"Your memories," her father said, cutting through the visceral reaction. "How damaged are they? There are medical telepaths who may be-"

"No," she interrupted. "I don't want anyone inside my head." At her father's immediate nod of understanding, she added, "And I have almost everything." It was a lie, but how could she tell him that the biggest, most important piece was missing?

A piece named Kaleb.

It was hours later that they gave in to tiredness at last. Entering her bedroom, Sahara found a box of clothing Kaleb had clearly 'ported in, along with a cell phone encoded with his direct lines.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Changing into a loose T-shirt that happened to be at the top of the box, she slipped into her old single bed. Her rest was dreamless, and she woke the next morning ready to face the clan. Soon as she and her father had both breakfasted, they headed to Anthony's office. The central NightStar compound, the homes built to blend into their surroundings, had always had larger areas of open and green s.p.a.ce than was usual in Psy complexes, but those areas had been further expanded during her time in captivity, a number of leafy trees providing dappled shade.

Eyes widened when they landed on her, the shock too great to suppress, but no one attempted to stop their progress. When they reached the office, Anthony's a.s.sistant, an older woman Sahara recognized from before her abduction, waved them in without questions. The head of the PsyClan, black hair silvered at the temples, came around his desk as they entered, his gaze direct, unwavering.

"Leon." A nod to acknowledge his younger half brother before he returned his attention to her. "Sahara. You look well."

Yes, she did. Thanks to the care of the most deadly cardinal on the planet, her face wasn't gaunt, her body slender but healthy. She knew, however, that her physical health wasn't at the top of Anthony's list of priorities. "I don't know," she said, "if my rescuer embedded any treacherous tendencies in me, but I believe not." Kaleb didn't need to control her in that fashion. And-"My ability means I would've been aware of any such attempts at mental coercion."

"Does your rescuer have a name?"

She told him, having informed her father ahead of time.

"I see." Walking back around the desk, Anthony retook his seat, waving for them to do the same. "According to the PsyNet, you don't exist."

"Good." Her father's response was fierce. "It means she's safe from any further attempts to abduct and cage her, even if it is Krychek doing the protecting."

"Agreed." Anthony leaned back in the black leather of his chair. "Do you know the ident.i.ty of the individual or individuals behind your captivity?"

Sahara hadn't discussed this with Kaleb but saw no reason why he'd want the truth kept secret-and it was the truth, of that she had no doubt. Kaleb did not lie to her. "Tatiana Rika-Smythe."

No surprise in Anthony's expression, nothing but the penetrating intellect of a man at the head of one of the most influential families in the Net. "Did Kaleb mention why he rescued you?"

Sahara hesitated . . . and then she lied. "It was a challenge, and NightStar now owes him a significant favor." What was between her and Kaleb was between her and Kaleb. She'd allow no one else to interfere with the raw, pa.s.sionate relationship formed of hidden memories and the charm bracelet she wore concealed under her simple white shirt, a talisman of strength from a man who might be her greatest, deepest weakness. "The psychic cost of the exercise, he decided, would be worth the gain."

From the way Anthony's eyes, a rich brown, lingered on her, he knew she was hiding something, but Sahara didn't flinch. Secret, the girl she'd been whispered. Secret.

"The secondary benefit of your lack of visibility in the Net," Anthony said into the heavy quiet, "is that your splintered Silence remains hidden from the pro-Silence lobby."

Fingers trembling, she gripped the arms of her chair. "Are you planning to order me to undergo a program of reconditioning?" No one was ever again going to attempt to mold her mind to their liking, and if that was what Anthony planned, she had to know.

"No." Her father's gaze locked with his half brother's, his loyalties clear. "No one touches Sahara's mind."

Anthony's response was a calm "Yes. It's too late for that," but his eyes continued to watch her. "Kaleb may not have attemped to hack your mind; however, Tatiana had you for an extended period. How certain are you that you haven't been compromised?"

