CHAPTER SEVEN
Miriya fixed a polite expression on her face, and resisted the urge to smooth down her black and white waitress uniform as the security guard compared her government-issued identification card to the list of names supplied by Tastebuds Catering. Getting her name on the list was easy. Chantel Rhondeau, the owner of Tastebuds Catering, had no psychic shields to speak of.
Getting through the telepathic security scans at the entrance of the Mistick Krewe building was a different matter.
Jake’s advice had sounded simple. Create a clear image of the person you want them to see—a complete personality profile, everything from favorite brand of shampoo to bra size—and push it out there, far beyond your psychic shields. It’s the first thing they’ll connect with when they scan your mind, and if it’s complete enough, they’ll believe it’s real. They won’t even think to dig deeper.
A façade. She was good with facades. Heck, one could even make the case that Miriya Templeton was a façade seven years in the making.
It was easier, however, to go back to the person she would have been if her telepathic powers had not freed her from the cycle of poverty centered on the Louisiana bayou.
She was once again Maria Durand, a local girl, pretty and polite enough to secure a job as a wait staff with a high-end catering company, but not daring enough to aspire for more in life. The details came easily: raised in a rundown New Orleans suburb, lackluster grades, a host of minimum wage, part-time jobs, and then a lucky break—a boyfriend, Jake Hansen, who had found a job with Tastebuds Catering and vouched for her.
Encased in her old skin, she immersed herself in the play of light across Lake Ponchartrain each morning; the dull and crowded bus ride into the city; the usual mix of body odors mercifully subtle in chill of early spring; the mindless chatter of the kitchen staff mixing with the regular snap of knives against chopping boards; the fragrant sauces, rich with herbs, including mint and cumin—
Heavy pressure pushed against her mind.
—an appreciative sniff; a delicate sip off a tasting spoon; a dash of thyme to deepen its flavor. Careful hands loaded silverware and china plates into cartons. She inhaled, a nervous breath as a silver tray filled with hor d'oeuvres almost slipped.
The pressure against her mind moved on.
The security guard waved her in.
She loitered in the lobby, staring up at the banners that adorned the second-floor balconies and the curved staircases. Traditional Mardi Gras colors—purple, green, and gold—dominated the banners, but managed to come across as tasteful and elegant instead of gaudy. The Mistick Krewe certainly had excellent, and likely expensive, taste in interior decorators.
A minute or two later, Jake, who had been standing behind her in the line, joined her in the building, and together, they walked into the dining room.
They did not speak much, and when they did, the conversation was about the inconsequential—the placement of dishes, the missing salt- and peppershakers, and the arrangement of napkins over the cream-colored tablecloths.
The telepathic conversation was nonexistent. The abundance of psychic-sensitive security guards made it risky. Besides, Miriya and Jake did not need to talk. They had a plan, or at least the start of a plan.
Miriya made multiple trips between the kitchen and the dining room, and set the trays down on the buffet tables arrayed around the large room. With two of her “new” colleagues, she arranged the attractively decorated platters on the tables, interspersing them among the ice carvings and floral arrangements.
“Very charming.”
Miriya looked around at the voice.
A white-haired woman, dressed in an elegant black gown, offered a cool but approving smile. Her wrinkled and liver-spotted hands, adorned with jeweled rings and holding a silver electronic cigarette, were steady in spite of her age. Miriya estimated the woman at ninety years old though she leaned only slightly on the arm of the pleasant-faced young man beside her.
“Everything’s ready, ma’am.” Miriya inclined her head. Her waitress uniform crinkled as she moved.
“Wonderful.” The woman’s voice was thin and raspy, as much from old age as from a lifetime of inhaling nicotine. She smiled, but Miriya’s gaze fixed on the woman’s eyes instead. They were brilliant blue, their gleam sharp, even arresting.
Psychic shields could protect minds; telepathic skills could create facades, but little could conceal the glitter of raw power in a person’s eyes.
