The Psy-Changeling Collection (312 page)

She’d been digging deep into the backgrounds of all the individuals of interest, tapping her connections in Justice when necessary. The aristocratic Quentin Gareth came across as a ruthless businessman, but seemed otherwise clean. Andre Tulane, in contrast, had repeating weekly meetings that she could tie into nothing official, while the intern, Ryan Asquith, had a note on his file that meant he’d been reconditioned within the past year as a result of a court order.

All merited further investigation, but the most interesting data resulted from a logarithm she’d been running on news uploads at around the time of the killings: Councilor Kaleb Krychek had been in the relevant area at the time of every single murder. He’d even been snapped by the
San Francisco Gazette
—leaving an early morning meeting with Nikita—on the day Edward Chan had a knife thrust into his heart.

“It ties up so neatly—but at the same time, it doesn’t make sense,” she said to Max the next day as she finished locking up her bag for the return trip to San Francisco. With the families of all the victims having been notified of what was happening behind the scenes with Bonner, and with no hope of finding any further remains, Max had
decided they needed to turn their attention back to Nikita’s situation.

“Isn’t Krychek a telekinetic?” Max asked, shadows under his eyes from the lack of sleep.

“Exactly—and he’s teleport capable.” It hurt her to see him hurting—she couldn’t wait until they were home, where she could wrap her arms around him, give him the surcease he’d given her so many times. “He would’ve been smart enough to teleport in to do the kills while he wasn’t officially known to be in the region.”

Taking her bag and slinging his own duffel over his shoulder, Max headed to the elevators as she pulled the door to her hotel room closed. “From what I know of Councilor Krychek,” he said as she came to stand beside him, “he’s a stone-cold operator. I can’t see him wasting time with the theater of a fake suicide.”

“I’ve never heard a confirmation, but there are constant whispers that he was raised by a sociopath, that he’s a murderer at heart.” She’d seen Krychek once—on the other side of a hotel lobby—but his presence had made her alter her route, take the long way to her destination in order to avoid him. It had been self-preservation, the otherness in her recognizing an intelligence as lethal—and far, far colder.

Max rubbed his hand over the jaw she’d watched him shave a few minutes ago when she’d gone into his room ostensibly to talk about the case. The experience had been starkly, beautifully intimate. “The pattern’s too political for a serial killer,” he said, waiting until she stepped into the elevator before following. “That kind of a sociopathic drive wouldn’t have allowed him to keep his urges leashed to the extent of only committing murders on the verge of a big deal.”

“There’s another rumor that might be more apropos,” Sophia said, curling her fingers into her palms to keep from touching the smooth skin of his jaw, breathing in the fresh pine of his aftershave.” That Nikita and Krychek have some kind of an alliance.”

“Now
that
fits the pattern,” Max murmured as the doors
opened at the garage level. Heading to the vehicle they’d rented at the airport, a vehicle that had spent the entirety of the past forty-eight hours sitting in the garage—Max having had access to an Enforcement car, while Sophia remained in the hotel to work—he dumped their bags in the trunk. “Someone’s trying to cause suspicion between the two.”

“Do—” She was cut off by the beeping of her cell phone. Pulling it out, she said, “Sophia Russo.”

“Thank God I caught you—Max’s phone won’t go through.” It was an unfamiliar voice, trembling as if the speaker had run a hundred miles. “This is Faith Night-Star.”

Getting into the car when Max opened the door for her, Sophia immediately realized the reason for the call. “You had a vision.” And the visions of a cardinal F-Psy were accurate to within a hundredth of a decimal point.

“Yes,” Faith said as Max snapped on his safety belt and went to put his thumbprint on the starter. “The car is rigged. Do you understand?” Frantic words. “Don’t start the engine.”

Max’s thumb brushed the ignition switch.

“
No!
” Sophia jerked Max’s hand away from the ignition with a wrench that had his head snapping toward her.

“Sophia!” Faith’s voice merged with Max’s demand to know what was going on.

“I’m fine,” she said to Faith, tremors shaking her frame. “We’re both fine. Here, you better speak directly to Max.”

