Storm echo, p.2
Storm Echo, page 2
She wasn’t a wolf, he knew that in his gut. She didn’t move like any of the wolves he’d met. Neither was she a bear. He’d seen enough bears in Moscow to be certain of that. But she was definitely changeling. Aside from the wall of her mind, she was too comfortable in these surroundings to be human or Psy.
It fit her, the wild.
Having removed the tourniquet, she made an aggravated sound at the renewed bleeding, then reached into her basket … to come out with a tiny bottle of disinfectant. Ivan was no longer so certain he hadn’t hallucinated her. What kind of woman wore makeup that made her eyelids shimmer and her lips glossy, then walked around a forest with a basket of miniature medical supplies?
“It’s going to hurt,” she said, then kind of … petted him on the other leg, as if to comfort him.
Right before she poured the disinfectant on the wound.
Fuck. Oh yeah, this was fucking real.
Gritting his teeth, he rode the burn without a sound. When the pain finally began to ebb, he looked up to see her retrieving a very small suturing device from her basket. “You’re lucky whatever cut you didn’t hit bone,” she said. “It looks like you cleaned out the wound, and the disinfectant will have finished the job—it’s powerful stuff. So I can seal it.”
A glance at him, her eyes as dark as the rich soil of the forest—and as unknowable. “I don’t have any numbing gel though, just a single shot of anesthetic that’ll make you dozy.”
Ivan’s entire self recoiled. “There’s no need for it.” Psy minds didn’t do well with drugs as a rule, but that wasn’t why Ivan refused to use any drug that might influence his thought processes. “I can regulate my pain responses.” Grandmother had made sure he’d learned how. “I’m ready.”
The woman with the healer’s hands raised an eyebrow. “Psy? Thought so. Or you could’ve been a grumpy wolf, I suppose. They like to snarl a lot.”
“I. Am. Not. Grumpy.”
A lithe shrug. “Okay, cutie pie. Now think happy thoughts.”
Ivan was yet agog over that statement when she began stitch-stapling with quick, efficient hands. He clenched his gut, gritted his teeth again. Pain regulation wasn’t a cure-all. It just meant he wouldn’t pass out. She’d also sealed half the wound while he’d still been trying to process the way she’d addressed him.
Clever.
His breathing was harsh by the time she’d finished, his heart rate accelerated, but he knew she’d taken care to be gentle in the scheme of such things. “Thank you,” he managed to get out while she took a small disinfectant wipe from her basket and wiped down the wound.
Inhaling another ragged breath, he said, “Do you always carry first-aid supplies?”
“Yes. One of my teachers was a paramedic who said the worst he ever felt was when he couldn’t help a wounded friend because he lacked a few basic supplies. He gave us a limited list of absolutes—and told us to get tiny versions we could carry in pockets or purses.” She held up a glittery silver bag roughly the size of her palm. “My everyday medical kit. Everything fits if packed just so.”
Opening up a thin packet of transparent bandage strips that she’d retrieved from the glittery bag, she put them all down his stitched leg in a neat pattern. “There,” she said, sitting back on her heels. “You’ll survive even if you plan to be an idiot and finish whatever ridiculous thing the wolves have you doing.”
As she began to pack up the used medical supplies into a thin plas packet marked with a biohazard symbol, he realized the rest of the Basket of All Things was filled with edible items foraged from the forest. Mushrooms, fresh green tips from plants he couldn’t name, what looked to him like wild nuts. “Are you an herbalist?”
“No.” She used another wipe to sanitize her hands, tucked it into the plas bag, then sealed up the bag and put it in the basket. “But I know green spaces and wild places.” A lingering stroke of the tree trunk before she rose.
When he followed, he braced himself against the tree with one hand so he could test his weight on his leg. It held. Didn’t even hurt much. “You did an excellent job.”
A snort. “Try not to split it open.” Spinning on her heel, a whirlwind of color and life, she began to walk away.
Ivan called after no one. Asked no one for anything. But he said, “Wait! What’s your name?”
