“Does aura talent run in your family?” she asked.
“Sporadically. My grandfather was a strong aura. He told me that my father was a high strat talent though, and my mother had a mid-range talent for color and design, of all things.”
“Raw psychic power tends to be a strong genetic trait but the form the talent takes is often hard to predict. Your grandfather told you about your parents?”
“My folks were killed in a car crash by a drunk driver when I was a baby. I never knew them. My grandfather raised me.”
“Is your grandfather still alive?” she asked.
“No. He died the year I graduated from high school and went into the army.”
She told herself she should stop right there. But she couldn’t seem to help herself. “Is there anyone else in your family?”
“Maybe some distant cousins somewhere.” He sounded disinterested. “If they’re out there, they never bothered to show up after my parents were killed.”
“In other words, there’s no one?”
“Got a couple of good friends over on Oahu. They own the restaurant where I work as a bartender. What about you?”
“My mother died when I was thirteen. Some kind of rare infection.”
“Tough,” he said.
“Yes, it was.”
“Your dad?”
“I never knew him.” She kept her voice perfectly neutral. “When my mother decided to have a child, she went to a sperm bank clinic.”
“Oh, shit,” he said softly.
She almost smiled. In that single, pithy statement he had told her in the most eloquent terms that he understood.
“Yes,” she said. “Oh, shit, indeed.”
“Talk about having a psychic hole in your life.” He turned his head to look at her. “You’re a genealogist. Ever try to find your father?”
“Of course. A lot of sperm bank kids go looking for their fathers. I eventually found the name of the facility that my mother used, the Burnside Clinic. It was established by a member of the Society. Dr. Burnside catered to clients who were members of the Arcane community. He guaranteed that all of his donors were high-level sensitives of one kind or another. He also promised absolute confidentiality to both donors and clients.”
“Were you able to find your father’s file?” he asked.
“No. The clinic burned to the ground a few years ago. All the records were destroyed. Arson was strongly suspected but no one was ever arrested.”
“Probably one of the donors who didn’t want to be found.”
“Do you think so? I did wonder about that possibility.”
“There are others,” he said, sounding thoughtful now. “Maybe one of the mothers who didn’t want a donor to find his offspring. Or maybe one of the kids who couldn’t find his father and got really pissed off. It also could have been someone who didn’t approve of the services the clinic offered.”
“In other words, the list of suspects would be a very long one.”
“Sounds like it.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I was never able to identify my father, but after I went to work in the Bureau of Genealogy I found some information about him that my mother had entered into the genealogical records when she registered me with the Society. Mostly a health and talent history.”
“And?”
She shrugged. “What can I tell you? My father was descended of sound genetic stock and he was a strong talent. But then, Dr. Burnside would have insisted on those qualities in all of his donors.”
“Sure.”
“I got my eyes from him,” she whispered after a while. “But that’s about it. He wasn’t even an aura talent. My mother listed him as a strat.”
“Knowing that you’re a green-eyed aura talent descended from a green-eyed strat wouldn’t have given you much to go on.”
“No,” she said. “It didn’t. Strat talents are very common within the Society. There are literally thousands registered. Narrowing the field by age and gender and eye color didn’t help. I eventually gave up.”
A couple strolled toward them, hand in hand, lost in each other, taking up a good portion of the path. Luther thumped the cane loudly a few times. In response, the pair moved hurriedly to the far side of the pavement.
With the force of long habit, Grace shook off the old melancholy that always came over her when she thought about her own unknown history.
“You’re good with that thing,” she said.
“It has its advantages. People tend to get out of my way. No one wants to be responsible for making a guy on a cane go down. Lawsuit city.”
“How did you end up on it in the first place? Fallon said something about an accident.”
“I got careless.”
And that, she knew, was the end of that conversational topic. At least for now. She was trying to think of a clever way to dig deeper when ghostly fingers touched the nape of her neck. She tensed instinctively and folded her arms beneath her breasts, shielding her hands.
There were a number of people on the path but the man coming toward them out of the shadows was moving a little differently from the rest. He was still several yards away. It was too dark to make out his features but there was something about his stride that disturbed her senses. He didn’t stroll or jog or walk in a normal fashion. He exhibited the easy, predatory glide of a big cat on the hunt.
Part of her was aware that a subtle shift of awareness had come over Luther. She knew that he, too, had noticed the figure coming toward them.
She jacked her parasenses to the max. One look at the powerful aura that enveloped the approaching man and she knew him instantly for what he was. Para-hunter.
Every instinct screamed at her to turn and run even though the logical side of her brain knew it would be useless. If the pacing man was hunting her, he could easily run her down. Those endowed with his brand of talent were not supermen by any means, but their natural human hunting abilities were psychically enhanced. They could see very well in the dark. Their reflexes were on a par with those of any other wild predator. They could detect the psychic spoor of their quarry, and their favorite prey was human.
A lot of hunters wound up in the military or in security work. But she knew all too well that, given their natural aptitude, it was inevitable that some became dangerous predators.
Luther’s aura was running hot, too, but he gave no outward indication of his tension. His halting stride did not alter but somehow he was a little closer to her now, making certain that the hunter would pass on the opposite side, as far from her as possible.
Take it easy, she thought.
Whoever that guy is, he isn’t after you. If they had found you, they would have sent someone to Eclipse Bay to get you. They wouldn’t have waited until you took a Hawaiian vacation.
Then again . . .
The hunter was less than two yards away, closing the distance fast. Somehow she managed to keep moving alongside Luther, matching his slow, careful stride. There was no change in the
tap-tap-tap of the cane.
She was calmer now. Logic and common sense were kicking in, overriding the more primitive side of her brain.
No, not logic and common sense, something else was neutralizing her fear. By rights she should still be scared out of her wits. What’s wrong with this picture? That thought was almost as frightening as the approaching hunter.
Instinctively she tried to beat back the calming influence. She should be scared. It was the appropriate response under the circumstances. Damn it, she
would be scared.
The unnatural calm wavered and dissolved. The terror of the hunted rushed back but so did a sense of rightness. This was the way she ought to feel.
Before she could adjust to the transition back to a state of fear, she became aware of Luther’s aura. It was pulsing at unusual points along the spectrum. Power resonated in the night.