have to wait. I’d no sooner walked into its polish-scented, glossy wood and
hunter green interior than I was greeted by a young man who sported a salon tan, a
diamond stud in his right ear, and an air of tireless efficiency. He relieved me of my
suitcase and whisked me immediately into Mr. Turner’s sanctum.
The solicitor was not what I expected. Sure, I’d known he was elderly, but I’d
imagined someone dried up and prissy. He wasn’t. In fact, he looked like a spry, cleanshaven garden gnome wearing Savile Row.
But what really intrigued me was a haunting sense of familiarity. It made me
inclined to trust him. On the other hand, that very inclination made me wary because I
was tired enough to make mistakes. It would be prudent to remember that—for
whatever reason—Lili had selected this man. I had no reason to trust her and every
reason not to.
“Thank you for coming, Miss Brown,” Mr. Turner said, gesturing me to a chair in
front of his desk.
“No problem.” I seated myself and got straight to business. “Perhaps you can tell
me a little more about what happened. What do you know?” I didn’t bother to pretend.
“It has to be more than I do.”
He nodded and, to his credit, didn’t pull out the platitudes some in his position
might. He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and considered me over the top
of his gold-rimmed spectacles.
“I first met your sister three weeks ago. She arrived without an appointment, but
with my business card and an introduction.”
“An introduction?”
He inclined his head. “As do my partners, I take clients only on personal
recommendation.”
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And, his manner said, I was wasting my time to ask more. Besides, what did it
matter?
“Aside from those facts,” Mr. Turner continued, “I can tell you very little, except
that she appeared to be under great emotional strain. She sat where you sit now and
wrote the letter I read to you last night.”
The invocation. “May I see it?”
“Certainly.” He opened a folder, selected an envelope, and pushed it across the
desk between us. “The other envelope—the one she left inside this one—is in my safe.
Shall I fetch it now?”
“Please.” I drew the single sheet of paper out of the open envelope and unfolded it
while he busied himself out of my sight.
The note was in Lili’s handwriting without doubt, but she must’ve been in a
screaming hurry. Instead of the carefully controlled looping script she’d cultivated since
childhood, this was wild, almost aggressive. I read it again.
Thee, Nemesis, I call,
Winged balancer of life,
Messenger of Justice,
To intervene on behalf of the innocent,
To wield the sword,
Revealing the wickedness in the mind concealed
And rescuing the Sons of Thunder—
Bright Stars of the Night.
Turner had said she’d been under severe strain. But this flowed. If she hadn’t
written it ahead of time, she’d given it a lot of thought. Most people would simply say
what they wanted in normal language, Lili, however, never did anything simply. She liked
games, puzzles, manipulating people and events. Some things never changed. I glanced
up as the solicitor returned to his desk and placed another envelope in front of me. The
key.
“Would you like privacy?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Well, I must say, I’m glad.” He stopped, gave a wry smile. “Curiosity has always
been my besetting sin.”
I took the sealed envelope and turned it slowly in my hands. Just how much had
Lili told him? He wasn’t looking at me as though I was a four-legged chicken, so
probably not a lot. Then again, there was a possibility he could be open to talent, perhaps
even sensitive himself. And there was that elusive familiarity nibbling at me. Perhaps I
should take the chance, just in case.
“I have certain abilities,” I said, speaking slowly.
He nodded. “Psychic abilities, yes. Those Miss Thalia did mention.”
Well, that was easy. I studied his face. Nothing but interest and a kind of patient
waiting.
“All right. When we were younger, we used to play a game. A kind of hide-andseek thing. Some of the wording is similar, so I assume Thalia's playing it here too and I
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didn’t want you to touch the key because touch might wipe its memory.”
He considered this. “You believe Miss Thalia’s left a message for you on the key?”
“Yes.” It was as good an explanation as any.
Since he didn’t call the men in white coats to haul me away, I went on. “I’m not
sure what will happen when I touch it, so if I pass out or something, just leave me. Don’t
touch me; I’ll come round in a couple of minutes.”
He looked slightly horrified. “Are you saying it could be booby-trapped?”
I couldn’t help grimacing. “I don’t imagine so, but it pays to be prepared.” I gave
the envelope a gentle stroke. Nothing obvious. With careful fingers I tore the paper
slightly, eased the tear wider. A key. No letter. Just a key. I looked up at Mr. Turner.
“Ready?”