A look over her shoulder, her eyes liquid pools of mystery. “You can call me Lei.”
Then she was gone, moving so fluidly into the forest that he had no chance of tailing her, not in his current state. Changeling, definitely changeling. But after Ivan made it to the end of the course—because apparently he was an idiot—the wolf lieutenant in charge of him had no idea who Ivan was talking about when he mentioned Lei.
“A paramedic?” Jorge Herrera frowned. “None of our healers or other trained medical personnel match your description. And RockStorm’s small enough that I’d know if we had a lovely dark-eyed visitor.” A grin. “I’m single and in my prime, after all.”
“I’m certain she was changeling.”
Jorge rubbed a jaw heavy with dark stubble against brown skin. “Yeah, she might be. The part of the forest you were in at the time is public land outside our pack’s territorial boundaries. Open for everyone to use. No other packs real close to us, though, so I’m guessing she’s probably visiting a human friend or family member.”
The wolf lieutenant shrugged. “Guess she’ll have to be a mystery, your nurse.”
Ivan said nothing, but he was a Mercant. Information, data, connections, those were the foundations of his family. He’d find her. Had to find her, the compulsion to see her again a pulsing beat in his blood.
For the first time in his life, Ivan Mercant wanted something … someone.
Chapter 3
The neurological changes are permanent. Long-term effects remain unknown.
—Private report by Dr. Jamal Raul on Ivan Mercant, age 17 (8 August 2068)
IVAN KNEW HE was spoiled when it came to access to data. Side effect of growing up in a family of spies. Grandmother did not approve of Ivan and his cousins’ use of that term, far preferring to state that their family was in the business of intelligence.
In other words, a family of spies.
However, given the limited information he had on Lei and the large areas changelings could traverse on foot, pinpointing her identity was proving to be difficult. Changelings were more off-grid than humans or Psy, so he couldn’t even look through lists of changeling healers in an effort to narrow down the possibilities.
The packs just didn’t put that type of information online, and as those of Ivan’s race had long ignored the changelings, there was no information floating around in the PsyNet for him to mine.
He still couldn’t stop looking. He took on the task with the same obsessive attention that had left him with multiple complementary skill sets. Complementary to his mind, anyway. Being a dead shot with any handheld weapon on the planet was as critical to him as knowing how to take apart a computronic or mechanical device to diagnose a problem.
The world was a place where things cracked and shattered—and where bad people existed. Those like Ivan were born to eliminate the others from the board so the softer, gentler creatures could exist. Creatures like her.
Cutie pie.
Grumpy.
Try not to split it open.
Their short conversation ran over and over in his mind, until he did the only thing he could—he missed a day of training, which was out of character for him in the extreme, and went back to the spot where he’d met her. Ridiculous to assume it would work when the forest was a sprawling wilderness that went on for miles, but he had to try.
He put his nascent forest tracking skills to use and tried to follow her path, but she’d been too light on her feet, had left no real mark that he could discern. Halting in the center of a small clearing when it became clear he’d never be able to track her, he looked around … and saw mushrooms exactly like the ones she’d had in her basket.
He crouched down, touched his finger to one.
Would Lei come back for more?
Since it was all he had, he settled in to wait, back against the trunk of a large tree and eyes on the myriad greens and browns of the forest. Ivan could be patient. According to his grandmother, he had the gift of quiet.
He’d never told her how he’d developed it, all the hours he’d spent in lonely silence while his mother “rested,” hadn’t even spoken of it to the PsyMed specialist Grandmother had handpicked for him, but he thought she’d guessed. It wasn’t a difficult thing to deduce once you knew his history.
He supposed it was the one good gift his mother had left him.
Nowhere near enough to balance out the far more twisted gift inside his mind, but something at least.
The hours crawled past, and though he had plenty to keep him busy on the PsyNet, he ignored the vast psychic space in favor of watching the forest shift and stir. Waiting for her.
But she didn’t come back that day.
Or the day after.