Miriya would have bet her entire bank account that the woman was a mutant, and not just any mutant. At ninety, the woman was nearly sixty years older than the Genetic Revolution that had unleashed an explosive growth of human derivatives—clones and in vitros—and widespread acknowledgment of genetic mutants. She had obviously lived through and prospered in spite of conditions that had not favored those who were genetically different, especially if they possessed power that others did not.
Amazing.
The corner of the woman’s lips tugged into an amused, indulgent smile.
A telepath. An alpha.
The woman’s mental voice—strong and steady in sharp contrast to her physical one—murmured through Miriya’s mind. Nothing so mundane, my child. You’re shielded. I cannot read your thoughts unless you choose to share them with me, but I can sense your emotions.
Miriya’s eyes widened. You’re an empath.
And skilled at attributing belief and intent to emotion. You’re not really part of the wait staff, are you?
I am—
The woman turned away. No matter. No need to answer the question. Your emotions can’t lie, even if your thoughts can. I trust you will behave yourself tonight and not do anything to spoil the party. She looked at the young man. “We’ll go to the parlor, Scott. Our guests should be arriving soon.”
“Certainly, grandmamma.” He turned carefully on his heel, moving no faster than she was able, and escorted her from the dining room.
As soon as she could, Miriya excused herself and went in search of Jake. He was standing by the second-floor balcony overlooking the marble-columned foyer and raised a quizzical eyebrow as she approached. Something the matter?
Ran into an empath.
Ah, Madame Devereaux. I believe she’s something of an iconic figure in the city. I’m surprised you did not come across her earlier when you lived in New Orleans.
We don’t move in the same social circles.
Jake’s shoulders moved in a shrug. That might have something to do with it.
Is she dangerous?
His eyebrows shot up.
She’s not an alpha empath, is she? Miriya asked.
I don’t think so, but of course, she’s dangerous. She’s shrewd and influential. I’d try to fly under the radar—
Too late. She picked up on me.
Did she say anything?
To behave and not spoil the party.
Jake stifled a chuckle. She would say something like that. I don’t think anything will faze her. She may not be an alpha, but she’s a talented empath, after all.
Miriya smoothed the frown before it appeared on her face.
He glanced at her. Most empaths are of no consequence. Their susceptibility to other’s emotions makes them rather fickle, if harmless, creatures. They can’t focus enough to do any serious damage. The empath who is dangerous is the one who has mastered her emotions, as Amelie Devereaux has.
Whatever. Miriya snorted under her breath. Should we change?
Jake nodded. I need to track down the psychic disturbances, and I’m sure they’re not coming from just the old lady. You need to find Charles. If a fight breaks out for whatever reason, don’t get involved. Just get Charles away from here.
Okay, fine.
This way. Jake led her to a window at the far end of the corridor. The bustle of activity and murmur of conversations faded. Safe enough. He pushed the window open. Keep a lookout, will you?
Miriya positioned herself several feet away, giving herself full view of the co
rridor as well as Jake. He looked toward the balcony of the adjacent store and frowned, his eyes narrowing.
Moments later, the two neat packages Jake had concealed earlier that day drifted across the open expanse between the balcony and the window. Jake snatched them out of the air, turned around, and handed one to Miriya. “Your change of clothes, milady.” Go get dressed. I’ll keep watch.
Miriya nodded and slipped into a nearby bathroom. As she changed into her gown, she tried not to roll her eyes at the excessive faux gold decorations and the cherub-shaped hot- and cold-water knobs. She peered into the mirror and deepened her makeup to accentuate her eyes and lips. For a final touch, she raised her mask to her face and stared at the flare of feathers over her head. The overall effect was alluring and intriguing; she would easily blend into the crowd.
At the last moment, she remembered to grab her smartphone from the pocket of her discarded uniform. She stared at the tiny device. Where was she supposed to put it? Ah, what the hell. She slid it against the curve of her breast, tucked securely in her bra.
She walked out of the bathroom, and Jake flashed her an appreciative grin. While she lounged against the wall and affected boredom, he scooted past her, entered the bathroom, and locked the door behind him. Minutes later, he emerged, dressed in a tux. He shoved their wait staff uniforms into the packages and sent them out the window, back across the balcony of the neighboring building.
