Mind Tamer, page 25
I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah
Her throat tightened and her eyes watered under closed eyelids. His soulful high notes resonated in her chest and stroked her mind: sinewy, mournful, liquid silver. Piggybacking off his thoughts, she could hear the humble acoustic guitar accompaniment he imagined. Each verse she waited for the haunting timbre of his hallelujah; she sighed when it came, glad there were six verses and unlimited hot water.
Who would’ve thought? Kyros had the soul of an artist.
Jack and Cassie were right—he was good. A natural, unadorned and folksy. She could listen to him for the rest of her life. Most gratifying, finally understanding the real Kyros. And he was obviously growing more comfortable with her, or else he wouldn’t be belting out ballads in the shower with her supposedly asleep in the next room.
A smile pulled her mouth, and she felt like laughing. Finally she recognized why this moment was such a big deal: despite their vast differences, she’d found a connection with Kyros. He spoke her language. If he had respect for music, if she admired him as a musician, then they could be equals. The centuries in age difference, his wealth, their mismatched careers—all reconciled by having music in common.
It made perfect sense.
Hypnotized, she stretched out on the cool marble tile at the entrance to the walk-in shower, enjoying the cold seeping into her back and the steam fogging the air. Inhaled the familiar spicy masculine scent she now assumed was his soap. Maybe she really was addicted to him.
Moments later they had a mild tiff, and that afternoon Lyssa tried to concentrate on teaching her class but couldn’t help mulling it over. The heart of the matter was that she’d embarrassed him. He’d thought she was asleep in bed, and he’d practically tripped over her—lying in a puddle of romantic delirium on the floor—on his way out of the shower. She couldn’t understand why he was so upset and assured him it was so steamy in the bathroom, she’d only caught sight of a very fine backside before shielding her eyes.
Actually, she’d seen everything but thought he’d feel better about the fib.
They argued, and his temper rose to match hers, but she discovered that when he lost his cool, electrical devices shorted out; the power outlets, the smoke alarm, the built-in speakers… Two rows of lightbulbs over the vanity mirrors shattered spectacularly, which only ticked him off more.
They’d left the house under a fake truce. He wouldn’t admit to being mortified about her listening to his singing, so she couldn’t apologize for anything other than being nosy and weird. Discussing his singing talent was apparently out of the question, and he’d only gotten more testy when she’d asked why he was so sensitive about it. He hadn’t been that squeamish about playing the piano for her…
He had music issues. She wasn’t going to allow it to go on that way.
Then she’d decided not to wear the ring to school today. She hadn’t talked to Mitch yet, and she wasn’t ready to deal with the attention it would draw. Graduation was a few weeks away, and then she wouldn’t have to worry about it.
Unfortunately, Kyros perceived it as a slight and an insult, assuming she was ashamed of him. They’d never been together for such a long stretch of time, trapped in the same house, and the dynamic was awkward. Nothing she’d said appeased Kyros, and she could see that he needed space. She did honestly regret striking two nerves with him in one morning.
Meanwhile, she anticipated her date with a terrorist at Beale AFB tomorrow.
Having decided to leave the choice up to her, Kyros had handed the phone over during the drive to campus, and she spoke with Commander Russell about what to expect. It seemed straightforward to her; bust inside the terrorist’s mind and scrub it for useful info before he goes all ketchup-packet. She’d joked to Kyros, Should I bring a rain poncho?
He wasn’t fooled by her bravado.
During lunch she waited in the graduate lounge for Mitch, but he wasn’t with his study group. She gave up and went to Marty’s, where she ran into him and Devanne, sharing a table for two. She pulled up a chair and made it three—four counting the violin case. She smiled at Devanne, who grinned brightly as though she hadn’t a care in the world.
Mitch looked up at the sound of the chair scraping on the floor, then jumped in surprise. “Lyssa!” he half-shouted, looking guilty. “Lyssa—” he blurted again, this time in relief, and he leaped up to hug her tightly. “Thank God you’re all right. You didn’t answer your phone, and your house! What happened? I used your key to check on you and saw the mess…” He trailed off, regarding her with a puzzled expression.
