Forged In Fire

By Calista Echo

 

It seemed like all I'd done the last year and half was sleep. When Emil was dying, the sleep was involuntary; as the Sentinel hacks decided I was too distraught to be conscious and induced a coma to keep me sane.

                                                                                                      

When I was finally allowed to surface, I discovered Emil had been dead and buried for eight months. Learning that made me nearly as lost as when I'd hovered in that twilight place the coma put me in. Between my grief and the Taldec coming on, sleep became a sanctuary, and I sought its oblivion twelve, sometimes fourteen hours a day.

 

Then came Sandburg. Sandburg came. I liked the sound of that. Inspired, I reached over and began to rub the soft hair on his belly. His quiet snore veered off for a moment, then settled at a deeper pitch as I continued petting him.

 

I've never known anyone who fell asleep as quickly or slept as deeply as Sandburg. It's a gift he has.  I find myself waking early so I can enjoy these moments when he's still sleeping, when the bed is permeated with the scent of us and I can look on him as much as I like.

 

The shy snoring rumbled into a moan, and I lightened my touch, not wanting to break into his sleep. I rubbed my thumb over the star tattoo on the back of his hand which had finally stopped scabbing over. No bigger than a nickel, yet it wielded so much power.

 

Encircling his wrist with my thumb, I effectively obliterated the tattoo of the chain that he had on both his wrists and his ankles. At first I had thought Sandburg had tattooed himself out of defiance. Now that I knew him better, I realized it had to have been Merrick's work, fitting his idea of ownership, or hell, maybe just his perverse sense of fashion.

 

I tugged on his hand and pulled, rolling Sandburg on top of me. The snoring stopped as he squirmed around getting comfortable and when he finally settled down, he began nuzzling my neck, which shot a hot blast of lust across all my nerve endings. Threading my fingers through his hair, I massaged the muscles at the base of his neck and his body gently rocked against me as I kneaded away, like a boat docked in a gentle breeze.

 

I liked to feel his weight on me. I could now tell to the ounce how much he weighed and when he lost or gained. Currently he was gaining, and it pleased me. A healthy weight for him would be 150, maybe even 160. I'd be happy when we got him over 140.

 

My thoughts drifted to the people I'd put in place to help me bring my father down. After the fiasco with Mike, I'd been careful to do a background check on a few of my old Special Ops team before putting my trust in them.

Joe Underwood had been our team's physical infrastructure man, scoping out the target's weaknesses in their food, water and air supply. Underwood had married and had a son …a son who was showing signs of developing empathic gifts. When I explained, he came onboard.

 

Vanessa Delaney had been our financial infrastructure expert. She had the added value of exuding the kind of warm, maternal vibes that made a person want to curl up on her lap and babble secrets into her comforting bosom. Utilizing that talent, she was able to extract seemingly random and benign information from the target, enabling her to ferret out money hidden in bank accounts, real estate, security houses, and under mattresses.

 

I'd started out by asking her whether she thought the street rats had spread the epidemic.  Her response had been immediate and unequivocal. "Don't tell me you've become one of those idiots that've bought into that paranoia crap, Ellison. I thought you had a harder head than that."

 

"Well," I began, but before I could say what I really thought, she jumped up and stalked over to where I sat.

 

"I can't believe that normally intelligent people can be so gullible. It's fear mongering at its worst and anyone with half a brain should be able to see what that manipulative bastard of a governor is up to, but somehow he's managed to convince people that a small bunch of disenfranchised empaths are going to bring on the end of the world."  She'd ground to a halt and stared at me, then shook her head sadly and said, "I tell ya, Leiu, this isn't the kind of government I put my life on the line to protect."

 

I hired her on the spot.

 

I'd always had the more straightforward job of weapons and demolition, which was one of the reasons my father had so far been able to outflank me. I would never win against my father and the rest of his government henchmen by being a boy scout and coming at them straight on.

 

No, this was a mind game he played with the citizens of Washington, and his weapons were superstition and fear. If I wanted to win, I had to play the game his way. I had to break out a new deck of cards and stack it myself.

 

We arranged for my father’s confidential secretary to need a leave of absence, and Delaney's resume and winning personality got her on his staff. We'd padded her resume to include the tragic information that the flu had killed her lover and she blamed the epidemic on the street rats.

 

Sandburg wetly nuzzled my neck and I tilted my head to give him more skin to explore with his mouth, just barely stifling my groan. He wiggled and sighed and settled back down, allowing me to think again.

 

I had to find a way to stop my father, not just for Sandburg's sake but for all of the natural empaths sake. The flu had taken King George's son and it was being whispered that the King himself had been hospitalized. The secrecy surrounding His Majesty’s illness had led to all sorts of wild rumors, with the bookies placing the odds on his death at 5-3. The buzzards had already begun circling.

 

With his son dead, King George's successor was Lord Rowan Fairchild, who governed The Thirteen out east and was wildly popular. Single, dashing and handsome, he was the darling of the tabloids and glossies. He'd be easy to dismiss except for the fact that the man was brilliant, consistently creating budgets that worked, managing to keep The Thirteen in the black while still having some of the lowest crime rates in the entire nation as well as the highest student test scores.

 

With the ravages of the epidemic and the potential death of the King, the political landscape was on the verge of major changes.  The highly coveted role of Homeland Security Czar was the big prize that had caught the attention of the circling vultures. 

 

So far, my father had only been able to affect the lives of empaths in the Northwestern Triangle he governed. If he became Czar, he'd be able to cement fear and prejudice into laws and Sandburg—and all other natural empaths—would truly be on the way to becoming extinct. And I couldn't let that happen.

 

The snoring had stopped, though Sandburg slept on. I found myself missing that sound. It was a background hum that soothed me, grounded me, amused me. I twined one of Sandburg's curls around my finger and played with it as I thought some more about what remained to be done.

 

Underwood had been in place at the Governor's mansion for three weeks. To make that happen, we had arranged for the early retirement of the building engineer, and a boiler overflow problem that Joe just happened to understand like no other applicant. Between Underwood and Delaney, I had no doubt we would find a way to make my father reveal his lies.

 

 

***

 

Jim's knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly as we drove through the fog-shrouded streets of Cascade. The atmosphere outside the car was eerie, like no one lived on the planet anymore except us.  I half-expected to see the walking dead lurching in the rear view mirror. Coming on so close to the Epidemic, the thought wasn’t very amusing and I didn't share it with Jim. He had enough on his mind; now that things were back to normal, the pressure was on to solve the Franckle case.

 

As we pulled into the parking lot at Rainier, I was reassured when I saw signs of life -- students migrating from class to class, many in flocks, colorful in their springtime plumage. Gone were the long scarves, bulky down jackets and hats pulled low. Instead, despite the cool weather, the girls' skirts were short and flirty and the boys' pants drooped alarmingly low on their hips.

 

"Appleby had better be there," Jim muttered, still ticked that the Chancellor had ducked the interview yesterday.

 

"I wouldn’t put it past him to invent another crisis in order to skip out again."

 

Jim smiled grimly.  "If he's smart, he won't. Otherwise, he'll be seeing me in his home, and answering my questions in front of his wife."

 

The secretary, whose name, according to the info I’d collected, was Gillian Sanz, greeted Jim coolly, didn't greet me at all—and told us Appleby was due back in his office at any moment. Jim didn't sit, but moved to stare out the windows. I stood by the wall and tried to send calming vibes toward Jim’s stiff back while ignoring the glares Ms. Sanz kept sending my way. 