He inclined his head. “If you are.”
I tipped the key out onto the palm of my hand.
It was almost anticlimactic. In front of me, as though projected onto a white wall,
shimmered a name of a bank, an address, a series of numbers, a password. And a brief
sentence: I’m sorry for everything.
When I was certain I had the numbers and the password, I dropped the key back
into the envelope.
As soon as the key left my hand, the vision faded and I was back in the office with
Mr. Turner, his brow slightly creased, watching me.
“Was there a message?” he asked.
I nodded. “May I—” My voice went husky, and I cleared my throat. “Sorry. May I
have some paper?”
He handed me a legal pad and a pen. Then he stood and walked to the door,
opened it, said something I couldn’t hear, and returned to the desk.
I scribbled the address and handed him the pad. “I’m not familiar with London.
Do you know this location?”
He scanned it and nodded. “Certainly. Hughson will take you there.”
“That’s kind of you,” I said, because it was and I was grateful for the thought. “But
I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t ask, I offered. I’ll assist you in any way I can. Miss Brown—”
“Emma,” I said. “Just call me Emma.”
“Very well. Emma. Are you aware that your sister also asked me to arrange for the
rental of a furnished flat for her?”
I frowned. “No. Where was she living before?”
“I wasn’t familiar with her living arrangements; I merely knew she intended to
change them. I arranged for the rental per her instruction.” He returned to the other side
of his desk, flicked through a folder, and took out another envelope. “I wasn’t here when
she came and paid the first six months rental in advance, but I understand from my
secretary that she failed to pick up the key.”
“Odd.” Lili had always liked to hold what was hers. “But convenient. Where is it?”
“Not far from this office, as a matter of fact.”
I thought about Clio’s penny-pinching and Calliope’s fetish for control. “I’m
surprised the family didn’t close it up and arrange for a refund of the rent.”
“The family, as I understand it, know nothing about the flat or Miss Thalia’s plan
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to live in it.” Again, that faint smile. “She insisted on secrecy toward everyone except
you. I was to tell you whatever you needed to know—if I knew the answer. The rest of
your family were to remain in complete ignorance.”
That couldn’t be right. Lili would’ve cut off her arm before she kept Clio and
Calliope in the dark. But then again she would—and I quote—“be dead and buried
before I ever talk to you again, you self-righteous freak bitch.” Dead and buried. My
vision began to go gray around the edges. I shook my head. No. Not yet.
“Miss Brown? Emma?”
“I’m okay,” I said, sounding anything but okay. “About the flat. I’ll take it. It seems
sensible and”—I hesitated—“right somehow.”
He nodded and rose. “Is it necessary for you to retrieve whatever is at that bank
yourself?”
“Yes.” I’d feel better if I did. “That way, if there is something else, some feeling,
some sense, I won’t miss it.”
His face tightened slightly. “Very well.” He leaned forward, tapped the intercom
on his phone. “James, would you ask Hughson to bring the limousine around, please?”
“Yes, Mr. Turner,” the disembodied James said.
Mr. Turner leaned back into his chair and studied me with a suddenly grave
expression. “Hughson will take you to the appropriate bank, wait for you, and bring you
back to this office. Should you encounter any problems at any stage of the proceedings,
please call me. I believe—”
He was interrupted by a discreet buzz from his intercom. He leaned forward and
stabbed at a button. “Yes, James?”
“My apologies, Mr. Turner, but you asked to be informed when Mr. Alistair
arrived. He’s here now.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Turner leaned back again, glancing down at the papers on his
desk, a frown creasing his brow.
“I can wait outside,” I said, rising quickly.
Too quickly.
The room tilted. I staggered, then sat back down again with a thunk and lowered
my head to the desk. How embarrassing. “Sorry.”
“If I had my way,” Mr. Turner said, “you would sleep for at least twenty-four
hours before you went another step.”
“You’re as bad as my boss,” I mumbled. His silence swirled and twisted with the
room. I turned my head enough to see his face. Tried to smile. “Truly, I’m okay. I know
what I’m doing.” Sort of.
“I’ve no doubt you believe so.” He smiled back, but it wasn’t from his happy place.
“However, while I don’t have your abilities, I’m intuitive enough to know when there are
undercurrents and potential problems ahead. I was unable to persuade Miss Thalia to
allow me to help her. Perhaps. . . ”
I knew what he didn’t say: Perhaps, if she’d let me help, she might still be alive. Perhaps you
won’t be so stupid. Perhaps congenital independence runs in your family.