"Absolutely," Sahara said without hesitation, conscious Anthony would continue to keep an eye on her regardless. That was part of his mandate as the head of the PsyClan and she didn't resent him for it. She also knew he'd find nothing of concern-even before the labyrinth became a barrier of chaos Tatiana couldn't navigate, Sahara's unique natural safeguards had acted as an impenetrable firewall against any attempts at mental manipulation.

"It's why," Sahara said, her stomach twisting, "Tatiana resorted to such unsubtle methods as ripping my shields apart to leave my thoughts exposed and inflicting physical torture." By then, Sahara had already created the labyrinth; it had not only helped her protect her secrets and sense of self when her mind was torn open, it had given her a place to go where nothing hurt, negating the danger that she'd break under the psychic and physical torture, cooperate, simply to avoid the pain.

"You're right," Anthony said, somewhat to her surprise. "Tatiana never uses open force if she can utilize a telepathic worm or other similar methods." Pausing a beat, he added, "You're safe inside the family when it comes to your broken Silence. As for the outside world, I'd suggest caution. Learn to pretend and pretend well." The words were coolly practical, the message unexpected in spite of what she'd learned about the events that had shaped the clan in the years since she'd last sat in this office.

"One more thing, Sahara," Anthony said as she was walking out the door a half hour later, "Kaleb might have rescued you, but don't make the mistake of trusting him. He's never done a selfless act in his life-and he's more than manipulative enough to set you free as part of his strategy to win your loyalty."

Unspoken were the words that the person who had Sahara's loyalty would also have access to her ability: an ability so quiet and so terrifying that no one and nothing could stand in its path, and yet one that left not a single trace. No bodies, no anger, no embers of rebellion. The perfect weapon for a man who wanted to seize control of the Net.

ANTHONY spent several minutes considering his next move after the door closed behind Sahara and Leon. Though he'd joined in the search for his niece on multiple occasions as his duties permitted, the last as recently as two months ago, he'd known the chances of locating her were low. She was far too valuable a prize for her captors to be in any way careless.

Now not only had she been located, but returned. Despite the warning Anthony had given Sahara, it was near certain Kaleb hadn't understood the power he held in his grasp, or he'd never have given her up. Unlike Nikita, however, Anthony had learned not to ascribe motives to the cardinal Tk that couldn't be backed up by cold, hard fact. Kaleb played political games with the skill and ease of a man who'd begun grooming himself for the position long before adulthood.

In the end, the only viable choice was to open a line of dialogue and see if he could divine the true reason behind the other man's actions. One thing was categorical-it wasn't because tracing her was a challenge that Kaleb had begun hunting Sahara in the first place. A man with Kaleb's l.u.s.t for power did not waste his energies.

Inputting the other man's code into the comm, he waited.

Kaleb's face appeared on-screen almost immediately, the gla.s.s of the wall behind him presenting a view of Moscow Anthony had seen on multiple occasions. The distinctive onion-shaped domes of the cathedral in the distance glowed in the lights set up to highlight the structure, the Moscow night smudged with what appeared to be light rain. "Anthony, I've been expecting your call."

"I seem to owe you thanks for returning a member of my clan." Anthony preferred not to be beholden to anyone, and when it came to Kaleb Krychek, the obligation was one he wanted cleared as fast as possible. "NightStar wishes to discharge the debt."

"I a.s.sume you know from whom I retrieved Sahara?" the cardinal Tk said instead of making a demand.

Anthony nodded. "The clan will take care of that matter." Tatiana was very good at going under when she didn't wish to be found, but NightStar could destroy what mattered most to her-money, power, status-without ever laying a finger on her. "Death isn't always the most fitting punishment." It was too quick, over too soon-and Tatiana had stolen more than seven years of not just one life, but two: Leon had never been the same after his daughter's disappearance. And Sahara was a Kyriakus child, a NightStar. Nothing and no one was permitted to harm Anthony's family and walk away unscathed.