 

Fifteen minutes later, Appleby breezed in.  Seeing us, he adjusted his demeanor to convey affronted dignity and announced, "Detective Ellison, I have no idea what you think I can tell you that I haven’t already." Appleby opened the door to his office and motioned Jim in impatiently, but put his hand up when I followed. "You stay out here," he said, pointing to the outer office.

 

"My guide stays with me."

 

"This is my office, and I won't have him contaminating it."

 

I'd been hearing variations on this ever since the Governor's speech, but it still made me want to crawl under the carpet.

 

At first Jim had come close to physically assaulting the people who sought to keep me from him, but now he had a better grip on his reactions.  Pulling out a thick sheaf of papers, he handed them to Appleby. "If you want to register your stated preferences that no natural empaths be allowed in your office, you can fill out form 19-A. Of course, since you'll be trying to exclude a taxpaying citizen from university property, you risk losing federal funding."

 

Jim had a stack of forms he carried around. We'd created them ourselves. They ran ten pages and were filled with the most convoluted gobbly-gook we could throw together.  If anyone ever did fill the thing out, the pre-addressed envelope delivered it right to the Palisade. Jim said that way we'd at least know our enemies.

 

"Very well," Appleby conceded irritably. "Stay by the door," he instructed me, and then continued complaining to Jim. "I hope you can appreciate the chaos we’re experiencing here—I lost four of my faculty, nineteen students and three administrators to the flu. In the face of this tragedy, one woman’s death hardly seems worth the scrutiny—especially when you already have a confession."

 

Rather than defend his investigation, Jim simply shrugged and waited while Appleby poured himself a cup of coffee and got settled behind his desk.

 

Once he was seated, Appleby visibly relaxed, clearly feeling he was well fortified against Jim’s questions. But then his eyes narrowed and a line appeared between his eyes as Jim breeched his comfort zone, swinging his hip onto the edge of the mahogany desk and flipping open his notebook.

 

"I checked your phone logs; you made four calls to Sinclair the week before Miss Franckle was killed. That’s a lot of calls to someone you didn’t know socially. Mind telling me what the two of you had to talk about?"

 

Appleby leaned back in his chair. Jim put his hand on the desk and leaned in closer, causing the Chancellor to blink first. "Why don’t you take a seat, Detective?"

 

"I’m comfortable here, thank you."

 

"I’d prefer not to have to crane my neck when I speak to you."

 

"And I’d like you to answer to my question about the nature of the conversations you had with Sinclair that week."

 

"Have you asked *him?*" Appleby plucked a pen from the desk and clicked it several times, then seemed to catch himself and put it back down on the desk.

 

Jim removed himself from the desk. Appleby sat up straighter, ready to be back in charge, until Jim swung a chair around to straddle, resting his elbows on the back of it. "That doesn’t answer the question, Chancellor, but it does tell me something."

 

Appleby steepled his fingers and said sarcastically. "That sounds very Zen."

 

"I’d say it sounds very suspicious."

 

Appleby laughed, but the breath he used to produce it was shallow, revealing the nervousness underneath. "There was nothing in the least nefarious about my conversations with Professor Sinclair. We were speaking about the anthropology department’s annual budget, that’s all."

 

"At 11:00 at night? 12:35?  Four in the morning?  Somehow I don’t think so."

 

"Believe it or provide proof that I’m lying, Detective. Now if that’s all, I'm sure you can appreciate how busy I am dealing with the aftermath of the epidemic."

 

Jim stared thoughtfully at the Chancellor for a moment and the Chancellor stared back, appearing calm, but I easily picked up on his panic and I imagined that Jim was reading an accelerated heartbeat.

 

"Of course." Jim stood up. "I’ll let you know if I have any more questions."

 

"You do that, Detective," Appleby said, reaching for the phone, done with Jim and his questions.

 

Jim had nothing to say as we left the building, but as soon as we were outside, he exploded. "That smug bastard. He’s up to his ears in this. Discussing the budget at 4 in the morning, my ass."

 

"Yeah, he’s hiding something, but what? We haven't even found a money trail to follow."

 

"We have one advantage."

 

So far Jim’s senses hadn’t been all that much help, so I was curious to find out what he thought gave us an edge. "What's that?"

 

"We’re not nearly as stupid as he thinks we are." 

 

"Given his astonishing sense of superiority, it would be nearly impossible to be as stupid as he thinks we are." 

 

As we ambled toward the Anthropology department, the students gave us a wide berth, recognizing us as alien beings who had stumbled into their world. Once upon a time, this campus had been home to me, every square inch of it. Now, I was the profound other.

 

Burton Hall came into view. One of the oldest buildings on campus, it was a stately four storied building built of grey limestone. As soon as we walked through the massive front doors, Jim halted, frowning. The smell of mold permeated the old building and I could just imagine what else Jim was smelling.

 

"Dial it down," I urged, and could’ve kicked myself for stating the obvious, but Jim just gave me a curt nod, his mind clearly on something else.

 

"Where did you say they keep the artifacts that have been received here in the last few months?"

 

"The secretary told me there’s a storage room in the basement where everything is inventoried and held until it’s used in an exhibition or class." I pulled out my notebook and quickly paged through until I found the information. "Room 29, in the west wing."

 

Jim headed for the stairs and I followed, head down, studying the other information I’d gathered.

 

"Mr. Sandburg!"

 

I looked up at the sound of the dear and familiar voice. One of my old professors stood a few feet away, smiling. "So it really is you. I’d just about given up on ever seeing you again." Professor Eli Stoddard was in his usual uniform; tweed jacket, patched at the elbows, bow tie, and his ever-present unlit pipe clenched between his teeth.

 

He had his hand out. I hesitated, then remembered that he'd never been squeamish about touching me before. "Hello, Professor.  How've you been?" I asked, shaking his hand.

 

His blue eyes still twinkled, though the eyebrows above them had grown grayer and bushier. "Been good. About time you came back to finish what you started. Have you finally come to turn in your dissertation?"

 

I hesitated. Whenever Professor Stoddard had sensed any discouragement, he'd assumed the persona of a football cheerleader, urging me on with relentless enthusiasm. It would take so little to set him off.  I didn't want him to waste his energy on me, but I wasn't sure how to deflect him, and I didn't want to lie. "I sort of lost interest," I said, hedging.

 

That wasn’t exactly a lie—Merrick had rendered everything I’d cared about irrelevant and I hadn’t thought about my dissertation for years.

 

"You? Lose interest? Pull the other one, young man. Now tell me what you’ve been doing all these years."

 

Tell kindly Eli Stoddard what I’d been doing the last few years? No. Wasn't going to happen. I needed to put some distance between the professor and me. Backing up, I pointed toward Jim and said, "It’s been great running into you, Professor, but I’m here with my Sentinel and he’s working on a case, so I really must go."

 

Dr. Stoddard didn't look at Jim, just stared at me in shock, his face drained of all color. "Your…Sentinel? You’re a-a-street—" In his distress, Professor Stoddard almost stooped to using language he’d often referred to as disgusting gutter talk. He caught himself, swallowed, and rephrased the question. Lips tightly compressed around his pipe stem, he ground out the next words between his teeth. "You're an empath?"

 

I felt sick to realize he hadn’t known I was empathic, that I was, in fact, a street rat. It was deflating to find out the one person who had seemed comfortable with me despite my being a rat had simply not realized it. He’d always been the picture of the absent-minded professor—but still, I’d always thought it was obvious what I was. God knew everyone else seemed to be aware of it without any announcements.