“Good timing,” she said. “The ballroom is filling up.”
“When did being late stop being fashionable?”
“When it takes a half hour or more to get through security.” Miriya glanced out a nearby window. “The line’s around the block, and about ninety percent of the people in the line don’t even have invitations to the ball. It’s only going to get worse as people get drunker and less rational about their odds of crashing the party.”
“Coming in through the back door with the catering crew was one of your best ideas yet.” Jake took Miriya’s hand and squeezed it. “Let’s go mingle. I want a bigger crowd for cover before you wander off on your own.”
And it’ll be good to figure out what we’re up against.
Exactly.
It was, however, easier said than done. The abundance of psychic shields, used as often by non-mutants as by mutants, made anything more than a casual telepathic probe impossible. To top it off, everyone seemed to be on his or her best behavior; no one did anything in the least bit extraordinary.
Still, it would not hurt to be sure.
With her mask held up to her face, Miriya wandered through the crowd. The aroma of the hor d'oeuvres, appetizers, and desserts on display rose to mingle with that of exotic flowers. People gathered around the chocolate fountain surrounded by pyramids of strawberries, grapes, and mini cupcakes. The glitz and glitter of elaborate costumes and masks swirled around Miriya. The sparkle of light-hearted conversation filled the air, supplemented by the tinkle of champagne glasses as rims touched, and the light clink of silverware against china plates.
She caught several glimpses of Amelie Devereaux and her grandson, Scott, and made it a point to stay out of their way. If the old woman sensed her in the crowd, she gave no indication of it. Miriya took note of the people who clustered around Madame Devereaux and fought to claim her attention. They tended to be young—scarcely older than Miriya—which she found surprising. All of them possessed strong psychic shields that could not entirely conceal the sheen of power emanating from most of them. Without probing deeper, she could not know what type of psychic powers those young people possessed, but when it was that much power, the type of power scarcely mattered. It would be enough to do significant damage.
She caught Jake’s eye across the room. Mutants. Mostly alphas.
Jake’s exhalation of breath shuddered through her mind. I know. I don’t think I’ve seen this many alphas in one place since the last Mutant Affairs Council annual party at the Ritz Carlton. It definitely explains the psychic energy, but not the why.
I’ll leave you to figure out the why. I’m going after Charles.
Charles’s presence altered subtly in Miriya’s mind as she moved around the ballroom and dining room. She narrowed his location to the west wing of the mansion, specifically its southern tower. With a final glance over her shoulder to ensure that no one was paying her any particular attention, she strolled from the ballroom and into the foyer.
It bustled with activity; outsiders shoved at the cordon of security personnel. Some guests lingered in the foyer or loitered at the balconies with glasses of champagne in their hands and idle conversations on their lips. Occasionally, the guests spared mocking and indulgent glances at the uninvited horde clamoring to enter the most exclusive Mardi Gras event.
With a matching expression of bored superiority, Miriya walked up the curved staircase and strolled toward the west wing. The noise of the crowd faded, though she picked up on an occasional giggle and flurry of hushed conversations behind closed doors. Apparently, she was not the only guest to sneak away.
The pulse in her mind, her homing beacon to Charles, grew stronger with each step.
She paused at the foot of the staircase that wound up into the southern tower. Orange bulbs behind torch-shaped light fixtures lighting the narrow stairway did little to dispel the deep shadows. Miriya stifled an exasperated sigh. She could have managed without the spooky eighteenth-century atmosphere.
The spiral staircase wound its way up the tower. She peeked through open doors of the rooms on each landing to find small sitting rooms, libraries, an occasional bedroom, and no sign of Charles. The rooms were not just tributes to an earlier age. A carelessly tossed, still damp bathrobe on the bed, a whiff of a cigar in the library confirmed that the rooms were recently used.
However, who lived in the Mistick Krewe building?
Charles’s signal grew stronger; she was close. With her psychic shields locked in place, Miriya concealed herself in the shadows next to a door that was partly ajar.