"On that point, I have no argument," Kaleb said, his expression a gray wall of Silence. "However, you should know Tatiana is no longer a threat to Sahara. I had certain . . . issues of my own to discuss with her."

"I see." Even if Tatiana was dead or otherwise out of the picture, it did nothing to alter Anthony's resolve to obliterate her empire, crushing and publicly humiliating her in the process. NightStar had always been a quiet power; it was time the Net learned exactly how far they'd go to protect and avenge their own. "Was your discussion productive?"

Kaleb angled his head in an unusual moment of distraction. "I apologize," he said when his gaze returned to Anthony. "I've just had a report from the Arrows that may interest you."

"Perth or Copenhagen?"

"Perth. The conspirator behind the fatal information leak, previously identified as Allan Dawes, has been traced to Argentina. Retrieval is expected within the next forty-eight hours."

"And then?"

"He'll become an example to others who believe a.s.sisting Pure Psy is in any way a good career move."

Anthony didn't flinch from the cold-blooded response. He'd seen the carnage in Perth, had watched a recording of his daughter convulse from the vicious force of her visions minutes before the first fires. Faith's foresight had been specific enough that they'd gotten word out to the city, successfully saving countless lives, but they hadn't been fast enough to save everyone, and he knew the resulting losses had left Faith distraught.

"We must," he said, "be careful not to create martyrs of the insurgents."

"You think that might be Vasquez's plan-to solidify the sense of alienation and fear that drives his membership under the Pure Psy rhetoric?" Kaleb leaned back in his office chair, his attention never shifting off the screen. "I a.s.sume you know about him."

Anthony gave a nod, the name of the otherwise anonymous man at the helm of the pro-Silence organization having come to him through his sprawling network of contacts. "He is extremely intelligent, and this way, we do the work for him."

Kaleb considered the point. "You're right-it may not be worth a public execution. I'll handle it quietly. His disappearance will make the point as well."

Anthony thought of everything else Kaleb had been "handling" lately and knew the cardinal was far, far more dangerous than Vasquez would ever be, but right now, he had to work with Kaleb. Because the other male hadn't yet turned murderous on the scale of Pure Psy . . . though Anthony's suspicions on that point were starting to increase.

Had he, for example, just been led by the nose when it came to Allan Dawes? It was possible Kaleb had never intended to execute the man, but now he'd made Anthony complicit in the decision. "If you require a.s.sistance in the matter of Dawes," he said, his reservations about Kaleb's possible involvement with Pure Psy not yet critical, "NightStar is prepared to step in."

Kaleb inclined his head in silent acceptance. "You understand that does not wipe the debt in the matter of Sahara Kyriakus."

"Of course."

"I would rather have you as an ally than not," Kaleb said, "so there is no reason to be concerned I'll ask for the impossible. At this stage, all I want is your public backing."

"You want NightStar to support your bid to take over the Net?"

"Consider the alternatives, Anthony." Kaleb continued to speak in the same tone he always used, ice-cold and composed. "Either Pure Psy rips the Net apart or our fellow former Councilors attempt to set up fiefdoms while fighting to eliminate one another and us. The ensuing wars will devastate our race."

Anthony knew that to be true. What Kaleb wasn't saying was that no one knew what the cardinal would do with the Net once he had it in his grasp. "I can't back you on current facts," he responded. "I will, however, make no open move against you before first giving you a warning." It was a major concession.

The Tk on the other side of the comm gave a slight nod before signing off. It was far easier a capitulation than Anthony had expected and it made him even more chary of Kaleb's motives. The problem was, Kaleb Krychek was the most opaque individual in the Net. Anthony's foreseers, when instructed to hone in on the cardinal telekinetic, saw only a destructive, roiling darkness.

"Nothing," one F-Psy had gasped, shivering so hard her teeth clattered. "When I look into the future with Krychek as a focus, all I see is the death . . . of everything."

PSYNET BEACON: CURRENT EDITION.