 

I let out a long breath and answered his question. "I’m a guide—to a detective who’s here investigating the death of Katherine Franckle."

 

I nodded toward Jim and Stoddard turned around, lowered his glasses to study Jim carefully, then turned back to me. "Sinclair confessed. I don’t see any reason why you and your Sentinel—" his lip curled on the word "Sentinel"—his contempt for me spilling over to Jim—"need to come around here."

 

"There are some loose ends to cl—clear up," I stuttered, hammered by Stoddard's loathing. His acid emotions were seeping under my barriers, corroding them. As soon as he looked down, I felt his repugnance amplified and knew he'd seen the tattoo.

 

He stepped back, the powerful symbol doing its job of making me the loathsome “Other.”  I half expected him to wipe off the hand that had touched mine. I drew in a ragged breath, trying to stave off falling apart.

 

And then Jim was next to me, placing his arm around me. I could feel his anger thrumming close to the surface, and his arm felt hot and heavy across my shoulder.

Reluctantly, I made the introductions. "Jim, this is Professor Eli Stoddard.  Professor Stoddard, Detective James Ellison."

 

Professor Stoddard didn't seem to know what to say. Jim filled in the awkward silence by saying, "So Blair took one of your classes."

 

Stoddard took the pipe out his mouth and examined the bowl carefully, then tapped the tobacco down a little more tightly. "Mr. Sandburg actually took several of my classes, both as a graduate and undergraduate." Stoddard hesitated, and it was clear he didn't know how to think about me now that he knew. "He had a quick mind," he added, speaking of me in the past tense, as if I was no longer standing near him, as if I had died.

 

"Graduate student?" Jim looked down at me and I felt suspicion spark. "I thought you said you left school when you were 18, Sandburg." Jim’s arm around me grew heavier as his emotions darkened. Skepticism and distrust were rolling around inside him. Without any shields, I began to drown and my knees buckled.

 

Jim must’ve felt me start to sag as his arm went around my waist. I tried to answer him, but couldn’t get any words out.

 

Professor Stoddard did the explaining for me. "Mr. Sandburg was something of a prodigy, finishing his undergraduate work when he was sixteen, completing the course work for his masters a year and a half later. The dissertation was written, but never submitted."

 

Despite words that sounded like praise, his voice was hard and I felt his aversion crawling over my skin.

 

"You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Sandburg?" The sharp edge of Jim’s conflicted emotions cut through me, opening my barriers wider, allowing Stoddard’s bitter sense of betrayal to surge through me. My teeth started to chatter, and I clamped them together, trying to hold back the shakes I knew were coming.

 

Before that could happen, I felt Jim’s hand thread through my hair and we connected. Like a fire going out for lack of oxygen, my wildly flaring empathic synapses began to die down.  My shields were still wobbly, but high enough for me to block some of Stoddard's anger.

 

It seemed Jim’s facility for inventive bonding matched the extraordinary strength of his senses, making him far more evolved than any other Sentinel I’d come across in my research. 

 

"Sandburg." Jim called impatiently, and I realized I’d lost track of the present as my mind explored the ramifications of Jim’s new talent.

 

"Yeah?"

 

"You didn’t hear the question, did you?"

 

"Sorry, got distracted for a moment."

 

"I asked what happened to your paper?"

 

"I don’t know." I shrugged. "I used to store my stuff with Michael, but I have no idea where he is anymore. Anyway, he wouldn’t have kept my things after all these years."

 

"Michael? What’s his last name?"

 

"It doesn’t matter. That part of my life is over."

 

"It matters to me. I want to read it."

 

I nudged him in the ribs. "Give it up—it was stupid, written by a seventeen year old with big ideas. It’s just as well it got thrown out."

 

"Stupid? It was brilliant." Despite his disappointment, Professor Stoddard's past pride in me still shone through. "I hadn’t realized—that is, had I known—" He stopped, considering, then finally said, "I see now why you chose your topic." The pride had left his face, replaced by distaste, and even with my shields back in place, I felt sick knowing how he now saw me.

 

Jim glared at Dr. Stoddard. "You seem to have had a change of heart about Blair now that you know he's a wild empath. I hope you’re not one of those people who’ve been duped by the propaganda put out by sleazy magazine rags and corrupt government officials. There is no credible data that proves empaths are disease carriers, or that they have the power to influence people’s emotions. A scholar like yourself should know how easy it is to present a case built on faulty logic and manipulated statistics when pandering to people’s innate fears and prejudices."

 

Professor Stoddard actually huffed, affronted at Jim's implication. "Listen here, young man, I don't need to be lectured by you about my perceptions."

 

Jim remained calm, crossing his arms and asking in a mild voice I barely recognized, "Stings, doesn't it?" 

 

It wasn't the reaction Professor Stoddard had been expecting.  "Hmmm. Well…I must admit, I am shocked to learn that Mr. Sandburg hid his true nature from me. But perhaps I need to examine all that has contributed to my reaction." He turned toward me, and there was a hint of softening in his expression. "I hope you do finish that paper, Mr. Sandburg. You’re in a unique position to write it, I’d say. Good luck to you."

 

I watched him walk down the hall, and tried to swallow the lump in my throat. I’d always cherished his affection and unexpected acceptance of me. I should’ve realized he simply wasn’t paying attention.

 

"Come on, Chief," Jim said, turning me around and aiming me toward the stairs. "We’re on the clock."

 

"Right," I said, forcing myself to put my feelings about Stoddard aside and following Jim down to the storage room.

 

"So you were an anthropology major," Jim said, his voice oddly flat, and I remembered his reaction to my suggestion that drugs might have been a factor in Katherine Franckle’s death.

 

"No. My major was sociology, but I took one of Professor Stoddard’s anthropology classes as an undergraduate and a few more that had relevance to my dissertation."

 

"Which was?"

 

"Jim—really—it’s stupid. It’s history."

 

"Come on, I want to know."

 

I sighed, resigned to telling him, knowing he's never let it go. "The Role of the Natural Empath Post-Genetic Engineering".

 

Jim took it in stride. "Sounds interesting. What was your thesis?"

 

"Ah, Jim, it was a long time ago; I barely remember any of it."

 

"Yeah, right. You remember; quit stalling."

 

He was like a dog with a bone and he wouldn't rest until he'd chewed all the meat off of it. "All right," I said, giving in a little less than graciously.  "But it didn’t have a happy ending," I warned him.

 

He laughed. God, how I loved that sound. I loved it even when there was no humor in it, when it was bitter and cynical. But when he laughed for real, like now, it made my chest tighten.

 

"C’mon, Sandburg, don’t make me wheedle it out of you," Jim prodded.

 

I kind of liked the sound of that and almost asked what kind of wheedling he planned to employ when I realized I was drifting into dangerous territory.  We weren't the kind of lovers that teased and flirted and played word games.

 

I launched into the description of my thesis, starting with some background information. "Symbiont got into the gene manipulation game back in the 30's, saying they wanted to create a superior guide. They landed a huge government grant and set up shop, getting a bonanza of data from Nazi experiments—ignoring totally the ethics that stopped most scientists from building on such experiments. Six years after they started the program, the first Cultivateds were born, coming into maturity in 1960. It's ironic—the Sentinels back then were suspicious of what they called "lab rats." Wasn't many generations later that the Sentinel Board managed to get that turned around—making Sentinels suspicious of "street rats".

 

"How'd they do that?"

