Caught in the sticky strands of the cobweb that seemed to be growing ever stronger, Katya stilled, listened, heard a name. Hers? Yes, she thought, fighting the fog, fighting to wake up. It was hers. The first breath was a coughing rush, the second full of the exotic scent of a man with not-brown eyes and skin of such a beautiful shade that she wanted to taste it. “Katya,” she said, her throat strangely raw. “That’s me.”
Dev’s hands tightened on her face, his cheekbones cutting against that golden brown skin. “We need to get you back to the clinic.”
“No.” It came out without thought, an instinctive response. If he took her back, she’d be trapped again—and she needed to get moving, get there. Where? Shaking her head to clear the fog, she reached out to touch his shoulder. Muscle flexed under her palm, and her thoughts threatened to scatter.
Then she saw the determination in his eyes and knew she had to speak. “I think it was a response to a trigger of some kind. The words I said . . . there was something in them that my brain couldn’t process, so it shut down for a few seconds to allow me to reboot.”
Dev’s expression changed, becoming almost ascetic in the stark purity of its focus. “It’s coming back to you, isn’t it?”
“Things come out of my mouth,” she told him, her gaze locked to his, “and then I know them.” It made sense to her, but she could see he wasn’t convinced. “I’m not misleading you on purpose.” It was so important that he believe her, that he know her, though he was all but a stranger.
But Devraj Santos wasn’t a man who’d ever give her an easy answer.
Now, his lashes came down to hood his eyes for a second before he said, “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” Getting up, he motioned her out of the car. “We might as well take a break so you can eat a bite.”
She stared at the mall, at the mass of people, and felt herself shrinking back. “I’d rather stay here.”
Dev’s gaze rested on her for a long moment. She knew he hadn’t missed her retreat when he said, “I’ll bring you something.” Closing her door, he walked around to the driver’s side and pressed something on the dash. “Wouldn’t want you taking off with my car.” A piercing glance.
It was difficult to keep her face expressionless, her frustration contained. “If I wanted to, I could simply walk away.”
“You’re too weak to go far.” A highly pragmatic answer. “And, I’m not taking that chance.” The doors locked around her as he stepped back, activating the car’s antitheft systems with what she guessed was some kind of a remote.
Katya waited only until his back was turned before trying to restart the car. She had to get there, had to see, had to bear witness.
It was a drumbeat in her head, that strange compulsion, but she didn’t know where she had to go, didn’t know who or what she had to find. All she knew was that if she managed to get free, she had to keep going, keep running until she ended up there.
But first, she had to escape.
Looking up, she saw Dev’s tall form disappear into the mall—just as she located the panel that concealed the car’s computronic safeguards.
PETROKOV FAMILY ARCHIVES
Letter dated February 24, 1971
My sweet Matthew,
Debate is raging across the Net. I can’t set foot in the slipstream without getting caught up in it. There’s a sense of disbelief at this proposal, this Silence the Council is calling “our best, perhaps our only, hope.”
Maybe my fears were for naught. It appears that no matter the demons that savage us, in the end, we’re far too human to do such irreparable harm to our young. For that mercy, I thank God with everything in me.
Love, Mom
CHAPTER 9
Katya broke several nails but the panel wouldn’t shift. It took her ten precious seconds to realize it had been locked in place by a second layer of security. Frustrated, she moved on, trying things she hadn’t even known she knew until her brain put her fingers into motion.
All for naught.
The car’s systems were as impregnable as a tank’s. Giving up when it became obvious she was wasting her energy, she slid back into her seat and pressed two fingers to her forehead in an attempt to follow the thread of the compulsion, find out if her need to go there . . . go north—yes, north!—was nothing but another booby trap.
At first, there was only the sticky blankness of the cobweb, a prison that trapped her hands, muted her mouth. But then, she found herself standing in a quiet, hidden part of her psyche, a part protected by the phoenix’s wings. That part whispered that this need, this urge, came from within herself. Yet how could she trust that it did when her mind was a cracked and fractured thing, full of holes and lies, illusions and nightmares? What if the phoenix she’d glimpsed was only a madness-induced fantasy, something she’d clung to when all else was taken from her?