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR.

Starred Letter I refer to the covert viral discussion profiled in the Beacon's previous edition, to do with the future viability of the Silence Protocol.

I believe the fact that such discussions were able to-and continue to-take place, without the minds of the individuals involved being shut down by the application of embedded pain controls, speaks to critical problems in the structural integrity of the Protocol. Even two years ago, such a topic would've been stifled before it ever grew to the point where it was circling the globe in clandestine chat rooms and in-person discussions.

While Pure Psy's tenets are fanatical in the extreme, hidden in their rhetoric may be a critical point: that this freedom is not necessarily a fact to celebrate. Our race chose Silence because our minds skew toward insanity and violence without such strictures. This is not my opinion, but a fact written into our history in blood.

A hundred years ago, we were on the verge of total annihilation, our young murdered in their thousands by other Psy, while hundreds of thousands more sank into the splintered worlds created by broken minds. We were more violent than the changelings whose physicality we now deem makes them a lesser race, and more vicious than the humans we've come to consider our inferiors.

Yet once again, it is our "superior" race that is on the verge of a cataclysm.

I, for one, do not wish to live in the world of the past, but it cannot be denied that Silence has lost its way in the last ten years. Some whisper it was never as effective as successive Councils would've had us believe, that the defective members of the population were simply eliminated before they became a problem. Others, as we've seen, are willing to commit murder to Silence us all.

Who is right? Who is wrong? I have no answers-all I know is that we stand at a crossroads. The decisions we make will either save us, or end us.

Professor Eric Tuivala Anthropologist (New Zealand)

Chapter 22.

SAHARA SAT UP in the narrow single bed that was her own, unable to fall asleep as she had the previous night. Pushing off the sheets, she padded to the window to stare out at the landscaped gardens below, the blades of gra.s.s kissed silver by the moonlight. She felt disconnected, out of sync with the world . . . as if this were a dream created in the depths of the labyrinth, her body trapped in the h.e.l.lhole where she'd spent so many years.

It was a certainty that she was being foolish in her refusal to talk to a Psy-Med specialist, but even now, with her senses confused and her mind struggling to hold on to the world, her fear of mental violation was worse than her fear of madness. Pressing her fingers to the gla.s.s, she tried to use the smooth coldness as an anchor, but the gla.s.s melted beneath her fingertips, the world twisting sideways in a smear of silver and black, as her consciousness attempted and failed to hold on to what was.

Clawing her way to some semblance of reason, she found a sliver of hope in the memory of a man who had promised her he would always come to her call. Kaleb. I need you. She knew without a doubt that reality wouldn't waver with him here. He was too powerful a force, speaking to parts of her she didn't know existed until he was in the room.

He stood beside her a heartbeat later, dressed in black suit pants and a crisp white shirt, no tie, the collar open to expose the strong column of his throat. The cuff links at his wrists caught the moonlight as he slid his hands into his pockets, and the world righted itself, only for her breath to catch, her body recognizing his.

"Why are you awake?" he asked.

Though he wasn't touching her, the heat of him branded her through the T-shirt she wore on top of a pair of gray sweatpants. "I need to be doing something," she said, struggling to explain the frustration that had her unable to sleep.

"I know I'm not functional enough to go out into the world, but I feel as if my skin will burst if I just stay here." Shaking with the clawing ferocity of the anger and helplessness inside her, she closed the inches between them and began to unb.u.t.ton his shirt, her skin a fever. If she drowned herself in sensation, in Kaleb, it would hold the other emotions at bay. Nothing else existed when- "Sahara." Kaleb's hands closed over her wrists. "Put on clothes suitable for temperatures in the higher elevations," he said, eyes pitch-black. "I'll be back in five minutes."

Sahara didn't stop to reason, to consider the fact that she was about to go off into the darkness with a man who was the darkness. She simply stripped, pulled on jeans, a thin long-sleeved mohair top, and a heavy zip-up hooded sweatshirt. Slipping her feet into socks, she'd just finished tying her sneakers when Kaleb reappeared.