 

"By creating the mandatory training you went through. Prior to '62, Sentinels weren't thought to "need" training. They were "naturals".

 

Moving into the room, Jim walked over to the most primitive looking artifacts. "I hadn’t realized that—we all took it for granted that the Sentinel Academy had always been in place."

 

"They went to a lot of trouble to make the schools look established and ivy league. Used windows that were old and bubbled, imported antique wide-planked oak flooring, they even transplanted old growth trees—which cost a fortune."

 

I looked out the window, thinking about all the attention to detail the Symbiont Corporation had lavished on creating the illusion of a venerated institution.

 

"Hell, the Sentinel Board itself didn't come into existence until 1961 when Symbiont realized it had a problem and the government stepped in to protect its investment. It was really Symbiont's way of getting a hold of Sentinels while they were young and impressionable enough to accept the idea of a Cultivated being their guide. And it worked. In 1971, when that first group of "trained" Sentinels was ready to choose a guide, 42% chose a Cultivated. By 1978, 73% were choosing Cultivateds and now, it’s nearly 100%."

 

Jim turned his focus on me. "Are you saying Sentinels have been manipulated?"

 

"Uh, well, the word I used in my thesis was conditioned."

 

The textbooks had been filled with photos of Cultivateds airbrushed to look more like Guardian Angels than human beings. They were shown hovering over "their" Sentinel as he worked, a look of serene concentration on their faces. All staged, of course, as no Sentinel had yet to accept a Cultivated at the time the textbooks were created.

 

In the earlier books, natural empaths were depicted as well. They'd been photographed in dark clothing, hunched over, looking vaguely sinister as they guided a Sentinel. They seemed to cast exaggerated shadows and the text had made unsubstantiated statements like, "Some say the natural empath has failed to keep pace with the Sentinels' genetic enhancements." Or, "Some say the natural empath is too sensitive to do the job of grounding a powerful Sentinel."

 

Some say this, some say that….no one asked who had said what. No, that information got absorbed as gospel and soon it wasn't "Some say," it was, "It's well-known fact…." and the natural empath's doom was sealed. 

 

Jim had been silent, but now he looked at me and asked, "Hmmm. So what do natural empaths "do" now that they longer guide?"

 

I shivered as if someone had walked over my grave, and answered glumly. "Empaths might be useful in other occupations, but as Cultivateds gained favor, natural empaths lost it. And not just with Sentinels, but with the general public as well. People began to fear empaths that weren't blond, blue-eyed, and tall. Some empaths, who aren't super sensitive, pass using Noxy to manage fairly normal lives."

 

"And what happens to the super sensitive ones?"

 

I shrugged. "They try to isolate themselves, finding ways to work alone. But an empath —by definition—needs connection, and no amount of drugs or alcohol can make that need go away. Their suicide rate is sky high, as well as their rate of death from liver failure and they're three times as likely to die in a accident as the mundanes."

 

Jim stopped his scan and looked at me. "You're super sensitive. *You* need connection," he sounded like he'd only now surprised by that information.

 

Remembering what I'd done at times to get some connection—any connection, I flushed with shame and lowered my eyes. "All empaths need it," I said, knowing I sounded defensive.

 

"I get it."

 

I glanced up to see eyes that seemed warm rather than condemning, so maybe he did. But I didn't understand. I didn't understand the yawning hole inside me that craved communion with other souls so deeply that I'd been willing to consort with the devil.

 

Jim was making a slow circuit of the room when he stopped suddenly. The edge of a wooden box could be seen jutting out from behind the desk. Squatting down next to the desk, he pulled out the box and pried the lid off.  We peered inside at crumpled sections of newspaper.  Jim sifted through the wads of papers and fished out a well-worn leather bag. Reaching in, Jim pulled out what looked like a chess piece carved out of ivory. "What’s that look like to you?" he asked.

 

A true artist, someone who had captured the sleek muscles and power of a predator cat, had carved the piece. "A tiger. Or maybe a panther."

 

Jim held it up, staring at it. "A jaguar," he declared.

 

"Power, strength, and beauty."

 

"Huh?"

 

"That’s what the jaguar symbolizes."

 

"Oh." Reaching in again, Jim pulled out three more figures and set them down on the floor. Picking up one that had been carved out of ebony, he turned it around in his hand. "Wild dog?"

 

I took it out of Jim’s hands and studied it. "I’d say a wolf." On this piece, the artist had paid a great deal of attention to the expression, managing to imbue the animal with a sense of humor.

 

"Okay. What does the wolf represent?" Jim asked, as he took the figure back from me.

 

"Inner strength and instinct."

 

The third piece, also carved out of ebony, was unmistakable. Jim looked at me quizzically. "A squirrel?"

 

"Squirrels are a Native American symbol of trust." I remembered something else and laughed. "In fact, they’re considered the Sentinel of the home, warning their families of any dangers."

 

Handing me the last figure, Jim asked, "So what’s your theory on this one?"

 

The little figure was warm in my hand. "Well, it’s obviously a rabbit, and um, it could be a symbol for speed—or it could be a symbol of vulnerability—rabbits have no way to defend themselves."

 

"Odd group of animal totems, I’d say." Jim took the rabbit from me and put all the animals back in the bag. "I don't know what part these pieces played in Katherine's death, but I get the feeling they have significance. I'm going to log them in as evidence until we can do some research."

 

Underneath the leather bag were several books. Handing them to me, Jim stood up. My barriers unaccountably wobbled, and I shuddered. Jim’s emotions suddenly pressed in on me—frustration churned at the top and underneath I could feel notes of loneliness and sorrow. I tried to push his emotions out, tried to give him the privacy he expected and deserved and, after a moment, I was able to swing the door almost closed.                                                                     

 

Resolutely, I looked at the book on the top, stunned when I saw who the author was. Sir Richard Burton, the first explorer to describe a Sentinel and his special talents. This was an original monograph titled “First Footsteps in East Africa.” I'd never heard of it, which meant it had to be rare—and valuable.

My hands were shaking and I couldn't tell if it was because of the effort it was taking to maintain my shield, or my excitement at finding a Burton book I hadn't read. Before I could say anything, Jim spotted something on a shelf above my head. Pulling a piece of pottery down, he whistled.

 

"What?" It looked like a hundred other pieces of pottery to me.

 

"I don’t know—I just know. There’s something about this—"

 

I could tell by the way he tilted his head that he was zooming in on something. I kept my hand on the small of his back, and for the first time became aware of the energy being generated by his second chakra. It flowed into me, warming me, grounding me as I grounded Jim.

 

A piece of the puzzle fell in place as I realized my hand had steadied as my shields stabilized. This must be the way—or one of the ways—we affected a merge without penetration. It made such perfect sense—the second chakra generated sexual energy, the same energy we probably accessed during a merge using penetration without being aware of it.

 

It seemed ridiculous that I hadn't tuned into this before, but the sexual implications of the merge had always been taboo to talk about—to anyone. No one was to speak of the elephant standing in the middle of the living room.

 

Jim had moved on to another artifact and I watched him absently, my mind sifting through all the implications tumbling through my mind. One of the random facts I'd discovered in my research was that heterosexuality had been much more the norm in past generations of Sentinels. Now that fact didn't seem so random. I'd taken today's Sentinels' sexual orientation toward being fey'd and/or bi as a given, but perhaps something else was at work.

 

I got a jolt as the energy flow between us stuttered, bringing me out of my musings.

 

"Hello, Jim. Simon said I could find you here."