A male voice, not one she recognized, spoke. “It seems you’ve overestimated your importance to the council.”
“You did; I didn’t,” Charles retorted. His voice was steady, strong. “They’re too cautious. I told you they wouldn’t send an entire taskforce of alpha mutants to investigate the disappearance of a single human operative.”
“They did send one though. Jake Hansen, an alpha telepath and telekinetic.”
“I don’t recognize the name. He’s not one of the taskforce leaders.”
“No, but the council claims all mutants are important to them, so we might as well put it to the test. Our inside man in the council confirms that there are three enforcer taskforces in Houston, and he’s ready to scramble them the moment Hansen dies. Within two hours, thirty or more vengeful enforcers will descend upon the ball, and they’ll be met by the largest gathering of alpha mutants anyone has ever managed to bring together in one place.”
“Your plan is not going to work,” Charles insisted. “Those untrained alphas will never stand a chance against council-trained enforcers. People are going to get hurt and—”
The other man snorted. “Exactly. All I need is enough confusion and panic to conceal what I need to do. One of the guests, or better yet, the council will take the blame for it.”
“You’re mad.”
A low chuckle resonated through the small space. “No, I’m terrifyingly sane. You know it as well as I do, and that’s the fact that disturbs you the most.”
Miriya darted up the stairs as she heard the swirl of movement. She raced past meager pools of lights to hide in the darkness at the uppermost curve of the stairs. Her heart pounded as she inched forward to catch a glimpse of the man who had been in the room with Charles.
All she saw though was the back of his head as he stepped out of the room, pulled the door shut behind him, and walked away.
Jake!
Yeah?
Get out of the building. Now.
What?
; Someone’s trying to start a fight between the council and the alphas at the party by killing you. God damn it. Just get out now.
Alarm seeped into his voice. But who? And why would they do that?
I don’t know.
What about you?
I’ll get Charles, and then we’re bailing.
Look, I’m responsible for you. I can’t leave—
This isn’t the eighteenth century. I’m not a princess who needs rescuing. Will you just get the hell out?
I don’t think— He screamed. His telepathic cry pierced her mind like a blade into her brain.
Jake!
He did not respond.
Miriya’s hands snapped into fists, and she bit back a curse. Freaking idiot. Now she had to rescue him too. She raced down the stairs, past Charles’s door. Her pace slowed only when she reentered the foyer and found herself back among a crowd—a much larger crowd than she had recalled twenty minutes prior.
She sucked in a shuddering breath and forced herself to alter her stride from purposeful to a languid stroll as she moved from the foyer to the ballroom and the adjacent dining room. Her gaze swept across the clusters of people gathered around the buffet tables and the bar. No one seemed disturbed; there were no signs of a tussle.
But there was no sign of Jake Hansen either.
“Excuse me, miss.”
Miriya spun around.
The young man inclined his head. “I’m Scott Devereaux. My grandmamma sent me over to ask if you’re all right.”
Miriya looked past his shoulder. Several feet away, Amelie Devereaux, the matriarch of the family, sat in a high-backed chair, surrounded by her entourage of admirers. The old lady, however, ignored the fawning compliments offered to her and instead met Miriya’s gaze with a subtly arched eyebrow.
Something in her yearned to speak, to pour out her heart to the old woman. Surely, she could trust someone whose eyes displayed so much empathy.
Empath. Madame Devereaux was an empath.
Miriya dug her nails into the palms of her hands. The sharp pain refocused her. She was in the enemy’s den. She had no friends here, no one she could trust. She would not be lulled into believing otherwise.
She looked up at Scott’s face. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” She hoped her smile, pasted on her face, did not look as rigid as it felt.
He bowed slightly and walked away.
Now what? Miriya turned her back on Madame Devereaux and walked away to put distance between herself and the uncomfortably direct gaze of the empath. She could contact the Mutant Affairs Council, perhaps even Alex Saunders, who was supposed to be director general of the council.
She could think of no other way to avert an all-out fight between the council and the alpha mutants gathered at the Mistick Krewe.