What I said was, “What did you have in mind?”
“Something I’m fairly certain you’ll dislike.”
I lifted my head from the cool wood and thought he was probably right. “As long
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as you haven’t arranged either a marriage or a bodyguard,” I said, trying for flippant.
He didn’t laugh. Instead he moved to the door, opened it, and gestured to someone
outside.
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23
CHAPTER FOUR
The man who stepped into view was about my age—tall, blond, clean-shaven,
tanned—and had the coolest blue eyes I’d seen away from my own mirror.
He wasn’t wearing the regulation business suit every second Englishman seemed to
consider a necessity. Underneath a black leather jacket, an equally black crew-neck shirt
molded itself to a chest that spoke of hours in the gym, and his well-worn jeans clung to
him like a lover. He also wore black shoes, black watch, no rings—and an edge of danger
so sharp you could cut yourself on it.
Take away the cleft in his chin and he could pass for Terminator’s second cousin.
Just what I needed.
“Emma,” Mr. Turner said walking back to his desk, “this is Brandt Alistair. Brandt,
Emma Brown.”
Alistair still stood in the open doorway, his hand on the edge of the door. Was it
my exhausted imagination, or had his face really shown a fraction of a second’s blank
shock? Maybe I looked as bad as I felt. I blinked a couple of times to clear my vision and
when I could focus again Alistair was closing the door. He nodded at me, his expression
now one of polite interest. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Brown.”
My linguistic filing system did a quick flick-through to place his accent. Not an
Englishman. Australia? No. New Zealand. Brandt Alistair was a New Zealander.
“Emma?” Mr. Turner prompted.
I swallowed the momentary panic at losing time and place. “Hello Mr. Alistair.
Sorry. I’m not quite myself at the moment.”
“Which is why,” Mr. Turner said, as dry as a good martini, “I’ve arranged for
Brandt to accompany you.”
I looked to where Alistair stood and shook my head. Not. A Chance. This man
didn’t “accompany.” This man led. Brandt Alistair was the kind of man who, when you
told him to go to hell, would smile, hand you a brochure he’d picked up there last trip,
and recommend the smoked ribs at Beel-Z-Bubba’s Bar and Grill. “Thanks for the thought,
but I work alone.”
“You haven’t always done so.”
“Look, Mr. Turner,” I said, feeling heat building under what little patience I still
possessed, “you know nothing about m—”
“You underestimate him,” Alistair said quietly. “No doubt many do the same to
you. Don’t make their mistakes.” The smile he gave me was generic bodyguard to client.
Nothing personal.
Mr. Turner cleared his throat. “Beyond what you have told me yourself, I
understand you’re also an interpreter and translator for AGP International and, while
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your work takes you all over the world, your home base is Berlin.” He tapped at his desk
top. “Is that not correct?”
Interpreter was a job description most people felt comfortable with and thought
they understood. The things I was expected to interpret, however, were often way
beyond comfort or understanding. “Yes, but—”
“An interpreter?” Alistair’s brow hiked up a little. “How many languages do you
speak?”
“Eight.” Officially.
Alistair eyed me as if I’d turned green with purple stripes. “Shit,” he muttered. “I
have enough trouble with English. And you translate what? Documents? Stuff like that?”
“Stuff like that,” I agreed. “Really, Mr. Turner, I don’t need a—”
“Dangerous stuff?” Alistair enquired.
“What?”
“Do you translate dangerous stuff?”
I thought of Operation Star, but shook my head. “Sensitive sometimes. But knockdown-drag-out dangerous? No.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be.” I stopped. Gave him the same hard, cool appraisal he’d
given me.
I’d missed the holster first time around. Considering the firearms laws in
England—and Mr. Turner’s profession—I wondered if the old man knew his watchdog
was carrying more than attitude.
“Look,” I said. “If you’re some kind of cop and you’re going to arrest me, then tell
me the charge and get on with it. If you’re not and this is just some game of twenty
questions, I don’t have time to play.”
“Make time,” he suggested, without inflection. “And I’m not a cop.”
Mr. Turner was studying us both with a smile twisting his mouth. The smile
dissolved when he saw me watching him.