 

Carolyn Plummer stood in the doorway, briefcase in hand, her gaze fixed on Jim.

 

"Carolyn!" Sounding pleased, Jim handed me the pottery shard he’d been looking at. "What brings you here?"

 

Hefting her briefcase, Carolyn explained. "I got some results on Katherine Franckle's blood work I thought you would find interesting."

 

"You didn't need to bring me the paperwork—I trust you to give me the bottom line."

 

Carolyn smiled and walked over to the worktable in the middle of the room. Putting the briefcase on top of it, she snapped the locks and opened it with a flourish. Instead of paperwork, a small feast filled it. She started to unpack it, pulling out a tablecloth and napkins. A bottle of wine and two glasses followed, along with thick sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, grapes, pears and finally, chocolate cake.

 

I grabbed the book we’d found in the box, and announced, "I'll just go study this—er, log—out in the hallway while you two have lunch."

 

"Wait." Carolyn had something more to remove from her briefcase. She handed me a paper bag, saying, "I didn't forget you, Blair."

 

I took the lunch bag, shocked into speechlessness. Jim walked over to me and gently pushed my jaw up. "You mind?" He asked in shorthand and I'm afraid my mouth dropped opened again. He certainly didn't need to ask my permission.

 

"Heck, no, Jim. Enjoy your lunch with Miss Plummer. Give a yell if you need me." As if he would. Need me.

 

Out in the hallway, I moved away from the door to give them some privacy and sat down on the floor, staring at the Burton manuscript with its browned edges and battered cover. As stunned as I was that I'd never heard of this book, I was even more shocked that we had found it moldering in a basement. 

 

I tenderly opened the book, being careful with the fragile pages. I scanned quickly as Burton was a typical nineteenth century writer, ambling slowly to his subject with many stops along the way. He could be acerbically funny and sometimes brutally dismissive, but I had no time for his sightseeing now.

 

It took him a while to wind his way through city and jungle but finally, six chapters in, he described the Musulungu, a tribe in the Congo. Headed by the Chieftain, a role generally inherited, it mirrored countless other tribes I'd read about. But this tribe contained what Burton called a shaman, someone who served as the tribe's healer and spiritual leader.

 

That was unique, as I'd never read of any other references to a tribal holy "man" before. All the tribal spirituality I'd read about had centered around women, usually involving magical rituals.

 

Burton's next chapter described the "Watchman" and I realized I was reading of his first encounter with a Sentinel. I stopped reading, flipped back to the front of the book to check the date on the monograph, and saw that it had been written in 1848. This predated the other books I'd read by Burton and could well have been the first book he'd written.

 

He wrote of the unique relationship between the Sentinel and the Shaman, and it quickly became apparent that the Shaman acted as the Sentinel’s guide.  Accompanying the watchman as he roamed the tribe's territory, the Shaman kept him safe from the "evil that would strip a watchman's mind" -- in modern parlance, a zone.

 

Wow, the first guides had served more than Sentinels; they'd served the whole tribe, body and soul. They had belonged not to just one man, but to everyone in the tribe. Talk about belonging.

 

I put the book down, thinking hard. What if Symbiont had something to do with removing any references to shamans? It certainly would've contradicted the image they wanted to convey of empaths being evil and incompetent.

 

My theory evaporated when I read the next chapter and realized that Burton had to have had a screw loose when he wrote this book.  Burton claimed "watchmen" could see for eight miles, and hear almost as far.  They could tell the sex of a baby not yet born by touching the mother’s belly, smell water forty feet underground, predict storms a week out and warn of earthquakes. He even made the insane assertion that guides, or "shamans" were as powerful as watchman, albeit in a different way.

 

Maybe Burton had been delirious with malaria when he wrote the journal and ir had probably been repudiated, deemed a fanciful tale. Burton then realized he couldn't make such outlandish claims and retain any credibility, so he'd gone on to write books that stuck to the facts. That was probably why this book had never been referred to in any of the thousands of studies written about Sentinels.

 

Despite the fancifulness of Burton's ramblings, I kept reading.  And found something that had the ring of truth in it—at least for me, though I knew anyone else would've found it just as implausible as Burton’s other bizarre claims. The shaman had allowed Burton to observe a merge. He described how the Sentinel and shaman had sat facing one another, bringing their hands together, aligning their fingertips. They had stayed like that for a goodly part of an hour, then leaned forward until their foreheads touched. Twenty minutes passed and then, in unison, they sat up.

 

The shaman had informed Burton that after bonding they walked in new colors. Burton wrote he had interpreted that to mean that they had changed their clothes, but I knew what had been described was the change in their auras after the merge.

 

Before I could learn any more, the door opened and Carolyn emerged. She lingered in the doorway, saying something to Jim, then finally said a breathy "goodbye" and walked away from me down the hall. Jim poked his head out the door and watched her for a second, then turned toward me.

 

"Hey, you didn’t eat the lunch Carolyn made for you."

 

"I will; I just got up caught reading this book. It’s fascinating, Jim—"

 

Jim absently nodded, and I could tell his mind was back in the storage room, thinking through what it might yet reveal about Katherine Franckle’s death.  I closed the book and stood up, ready to get back to the present instead of dwelling in the past.

 

Meticulously canvassing the room from top to bottom, Jim found nothing that seemed out of place. "This is probably a dead end, Chief, but I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s something here, if only I could "see" it."

 

All that was left were the books that had been in the box. Opening one up, Jim scanned some pages, then stopped to read. "Listen to this: 'Much to the consternation of the tribal council, the Shaman—'"

 

Jim interrupted himself, scanning ahead. "It seems a shaman is a guide—" he said as an aside, then continued, "—of the Kikuyu Tribe refused to serve the Watchman, declaring he was not 'the one.' Despite the chaos that erupted with his refusal, nothing they said could change the shaman's mind. Three days later, Bintui, the Watchman, was discovered trying to force the daughter of Mussugna. The shaman’s decision to reject the Watchman was made clear and the tribe rejoiced."

 

Jim shut the book, shaking his head. "A guide refusing a Sentinel?"

 

I ducked down to see who’d written the book. Dr. Samuel White Baker, almost as well known as Burton for his explorations of Africa. "Weird. Burton mentioned a shaman that seemed to be a guide. Maybe it was a different kind of guide."

 

"Or a different kind of world back then."

 

Jim’s words sparked an idea and I took a look at the material in the boxes with a fresh eye. "Jim, every one of these books deal with Sentinels and guides, and all were written before 1920."

 

"So?"

 

"Well, I suspect they all describe a very different relationship between Sentinel and Guide than the one we know, (and take for granted) has been in place from the beginning."

 

Gathering up the books, Jim placed them all back in the box, adding the leather bag of animal totems on top, and replaced the lid. "We'll take the whole box in. Let the secretary know."

 

"Right."

 

The box ended up sitting on the coffee table for the next few days as our attention was diverted to the bombing at the Central Library.

 

When the weekend rolled around, Jim sent me off with Roberts to buy some new clothes at Icon's. The weather was warming up, and he thought it was time for the flannel to go. I was used to someone else calling the shots about what I wore—Merrick had paid meticulous attention to the clothes on my back—but never with my comfort in mind.

 

Merrick had been like a girl with a dolly, fussing over the details, demanding I change if what I wore didn't suit his mood, or clashed with what he was wearing, fluffing my hair out, or pulling it back into a ponytail. Clothes had been worn to please Merrick and I'd almost forgotten how to do my own choosing.