A cool breeze swept through the ballroom as several guests pushed open the patio doors and stepped outside. Miriya followed them into a walled garden. The guests dispersed in various directions, seeking privacy among the shadow of the trees. Miriya, too, found a quiet corner and reached for the tiny smartphone tucked in her bra.
It took several calls before she reached the Mutant Affairs Council headquarters in Washington, D.C., but it was Saturday and late in the evening. The operator took her message and promised to convey it to the right parties, but refused to connect her with Alex Saunders. Frustrated, she hung up and paced the short length of the flagstone path.
Miriya had never personally witnessed psychic battles, but she had read enough reports not to want to be involved in any skirmish that included people who could, with little more than a malicious thought, drive others to their knees, screaming in pain, or worse, against people who could lift and hurl a four-thousand-pound car.
Miriya was certain that no amount of telepathic powers could save a person from a vehicle-turned-missile.
What had Jake told her? If a fight breaks out for whatever reason, don’t get involved. Just get Charles away from here.
She inhaled deeply, though the motion did little to slow her racing heartbeat. She slipped the phone back into its hiding place and returned to the building. She weaved her way past the guests, sparing an occasional glance at tuxedoed men with dark hair and broad shoulders—which could have easily described thirty percent of the males present. Which one had spoken to Charles?
Several men she eliminated from the suspect list through a quick scan of their unshielded minds, but the list remained absurdly long. Unless she pushed hard enough to break through psychic shields—thereby giving herself away—she had no way of identifying the person who had spoken to Charles.
Of course, Charles would be able to identify the person.
She kept her pace casual to match that of the mingling guests. With each step, she drew closer to the tower room where he was imprisoned.
The sound of conversation and movement faded into silence by the time she arrived outside Charles’s room. She slid back the deadbolt and tried the handle. The door was locked.
From the other side, quick footsteps moved toward the door. Charles’s voice called out. “Who’s there?”
“Miriya.”
“Miriya?” The lock jiggled and clicked. The door flung open. “What are you doing here?”
Her heartbeat skipped. He had unlocked the door. She stared at Charles’s face, the blood draining from her own. “Rescuing you, but you don’t need to be rescued, do you? You’re in cahoots with him.”
Charles’s mouth opened and closed, wordless as a goldfish. With visible effort, he regained his composure and held out his hand. “It’s not what it looks like.”
Miriya bared her teeth in a snarl. “So what does it look like?” She wanted to kick herself. She had a lock on his mind. Why hadn’t she pushed harder and dug deeper? She could have yanked out all his secrets.
I’ve no excuses, other than my stupid, preconceived notions of personal privacy.
He lunged forward, grabbed her, and dragged her into the room.
She tried to push him away, but he was far stronger. Panicked, her mind lashed out. The attack was instinctive, though even to her, it felt clumsy—a crowbar instead of a scalpel.
The psychic blast sent Charles reeling. His grip on her faltered, and he stumbled backward. Miriya raced from the room, scrambled down the curved staircase, and ran headlong into a broad chest.
Strong hands seized her arms. A male voice drawled, “And what have we here?”
Pressure pushed against her mind. She gasped, and then gritted her teeth against the pain. Tears stung her eyes, blurring her vision as she stared up into the face of the man who had spoken to Charles, the mastermind behind the psychotic plan to drag the Mutant Affairs Council into open war. She saw glimpses of Scott Devereaux in his face, in the chiseled line of his jaw and cheekbones, but he appeared older, and his eyes were colder and harder.
Gathering her will about her, she shoved back with her mind, and hit the psychic equivalent of a granite wall. The man’s psychic shields were even stronger than Jake’s. The collision sent a burst of strobe lights flashing through her mind. The world around her vanished in a glare of nauseating white, before inching into normal hues.
He chuckled, apparently amused by her attempt to fight back. “An alpha telepath, huh? It looks like you’re no more trained than those beggars crawling around my grandmamma, hoping for a handout. Let me show you a thing or two about psychic shields.”
He pulled her up the stairs and pushed her through the open door of Charles’s room.