Leaning back in her seat, she tried to get her heart to beat in a normal rhythm as Max had a short, sharp discussion with Faith. Closing the phone, he ordered her to step out of the car. Neither of them said a word until they were standing in front of the innocuous-looking vehicle.

“I’m getting the bomb squad,” Max said, using her cell phone to make the call when his own proved to have a flat battery. “They’ll be here in five minutes, tops.”

“So soon?” She had to focus on the mundane, on the
practical . . . rather than on the fact that Max had come terrifyingly close to death.

Max touched her lightly on the back, and she realized just how much she’d missed the contact in the frenetic pace of the past two days. No one had ever told her that touch was something you became addicted to, the loss of it a hunger, an ache deep within.

“They work out of the same Enforcement building we used as a base.” His hand dropped away as an Enforcement vehicle drove into the garage. “Still, that was damn fast.”

Two men and one woman stepped out, all three in the protective gear of the bomb squad. “Tell me what you know,” the woman said.

“We got the heads-up from an F-Psy—” Max began.

“Foreseer?” The woman whistled. “I didn’t realize they made civilian predictions—heard it was all business.”

“Faith NightStar,” Max said. “She’s part of DarkRiver. She saw the car explode after I started the engine.”

“Hmm. Given current technology, it’s got to be some kind of a detonation message being sent to the actual device.” She was already moving toward the car, equipment in hand. “You two might want to clear the garage. You’re not wearing protective gear.”

Max nodded to the entrance ramp. “We’ll be waiting outside.”

“I’ll give you a yell soon as we locate anything.”

Faith paced across
the beautifully lighted cave that was her home office, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.

“You cold, sweetheart?”

Looking up, she found Vaughn in the doorway. Her jaguar had a streak of white dust on his face, a rip near the bottom of his T-shirt, and was so wonderful she still couldn’t believe he was hers. “No.” But she walked into his embrace. “Hold me.”

“Hey.” His arms came around her, strong and warm, one hand gripping a chisel he’d clearly been using on his current sculpture. “I thought you said the cop and his J were all right?”

“They are.” She ran her fingers over the gritty dust that covered the skin of his arm. “But I still have this
knowing
that something bad is coming.” She hated the amorphous knowings even more than the dark visions. At least the visions showed her something concrete, something she could fight or avert. “It’s an emotional knowing—connected to someone who’s important to me.”

“Did you try the exercises you’ve been working on to fine-tune your control over your abilities?”

She nodded, sliding her hands under his T-shirt and to the muscled warmth of his back. “I can’t break through the veil. And Vaughn, it’s something really, really bad.” Ice filled her heart, coated her veins. “What if I can’t stop it?” What if she lost one of the people she loved?

Vaughn pressed his lips to her brow. “We discussed this. You’ll go mad if you take responsibility for every evil you can’t stop.” His tone was gentle but absolute. “You saved two lives today. Celebrate that.”

Raising her head, she met those golden eyes—eyes of a jungle cat made human—that had become the fulcrum of her universe. “It’s hard.” And part of the reason why so many F-Psy had gone irrevocably mad in the past—that need to save every life, avert every sorrow, could devour the unwary.

“That’s why you have me.” Lips against her own, intense protectiveness in the way his body curved over hers. “Let’s see if we can’t get you into a better frame of mind.” And then her jaguar was purring low in his throat as he peeled off her clothes. “It’ll come to you if you’re relaxed.”

She felt her heart lighten with sensual humor. Oh, how she needed him. His ability to play, to laugh, to love, made every darkness bearable. “So you’re stripping me naked for my benefit?”

A look so innocent, it would’ve done one of Tammy’s rambunctious twins proud. “Of course.”

Faith let him love her, let him comfort her . . . and hoped it would break open the deadlock on her mind. Because whatever was coming, it was a crushing, terrifying blackness that only ever meant one thing.

Death.

CHAPTER 28

We don’t choose our parents. And their mistakes aren’t our own. You are what you make yourself—don’t ever forget that.

—
Max Shannon in reply to an e-mail from the sole
survivor of the Castleton murder-suicide

Sophia allowed herself
to lean against the garage wall once they’d exited onto the quiet street outside. She wasn’t concerned about setting off alarm bells if caught on surveillance—even Psy sometimes lost the perfect posture that had been drilled into them as a symptom and indication of control.