 

Roberts came over to where I was standing with a pile of clothes in my arms. Putting his hands on his hips, he struck a pose I was becoming quite familiar with. Shaking his head, he rifled through my choices. "Master Sandburg, really, we must get you to start thinking big."

 

"A large just hangs on me, Roberts," I said, teasing him.

 

"I don't mean—" Roberts stopped as he caught on, and shook his head. "You know exactly what I mean, young man. Four t-shirts, a pair of shorts, and a pair of sneakers do not add up to a summer wardrobe."

 

Pointing to the checkout counter that held six times the amount of clothes in my hands, he then reached out and took my pile.  Walking over, he added my modest selection to a pile that spread out over the entire counter. There were slacks, shorts and shirts, in fabrics of linen, seersucker, and cotton -- none of them see-through – along with sandals, raingear, and new underwear.  And even a baseball cap.

 

"There. Oh, Lord Ellison said you were to buy a pair of boots so you could ride the horses. Go to the shoe department and start trying some on."

 

"Boots? Riding? Are you sure?"

 

"Lord Ellison is sure, and that’s what matters. Now scoot so we can go to lunch."

 

I scooted, smiling at the idea of riding a horse and of going out to lunch with anyone other than my Sentinel. What a different world I lived in these days.

 

As I rounded the corner, someone stepped in front of me and I ran smack into a hard chest. Before I could back up and apologize, someone else came up behind me. "Hey," was all I managed to say before a cloth covered my nose and mouth. Chloroform. The last thing I saw was Roberts running toward me, a look of horror on his face.

 

***

 

Simon called me at home. "Jim," he said and paused. The dreaded pause. The pause that tells you you’re about to hear news you don’t want to hear. I held on tight to the phone, waiting for Simon to get the words out, words he didn’t want to say and words I didn’t want to hear.

 

"It’s Roberts. He was found confused and dazed in the alley behind Icon’s about ten minutes ago. Someone clobbered him good. He’s being transported to St. Andrew’s right now."

 

"But he’s conscious? What about Sandburg?"

 

"Sandburg? Your guide?"

 

"Yes, that Sandburg. They went there to buy him clothes."

 

"My God, Jim, do you think he could’ve been the one that hit Roberts?"

 

I closed my eyes and counted to six, unable to get to ten before I exploded. "Jesus, not you too, Simon!  After working with Blair all through the Epidemic, I can’t believe you’d believe he’d be capable of something like that!" 

 

He sputtered, "No, no, of course he wouldn’t. I don’t know why I asked that."

 

I did. Not even people who knew Sandburg were immune from looking at him through the distorted prism of propaganda.

 

"So no one’s seen Sandburg?"

 

"I don’t know, didn’t know he was missing. Harris and Melvoy will be radioing in as soon as Roberts is able to give a statement."

 

"I’m going to the hospital right now. Call someone at Icons and tell them to check the security tapes—I want to know if the cameras caught anything."

 

At the hospital, I was directed to an ER cubicle. Hunched over, Roberts sat dejectedly on the examining table, looking white and shaken, and alarmingly fragile. He got to his feet when he saw me, latching onto my arm and talking rapidly. "They took him, Lord Ellison—right in the middle of the swimwear department.  I tried to stop them, but some bloody villain hit me from behind."  

 

'Bloody villain?' It wasn't like Roberts to drop his coolly detached tone and swear, and it told me how deeply Sandburg had gotten under his skin.

 

"They were thugs, nothing but thugs," he sputtered, and I put a hand under his elbow and guided him to the chair. "They had no business being in Icons, I can tell you that," he continued. 

 

I nodded, letting him know I was listening to every word. As I sat down next to him, I took his shaking hand in mine.  "I need your help, Roberts. Can you tell me what the men who took Sandburg looked like?"

 

"It all happened so fast. I only got a glimpse of the two men who had Bl-Master Sandburg, before someone hit me from behind."

 

"I understand, and thank goodness you've a hard head. Think back. You said they stuck out at Icons—was it what they were wearing, their grooming?  What was it that made them so obviously not belong?"

 

"I don't know, I can't recall…." Roberts stumbled to his feet, too agitated to sit still. I jumped to my feet and put my arm around his shoulders.

 

"Take your time. Deep breath in; hold it.  Slowly let it go. That's it. Do it again." I walked Roberts through the breathing exercise that Sandburg often used with me when I couldn't seem to focus.  After a few minutes, Roberts seemed to calm. He began to speak and this time his voice was steady and sure.

 

"There were two men, both big. One young -- early twenties -- the other older, forty I’d say. Uh…" Roberts faltered for just a moment, then shook his head as if trying to focus his thoughts. "The young one had a gold tooth, the older one, a buzz cut and, I think, some kind of mole or beauty mark above his lip—on the right side."

 

It didn’t surprise me that even under duress, Roberts’ powers of observation hadn’t wavered. But it wasn't going to do us much good. Whoever had taken Blair had been hired help, and even if Roberts’ descriptions resulted in accurate police sketches, it wouldn’t tell us much about why Blair had been taken or by whom.

 

I sat in my study at three in the morning while an FBI team sat in the living room monitoring the phones. I knew little more than I had that afternoon. The feed from the garage disc outside of Icon’s had shown Blair unconscious, slung over the shoulder of the younger man. Four men, not two, had been in on the kidnapping, and they'd sped off in a nondescript car with what turned out to be stolen license plates.

 

Old and new case files had been summoned and studied. Roadblocks stopped forty vans of the same make that had taken Blair, without result.  Every conceivable surface had been dusted for fingerprints, revealing nothing of use. Snitches had been rounded up and interviewed—none reported any word on the street regarding Sandburg.

 

My father had called at some point. After making sympathetic noises, he asked if I'd considered whether Sandburg had set this up himself in order to escape. When that suggestion met with silence, he moved on, asking if I’d considered whether someone from Sandburg's past had taken him. "After all, Jimmy, he's been intimately involved with some very unsavory men. One of them may have had a score to settle, or maybe they just wanted another taste."

 

Roberts, dressed in his robe, came in, took one look at the phone smashed into pieces on the floor, and bent down to clean the mess.

 

"Leave it."

 

"M'lord—"

 

"I said, leave it. Tilda can come in later and deal with it. You should be resting."

 

"I've tried, but until we find Mr. Sandburg—"

 

"That could be awhile. And when we do and I bring him home, he'll need you. I'll need you. So, go. Take something, if necessary. I want you to sleep."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

The list of suspects had been short. My father, Merrick, or a wild card.

 

I called Delaney. "Can you talk?"

 

"Not now. Give me a half hour."

 

True to her word—which was why I’d trusted her enough to send her to work for my father—she called me precisely thirty minutes later.

 

"What do you know about Sandburg’s disappearance?"

 

"Just what the Governor rather gleefully told the staff—that he’s missing."

 

"Could my father have taken him?"

 

She didn’t answer. She wouldn’t until she had a chance to think it through. I waited, impatient, but knowing it would do no good to prod her. A full minute passed before she gave her opinion.

 

"As far as I can tell—and I can tell pretty far, as you know -- your father's official spending hasn't increased in any significant way…and I monitor the bottom line, not what the books say."

 

"What if he used his own money?"

 

"I've got my finger on his private accounts as well. Nothing new. But there were some odd expenditures in the last year…"

 

"I don't have time for that if it doesn't concern Sandburg's disappearance. Just keep close tabs on who he calls, sees, where he goes….You know—the works."

