Dark mind, p.41
Dark Mind, page 41
“That wasn’t what I was referring to. At the Academy, and for most of my life since then, I’ve had to hold back my telepathy. People don’t like it when you read their minds. Sometimes I wish I could live in a big city—you know, if the Mundane technology weren’t a problem—and spend all my time around Mundanes. I can be myself more when I’m around them. Part of that is simply the power dynamic, of course, but they’ve never treated me ill for using my natural abilities.”
“That’s because they didn’t know you were using magic on them. They’d feel differently if they knew the truth.”
“But they don’t, so it amounts to the same thing. I do better with them. I always know what to say. Mind you, I’ve learned to read Magi the old-fashioned way, but I can still be wrong.” He turned to look at her. “Like I was wrong about you.”
Medea rolled her eyes. “I have no idea why. All the signs were there.”
“Maybe so, but I’d never met someone like you before. The idea that someone could say what they mean all day every day . . . Do you have any idea how rare that is? Nobody does that. They think they do, but they don’t. I like that about you. We may not always see eye to eye, but I always know what I’m getting.”
Her face flushed red, whether from the warmth of the fire or the unexpected compliment he couldn’t be sure. She swiftly turned the conversation to something safer. “How have you found your telepathy training thus far? Has it been satisfactory?”
“Yes. With Mundanes, I can get them to do just about anything I want—though there are exceptions.” Like the owner of the Chevy. The man had resisted most of his efforts. He’d have to figure out how to get around that, whether by logic or pure willpower. “And, of course, it’s made getting laid a lot easier,” he laughed, then broke off when he saw Medea’s face.
Figures she’d judge him for his promiscuity despite asking for honesty. He was letting the mask slip far too often around her. He quickly tried to salvage things.
“When we get back, I’ll start writing down some of my methods for you to put in the library. See if we can’t make your telepathy section more robust.”
“I would appreciate that.” Her voice was flat.
Goddamnit, she was still angry. What the hell did he have to do to get in her good books? “You said you studied with the people here. What was their magic like?” He was really taking a bullet by asking that. Once she got rolling, they’d be here all night, but lecturing was her favorite pastime.
“Nature based, mostly. They could grow fruit from bare twigs and coax a full cornstalk from a kernel in a matter of minutes.”
Dear god, it was the Aztecs all over again. “What is it with the American natives and corn?”
“It was important to them, important to the survival of their people.” She looked at him pointedly. “Every culture, every person, has things that they value.”
“Uh, okay.”
Her face was unreadable. It was like she’d gone blank. Too many of her expressions tonight hadn’t fit into any of the standard categories.
“What do you value?” she asked.
Power. Himself. He couldn’t say that though. She was searching for something, but he had no idea what. “A moment, please.”
“Take your time.” She leaned back on her arms, long blonde hair flowing free, pert breasts tilting up. She’d struck a similar pose the day they met in Petrov’s shop. Back then he’d thought she was trying to appear seductive, but he now doubted she realized how alluring the pose was.
What the hell could he say that was both true and acceptable? She’d know immediately if he was lying. Medea might not catch all his lies, but she could ferret out this kind with startling precision. He had to dig deeper.
What did he value? Himself, obviously, because everything started and ended with him. Everyone thought the world revolved around themselves, even though they’d deny it wholeheartedly if you brought it up. He embraced it. Every man was an island. Self-contained. You made bridges with other people, but that was only to obtain things you needed. It was a matter of self-preservation. Power was like that too—a means to an end. With enough power, you could fortify your island against outside influence. At the heart of it all was the self.
“Autonomy.”
Medea gave a little half snort. “Me too.” She hunched forward, propping her elbows on her knees, and stared at the fire.
“And I value you.” She probably thought it was a line—and it was, though that didn’t make it any less true. Yes, he longed to have sex with her—success would stroke his ego on so many levels—but even without it he enjoyed her company, frustrating as it could be.