“You appear to have a far more interesting career than our Mr. Alistair had
bargained for. Now, to business.” He adjusted his spectacles and leaned forward, his
attention moving to Alistair. “Brandt, you are to take Emma wherever she needs to go
and ensure her personal safety from this moment until she returns to Berlin.”
Ensure my safety? “Now wait just a minute!”
“Got it.” Alistair nodded. “Question is, has she?”
“She has.” The look Mr. Turner threw my way would’ve shattered rock. “Emma,
you are not to make Brandt’s job more difficult than necessary.”
An echo, reverberating with affectionate exasperation, seemed to overlay the old
man’s voice. Emma, sometimes you make my job more difficult than necessary.
The memory slid through me, sharp with pain and hot with emotion.
“Who are you, Mr. Turner?” I asked. “And please don’t give me the company line.
You’ve far exceeded your purview. What’s going on?”
“You mean beyond any potential problems inherent in your family situation?” He
laced his fingers together, closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and seemed to debate with
himself. Then he opened his eyes. “A member of my family worked for AGP
International.”
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Damn. “Mr. Turner—”
“As a translator?” Alistair asked, sounding interested.
Did the guy do anything except ask questions? I waited for Mr. Turner to tell him
to mind his own business. He didn’t.
“No. Her work was not in translation.” Mr. Turner gave him a cool look before
leveling it on me. “She worked as a special liaison.”
Shit. “You need to stop right there,” I said, allowing my tone to harden.
“Special liaison.” Alistair ignored the tension. “Sounds official. Where was this?”
This time Mr. Turner didn’t look at him, didn’t take his eyes off me. “In the Berlin
office. I believe they call it ‘P-Section.’ ”
If he knew that, he knew far too much. “Mr. Turner,” I urged. “I really don’t think
you should talk about—”
“She was my granddaughter,” he continued as though he hadn’t heard me. “You
knew her.”
She was. You knew. Oh God. “How long ago?” I asked, feeling my heart tremble.
“Thirteen months, two weeks, and four days.”
Beth’s eyes. How could I not have recognized them? Mr. Turner had Beth’s eyes.
My own filled, overflowed. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
He nodded, dry-eyed. “She spoke of you,” he said, “very fondly. On her last visit
home.” He looked down at his desk, unseeing. “There are things I don’t understand
about her death, but I do know you were special to her.” His gaze lifted, and those eyes
were now green marble. “I also know there are unresolved issues concerning what
happened to you both. Now you’re here alone and still, I cannot help but feel—sense, if
you prefer—in some degree of danger. In Berlin you have protection should you need it.
Here you have not. Beth would expect me to do as I have done.” The marble hardened
into green ice. “Brandt is my attempt to ensure your safety, as she would wish me to.
Therefore, to that end, I would like your word that you’ll accept his presence gracefully.”
Accept gracefully? Hell no! But this wasn’t the colonel. This was Beth’s
grandfather, so I couldn’t phrase it quite like that. “I’m not hiring a bodyguard. I can take
care of myself.”
“Your competence isn’t the issue here,” Alistair said. “My job is to watch your
back, not run your life.”
“I don’t need you.” I grasped at a straw of thought swirling past. “For goodness
sake. Don’t you think that if there was any danger my boss would have sent someone
with me?”
Mr. Turner’s green eyes glittered. “I imagine he tried. I also imagine you refused.
However, I am not your boss. I am Beth Davidovich’s grandfather. What is more, Brandt
is not employed by AGP. He has been engaged by Beth’s family on Beth’s behalf.”
Shit, shit, shit. “That’s unfair. That’s emotional blackmail.”
Mr. Turner lifted a brow.
I tried one last time. “I’m only here to deal with personal stuff. That stuff will be
emotionally difficult, but not otherwise dangerous.” I hoped. “I don’t need him.”
There was no softening in the old man’s stance or face. “Are you at ease with the
coroner’s findings?” he said. “Has the person responsible for Beth’s accident been
found?”
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When I didn’t respond, he smiled. The look held no humor.
“Then my request remains the same. Your word, please.”
I debated several ways to handle his interference and decided on the easiest. I
could always lose Alistair if I had to. “Oh, all right. If he doesn’t slow me down or get in
my way.”
“Your word on it?”
Damn. I loathed being backed into a corner. But what can you say when a man
who’s lost so much asks so little? Especially when his loss was your doing. You say the
only thing possible, even if it chokes you. “My word on it.”