 

"I know my job, boss. Don't sweat it. I'll call if I get a glimmer."

 

"Thanks, Delaney."

 

That left Merrick. He'd closed the art gallery. His home on Summit Avenue was empty, and had been put up for sale. Maybe it was talking with Delaney that made me look at the problem from her angle. Calling up the tri-county records for newly registered titles, I hit pay dirt. Merrick Corp. had purchased property in Whatcom County and closed on the property a month ago. It was a starting place.

 

***

 

I opened my eyes, but nothing changed; there was only darkness, a vaguely familiar ache in my gut and a thirst that felt as if it could choke me. I sensed someone stir at my side, and a tall shape stood up. Leaning over me, the indistinct figure cupped the back of my head, lifting it up and putting a glass to my lips. I drank the water quickly, desperate to get as much in me as I could before it was taken away, but he let me finish it all.

 

Though I couldn't make out his features, his long blond hair reflected what little light was coming in from under the door.  A Cultivated. "What…why…." I found it hard forming the words to ask what had happened.

 

"It'll all become clear enough soon." He chuckled, and ruffled my hair. "You and chloroform aren't such a good mix, Blair baby."

 

"Blair baby" made the hair on the back of my neck rise. "Do it for me, Blair, baby….That's right, like that, Blair baby….Why do you make me do this to you, Blair baby…you know I hate it more than you do…."

 

Oh Jesus, no.

 

The next time I woke, Merrick was leaning over me. I tried to shove him hard, but the chloroform had done a number on me, and my shove was more like a weak pat.

 

Capturing my hand, Merrick asked hopefully, "You missed me, didn’t you?"  His emotions were pouring out, overwhelming me. The air thinned and even though I tried to pull in oxygen, I started gasping like a beached fish. As my eyes started to roll back in my head, I felt the prick of the needle and Noxy filled my veins.

 

"I came prepared,” Merrick said, rubbing my arm.

 

It took just a minute for it to reach my empathic pathways, cloaking me from the onslaught of Merrick’s feelings. My head lolled to the side, and as I stared at the face I hated and feared, coldness settled into my bones. "Why, Gavin? You discarded me. You have a Cultivated for a guide."

 

Merrick leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees, and spoke earnestly, "You've got it wrong, Blair; he's not my guide. You are; you've always been, you always will be. I should never have let myself get discouraged."

 

He slowly drew the sheet down. I was naked, and the cap was still on. He tapped it with his fingernail. "This caused me a little consternation, I can tell you. The manufacturer Fed Exed the key to me this morning."

 

He lifted the cap and unlocked it. It was a relief to have the weight off until he put his hands on my thighs, and pulled my legs apart. Protesting, I yelled, "Merrick—stop! I'm claimed by Lord Ellison."

 

Ignoring me completely, Merrick spread me wider, bent my knees up, then swung onto the bed, facing me. "I’ve missed seeing you like this. Exposed and ready." Lifting my balls, he fondled them, smiling. "I've had dreams about you like this." He coated his fingers with gel, and without preamble shoved two of them into me. My body bucked weakly at the assault, but even pain couldn't give me the power to effectively fight him.

 

As the fingers of one hand plunged in and out of me, he used the other to pump my cock. I stayed limp, his touch delivering nothing but pain. He grunted as he upped the force he was using, and my head began banging against the headboard with each thrust.  By the time he gave up, he was sweating and I was hoarse from screaming.

 

Reaching up, he patted my cheek with his sticky, bloodied fingers. "You really do react badly to chloroform. All that puking must've done something to you. Must remember never to use it on you again."

 

"Why?" My throat was too raw to allow more than a rasp. "Jim will find me, I'm claimed."

 

"Of course he’ll find you. He’s a Sentinel, after all, and a big, important detective to boot. It ought to be a snap for him, especially since I left a dandy trail of breadcrumbs for him to follow."

 

It was a trap and I was the cheese.

 

“Now just relax and this will soon be over. Go on, sleep, I’ll let you know when it’s time.” Merrick leaned over and kissed me. “Don’t worry, Blair baby, this is going to be painless, you’ll see.”

 

Painless. The moment Merrick left, I sat up, swallowing convulsively to keep from puking again. After a few minutes, I tried standing up. The world held steady and I tottered to the door I knew would be locked. It was.

 

The one window had bars on it, but I made my way to it anyway, my gait steadier, readjusting to the familiar pain in my ass. The window opened, and I shook the center bars out of frustration, expecting nothing. They were solid, but the concrete they were set in looked new. Starting from the left, I shook and pulled on each bar and when I got to the very last one, felt the tiniest movement.

 

I paused, trying to "feel" past the Noxy and pick up Merrick or the Cultivated's emotions in order to tell me what they were doing. Merrick's bled through, and I could tell he was in an alpha stage, nearly asleep. The Cultivated was a blank and I hoped that meant he was conked out.

 

Going back to work, I continued to jerk, twist and pull, grunting with the effort as it rewarded me with incremental movements. The night air was cool, but it wasn't long before I was sweating, my arms trembling with the effort. I stopped to rest and studied the room, looking for some tool I could use to help break away the mortar.

 

The room seemed stripped bare; holding only the bed, a chair and an empty closet. The shelf was high enough that I couldn't see all the way to the back, and I hauled the chair over and stood on it. The gods were with me—way at the back, a hanger had gotten lodged. Armed with a tool, I went back to the window and started excavating in earnest.

 

I yanked and scraped, pulled and chipped away at the mortar, and pretty soon the bar was loose enough for me to try something else. Bringing the chair over to the window, I sat in it and tried pushing at the bar with my feet, banging it as forcefully as I could and still remain quiet. On the third push, the bar popped out, falling to soft earth nearly silently.

 

Standing on the chair, I eased one leg over the sill and through the opening, then tried to squeeze through. It was tight, so tight that I thought for a moment I might be truly stuck; stuck only to be found in the morning by Merrick. Sucking my breath in, I pulled with all my might, feeling fabric and skin fray across my ribs as I got through. I held onto the bars, and slowly let myself down the side of the house until my feet touched the earth. Then I took off running.

 

Okay, a neutral observer might have said I took off shambling. But the important thing was I put distance between Merrick and myself. Unfortunately, the night was moonless and the countryside lacked streetlights. Nearly blind, only able to see a half a foot in front of me, I ran right into a tree. A tree that reached down and grabbed me. Where was I, in the land of the Ents?

 

"What have we here?"

 

It was the Cultivated—the fucking Construct was Merrick's watch dog and he had his fist in my hair. "Going somewhere?"

 

"Trying to," I answered, testing his hold. It was tight enough to bring tears to my eyes.

 

"If Merrick woke up and you were gone, he'd be so sad," he said mockingly.

 

"He'd get over it."

 

"That's the problem, he won't. He hasn't." The sadness I felt coming from him made me want to reach out to him, but the hand in my hair effectively nixed that impulse. Could he actually love Merrick? Maybe he'd just met him—there was a lot to love in Merrick if you didn't know him.

 

I tried again. "He has to; I'm claimed by Lord Ellison."

 

"Not for much longer, my pet." What was that in his voice? It sounded like triumph but felt like sorrow.

 

The Cultivated sounded rueful as he said, "Sandburg, you're gonna have to face reality. Merrick's in, Ellison's out."

 

Oh God, it was true then. Merrick planned on killing Jim. I swallowed the bile that had risen in my throat and took a deep breath.

 

Over my dead body.