Medea sat up, face still unreadable. “Come, I want to show you something.”
She led him away from the fire. Her spell still hung overhead, bathing the trees in pale blue. She hugged his coat against her slender body, her breath visible in the chill air. As they walked, she examined the trees, as though searching for something. At last she came to one she seemed to recognize, patting the bark and leaning against it to look out over the river.
“I thought I recalled this place. There used to be a village here.” She pointed across the water and an illusion took shape. Dwellings and people appeared on the opposite bank. Like the images she’d conjured when they’d first arrived at the farmhouse, these were blurry, the humans faceless, as if she couldn’t quite recall how everything was supposed to look.
He stepped closer, ostensibly to get a better view, allowing his chest to brush against her back. She didn’t pull away.
“I trained with the Pawnee. Trading spells and languages with one of their medicine men, though I daresay he picked up English faster than I did Pawnee. My head was overflowing with languages at that point.” She chuckled softly.
His efforts had finally paid off. Medea was opening up. As he always did when pursuing a woman, he encouraged her to keep talking. “What did you learn?”
“Not much new, sadly. Their magic was similar to the tribes I had already visited in the East. Different variations, but nature magic is all the same once you truly understand it. On a cellular level, growing squash isn’t all that different from growing corn.”
She moved her shoulders as if uncomfortable, then continued. “One morning, the camp was abuzz with news that a warrior had been charged with performing the Morning Star ritual.”
“Charged? By who?”
“By their deity, in a dream. Who’s to say if it was just a dream, or if it really was a visitation by a spirit, though knowing what I do about spirits, the latter is entirely possible. The men left. When they returned, they brought a girl from an enemy village. She was held in one of the dwellings, kept separate from the rest of the tribe. I gathered that the ritual would take place in five days, but they refused to tell me what it entailed, and as an outsider, I was not permitted to witness it.”
“But you saw it anyway.”
“Yes. You can imagine what I thought. What I suspected. I concealed myself and followed the men when they took her from the dwelling. They led her to a scaffold, where they strung her up naked and spread-eagled.” Medea’s fist clenched and unclenched at her side. “I don’t interfere with the politics of mortals, but there are some things, some lines, that can’t be crossed. I revealed myself and demanded to know their intent. My mentor—he cried when he told me. Many of them did, but they felt duty bound to perform the ritual, and it wasn’t cause for interference, especially not when it held such cultural significance. I—” Medea shook her head and clutched her coat in a death grip. “I stood by and observed.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder, expecting to find it trembling, but she stood as though made of iron. She spoke again, voice monotone.
“When the Morning Star appeared, they burned the girl’s armpits and groin with torches. She thrashed and screamed until a man put an arrow through her heart, while others struck her from behind with clubs. The rest of the men shot her with arrows, symbolically mating with her, while my mentor cut open the wound on her chest. They lay the body face down in a nearby field, allowing the blood to fertilize the ground.”
An image of the girl, still strung up, appeared in front of them. Unlike the rest of Medea’s illusions, this one was crystal clear. The girl’s face was a mask of pain streaked with tears. Her torso bristled with arrow shafts, blood oozing from the wounds. Even the scent of burning flesh tinged the air. The grotesque tableau was forever etched in Medea’s memory. No wonder she’d been so uncomfortable at this location—it reminded her of that. Still, there was no reason not to take advantage of the situation. He could play consoling.
“You did the right thing. Who knows how they would have taken it had you intervened.”
She chuckled sadly. “That’s just it—I found out years later that the ritual wasn’t common practice. It’s not easy, coming into a place where you know absolutely nothing and trying to extrapolate what the people are like. I had limited time, and much of that was spent learning the language. The Pawnee nation was vast. I just happened to stumble on a group that still practiced the ritual. Most didn’t, and many argued against it. I recall reading a newspaper article on a man who demanded the release of a Comanche girl. When he couldn’t sway his people, he cut her down and let her ride away on his horse. Had I known there’d been dissenters . . .” She took a shuddering breath and the illusion vanished.
