For a second, his attention split between the psychic and physical aspects of his nature as Katya stirred. Putting his hand on the back of her head, he gentled her into sleep once more before returning to his grandmother.
"I'd have to see her." Her mental tone was serene, yet no less sharp for it. "But you know the problem - we're not the same as the Psy in the Net. I may not even be able to sense the bonds that lock her in, much less the deeper programming."
"I don't want you trying yet in any case." A midrange Psy telepath could do a lot of damage to one of the Forgotten who'd lowered her shields.
"You call me when you need me." Another psychic brush. "Do you want to talk to your nana?"
"No, let him sleep."
"You know he never sleeps while I'm awake. Stubborn man."
He sent her a good-bye kiss before dropping from the ShadowNet. Coming back into his own mind was an easy glide, a familiar truth. He understood exactly how the woman in his arms felt at being cut off from the psychic plane. It must be akin to having a limb amputated, a claustrophobic terror.
If, of course, she was telling the truth.
This woman, this Katya, she plays on your weaknesses.
How could he not have seen it? It was as if someone had gone into his very psyche and created a woman he simply could not harm, no matter what he'd told himself to the contrary. Even now, with the truth of his grandmother's words ringing in his head, he couldn't repudiate Katya . . . couldn't send her back to the dark.
Her hand spread over his chest.
He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. He was a healthy male in his prime - he liked women, and most of the time, women liked him back. But never had he felt so close to the edge, so close to going out of control. Too many emotions clashed inside him - including a dawning possessiveness that might yet spell his death.
"Dev." It was a complaint. "Stop broadcasting."
He froze. "Have you been listening to my thoughts?" That should've been impossible. He'd never been able to send to anyone but his mother. When she'd died, that part of him had simply gone silent.
A shake of her head, fingers rubbing at sleepy eyes. "It's a drumbeat against my skull - bam, bam, bam."
Intrigued, he ran his fingers through her hair. "How do you know it's me?"
"It feels like you." A yawn and her lashes lifted. "And you're giving me a headache."
He should've been penitent. Instead, he moved to brace himself on his arms, her body slender but intrinsically feminine beneath his. It was her eyes that did it, huge pools that asked something from him he'd never be able to give - to her, to anyone. He'd left that part of himself behind in a sun-drenched room the day he watched his father close those always careful hands around his mother's throat.
Shadows moved in the clear hazel, awareness sparking out of sleep. "Dev."
"Shh. No words." He ensured that by claiming her mouth, by stealing her breath. There was no gentleness in him this time. He crushed her to the bed, used his teeth on her neck, fisted his hand in her hair.
Just one kiss, he thought, just one.
Then she wrapped her arms around him. And he gave himself leave to take this much of her. Their lips came together in a darkly sensual connection, every gasp filled with the inevitable truth - this moment, this kiss, was a stolen one. All too soon, reality would claim them both. And when it did, Dev would either have to destroy her fledgling smile, savage her heart. . . or betray every vow he'd ever taken.
PETROKOV FAMILY ARCHIVES
Letter dated March 4, 1972
Dear Matthew,
Something extraordinary happened today. I'm still not sure I believe it. Catherine and Arif Adelaja appeared in public for the first time in a decade - with their twins, Tendaji and Naeem. The boys are teenagers, strong and quite beautiful. And they are Silent.
Arif made a speech, said that he and his wife had - wait, I have an idea. I'll paste a copy of the relevant part of his speech into this letter. When you're older, it will give you a glimpse of the strange world in which you grew up, in which your sister will be born.
Like many of you, Catherine and I have lost too many family members to the ravages of their gifts. Some have simply crumpled under the pressure, while others have broken in a more violent way, taking countless men, women, and children with them.
We lost our infant daughter to a psychotic outbreak that destroyed a close family friend, turning her into a malevolent creature no one could recognize. Tilly was a sweet, gentle woman who loved children, and yet that day, she used her telepathy to shatter our Margaret's mind as our precious baby screamed and screamed.
In truth, we lost two people that day. Margaret to Tilly's madness, and Tilly to her own horror and guilt.