And you cross your fingers behind your back.
.oOo.
The bank was only a few short blocks from Mr. Turner’s office. Easier to walk it, I
thought, but both men vetoed the idea, so I took the path of least resistance, left my
suitcase and carry-on bag at the office, and went with Alistair to the underground garage.
We were in the limo and merging with traffic before Alistair brought up the subject
of Beth.
“Who’s Beth?” he asked.
“You heard Mr. Turner. His granddaughter. She died.”
“Yeah,” he said with careful patience. “I got that. Who was she to you? A
colleague? A friend?”
“A friend.”
And that was far too pale a word to quantify such vibrancy. Beth had been more
than a friend. She’d been my true sister, opening my heart to hope, making me laugh,
giving me warmth. Beth had been the bright candle in life’s window, guiding my lost soul
home. Now there was no light, no hope. I didn’t live; I merely existed in a darkness
where the only laughter left to me was an echo of memory and the only warmth radiated
from the icy flame of revenge.
“What happened?”
Maybe if I gave him the facts according to the official AGP report, he’d let it drop.
“A car accident. Our driver and Beth were both killed. I survived.” I closed my eyes and
leaned my head back on the soft leather seat.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Me too.”
He left it alone then, thank God. But I couldn’t help mulling over Mr. Turner’s
words: “I also know there are unresolved issues concerning what happened to you both.”
So much for official reports because if the old man hadn’t figured something out, then I
was a guppy. I wondered how Turner had unearthed his data and how close he’d come
to the truth. He certainly didn’t know it all otherwise he’d never have bothered with
Alistair’s babysitting service.
I opened my eyes and glanced at my silent watchdog, reaching out tentatively with
my senses. That calm, handsome face gave no indication that he knew what I was doing,
but my gentle probe slammed back at me. Hard. Oooo-kay. Most people had some form
of psychic shield. Very few had one that impenetrable. Until I was certain, I’d play safe.
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I’d file my watchdog under Doberman.
We reached the bank before either of us had a chance to interrogate the other
further, but if I’d expected to walk less than fifty feet and enter its pillared and brass
splendor alone, I was soon disillusioned. Alistair stuck like he was nailed to my shadow.
“Those people are pedestrians waiting for the lights,” I said as he joined me on the
sidewalk. “Not muggers waiting for a mark. I can walk into a bank on my own,”
“I think you could walk into pretty much anything on your own,” he agreed. “But I
get nervous when I have to wait by myself.”
I swept a glance up all six-foot-plus of him. Took in the muscle. The confident
stance. “Yeah. Nervous. I can see how you would be.”
He blew out a breath, and the smile that broke over his face could’ve powered
London for a month. “I’m glad you understand. So, I’ll just tag along. Okay?”
Like I had a choice? “Because you’re nervous.”
“Yup. Especially alone in cars. Right, Hughson?”
I looked from him to Hughson, a bright-eyed fifty-something barrel of a man
whose nose had been broken more times than the Ten Commandments.
He regarded me solemnly. “A sad affliction in one so young.”
“He’d have you to keep him company,” I pointed out.
“Please.” Alistair shuddered. “Hughson reads murder mysteries. The man knows
more ways to dispose of bodies than any sane person should.”
Handy to know. “What makes you think I don’t?”
“Maybe you do.” He gave me the same slightly mocking scrutiny I’d given him,
then he grinned. “But you’d take the trouble to kill me first.”
Hughson nodded as though he’d said something wise. “With women, the little
touches can mean so much.”
God save me from wannabe comedians.
.oOo.
My last visit to a bank had been during a crisis negotiation in Hamburg—I handled
my own financial dealings electronically—so the reverential atmosphere as we stepped
out of the bustle of the street took me aback. Made me feel like a fraud somehow.
Brandt Alistair’s nervousness must’ve been confined to vehicles because it sure
didn’t show here. In only moments, we were through the formalities and into the vault.
There, in neat rows and columns, stood numbered safety deposit boxes, each with a
keypad and display.
I located Lili’s box, typed in her password, inserted the key, turned it, and the door
swung open.
Inside the box was a small package wrapped in brown paper with my name on it. I
reached in. My fingers had scarcely closed around it before her face swam into focus.
Seeing her as she must’ve been at the time she’d stashed the package was worse
than I’d imagined; she looked half starved, her eyes huge and haunted, her cheeks tracked
with tears. My anger with her dissipated and my heart turned over.