He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “You didn’t know. And more importantly, there’s nothing you can do about it now.”
“I used to intervene, long ago. With my power, I thought I could do good in the world, right all the wrongs. It never turned out that way. People complained about my methods, that they hadn’t wanted my help, or that I’d helped them wrong and made things worse. There always seemed to be other forces at play that I’d failed to consider. Politics. Human nature. Government systems. Problems always seem easy to fix from the outside, but that’s because you don’t live in the thick of it. You don’t see how everything connects, and when you pull on one thread, it can unravel the whole garment. I’ve seen it time and again when nations colonized people they knew nothing about.
“That’s why I stopped intervening. I realized I didn’t have the knowledge to combat things at a systemic level. Even when I tried to understand, everything was so horribly complex and unfathomable it made my head spin. Ignorance is not bliss, it merely shields you from understanding the depth of your mistakes. Without knowledge, there can be no moral action. Apathy is the armor I wear to protect my soul. Easier to feel nothing at all than everything at once. I know that might seem jaded or craven, but it’s allowed me to live this long, when so many others have been driven to despair over what could be and isn’t. Immortality doesn’t favor those who connect themselves with humanity.”
“Sounds like it would suit me perfectly.”
“Yes, it would.”
She turned with a calculating expression and reached up. The coat opened, exposing the loose shirt underneath to the cold night air. Her nipples hardened and he wrenched his eyes up to her face. Her chill fingers brushed his cheek and he was suddenly very aware of his disfigurement. But there was no disgust on her face as she traced the line of his scars. Would she finally heal them? Make him immortal? He slid his hand down her back. She glanced aside as though surprised to find it there, then returned to studying his face. He pulled her close enough to feel just how ready he was.
A wave of desolation washed over him. Of course the magical libido killer would hit now. If Petrov weren’t already dead, he’d kill him. He slumped against the tree, already wilting. Medea frowned. How she must hate him for ruining the moment. Thomas never would have had this problem. He was nothing. Just an ugly, cursed boy.
Just like that, the dark thoughts receded. Impossible. The curse might be sporadic, but it never faded that quickly. The only explanation was that Medea had intervened, which was even less likely. But then love was the one thing capable of making her break a self-imposed rule.
“Did you remove my curse?” He kept his tone carefully neutral.
“No. I subdued it for a time—an hour, maybe two. I know it’s selfish, but I need your mind clear tonight. I want you to feel everything I do.” He’d expected her to look abashed, but her eyes confidently sought his.
He smirked. “Only an hour or two? I can last all night if you want.”
She blinked at him in surprise. “Well, I can’t.”
His breath quickened as her fingers caressed his lips. She gently lifted his arms above his head, standing on tippy-toes to do so, nipples grazing his chest. He couldn’t wait to tear off her shirt and see what lay beneath, but she was a present he’d only just now earned and he wanted to savor every second of unwrapping.
He bent to kiss her, but his lips refused to part and something constricted his wrists—vines. Pain lanced through his gut. He gritted his teeth and waited for the flood of adrenaline. This was even better than he’d anticipated. Pain went hand in hand with pleasure, but too few women were willing to indulge that particular side of him. Medea was a master healer though, and she knew him well enough to cater to his tastes. She’d fuck him up, he’d fuck her bloody, and she’d heal them both. It was the perfect partnership. He sought her eyes, but she was staring across the river again.
“I should’ve known when they cried that they knew what they were doing was wrong. They cried because they knew they were taking the life of an innocent.” Her gaze snapped to his, but it held no affection, only contempt. “I’ll shed no tears for you.”
35
BRANKS
Gloria pulled up to the hotel. The Suburban hadn’t even come to a complete stop when Doris started to get out. Gloria grabbed her arm.
