What? We’ve already talked about this. Haven’t we?
Half nodding, Dante said, “The universe doesn’t like to make things too easy for us, apparently. Even with these extra senses of ours, we still have to work to get what we want and need.”
Wait a minute. I know we’ve talked about this. Because Jonah was curious and didn’t seem freaked out. Though right now . . .
Jonah nodded, more uncertain than anything else.
Maybe he’s more freaked out than he shows. Maybe he always was.
“Robbie is a telepath, able to read minds,” Luke said. “Not all minds, of course; even our strongest telepaths can only read sixty to seventy percent of those around them. Sort of like trying to tune in on a particular radio frequency; not all people are on a frequency a particular telepath can receive.”
What the hell . . .
Without any ability at all to stop it, Robbie heard herself saying, “Like all of us here, and most agents in the SCU, I have mental shields, so I can generally block out thoughts even on my frequency when I want to. And I usually want to, in case you were wondering. I believe it’s an invasion of privacy to read someone else’s thoughts without their knowledge or permission.” She sounded more than a little defiant.
Wait. I got over that. Got past it. Mostly. Didn’t I? Because it’s the work, just like Bishop said. It’s a tool I use in the work, to help put the bad guys away.
Luke said, “Robbie is our problem child; she’s still trying to decide if her abilities are a gift or a curse.”
No, I’m not!
Robbie felt weirdly detached from what was happening, and yet she knew she felt irritation when she said, that other Robbie said, “They aren’t a gift or a curse, they’re just abilities natural to me. And I just have to practice more to use them effectively. Miranda said so. And Bishop. Besides, Dante is the problem child. He really doesn’t want to talk to dead people.”
Not really arguing, Dante said, “Well, it’s unsettling.”
“I can imagine,” Jonah said, his expression saying he really, really couldn’t.
All right, this has to stop. Because it didn’t happen, not like this. I’m positive it didn’t happen like this. He’s trying to trick me, that’s what it is. Trying to . . . what is he trying to do? Pull me into a different time? A different . . . reality?
Is that even possible?
Does it have anything to do with losing time in the bubbles of energy?
If I concentrate really hard, I can stop this. Him. I can push back the darkness. I can. I know I can.
Robbie concentrated as hard as she could, putting everything she had into shoring up her shields. And even so, even with everything she had, there was an instant when the darkness around her swirled suddenly in iridescent flashes, shifted—
And she was standing on the sidewalk of downtown Serenity, in the shadows of a dark building. Now, or on a different, equally dark night. She wanted immediately to move, to get to the pool of light up ahead, the light from one of the old-fashioned streetlamps.
But she couldn’t move a muscle.
She could hear her heart beating again, hear her own gasping breaths—and then she realized that wasn’t her, she wasn’t hearing herself, she—
The woman staggered into the pool of light, both her hands at her throat. A strange gurgling sound came from behind her hands, and for a moment it seemed she would turn and stare at Robbie, something Robbie hoped desperately would not happen. Because she couldn’t look away, she could only stare at the woman as she sort of tilted, like her balance was affected by something.
And then she just dropped, the light hitting her in such a way that she was unrecognizable as anything but a heap of darkness in the vague shape of something human.
—
“WHAT?” ROBBIE BLINKED, looked around the room. The bright, becoming-familiar room of their makeshift command center.
She looked down to see a hand on her arm, and followed it up to focus on Dante’s concerned face.
“Hey,” he said. “Where did you go?”
She didn’t find the question strange—which was strange, or should have been.
“How long was I . . . away?” she asked.
Dante looked across the table, and she followed his gaze to see familiar faces and a puzzled Jonah-face that was becoming familiar.
Sam answered her question, saying simply, “About five minutes.”
“It seemed longer,” Robbie said, dimly astonished at her own calm voice. “It really seemed a lot longer than that.”
“You don’t have visions,” Dante said.
Robbie thought about it, nodded slowly. “Yeah. But that’s not what it was.”
“Then what was it?” Luke asked.
Robbie spared a moment to recognize that as hard as she’d tried for most of her life to not use the psychic abilities she’d been born with, it was immeasurably comforting to be among people who were utterly matter-of-fact about such abilities.
“I think . . . I think he’s psychic.”
“The unsub?” Sam asked.
“Yeah.”
“What?” If anything, Jonah looked horrified.
“He got into my head. Not all the way, just . . . far enough. He tried to trick me. Tried to convince me that things . . . didn’t happen the way I remember them happening. Us talking. About our abilities. And I knew that if I let him do that, let him convince me what he showed me was real, then he’d win.”
“What would he win?” Dante asked.
“Me.” Robbie nodded slowly. “Me. He was . . . it was a test. To see if he could control me. Like he controlled them.”
—
AMY GRIMES FELT as if she had been . . . sleepwalking. All her senses were deadened, dull, and her memories were awfully fuzzy. She remembered leaving town with Simon.
Starting to leave town.
And then . . . nothing.
Or at least nothing she could hold on to. Thoughts and scenes and sensations flitted through her mind, some bright, some dark, and she didn’t know which of them were real.
It took all her effort, everything she had, to force her eyes open, and when she did, the scared little girl who lived always in the back of her mind flinched, then whimpered.
It was dark.
Darker than dark. Darker than dark could ever be. The darkness had substance, weight. It smothered sound. It had power.
Power to hold her. Because she couldn’t move, no matter how hard she tried. She thought she was moving her eyes, darting them around, seeking even a sliver of light, but she wasn’t sure that was what she was doing because the darkness never changed.
There was no light.
There was no escape.
She didn’t even know if she was alone here. Wherever here was. She had no sense of anyone near, heard no sound—
Simon. Was he here? Was he close?
She wanted to call for him, to make some kind of sound, but she was still unable to move. Unable even to open her mouth. The whimper of that little girl in her mind was trapped in her head. And even that was growing fainter. Fainter.
Amy had the dim sense, suddenly, of someone else. Someone who, like that terrified little girl, was in her mind. Someone who had abruptly taken notice of her, as if he had been distracted for a time and only just realized she was aware.
Impossibly, the darkness got even darker, heavier, until Amy didn’t think she was even able to breathe. It was in her mind, and it covered over thoughts and questions and panic and fear. It covered over the whimpering little girl.