He had no reason to return for a third day, especially when Jorge warned him that his absenteeism put him in danger of being kicked off the course. Ivan had never not completed what he’d begun. That was who he was: tenacious and relentless to the point of obsession.
Except now he had a different focus.
He went to the clearing … and there she was, stepping out of the forest in an ankle-length dress the color of autumn leaves and sunsets, her hair in a long braid, and a familiar basket on her arm. Small metal leaves hung from her ears, delicate as her skin.
“Oh.” She halted, her eyes widening as she caught sight of him seated by the mushrooms. “Did you hurt yourself again?”
He shook his head. “I came to see you.”
A blink, a hint of color on her cheeks, her feet shifting.
“Let me check your leg,” she said at last, and strode over.
He didn’t resist when she pushed up the leg of his black combat pants with a gentle touch. A frown on her forehead and her braid falling over one shoulder, she examined the healing wound with care.
This close, he could see that her scar was ragged. Most likely not done by a knife. A claw? A piece of broken glass? If it was the result of violence, if another had hurt her with malice, he’d end them. A woman who went around tending to wounded strangers would’ve never done anything to deserve such violence.
Ivan was dead certain on that point.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he told her as he fought not to touch the softness of her hair, the urge an unfamiliar one. “It’s started to itch.” Anyone who’d ever had a cut heal over knew that to be a good sign.
“Excellent.” After rolling down the leg of his pants, she tilted her head in a way that felt oddly familiar but that he couldn’t pin down. “You really came to see me?” A softness to her voice.
“Yes.” Why would she be so startled at the idea? She was the most fascinating person he’d ever met, her skill evident and her presence unforgettable.
“Oh.” She smoothed her hands over her thighs. “The thing is, you’re ridiculously pretty. Doesn’t this bother you?” Gaze intent on his, she touched her fingers to her scar.
“I realize I have an aesthetically pleasing appearance.” It was simply another tool he used when necessary—add a layer of beauty and people would ignore the most obvious danger, refuse to see the monster stalking them. “The only thing that bothers me about your scar is that someone might’ve given it to you. Who was it?”
She stared at him, blinked. “Car crash,” she said slowly, watching him as you might a feral animal. “When I was a child. No one you need to kill.”
He gave a curt nod. “As for the other—you’re beautiful. That’s undeniable fact. Dark eyes, lush lips, flawless skin, thick and soft hair. You also have the correct facial proportions.”
Her lips twitched before she threw back her head and laughed, the sound full and warm, and her eyes not quite human when she looked at him—but it was only a slight shift, not a full one.
Compelled by the faint edge of gold shot with light, he said, “What kind of changeling are you?”
Mischief in her smile. “Figure it out,” she said, this wild creature who’d emerged out of the forest and enraptured him without warning. “Want to walk with me after I gather the mushrooms?”
When he nodded, she shifted position to pick a few mushrooms from nearby. “Do you like these?”
“I’ve never eaten any.” Consuming food for taste, for enjoyment, was still a new concept to Psy who’d grown up under the Silence Protocol.
“Nutrient drinks and bars are a far more efficient source of nutrition than discrete food items, though certain such items were part of the accepted Silence diet.” Items that had always been bland, or had been made that way for the Psy. Because any sensation was a risk to a protocol designed to eliminate all emotion from their race.
“Food isn’t just about nutrition!” It was a gasp. “Food is about joy, about family, about delighting the taste buds.” Sitting up from her bent-over position, she said, “I’ll make you a caramelized mushroom tart. Bet you like it. What’s your name, mystery man who thinks I have the correct facial proportions for beauty?” Laughter in her voice again.
“Ivan.”
“Ivan,” she said with a smile. “I like your accent. Can’t quite place it. It feels like it could be from so many places.”
“I’ve worked off the rough edges in my accent over the years.” It was far easier for a spy to blend in if they didn’t stand out in ways specific and memorable. “I live in Moscow right now,” he found himself telling her, though he wasn’t a man who shared personal information with anyone.