Lyssa was in a foul mood to begin with, now irritated to hear his thoughts fading in and out with the music piping through the cheap speakers in the deli. She wanted to cheat today; she wanted in his head. It would make the conversation go smoother. She wrestled for a moment… Mitch stared, perplexed, as she practiced tuning his thoughts in and out of her mind at will. She could expand it to include Devanne, and even farther to hear the others sitting nearby. Then she focused on Mitch again. He suspected she was listening in his head; he’d started scrolling the lyrics to “Battle Hymn of the Republic” in his mind, attempting to block her out. It struck her as adorable, and she spent her last shred of willpower trying not to smile.
She vowed to be completely frank with him as she lowered her voice to answer his question. “It was Merodach. He is here, and he’s hunting us. Kyros and myself, that is. How was the conference?”
“What? Oh. Uh, it was…bizarre.” He exchanged glances with Devanne then shook his head. “JSTOR and Muse both made an offer on our project, provided it passes the peer review.”
“It will,” Lyssa answered automatically, paying close attention to the dynamic between Mitch and Devanne. “Congratulations,” she said, meaning both the project and what she observed between them. Wow. And Lyssa thought she was fast…
Mitch cut to the chase. “Look, uh, Lyssa, can I speak with you a moment?” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the patio outside, then left in a hurry.
Lyssa leaned across the table and smiled at Devanne. “I am perfectly fine with it,” she said before Devanne could begin her prepared speech. The more Lyssa thought about Mitch and Devanne, the more it made sense. Kind of. They were both insufferable academics, at least, and Mitch wouldn’t have to worry about tainting Devanne’s innocence; she was already delightfully wild. “Take good care of him.”
Devanne snorted and leaned in to meet Lyssa, a conspiratorial smile on her lips. “Euh, sure, but he is on the rebound, you know? Maybe he will not want me when he finally gets over you, but it’s a chance I will take.”
Lyssa kissed her on the cheek and joined Mitch, who already paced outside.
You, uh, can hear me, right? His eyes darted to the people seated nearby at tables and walked a little farther, out of hearing range.
She nodded. I can hear your thoughts as well as plant my own in your head.
Then you already know what I mean to say.
She stepped closer and took his hand. He still made her feel warm, but that was all. He cringed, battling a less filial reaction, then hated himself for it. Poor Mitch. She was determined to never injure and confuse him again.
A conversation in thoughts didn’t work quite right between an extra-sentient and a human. She whispered, “I was your sort-of girlfriend, then your sort-of fiancée, so you can sort-of dump me. I’ll count it as your letting me down easy.”
“Just like that, huh?”
“I’m trying to let you down easy, too.”
“Oh—Oh. Right.” He processed the confirmation of what he already knew. “So you and him, huh?”
“Yeah.” Lame. They sounded like teenagers ending a summer fling.
Lyssa. You can do better than that, love.
Kyros! You’re eavesdropping?
Just trying to spare you some self-loathing later on. I hate to admit it, but I think you owe Westbrook more than that.
Fine, but I can’t grovel with an audience.
Over and out.
She and Mitch tried to speak at the same time. She took the lead. “Look, Mitch. I want you to understand that I haven’t been very fair to you.” He frowned, not following her unexpected line of thought. “I knew before I met Kyros that I wasn’t right for you, yet I let it go on. I knew you sensed there was something out of place, but I let you suffer so I wouldn’t have to be alone.” A painful twinge in her chest meant she’d just told the truth; a similar stab caught Mitch, making him catch his breath.
She tried a little damage control. “You made me so happy, and you took such good care of me, sometimes I wondered if it could work out. Especially since you were the first man I wanted to touch, to be with. In many ways you saved me, and I’m thankful for that.”
“I hear a lot of past tense.”
Oh, no. He really was hurt, he really did care for her, and this was going to be as messy as she’d feared. He studied her, his shrewd gaze missing nothing. He perceived that she’d changed, sensed a steel edge in her demeanor, noting she seemed more in control and more powerful. He couldn’t reconcile her with the distressed damsel he was accustomed to coddling. He didn’t know what to do with the new and improved Lyssa. She didn’t need a hero, and that left him without a role.