He'd changed into black cargo pants and a black T-shirt, his feet in scuffed boots that appeared worn in. Looking her up and down, he nodded-and then they weren't in her room any longer, but at the foot of an imposing rock face under a huge silver moon that cast a spotlight over the firs that sprawled a dark green sea in every direction, majestic against a backdrop of snowcapped mountains familiar to anyone in this region. "We're in the Sierra Nevada." Changeling-wolf territory.

"Yes. We'll remain in a satellite shadow as long as we don't move past the tree line."

"The live patrols?" The SnowDancer pack was rumored to kill intruders first and ask questions of the corpses.

"I'm scanning for any minds in the vicinity, but the wolves rarely patrol this section-there's nowhere to go from this point where sentries won't spot an intruder." Pulling out something from one of the pockets of his cargos, he held it out.

Half-gloves. Leather. To protect her palms from the rock. Exhilaration bursting through her bloodstream, she slipped them on, then moved to the rock face, took a grip on the first handhold, and began to climb. Finally, finally she felt alive again!

The wind was quiet and gentle against her face, the rock hard under her fingertips, the chill night air so clean and pure it almost hurt. Drawing it in, she found another hold, then another, and when her foot slipped, said, "No!" to halt Kaleb's help, and got herself out of the situation on her own.

Heart thudding and sweat pouring down her temples, it took her over an hour to climb a puny increment of the jagged rock face, but she laughed in unadulterated delight as she pulled herself to a seat on a slight outcrop. "My arms are crying!"

Kaleb looked up from the foot of the rock. Takes practice.

As she watched, he began to climb, his body moving with such fluidity she couldn't separate move from move. She knew without asking that he wasn't using his telekinesis-Tks were generally physically adept, a known side effect of their ability. But Kaleb was better than adept. He climbed with a wild grace that hypnotized.

Stunned at the lethal beauty of him, she watched in silence until he was almost lost to her sight. Come back. She was frightened, though she knew he was a Tk, would never die in a fall. But the fear, it was so profound, it clenched bony fingers around her heart and squeezed. As if she had witnessed him fall once, knew he could be hurt. Kaleb, I can't see you.

He reappeared into view seconds later, backtracking with that same hypnotic grace. Halting beside her, he hugged the rock with a one-handed grip, his feet on a whisper-thin ledge, the muscles of his arm hard and defined. With his free hand, he drank from a bottle of water he'd had in another pocket, before pa.s.sing it to her.

She took a drink . . . and the cobwebs fell away from her memories of the first night she'd spent with him. He'd given her water then, too. "Was I really that bad?" she asked. "You said I smelled like a pigsty." The thought embarra.s.sed her now as it hadn't then.

"I was attempting to incite a response." Taking back the bottle with that matter-of-fact response, he held out a hand. "Can you climb back down?"

Sahara considered the jellylike state of her limbs and forced herself to be realistic. "I don't think so." A second later, she found herself on the ground.

Lying on her back on the soft gra.s.s, she watched him climb down to land on his feet beside her, strong and muscled and dangerous. When he turned and met her gaze, her thighs clenched, a sheen of perspiration breaking out over her skin that had nothing to do with the climb and everything to do with a hunger that was no longer the desperation she'd felt in her bedroom, but a hotter, deeper ache.

It had been so long.

Breath turning shallow, she parted her lips. "Kaleb."

KALEB had intended to keep his distance from Sahara until he was dead sure his shields were adamantine. Except now she looked at him with desire a red flush on her cheekbones, her chest rising and falling in a rapid rhythm, and it was a siren call to his own body. She had no comprehension of the power she wielded, didn't understand that when he told her he'd line the streets with bodies for her, he meant every word.

As far as Sahara Kyriakus was concerned, he was a weapon she could point in any direction she chose. There was nothing he wouldn't do for her . . . except let her go.