"Not much there," Monique said. "Steel yourself. I can already tell that this next one is going to hurt!"
Suddenly, she touched his anger, and hot wrath flooded into him as he was suddenly forced to relive every insult that had been spoken to him, see every scornful gaze, hear every cruel word.
As adrenaline gushed through his veins, his muscles knotted like cordwood and a scream of outrage tore from his throat—and that is where Monique struck pay dirt, for Bron's hate was strong and unrestrained, and often as a child he'd spent long hours fantasizing about how to get revenge on older children, imagining mutilations.
He remembered his fantasies about Mr. Golper—wanting to tie him in a bag and then stab it over and over, then throw his dying corpse into a river.
He thought of Mr. Lewis, and from deep inside he flashed upon an image of the man curled in a fetal position, dirty and naked beside a refrigerator.
When did that happen? he wondered.
In the memory he knew that Mr. Lewis was dying. His wife was calling the police, and Bron was wishing that she wouldn't, that she would just let him die.
Then there were the kids at school who had all offended him, and teachers and shopkeepers.
Over and over through the years, he'd told himself that he didn't care about the insults and cruelty, that he could ignore it all, but Monique seemed to throw open the shutters inside him, letting powerful beams of sunlight lay all of his secrets bare.
He'd quit fantasizing about revenge a couple years ago, and it seemed unfair that he should see these fantasies now, paraded before him in all their monstrous cruelty.
Bron screamed and fought, began trying to wrench his head free, until at last Monique pulled her hands away.
Bron opened his eyes and struggled against the rage. It seemed to be rolling over him in waves. His muscles were knotted, his neck swollen with it.
Monique was shaken and pale. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead and rivulets stole down her cheeks and neck. Her pupils were pinpoints, constricted in shock, and her breath came ragged.
Bron wondered at her reaction. He'd imagined murder before, lots of times, in ways that were horrific and brutal, but it was nothing worse than what you'd see at the movies.
"No more," Monique said. "No more for now." She pulled her hands away, as if she would quit for the day.
Bron stopped fighting her, relaxed for a fraction of a second, and then Monique gritted her teeth, grasped his skull, and sent a shock through him.
"Show me what you love," she whispered....
Chapter 25
Strange Relations
"At one time or another, each of us is confronted by the knowledge that someone who should be the closest to us, is in fact a stranger."
As darkness cloaked her, Olivia waited on the beach, crouching on the red sandstone like a gargoyle. Stars had filled the skies and begun to blow across the heavens on a wispy breeze.
The smell of lake came strong, and the dark boat sat quietly upon water as still as glass. Stars reflected like golden candlelight upon the lake's surface, and the horned moon was a sliver of platinum or pale, pale bone.
Olivia peered out at a line of hills, so peaceful in the moonlight, and she felt tense to the point of breaking.
It takes a long time to find the weight of a soul, Olivia knew. As Bron's foster mother, she was too close to him for this task. Besides, Monique was the only one trained to be a Weigher of Lost Souls. She had done this perhaps tens of thousands of times, peered into the mind of a Draghoul to see if it was fit to convert, or if it had to be destroyed.
Olivia's stomach felt taut from hunger, her mouth dry from thirst, but she just waited silently, knowing that this could take all night.
Monique must have hit a switch, for suddenly the houseboat lit up like a Christmas tree, with strings of golden lights all along its top and wrapped down every pillar, and running along the bottom near the water line. The lights twinkled in the heat, and reflected from still waters.
The forward living room lit up inside. A glass door slid open. "We're done for now," Monique said. She stood at the door, holding her stomach protectively, as if she might be sick.
"Already?" Olivia asked. It had only taken four hours. She got up, stepped lightly across the pontoon bridge. The golden lights extended across it, easing her way.
"He's not one of us," Monique whispered when she got near.
Olivia faltered. She had hoped that Bron would pass, that he'd be accepted. On some level, she'd convinced herself that he was worthy. She couldn't imagine the alternative.
Death? Olivia wondered. Are you going to put him down?
"You didn't tell me about the purple canjiti," Monique said, almost accusingly. Among the masaak, the colored electrical flashes that came out during transfers were called canjiti.
Olivia asked, "Don't all dream assassins give those off?"
Monique shook her head no. "I suppose that there's no way you could have known that, though. We haven't seen one in ages." Monique held the door open, glanced surreptitiously toward the kitchens. Olivia stepped into the boat, and Monique led her to a deep couch, opened a bottled water, and handed it to Olivia. Cold droplets had condensed on the exterior. Olivia drank greedily. She heard Bron moving about in the kitchen.
Monique sat near Olivia, and suddenly began sobbing.
"What's wrong?" Olivia asked.
Monique shook her head in dismay. "Can't you see?" she asked, then added, "Of course you can't. You're not trained to do an emotive profile."
Olivia tried to stall her. "What did you find?" She expected that Bron was a Draghoul, a purebred, and that with his powers, he might be too dangerous. She couldn't even honestly consider that possibility.
"He's a cold one," Monique answered. "He's been damaged. You've probed his amygdala? You know what I mean."
"It's not uncommon for someone in his situation," Olivia said gently. "He was raised by caregivers who gave no care, betrayed by the system that should have served him."
"I agree," Monique said. "He is a victim here, but you know what else he is: a danger."
Olivia fell silent for a moment. Yes, Bron had killed a foster father, but he hadn't meant to.
Was that what had rattled Monique?
Olivia glanced toward the kitchen. Bron was still inside the houseboat somewhere, though she could not see him. She risked speaking openly. "I've seen inside the mind of a Draghoul. Bron doesn't feel that cold inside. He doesn't fit in their world."
"Or in ours," Monique argued. "He's something we've never seen before."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," Monique said, "he's a new branch on the evolutionary tree. There have been dream assassins before ... but he is different somehow. Those purple flashes that he gives off when he unleashes? They're unlike anything we've encountered. I know that you want to protect him, but you and I both know how dangerous he is."
Olivia didn't believe that she was being overprotective. She loved Bron the way that a mother loves her child. It was a new love, true, but it was powerful nonetheless. They'd been through a great deal together in just a week, and she had to believe that he felt something for her, too.
He wasn't Draghoul. He wasn't Ael.
"So what do you think we should do?"
Monique fell silent, considered. Bron walked into the room, carrying a cold can of soda.
Monique faced him. "Bron, before I teach you more, I want you to complete a quest."
"A quest?" Bron asked. "A quest for what?"
She peered into Bron's eyes. "Years ago, a woman was sent to me—a young mother who was forced to give up her son. She had abandoned the child, and she wanted me to erase her memory of him—obliterate it so deeply that no one would ever be able to learn what had happened to him. I was very young then, but I had generations of experience in such matters. Though years have passed, I still know how to contact that woman. Bron, I want you to meet your mother."