 

"Can't you let me go? Forget you found me? Step in and guide Gavin?"

 

The Cultivated snorted rather inelegantly. "What la la land are you living in? Gavin would know."

 

"No. He won't. His abilities are touch and taste."

 

"Gavin would know, my pretty. I know he would, you know he would."

 

I wanted to argue, but the rigors of the day were catching up to me. Just before the darkness totally enclosed me, I heard him mutter, "What've you got that I don't have?"

 

***

 

When I woke, I was in an empty room, my wrist handcuffed to a pipe that ran along the wall. 

 

Merrick squatted next to me, glowering.  "You never did that before. No matter what happened between us, you never ran before." He sounded truly aggrieved.

 

I looked at the cuff, then tested it. Standard police issue, not a sex toy. I wasn't going anywhere. "We had a contract then. Now we don't."

 

"The hell we don't."

 

"We don't.  Gavin, get real. You discarded me. You broke it. I am no longer bound to you." It felt good to be able to talk like this to Gavin instead of being forced by the contract to act as his guide at all times.

 

"Fuck the contract. You're bound to me in ways that are bigger and more real than any piece of paper."

 

I sighed, knowing nothing I said would put a dent in his fevered desire to have me under his control again. I could live with that—what I couldn't and wouldn't live with was Merrick killing Jim. I didn't know his timetable but I doubted I had much time. I had to take myself out of the equation and hope Gavin would leave Jim alone.

 

I forced myself to visibly relax, to look confident. "I hate to break it to you, Gavin, but Jim and I completed the merge the very first time."

 

Merrick’s face darkened at the news and he sputtered, "You're lying. You're defective, a rat. No way did you merge with a class nine Sentinel, let alone on the first try."

 

I smiled, and it was a real smile, as I remembered that merge—the sweet sense of completion, of being embraced and accepted. My journey down memory lane was interrupted by the back of Merrick's hand. The force of the blow stunned me, but I shook my head and went to work.

 

"He's ten times the Sentinel you are, Gavin, and he wants me. There's no going back."

 

I blessed Merrick’s quick temper as the next blow smashed into my mouth.  My head snapped back, hitting the wall. Two more blows, and a black eye and cracked rib were added to my split lip. Dazed, I felt Merrick unlock the cuffs and pull me away from the wall.

 

The beating continued, and every time Merrick seemed to be slowing, I’d egg him on a little more. "Even if you kill Jim, I'll always be his guide—" That got me a hard kick to the ribs that took away my breath, so I was unable to say anything more for a while.

 

"I don't need to kill him, Blair," Merrick insisted. "He’s going to hand you over to me voluntarily. You’ll watch as he writes "discard" over your contract with a smile on his face."

 

"No, won’t happen," I panted

 

Merrick’s boot connected sharply with my hip.  I struggled to get back on my knees, knowing how Merrick hated it when I defied him.

 

"He won’t," I gasped, not wanting him to cool off, to consider what he was doing. "You’ll see; we’re bonded and that means something, something you never had—and will never have—with me."

 

I could feel his rage reaching a peak and I tried to help him over the edge by saying, "It was you who was defective, not me—" I could see he was close to losing it, to being unable to tell he had gone too far. Just one more well aimed blow would do it. I'd be dead and Jim wouldn't have a reason to walk into this trap.

 

But before he could finish the job, a voice called out, "Stop, Gavin! You’ll kill him." The Cultivated stood in the doorway, backlit by the bright light of day, the corona making him look like an angel.  I could only hope he was the angel of death.

 

Disappointingly, Merrick obeyed, stopping the kick that would’ve connected with my head.

 

Damn, not the angel of death. 

 

I tried to think of something more to say to get Merrick riled up enough again to come back at me, but I felt the aggression leaving Merrick and knew I'd lost my chance. Without hope, I no longer had the strength to stay on my hands and knees and I collapsed.

 

Merrick's harsh breathing slowly calmed and he muttered, "Damn. I didn't mean to…"

 

"No, of course you didn't," the angel said reassuringly.

 

Using his foot, Merrick rolled me onto my back and smiled down at me. "Blair, I want you to meet the reason James Ellison will discard you and hand you over to me with a song in his heart." He pulled the Cultivated close, and for the first time I saw the construct clearly. "I’d like to introduce you to Emil Simone, Lord Ellison's true guide."

 

A lot of people say the Cultivateds all look alike. They don't. They share some common features: height, fair coloring, blue eyes; so much so that I had often wondered if they killed the ones that came out lacking any of those qualities. Still, it was the style of the Cultivated that really made them blend together: their long straight hair, the way their movement seemed centered in their pelvis, the throaty way they talked as though their voices bypassed their diaphragm completely.

 

Nevertheless, there were discernable differences in their features.  And it was Emil standing before me; there was no mistaking his identity.  I'd seen his picture.

 

"You're dead," I stated, yet knowing he wasn't.

 

Emil just smiled.

 

Merrick ruffled his hair and said, "Emil is the picture of health. Which is more than I can say for you, bucko."

 

Emil gave Merrick a conspiratorial look. "Poor Jim will piss his pants when he sees me." That prospect seemed to please both of them.

 

I wanted to wipe the grins off their faces with my fists. "Why the hell haven't you told Jim you're alive?"

 

Emil gave a delicate shrug. "My, my, aren't we protective," he said mockingly.

Blair suspected he did that a lot, use the royal we. Had he done that with Jim? How had Jim put up with it?

 

"He’ll be here soon, Blair, and then all this will be over. Emil will be where he belongs and you’ll be right where you belong."

 

They left me there, confident I couldn't escape.  I lay on the floor as the sun went down and the night deepened, cold and desperately needing to piss. I slept or passed out, hard to say which, and woke when Emil shook my shoulder.

 

"Oh dear. We left you a little too long. You've gone and pissed yourself." He pulled me up, propping me against the wall. "Here, drink this," he said, handing me a cup, and I took it, not looking at him. It was warm; water laced with scotch and I hated the gratitude it made me feel.

 

"Thanks," I mumbled, as I handed it back. There was blood from my mouth on the cup and Emil wiped it off, then poured more "water" into it and handed it back.

 

"You trying to get me drunk?" I whispered.

 

"Might not be such a bad thing."

 

I drank it down and the heat of the alcohol seeped through me, making my muscles relax a little. Tilting my head back, I closed my eyes and fell asleep for a moment, but woke when I felt the water tipping into my mouth again. When he saw my eyes were open, Emil said, "So you like being Jim's guide."

 

I didn't want to have this conversation, but I was weary and the scotch was making the pain bearable, so I answered. "Yeah, I like being his guide."

 

Emil settled himself next to me, putting his back against the wall. "Aren't you bored?"

 

I closed my eyes. "I've never been bored with Jim."

 

"Is that so? How very odd. He's the dullest man on earth, aside from his lovely muscles."

 

My eyes snapped open and I painfully turned my head to look at Emil. "Dull? You think Jim is dull?" The sound of my outrage was muted by the necessity of whispering.

 

Emil nodded, and explained. "All he ever thinks about is criminals and their crimes. He reads the occasional novel, but never watches television unless it's sports.  Hates to wear a tie, or any occasion that calls for a tie; loathes the theater, the symphony and opera, and wouldn't know a de Koenig if it bit him in the ass."

 

The scotch was doing more than making the pain bearable, it was taking away my sense of judgment and I cringed when I heard myself answer, "What's not to love?"

 

"Jesus, you're easy. One needs more than work to make a life, you know."