"Rafe. I can't see you. Where are you?"
Rafe wrestled with his natural strat-talent inclinations. He could not leave Orchid. She was his first priority.
The artificial fog dissolved as quickly as it had reappeared. Orchid started to climb to her feet. She looked around in wonder as the mist cleared.
"Are you all right?" she demanded.
"Yes." Rafe cut the flow of his talent through the prism.
He assessed her mood quickly. She was badly shaken, but she was in control. It occurred to him that a lot of people, male or female, who had just survived a knife assault would be in hysterics about now. "What about you?"
"I'm okay." She fumbled around on the ground for her fallen purse. "My God, Rafe, they tried to kill you. It was two against one."
The outrage in her voice made him grin. "No, the odds were even. Two against two. I had you for backup."
"Kind of you to give me some credit." Orchid brushed off the knees of her jeans as she got to her feet. "But I don't think I was a whole lot of help. Psynergy, Inc., employees are trained to handle a wide variety of focus situations. But I don't think this kind of thing fits into the more sophisticated, upscale image that Clementine is going for."
"Then she probably shouldn't sign contracts with strat-talents. We're not exactly up-market clients." He listened to the fading footsteps of his fleeing prey as he took Orchid's arm.
Adrenaline still pounded through his veins. He knew from past experience that it would take a while to dissipate. Even though he was no longer focusing his talent, he was still intensely aware of the myriad sensations of the night.
He was also acutely aware of the very smooth skin of Orchid's hand. He could feel the warmth of her, the slight, unmistakable, utterly unique scent that was hers alone. A restless hunger hummed in his gut.
Adrenaline aftermath, he reminded himself. A natural chemical cocktail created by violence had flooded his bloodstream. The fact that the potion had a powerful synergistic affinity for the chemicals of sexual desire was a well-documented, scientific fact.
The difference between man and beast, he reflected grimly as he put Orchid into the car, was not as great as many people liked to think.
Orchid looked at him as he got behind the leer's steering bar. "One of those two men was an illusion-talent, wasn't he?"
"Yeah. Probably a little higher than mid-range. Class six or seven, maybe. That mist he generated was a very strong illusion."
"He had help from the natural fog that was already in the vicinity," Orchid murmured. "My friend, Amaryllis, works frequently with a very strong illusion-talent."
"That would be her husband, Lucas Trent." Rafe eased the Acer away from the curb.
Orchid shot him a quick, searching glance. "You know Lucas very well, I take it?"
"Well enough." Rafe had a fleeting memory of a night in the Western Island jungles when he and Lucas and Nick Chastain had tracked a band of pirates to their lair. It had been Lucas's incredibly real illusion of driving rain which had given the three men the edge they needed to herd the renegades into a trap.
"I see. Well, Amaryllis says that it's always easier to graft an illusion onto an already existing chunk of reality than it is to create it from scratch."
"In other words, it's simpler to produce an illusion of fog when there's already a lot of fog around."
"Something to do with the fact that the human eye sees what it expects to see." Orchid gazed through the windshield at the misty street. "On a fog-bound night, you expect to see a lot of fog. A bit more comes as no big surprise."
"You were the surprise tonight."
"Me?"
He glanced at her. "That kick you used to topple the second man. That was meta-zen-syn."
"So?"
"You never mentioned that you were a practitioner."
She made a face. "I was raised in Northville. I was taught meta-zen-syn exercises before I could walk. But I don't think of myself as a practitioner. Practitioners are obsessive-compulsive about their exercises and they wear a lot of white."
"I see."
She shot him a quick, speculative glance. "You were using a form of meta-zen-syn, too."
"Yes." Rafe flexed his hands on the steering wheel. "My father is a practitioner. He taught me. Said I'd need the exercises to help control my talent."
"Well, at least you don't run around in white."
Rafe smiled slightly. "No, I don't wear much white."
"It's very hard to wear white, you know. I never could understand how everybody in Northville except me managed to keep their clothes so spotless. Mine always got dirty five minutes after I put them on."
Rafe suddenly felt extraordinarily cheerful. "Did they?"
"Yes." She frowned down at her hands. "Unfortunately, I don't know how to use meta-zen-syn to make my fingers stop shaking."
"It's the adrenaline. It will fade in a few minutes. If it's any consolation, I'm feeling the after effects, myself." And how.
"You don't have to be condescending about it."
"What?" Her sarcasm startled him. "Who's being condescending? I told you the truth. I am feeling the effects."
"Hah." She glared at him. "Look at the way you're driving."
"What's wrong with my driving?"
"Nothing." She sounded seriously aggrieved. "That's the whole point. You're as steady as a rock."
"Don't try to tell me what I'm feeling. I know damn well what I'm feeling. The fact that I can drive this car does not mean that I am not experiencing the same adrenaline effects that you're experiencing."
"Don't shout at me. I've had a very difficult evening."
"I'm not shouting at you."
"Your voice is rising."
He started to defend himself, then shook his head when he realized she was right. "Damn. Listen to us. This is a really stupid argument we're having."
"Yes, it is." She scowled. "Why are we having it?"
He sighed. "It's all part of the adrenaline jag. This, too, shall pass."
"Don't," she warned, "start up again." But there was a rueful smile in her voice.
He glanced at her. In the light from the dash he could see the very sensual, very soft curve of her mouth.
Desire tugged at him. It was growing stronger, not weaker. He used every ounce of self-control he possessed to squelch it. This was most definitely not the right time or place. Orchid had been through a very traumatic experience. He had to respect that fact.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, "we made a pretty good team."
"Yeah. We did." She paused. "Now that we are no longer arguing, I have a question. What, exactly, do you think was going on back there?"
"Isn't it obvious?" He exhaled slowly. "Someone doesn't want us asking questions about Theo Willis."
"I was afraid you were going to say that."
Half an hour later, Orchid sat curled on the massive, elegantly curved Later Expansion period sofa in Rafe's library. She watched him with serious, troubled eyes as she sipped moontree brandy.
"What do we do next?" she asked.
"You mean, what do I do next." He poured a second glass of brandy. "You're out of it as of tonight."
"Wait a second, I thought you said we were a team?"
He was surprised by her glowering look. "This thing has turned nasty." He carried his glass across the room and lowered himself into the massive, ornately carved reading chair. "I don't want you involved any deeper."
"You mean, now that it's no longer some sort of game, you want to go hunting alone."
"It's no game. It never was a game." He watched her, brooding over the satisfaction he felt having her here in his home.
The decision to bring her back to his big house on the hill overlooking the city had been a simple one. He had an excellent excuse, he told himself. Orchid should not be left alone after what she had just been through tonight.
"Damn it, I've had enough." She put her glass down with grim precision. "I think it's about time you told me what this is all about."