"I didn't want to - they rub me the wrong way." Her skin began to creep with dread every time she came near an M-Psy. "The other doctors were certain the Psy probably wouldn't be able to help anyway."
"We'll see."
She didn't bother to argue - she could almost feel her brain dying, step by excruciating step. It wasn't something anyone could stop. "Our first focus has to be on finding Jon," she said. On that one point, she would not compromise. "I can wait."
The skin along his jawline strained white over bone. "How long before you go critical?"
"It's hard to predict." Not technically a lie. The doctors' estimates had ranged from six to eight months. None of the three had differed in their actual diagnosis: Unknown neural malignancy with potential to cause extensive cell death. Risk of eventual fatal infarction - one hundred percent. "Even if I knew the date of my death to the day, Jon comes first." Not even Clay could sway her from that goal.
He pushed off the wall, temper evident in every rigid line of his body. "Go set yourself up on the third floor."
She stayed in place. "Do I look like a dog? 'Go set yourself up on the third floor,'" she mimicked, dangerously aware she was provoking the leopard.
"You look like an exhausted, idiotic woman," he snapped. "Would you rather I yell at you for the next hour like I want to?"
"Why would you yell?"
"You should've come to me years ago." He turned from her, hands fisted, and she knew they were no longer talking about the disease eating at her from the inside out. "I might have been able to forgive the girl for running."
But he couldn't forgive the woman. "And the men?" she asked, knowing she was ringing a death knell over any hope of a renewed friendship between them. "Can you forgive me that?"
He was silent. The most crystal clear of answers. But in place of sadness, all she felt was a blinding fury. It was the last thing she would have expected - what right did she have to be angry with him? But she was. So damn angry that she left the room, afraid of what she might say.
Chapter 9
His name was Jonquil Duchslaya but most of his friends called him Jon. Talin sometimes called him Johnny D. But the last time he'd messed up and gotten busted, she'd pulled him out and then she'd called him Jonquil Alexi Duchslaya.
"One more time and we're through." Her eyes had been black ice as they stood outside the justice office. "I won't pay your shoplifting fine and I sure as hell won't turn up as a character witness and convince the judge to give you probation instead of jail time."
He'd flashed her a smile, certain she was just blowing off some steam. "Aw, come on - "
"Shut it." She'd never before used that tone on him. Shocked, he'd obeyed. "Three chances, Jonquil, that's all I give. That's all I have to give. I don't have time to waste on lazy thieves - "
"Hey!"
" - who can't be bothered to respect my rules," she had finished, sounding nothing like the gentle, encouraging Talin he had come to know. "Once more and we're done. You can start collecting jailhouse tattoos."
He'd flinched at the pitiless reminder of what had become of the rest of his family. Every single member, male and female, had ended up behind bars. Now they were all dead. "You're supposed to be nice to us. That's your job." She worked for some big-deal nicey-nice foundation.
"No. My job is to be your friend." Her eyes had blazed with an emotion he'd never before felt directed at him. "I'm not your nanny or nursemaid. I made sure you had a safe place to stay and study. I made sure you were out of reach of your old gang. I've done my job. It's up to you now."
"I don't have to take this shit," he'd said. "I can take care of myself." He had been on the streets for years before she walked into his life.
"I love you, Johnny D. I want you to make it."
Embarrassed at how her words had made him feel, he'd smirked. "So that's it. You want a piece of young meat. What the hell - you're not bad for an old piece of ass."
"I love you," she'd repeated in that strong, gentle voice of hers. "You're one of mine. I will fight for you. But you have to fight, too."
It had almost broken him. "I don't need or want your love! So you can shove it."
That was the last time he'd seen Talin. They had taken him a week after he had run away from the home Talin had found for him. He didn't even know why he'd done it. That foster family had been nice to him. No one had tried to steal his stuff, no one had tried to touch him, and no one had used him as a punching bag. But full of stupid pride, he'd run.
Now he lay in this lightless cage, able to hear the screams of other children. They hadn't come for him yet, but they would. And it didn't matter what he'd told himself over the endless hours of captivity, he knew he'd scream.
He was fourteen years old and he'd told the only person who had ever loved him that he didn't want or need her. A tear streaked down the angular barely man planes of his face. "Please, Talin," he whispered. "Please find me."
Chapter 10