Lightning Game (GhostWalkers #17) -Christine Feehan Page 0,12

given up too much already because she’d broken into their cabin, and it was justified that they thought she might be sent by Whitney, or as a distraction so Whitney’s team could sneak up on the cabin and capture or kill them.

“Have you tried controlling the way your body draws energy to you? Have you ever been able to keep it from happening?”

She shook her head. “No. The electricity begins to build up when I’m around others whether I like it or not. My core temperature rises. It begins to go all over the place. Hot and cold throughout my body. Feet cold. Head hot. My hair becomes static all over my body, and everything around me becomes that way as well. I try to stay out in the open and away from anything that can catch fire or be harmed. Over the years, I’ve gotten to know my limitations. That was how I was able to go to the lectures. I would stay a good distance from everyone, and if my body began to draw too much energy, I’d leave. When I was a little kid, it wasn’t bad, but the teenage years were pretty horrendous.”

“Are you ever burned?” Diego asked.

That surprised her. There was a hint of compassion in his voice. Just a touch.

“When I try to direct it, or shield anyone or anything. My fingertips are singed or blistered, but I’m immune to the temperatures, and they’re blistering, of course. I don’t really feel it, and my skin heals immediately.”

“Under what circumstances did you try to shield someone?” Rubin asked.

She remained silent, her gaze meeting his, telling him to go to hell with her eyes. She wasn’t about to answer that question. If he wanted to take out the gun he had concealed in his left boot and shoot her, she was all right with that. They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity.

“Can you explain about when you tried to direct the blast?” Rubin asked. He didn’t seem in the least upset that she had chosen not to answer him.

“I told you, I can’t direct the blast. Whitney was determined to have a weapon. He was certain one could learn to direct a lightning bolt. I’m twenty-four years old. I was the youngest in the compound that I know of. So, he had that idea all those years ago. I don’t know if he was the one to really bring this idea to the military’s attention, but that’s a long time ago to begin work on what had to seem far-fetched to most people at that time. Who would ever think one could harness lightning and use it as a weapon? Or direct it away from populated areas?”

“What happened when you tried?” Rubin persisted.

She couldn’t meet his eyes. Whitney had set up targets at first and wanted her to hit them. She hadn’t been able to do what he wanted. Lightning wasn’t a precision weapon, at least not with her at the helm. He had gotten so angry with her that he scattered human beings throughout the field. Tall ones, wearing metal. Standing in water. Two of the girls were her friends, whom he was upset with because they hadn’t met his expectations. Each person was in jeopardy.

If Jonquille didn’t direct her strike exactly where it was supposed to go, and the lightning bolt behaved naturally, someone would die. She knew from experience that Whitney wouldn’t be satisfied with one death. He would be furious and demand she try again and, sometimes, again and again. He wouldn’t yell. He would look at her as if she were a great disappointment, and he would stand there until she did what he said. If she refused, he would direct one of his soldiers to shoot one of those in the field. Inevitably, the soldiers chose a girl.

She attracted lightning. It came to her. The lead stroke always found her. She couldn’t send it somewhere else. She didn’t work that way. She was the magnet on the ground. It didn’t matter how high a target was, how tempting. The lead from the cloud would seek her out wherever she was. She couldn’t make it go somewhere else.

Jonquille didn’t realize there were tears in her eyes until her vision blurred. She looked away from Rubin, blinking rapidly, slamming the door closed on those memories. She wouldn’t look back. There was no sense in it. She wasn’t going back there. No matter how many teams of soldiers Whitney