“Lili,” I whispered. “Oh God, Lili, what happened?”
She didn’t answer, of course. She wavered, dissolved, and disappeared.
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Brandt Alistair, however, hadn’t disappeared. He’d been standing relaxed and easy,
but in those few moments his expression had changed from easy camaraderie to a stillfaced watchfulness.
“You have psychometric abilities,” he said, making it a statement, not a question.
“Sometimes. You?”
“My sister.” He gestured to the package. “What’s in it?”
His sister too? “No idea.”
He frowned. “I thought you said—”
“I saw Lili. How she looked when she put it in the box.” Which was disturbing
enough. “It’s probably terribly mundane, but to find out what’s inside, I actually have to
open it.”
“Which you’re not doing because . . . ”
Okay. Whatever talent he had, Alistair didn’t seem to have a problem with either
his sister’s or mine, which made him better adjusted than my sisters had ever been. And
made the next part easier. “Because I need to tell you something first. If things go wrong,
you’re going to have to carry it—and me—out.”
He must’ve realized my intention because he moved fast. Just not fast enough.
Reaching back into the empty box, I placed the palm of my hand flat on the bottom and
closed my eyes.
A kaleidoscope of sounds and emotions, of hands and faces—none of which I
recognized—whirled around me in a colorful dance. Then the connection snapped, and I
opened my eyes, plummeting back into the present. When I withdrew my hand, I was
trembling.
Brandt Alistair, his jaw a hard line of tight angles, stepped forward and re-locked
the box. Then he pocketed the key. He was close enough to touch me, but he didn’t.
“That was plain bloody stupid.”
I couldn’t argue with him. Not with my teeth chattering and my muscles jumping.
“There m-might’ve been something res . . . sidual.” I leaned against the wall. Hoped the
shakes would stop.
“I’m sure there was.” And he sounded as grim as he looked. “But probably not of
your sister. Shit, Emma, no psychic in your current physical and emotional state does
something so potentially dangerous.”
“There’s n-nothing wrong with my c-c-current s-state,” I said as haughtily as I
could. And then felt my cheeks redden as he tilted his head and lifted one brow.
“Nothing that a g-g-good night’s sleep won’t fix. And it w-wasn’t dangerous.”
“Not this time, luckily for you.” He gestured again to the package. “Do you want
to open it here or in the limo?” A muscle in his jaw tightened. “If you’re interested in my
opinion, the limo’s got my vote.”
I glanced around the room. There was nothing here for me. The package lay
peaceful and silent in my trembling hand. “The limo will w-work,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“Can you walk?” The question was cool, offhand.
I pushed away from the wall, took a few steps. “S-seem to be able to.”
“Because,” he continued in that same rather insulting tone, “if I have to carry a
woman somewhere, I expect sex at the end of the rainbow and, quite frankly, you don’t
look up to it.”
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I felt my spine stiffen as a wave of anger surged through me. Egotistical son of a
bitch! The shaking stopped as though someone had flicked a lever. “Go to hell, Alistair.”
“Been there. Neighbors suck.” He looked me up and down, then grinned. “Pissed
you off, huh? Good. You’ll walk out on your own two feet then.” His grin widened as he
rang the bell for the guard. “And they say the age of chivalry’s dead. Luckily for you, it’s
not.”
“Lucky for both of us,” I muttered, remembering the horror my only sexual
experience had been. Then a flicker of my treacherous imagination pictured me being
carried over a rainbow, cradled in this man’s arms, and I wondered if I really meant what
I’d just said.
.oOo.
Hughson pulled the limo into traffic before I turned my attention to Lili’s package.
Alistair slid closer as I unwrapped it. “Looks like a jewelry box,” he said.
He was right. Although I’d never seen the box before, I knew precisely what it
contained.
“I don’t believe it!”
My physical reaction from the episode at the bank had almost passed, but my
hands still weren’t entirely steady. In my excitement, I fumbled. The box slipped from
my knee and onto the floor of the limo, spilling its contents onto the carpet.
Alistair reached down, but I beat him to it, snatching up the heavy chain without
finesse. “It’s mine.”
He shot me a withering look. “Gee,” he drawled, “just as well silver’s not my color,
Emma darling, or it’d be handbags at twenty paces in Hyde Park at dawn.” He returned
his attention to the bracelet now threaded through my fingers. “Looks old.”