Charles was leaning against the wall, breathing heavily. He shook his head. “Don’t hurt her. Please.”
The man looked at Charles. A slow smile crept across his face. “Ah, so you know her.”
“Let her go. She’s not part of your plan.”
“I’ll decide whether she’s part of my plan. But first, those psychic shields.” He returned his attention to Miriya. “Let’s see how well they hold up.”
She braced herself for his mental attack, but the
blow across her face caught her off-guard. It hurled her into the stone wall. Before she could recover, he was on her. He ripped her dress from her body. His hand squeezed her breast and his other hand shoved between her thighs.
For a split second, she froze.
Charles lunged forward to defend her, but a psychic attack from the man sent him stumbling back. An instant later, agony bludgeoned Miriya to her knees, wrenching a scream from her. Shafts of pain pulsed through her shattered psychic shields.
She could feel his psychic touch, like claws, ripping through her mind, digging through her memories, shredding her. She curled into fetal ball even though she knew she could not protect herself. The mental assault was worse than the physical attack that had distracted her from maintaining her psychic defenses.
The man’s low laughter throbbed through her aching skull, as intimate and violating as an unwanted caress. “So, you’re here with the council. Came to save Charles Brandon, did you?” He snorted. “When did the council start sending out amateurs, feeble alpha telepath wannabes?” He turned his back on her. “Go back to school, girl. You’re not worth my time. The council will scramble its enforcers, in spite of your warning, and in less than two hours, there will be a grand battle in the Mistick Krewe building.” He spread his hands, the gesture welcoming. His teeth flashed white in his perfect smile. “Scott will die, and grandmamma too. The members of the Mistick Krewe will look to me, naturally, to take up the hereditary leadership role that has always belonged to the Devereauxes.”
Miriya dragged herself to her feet and tried to hold the tattered remains of her dress together. She could not marshal a psychic attack. Hell, it took all her energy to form coherent sentences. “So, that’s all this is? A stupid-ass bid for power that’s going to get several dozen innocent people killed in the process?”
He spun around and stalked up to her. “My grandmamma is like a vampire. She just won’t die, and she won’t gracefully step aside either. My father died, white-haired and feeble, still waiting for his chance for lead the Mistick Krewe. I won’t let it happen to me.” His gaze raked over her half-naked body. His lip curled with obvious disgust. “And you can’t stop me.”
He walked out of the room. The door locked behind him, and Miriya heard the sound of a bolt sliding into place. Bile mixed with the tears clogging her throat. What have I done?
Charles still wore a grimace of pain but he straightened slowly. He shrugged out of his sweater and walked over to her. “Here, you have to keep warm.” He tugged it over her head and then drew her gently into his arms. His presence warmed her and steadied her through the shudders wracking her body.
“So, you’re not with him?” Miriya asked finally, her voice still trembling.
Charles shook his head. “No, of course not. You can search my mind; you’ll know I’m telling you the truth.”
“I touched your mind.” She shuddered. “I didn’t want to go deeper.”
To her surprise, he grinned. “Oh, that. It worked, then.”
“What worked?”
“My prurient sexual fantasies.”
Miriya rolled her eyes. Only an intellectual like Charles would know what to do with a word like prurient. “You mean—”
“Some non-mutants can form psychic shields; others, like me, can’t. Keeping those thoughts front and center helps deter some puritan telepaths who dread digging deeper into an obviously sick mind.”
“So, you don’t actually like doing it with children?”
“God, no.” His mouth quirked into a sardonic grin. “I’m sure they’re not experienced enough to be particularly good in bed, and I’d have to do all the work. How is that a satisfying sexual encounter for me?”
Miriya’s shoulders sagged with a sigh. She had not been wrong about Charles. The prepubescent fantasies were a façade, which was not part of the composite picture she had built up of him, of his general good nature, his keen intellectual moorings, and his obvious interest in women, usually blond and skinny.
His chest rumbled as he chuckled. “Threw you for a loop, didn’t it?”