“Mitch, I have changed,” she answered his thoughts. “I have an appointment to interrogate a terrorist tomorrow. I’m going to hunt Merodach and cut him into bite-sized chunks, then dance on his ashes.” Mitch flinched, making her aware of being oh-so politically incorrect. Too late to apologize for that. “Then I’m going to help Kyros rescue abandoned extra-sentient children. If I still feel like it, I’ll play the concert circuit.” She softened her tone, seeing she’d just freaked him out. “Your life is here, and I would’ve made you a really lousy wife.”
She politely watched the ground while he wrestled his emotions. He didn’t deny her reasoning, in fact he understood and agreed; it just hurt. Mitch wouldn’t love her enough to marry one day and not give a damn the next. There was also the matter of his come-apart in Atlanta. He was hating himself almost as much as she despised herself.
He was trying to decide how to tell her about it when she interrupted, “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. But before you write Devanne off as a rebound, I want you to know something. She has secretly held a torch for you for over a year. This isn’t just a game for her, no matter how carefree she seems. You should give her a chance.” She leaned closer. “Can I say two more things, and then you can let me have it?”
“Yeah. Sure,” he conceded with a shrug of his beefy shoulders, which were too high for her to reach comfortably.
“First, you should remember that I’ve been Devanne’s friend longer than I’ve been yours. If you hurt her, I will hurt you.” She smiled cheerfully. “Lastly, and I mean this with all my heart—” she paused to say it in his mind instead. It’s time to forgive yourself. You are an extraordinarily kind-hearted man, you have done a lot of good, and you have more than atoned for it. Let it go.
Mitch knew what she meant, and he shifted his weight uncomfortably while his heart and brain argued. His drill sergeant alter ego was mortified about being on the verge of an emotional episode, distressed she knew his terrible secret about the DUI car crash in high school that had killed one classmate and injured two others. He’d never told anyone, not even Lyssa.
The thought of letting it go beckoned to him, but it felt like wrestling with a python.
Let it go, Mitch. You deserve to be happy.
She hoped he would work through it and decide to take her advice. She was right on this one.
Her mind was startlingly clear at the moment, and she knew the answer to Kyros’s question last night. No, Mitch was not her lover, but yes, he was her friend.
He felt devastated and drained. She leaned in for his embrace—he’d been waiting for permission. He wrapped his arms across her back and squeezed her in that third-generation-football-player embrace she loved. She waited until they both felt better to let him go.
Mitch leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Sounds like you’re in deep. Please stay safe. And you can tell Fabio I said that if anything bad happens to you, I will kick his ass.”
…
Kyros was waiting for her outside the door when she came out of rehearsal. He traded her violin case for a takeout bag from Marty’s, which for her was ten times better than flowers as a make-up present.
“Thanks. I’m starving.”
“Look, I know I was a jerk this morning. I’m sorry, okay?”
Wow. A man who apologized. She forced herself to do it too. “I can’t say I’m sorry I listened to your singing, but I am sorry I spied on you and startled you. And I had no idea it would hurt your feelings to leave the ring home today. I swear I didn’t mean it as a rejection.”
He ground his teeth, supposedly cooling off before answering. A good reminder that this was new for both of them. She gave him extra points, considering it had been decades since his last relationship. “I get now that you didn’t want to make a fool of Westbrook. But now that it’s taken care of…”
Her turn for a concession. “I will wear it, proudly.” Even if she had to fend off paparazzi and mobs of jealous groupies. Kyros snorted. “You think I’m exaggerating? Haven’t you noticed the snarky T-shirts and bad vinyl pants epidemic? You’re a sensation, and if you think there will be anything less than uproar when I show up here flaunting your diamond, you’re a dreamer.”
His mouth quirked then spread in a dazzling movie-star smile. “Bad vinyl?”