“According to my Great Aunt, some parts are.” I didn’t know how old.
Alistair was still subjecting the bracelet to eagle-eyed calculation. “The silver’s
tarnished. Five charms. Should there be seven? Those two little rings are empty.” His
eyes narrowed. “Are they supposed to be?”
“I don’t know. But they were empty when I was given it.”
“Is that one a whip?”
My fingers tightened on the chain, and a flush warmed my cheeks. “Yes.”
“Kinky.”
“No. It isn’t.”
“If you say so. What about the cherries?”
“Apples,” I corrected automatically. “It’s a branch with apples on it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a branch from an apple tree.”
“Hmmm.” A lock of hair, longer than the rest, swung forward and across his
forehead as he bent to study the bracelet more closely. “Whips. Apples. Interesting. You
know, I’m re-thinking this whole chivalry thing. Is that the archangel Michael with his
sword?”
Enough was enough. I flicked the lid of the jewelry box open. Slid the bracelet
inside. Snapped the lid closed. “And that,” I said coldly, rolling the case back into its
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paper, “concludes today’s mystery tour, ladies and gentlemen. If you’d collect your wits
on the way out, we will return you to your regularly scheduled program.”
“Not the Archangel Michael then.” Alistair leaned back in the seat, watching me.
“I think I’ll owe old Turner a couple of years’ worth of favors after this assignment.
You’re a fascinating woman, Emma Brown.”
No one had ever called me fascinating. Infuriating, yes. Bloody-minded, certainly.
Fascinating? Never. “You have an odd idea of fascinating.”
We’d slowed to a crawl in the traffic. Outside my window a courier flashed past on
his bicycle juggling cellphone and iPod, and on the pavement a flower seller read her
newspaper surrounded by buckets of blooms. That someone would willingly spend her
life in such a way fascinated me.
“You’d be surprised at what I find fascinating. For example,” he said, “the
significance of the charms. They have meaning for you. What is it?”
Thee, Nemesis, I call. How fascinating would he find that? I wouldn’t mention the
possible murder scenario, but as for the rest . . . maybe he was right. Maybe I would be
surprised. Maybe it was time to find out.
“It—and they—are significant only to me. But my sisters have a warped sense of
fun, and a few years ago they stole it from me.”
“Why?”
Because Great Aunt Maggie had given a family heirloom to me and not them.
Because they heard our mother crying about it. Because I was a freak who didn’t deserve
anything pretty. I lifted one shoulder. “Who knows?”
“But now one’s given it back?”
I nodded.
“Guilty conscience.”
I shook my head. “Lili doesn’t have a conscience. None of them do.” My rather
jaded best guess was that whatever she’d stumbled into was sufficiently deadly for her to
feel she needed a major deal-sweetener.
I lay the box on the seat, rummaged around in my pocket until I found the
envelope containing the invocation. Then I opened it and held it out to him.
He made no move to take it. “That wasn’t in the package.”
“True. She left this with Mr. Turner.”
He frowned. “Why didn’t she leave the bracelet with him too?”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Good question.” I waved the paper at him. “See if this
tells you anything.”
He still made no move, just gave me a searching look. “Don’t think I’m not nosy
as hell—because I am—but we’ve just met, and you don’t know me from Adam.”
“Adam who?”
He sighed. “Precisely my point.”
I considered my reasoning and then told him the simple truth. “First, you have a
sister with psychic abilities and it doesn’t seem to have turned you into a raving lunatic—
well, not more so than most people. Second, Mr. Turner chose you, and he knows”—a
whole hell of a lot more about me than I’m comfortable with—“my situation. And third,
while I’m not going to ‘out’ you if you want to keep your own talent under wraps, we
both know you have it. And know how to use it.”
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For a moment he was silent, studying me dispassionately. Then he relaxed. Leaned
back into the seat. “Are those things enough?”
“For the moment, yes.”
He nodded. “All right then. As long as you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
He took the paper, holding it still for a moment before running his hand over the
creases and pressing it out flat. His eyes scanned the words. Narrowed. Went thoughtful.
Scanned the words again.
When he looked up, his gaze was cool and neutral. “Just impressions, right?”
“That’s all.”
“Then my impressions are she’s desperate, terrified, furious, and confused enough
to think you’re Nemesis.”
And here we went. I hated this part.
“That’s because I am Nemesis.”
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