“Oh, I’ve always wanted to visit there—it’s meant to be beautiful.” With that, Lei stood up. “Come on. I don’t need lots today.”
Rising, he fell into step beside her. She was tall enough to reach his shoulder, and he wasn’t a short man. The height suited her, everything about her suited her. Most of all the quicksilver emotions on her face, the smile that never quite left her lips. She was … radiant. “Do you visit the forest every day?”
A shake of her head. “I’ve come to see a friend of mine—yesterday, she wanted to rummage through garage sales. I’ve never done that before.”
Ivan wasn’t even sure what that was, but he wanted to hear her talk, so he asked her about it, and she regaled him with stories of dusty barns and literal garages, quirky sellers who priced everything at a dollar and others who wanted full “as new” prices for mismatched sets of cutlery or incomplete sets of retro DVDs.
It felt like a glimpse into another universe.
“I bought three small planters shaped like pouncing cats,” she confessed. “They’re painted funny colors and they weren’t expensive, but I like silly, pretty things.”
Ivan had no concept of silly and pretty, but he didn’t want her to go quiet, didn’t want her smile to fade, so he said, “One of the humans in my apartment complex has a cat who’s often in the shared green space. I watch her when I’m outside—she can spend entire hours napping in the sun, then move like a flash with zero buildup.”
A glance from under her lashes. “Do you like cats?”
“Pets weren’t a concept under Silence.”
Husky laughter that turned into giggles she couldn’t seem to stop.
Ivan didn’t understand joy. He’d never been Silent—that ship had sailed the first time the drug entered his mother’s bloodstream while he lay cradled inside her womb, his mental pathways warped before they could form—but the tools of Silence suited him. He preferred to keep his distance from the world, and from the ties of emotion.
Such things led only to weakness and to loss and pain.
The sole place he’d failed was with his family. They’d become part of him through their steadfast refusal to give up on the boy who didn’t fit, but even Grandmother couldn’t erase his childhood. He would forever be the monster the drug had created—there was no way to alter that. And the monster didn’t comprehend joy.
But it sighed listening to her laugh. “What’s so funny?”
“Tell you later,” she said, her smile a sparkle in her eyes. “I want to show you a gorgeous waterfall—it’s this way.”
He let her lead him, even though he’d already explored the area. But he’d never seen the natural formation through her eyes. She pointed out how the spray captured rainbows, and how the water was as clear as glass, the stones beneath polished to a smooth shine.
“I like swimming,” she told him. “But not in water this cold.” Dipping a toe in after slipping off her shoe, she shivered. “Makes my fur bristle.”
At that moment, her gaze held a wildness that he could almost identify, but then it was gone, and she was putting her shoe back on. “I have to meet my friend. We’re going to the theater—she bought the tickets two months ago.”
Ivan was considered smooth and sophisticated by the vast majority of people he met, the mask one he’d long perfected, but he found he couldn’t put it on with her. It was as if it didn’t exist, as if he could only interact with her in his rawest form.
“Will you meet me again?” he asked with no effort to hide his need to see her.
A long look, no smile now, just an intensity of focus.
He didn’t breathe until she said, “I’ll come tomorrow night.”
Ivan didn’t know what to offer her, how to make sure she didn’t change her mind. “I found a small cave while I was exploring. It has the imprint of a fossil.”
“Really?” She rose up on her tiptoes, rocked back, her expression alight. “Oh, we can go see that.”
And that was exactly what they did the following night, spending an hour on a gentle walk there, and an hour on the walk back. It was full dark on a moonless night, but he had a flashlight … and he was fairly certain Lei could either see in the dark or close to it. Despite his compulsive need to know her, he didn’t aggressively dig for more information.
She was … important to him, and they were too new, too fragile, for him to risk fracturing it. It was disturbing to him to admit that she’d walked right past his defenses as if they didn’t exist, but he couldn’t make himself be sorry about it. Not when she existed, this bright and wild creature who seemed to like him.