“You’re the real deal, love,” she answered, mimicking his accent, then wrapped an arm behind his waist and tucked her hand in his back pocket. She might have squeezed a bit.
…
Lyssa’s brain had been scrambled during most of her stay at Lackland Air Force Base in Texas, so the cold industrial hallways and Spartan offices at Beale AFB shouting, Serious business going on here, all the time! freaked her out. A bit. At least, it drained most of her bravado.
Kyros had enough for the two of them. He didn’t bother dressing up, and it was interesting to watch seasoned gray-haired officers, top-heavy with adorned uniforms, move out of his way. It was the first time Lyssa really thought about how both he and she must look like a pair of kids.
Kyros passed an official he was apparently familiar with and not too fond of, because he paused to sneer at him before pulling Lyssa through the doorway behind him. It was Russell; he followed them into the room.
Kyros warned, “We do this my way,” and Russell gave a curt nod, staring at her.
Lyssa nodded back at the man she’d spoken with on the phone. He was American but clearly had a Middle-Eastern parent, and Lyssa gathered Russell was a Pentagon/Interpol liaison who worked intelligence and espionage.
In deep? Check.
Black plastic sheeting was taped over the walls surrounding a hooded man cuffed to a medieval-looking metal chair. Her feet quit moving and she bumped into Kyros. The door closed behind them with an ominous thud. Too late to change her mind.
Kyros wasted no time. He dismantled the electronic devices, including an overhead camera, while he explained, “This is another captured enemy militant. He speaks an undocumented dialect of Masri and is openly affiliated with half a dozen factions of terrorists. Merodach is using him to bait us and knows he will self-destruct before I can get information. Our advantage is that Merodach has no clue what you can do.”
He pulled the data card from the camera and crushed it in his hand, then dropped the pieces in Russell’s cupped hand. “I will go in behind you and shut him down at the slightest hint of danger, but you must first prepare yourself to witness this type of mind.” Kyros fiddled with the wiring behind a breaker panel. “Before he was Merodach’s puppet, he was a radical jihadist. He hates you for existing. He wants to die and take you with him. A lower caste of extra-sentient who has been brainwashed and programmed for violent self-destruction.”
Kyros’s voice was harsh, emphatic. “Stay away from the parietal lobe. His seat of mind is fragmented and distorted, and it would trigger an attack for you.” She felt like she was being scolded. “Do not make yourself vulnerable with compassion, curiosity, or uncertainty. You must be ruthless in your examination, and quick. If you feel any danger at all, pull out immediately. Understand?”
“Heard, Understood, Acknowledged,” she replied, referring to the popular military HUA acronym. They weren’t amused. Kyros left the prisoner cuffed and hooded, which Lyssa appreciated. She didn’t want to remember what he looked like.
Kyros signaled it was time to begin, and she closed her eyes. She’d practiced this on Cat: she was going to nudge the terrorist’s mind with a gentle, distracting vision while she slipped in through the back. His mental activity was dim for an extra-sentient, but tangled and dense. His caution faltered at the jasmine and incense-scented impression she sent him of a scarf sliding over a dark-skinned feminine midriff. It was unexpected for him—his concentration lifted and she brushed past his mindshield. Easy.
With a grunt that felt like holding a load on her back, she made a mad dash for his frontal lobe and seized control of his willpower, clamping down, blocking his synapses in a race she narrowly won.
Kyros made an appreciative sound in his throat, and she felt his presence beside hers. She tried not to be distracted with the way he rerouted electrical impulses to concentrate pressure around the brain stem, gathering a dense, volatile charge she hoped to be far away from when it detonated.
The rush of formaldehyde and rancid yogurt odor made her gag, and she recognized the taint. Kyros, he’s treated with the crystalline compound.
I can smell it. I’ll shut his brain down before he blows.
It felt like hanging on with one hand and reaching across a chasm with the other, but she did it in order to ransack the deeper folds of the prisoner’s temporal lobe while keeping her grip on his synapses. The terrorist choked and flailed against the restraints, but he was powerless to connect his recognition of danger with the ingrained command to push the fatal Red Button.
