VISIONS OF HEAT

Blood, so much blood on his hands, in his hair, on his skin. The pale fragility of his hand was almost invisible under the rich, dark coating—wait. He was older than this, decades more experienced than the slender boy drenched in blood. But it was the same darkness, the same evil. She understood what she was seeing, though this had rarely ever happened to her.

An unexpected expression of the ability of foresight was backsight, the ability to see the past. F-Psy who primarily saw the past were very, very rare. Faith could think of none in the last fifty years. When they did appear, they tended to head into Enforcement. But most active F-Psy usually had one or two flashes of backsight during the year. In her case, she’d always caught innocuous images connected with the future she was trying to glimpse.

Never had she been so covered in blood that she was sticky with it, the iron-rich metallic scent drawn in with every breath. Her eyelashes were crusted with the dried fluid and the blood under her fingernails was so dark it was almost black. The imprint of her footsteps had started to set as the blood on the floor congealed. The knife she’d used was in one hand. When she raised it, the light from a torch glinted off it.

A torch?

Turning, she found herself surrounded by a dozen black-suited men. The vision flash-fractured and the next time she opened her eyes, she was in the confines of a white-on-white room. Bloodlust roared in her veins and she realized she was older, years older. And hungry. So hungry. For human prey.

Another violent jerk along the timeline. She was with the dark-suited men once again. They set her free at the start of a maze and she started hunting. The fear she sensed in her prey drew her like a drug. She ran on strong feet, knowing they’d have chosen a suitable sacrifice. They always did.

Her hand clenched on the knife. She spied the vulnerable nape of the girl who’d stumbled onto the hard ground. A smile cracked the anticipation on her face. This would be so much fun.

No!

Faith ripped herself from the vision so violently that she fell to the floor. Curling up into a fetal position, she tried to stifle her whimpers, tried to wipe the taint of blood from her brain. For those long moments she’d become the killer, become the very evil that had taken her sister’s life. That was what had brought her back to herself—the knowledge that if she let it continue, she might just feel her own hands slide around her sister’s throat.

The bedside comm console chimed. They’d heard her fall of course. The outside sensors were very sensitive and she’d made a great deal of noise. Forcing herself to get up, she answered without visual. “I tripped on something.”

“Are you injured?”

“No. I’m fine. Please don’t disturb me till morning.” She cut off the communication with that bare statement, aware her vocal mask was about to crack. Her voice wanted to tremble, wanted to cry.

Step two in the inevitable road to F-Psy insanity.

She had to get out of this claustrophobic compound. But she couldn’t leave. Not now. Everybody was too aware of her wakefulness—they might even try to contact her again despite her orders. The urge to flee was so strong, it felt as if her skin had been drawn taut over flesh on the verge of explosion.

She couldn’t satisfy the urge, couldn’t run free, couldn’t walk out to safety and toward the night-glow eyes of a predator so lethal that she shouldn’t have thought of him in the same breath as the word safety. He was out of her reach anyway—she was a prisoner in this place everyone called her home. Would it one day become her tomb?

Shivering at the morbid thought, she crawled back into bed and lay there, staring up at the ceiling, memories of blood and horror her only companions. And though she refused to admit she felt anything, loneliness had a claw grip around her heart.

It hurt.





Faith woke the second someone whispered a breath against her neck. Her heart kicked into high gear. She knew that masculine scent, but its presence here was impossible. Thinking it an illusion of her stressed mind, she opened her eyes and found herself looking into the face of a human jaguar. He was lying alongside her, head propped up one hand.

“What are you doing in my bed?” she asked, too surprised to suppress the question.

“I just wanted to know if I could do it.” He’d left his hair undone and it flowed over his shoulders in an amber-gold wave that shone, though the only light came from a small night-lamp.

That tiny lamp usually helped her delineate the line between waking and dreaming, but right now she wasn’t certain where she stood. Raising a hand, she touched his hair. Warm strands slid through her fingers. The unexpected shock of sensation had her snatching back her hand. “You’re real.”

The smallest curving of his lips. “Are you sure?” He brushed a kiss over her mouth.

It was the most fleeting of touches but she felt burned. “You’re definitely real.” An accusation.

He chuckled, completely unrepentant.

“Don’t make any loud sounds,” she cautioned. “This room and my bathroom are private but everything else is monitored. Did you—?”