“Pack your stuff and meet me back here. I’m going to talk to Bethany.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Doris yanked her arm free and stormed toward her room.
Gloria shook her head and killed the engine. Great, just great. Part of her wanted to pack up and leave too. If it hadn’t been for Josh and Evelyn, she would have, but she couldn’t leave them on their own. She pocketed the keys and made her way to Bethany’s room.
It was nearly ten and the hotel was quiet. Her breath came out in little white puffs. Gloria knocked gently on Bethany’s door and thrust her chilly hands back into her coat. She should’ve thought to wear gloves. The door cracked and she hurried inside, as much to get out of the cold as to get this over with. Bethany would never agree to leave with her, but she had to at least try. If Bethany’s decision got her into trouble, it would be her own fault.
The room was dark, and she didn’t see Bethany anywhere. Before she could even say hello, someone grabbed her arms and flung her face first against the bed.
“What the hell?”
“Quiet!” The man’s voice was dark and gravelly.
She could feel someone binding her wrists and ankles. “Let me—AH!”
The man yanked her up by the hair while the second person tied a gag around her mouth. They fished around in her pockets and removed the key to the Suburban. The man thrust her head back down.
“Where’s the other one?” he said.
“I saw her go into a different room. Looked like the one from the bar who tried to lead me into temptation.” He nudged Gloria in the back. “This one I haven’t seen before.”
“There’s no telling how many of them there are.”
“Could be a whole coven!” said an enthusiastic younger voice.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, sonny. We must proceed with caution. Ralph, go talk to her. Act interested. See if you can find out how many there are and where they’re holed up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gloria heard the door open and close.
“What do you want?” she tried to ask, but it came out muffled by the gag. Who were these people? Where was Bethany? Did they have her too? She tried to scream Bethany’s name through the gag. “ET-AH-NEE!”
“I said quiet!”
Someone punched the side of her face. Stars blossomed across her field of vision. Gloria waited in silence, brain scrabbling to figure a way out. From the voices, there were at least four of them. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness. She could just make out two figures across the room, one seated and the other standing. The seated figure resolved into Bethany—at least she thought it was Bethany. There was the outline of her bushy hair. But her face looked wrong.
“Ralph’s coming back.”
“Anyone with him?”
“No.”
The door opened. Gloria tried to twist and see but the man held her firmly against the bed.
“I don’t have much time. She’s packing up. I’ve offered them a place to stay. She didn’t want that one or the one who did magic to come, but I insisted. They’re staying in some shack west of here.”
“Good. Tell her this one wants more time to pack and to go on ahead. We’ll follow you. She say how many there were?”
“Four. She’s coming.” The door closed again.
So Doris had neglected to mention Josh. What would they do when they found him? What would they do with all of them?
“Quick, get her out of the chair. We need to be prepared to move.”
A light clicked on beside the bed and Gloria found herself yanked to her feet. She could finally make out Bethany properly, handcuffed to a chair. The side of her face was puffy and blood dribbled from a split lip. There was no gag, so maybe they’d been interrogating her. A man held a knife to Bethany’s throat while another undid her cuffs, pulled her arms behind her back, and replaced the handcuffs. He held out the second pair of cuffs to the man holding Gloria.
“Save ’em. We only have so many and this one’s bound good.”
The men waited until they saw Doris leave with Ralph, then hustled them toward the Suburban. Halfway across the parking lot Gloria tried to make a break for it, but they kicked the back of her leg and she fell painfully on the asphalt.
“Try that again and I’ll take your eye,” said the eldest man. He looked to be in his sixties, with the weathered face of someone who’d spent a lifetime working in the sun. He tossed the car keys to a middle-aged man who got into the driver’s seat. The youngest—just a kid, fourteen at most—sat shotgun and addressed the driver as “Pa.” Another middle-aged man, who resembled the driver enough that they could have been brothers, held Gloria and Bethany on the floor of the Suburban at knifepoint while the old guy climbed into the back seat.