Max braced himself with one arm on the wall beside her, his eyes ablaze though he kept his distance. His earlier touch everyone would discount as a human action inspired by the emotions of the moment. But if he touched her now, Sophia knew she wouldn’t be able to resist crumbling into his embrace.

“You okay?” Rough tone, violence contained.

She wanted so much to crawl into his arms, to hold the solid reality of him to her until she believed he was alive, was safe. “Yes.”

Lines bracketed Max’s mouth. “This has to be connected to the work we’re doing for Nikita.”

“Not necessarily.” Realizing that he was focusing his anger into work, she kicked her sluggish brain into gear. “Bonner is very wealthy, and Bartholomew said that he has many groupies.”

“I’ll have his visitor logs and mail records checked out. But fact is, he likes playing with you—I don’t think he’d have you killed.”

“He has no way of knowing I’m working with you on another case,” she said, her hands clammy inside her gloves, her heartbeat erratic, “especially if this particular plan was put in motion before we met. He considers you his adversary, doesn’t he?” She’d seen the notes, notes Bonner had sent to Max while he’d still been an unknown serial killer. Each had been a taunt, a declaration of his superiority.

But then Max had caught him.

“Fuck.” Blowing out a breath, Max clenched his fist against the wall, the rough texture of the plascrete rubbing against his skin. He wanted nothing more than to grab Sophia and drag her to his chest, to crush her close until the thudding fear of his heartbeat decreased to something less agonizing.

“Max,” a soft word, a warning from a J with eyes full of remembered terror.

Shoving his other hand into a pocket to stop himself from reaching for her, he said, “Bonner likes to get up close and personal.”

Sophia nodded, her hair lifting in the breeze that sent a discarded soft-drink bottle rolling down the otherwise empty street. “Yes, a bomb is something more apt to be used by those of my race—especially if the aim was expediency.”

“Let’s see what the bomb squad has to say.”

They had to wait fifteen more minutes before the squad called an all-clear, having removed the device and placed it into a blast-proof container. “High tech,” the female member of the team said. “Nothing your average malcontent could make on his own.”

Max hunkered down beside her, aware of the two males
giving Sophia the once-over. If they so much as smiled wrong in her direction, those faces would be hitting the old-fashioned concrete of the garage floor—he was not in a rational mood right now. “Someone wealthy?”

“Sure. The rich can source anything, but they’d have to have some fairly strong contacts—this stuff is Defense grade.”

“Is it from a Psy company?” Sophia came to stand so close beside him, he could’ve reached out and curved his hand around the smooth temptation of her calf. Though he forced himself not to touch, her proximity soothed the clawing edge of his protectiveness.

“Can’t tell from a surface look, but they’re the leaders in explosive technology, so I’m guessing yeah.” She locked the box. “You want me to call forensics?”

“Thanks.” Rising, he said good-bye to the bomb experts just as two uniformed officers arrived to hold the scene secure. “Detective Chen is on her way,” one of them said.

Grabbing Chen’s number from them, Max made a call to her, then one to Bart, telling him of the incident and asking him to have his people go over Bonner’s mail and visitor records.

“I’ll organize it,” Bart said. “Glad you’re safe.”

“Thanks.” Ending the call, Max made another one asking for a ride to the airport.

“Shouldn’t we stay for the investigation?” Sophia asked.

“No point.” Max wanted Sophia out of here, wanted her safe. “I know Chen, and she’s a hell of a detective. She’ll keep us in the loop if they discover something—and she’s okay with taking our statements over a comm link.”

“And if this
is
connected to Nikita rather than Bonner,” Sophia said, “then we need to be in San Francisco.”

“Yeah, because even Psy sure as hell wouldn’t attempt to blow up a cop five minutes from an Enforcement station unless they were planning something damn spectacular. Either we’ve gotten too close to something—”

“—or we were meant to be a distraction,” Sophia completed.

The question was—Who or what target was important enough to chance taking out a cop? The fact that he was human didn’t negate the danger—all politics aside, Enforcement command would take the murder of one of its officers as a personal attack.