She pushed away from him and looked up at his face. “Did you know I was a telepath, before this, I mean?”
“Of course.” Charles nodded. “I do occasional work for the council. I know my way around psychics. I know when someone’s trying to manipulate me telepathically.”
“And you let me do it without calling me out on it?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t see the harm in it. It’s not as if I objected to spending money on a pretty girl and getting a few dates out of it in the bargain.”
“But we didn’t—” She bit down on her lip.
“Have sex?” Charles shook his head and frowned. “Miriya, you need to give friendship—basic friendship—a bit more credit. Your company and conversation at dinner or the museum was payment enough. Besides, you came out here to find me anyway. That’s just friendship, right?”
She gaped at him for a moment before relaxing into a grin. “Yeah, that’s right.” She took several steps away from him. “Why did you pull me into the room?”
“Because I heard him coming. Figured we could surprise him, but I guess that didn’t work out quite so well.”
“Freaking me out is not the key to surprising him.”
“Point noted, though maybe you should learn to trust more.”
“Trust people?”
“No, trust yourself and what you know about people. You’re a telepath. You should have character judgment down to a science.”
Miriya swallowed hard through the lump in her throat. She was completely out of her depth, but Charles’s faith in her humbled her. She looked around the room and tried not to wince at the way the room spun slowly around her. Her head hurt too badly to focus her telepathic powers. “Any ideas how to get out of here?”
“No, unless you’re a closet telekinetic.”
“Nope, but I have this.” She reached into her bra and pulled out her smartphone. She waved it at Charles, a cheeky grin forming on her face.
Charles laughed. “There’s a reason amateurs are more unpredictable and dangerous than professionals. Most alpha telepaths don’t carry phones. They don’t need them.”
She stared at her phone. “We could call the cops, but in a city like New Orleans, they’ve probably been paid by the Mistick Krewe.”
“The council?”
“Already left a message with them. We could try again,” she said, but even she heard the doubt in her voice.
Charles shook his head. “They’ll get the message to where it needs to go. Whether they decide to act on it is an entirely separate matter.”
“Do you have any friends in high places? The FBI? CIA?”
“Yes, but they know I’m a council operative. They’re not going to send humans into a fight involving mutants.”
Miriya glared at him. “So, we have a phone and no one to call for help?”
Charles glanced out the window, a thoughtful expression on his face. A slow smile inched across his lips. “Amelie Devereaux. Call her.”
Miriya stared at Charles and shook her head. “Amelie Devereaux isn’t going to take my call. She’s the hostess of the party, for crying out loud.”
“Look, her life is at stake here. She’s got about ninety minutes left to live.”
She muttered a curse and stalked away. A call to the phone directory confirmed that Madame Amelie Devereaux was unlisted, as was the Mistick Krewe. Of course, they were unlisted; the Mistick Krewe was a secret society after all.
Miriya paced the room, breathing deep and slow breaths to counter the unending shafts of pain pulsing through her skull. She had to reach Madame Devereaux, and if the phone was not going to work, then all that was left to her were her telepathic powers—the same telepathic powers that had not been strong enough to stand up to another alpha telepath.
She stood by the window, gulping in the cool air, bracing herself for the pain that she knew would follow. Minutes passed.
A si
gh shuddered out of her. She would never be mentally ready. It was probably best to jump in and deal with the psychic costs, a breath at a time.
Miriya closed her eyes. Her hands gripped hard on the windowsill.
Her mind, still reeling from the psychic attack, reached out to touch the mind that had briefly connected with hers. Madame Devereaux.
A moment of silence, then a startled response. Yes?
A wave of anguish spun nausea through her stomach. She had to concentrate, focus her rapidly fading psychic strength. Miriya gritted her teeth. Your grandson. Not Scott.
Lionel?
Trying to kill you, make it look accidental. Council’s on its way. Miriya swayed on her feet. Coldness surged through her. Her mind struggled to shape words. Big fight—
Where are you, child?
Her body crumpled, curling in upon itself, as she collapsed to the floor.
“Miriya!”
Dimly, she heard Charles’s alarmed cry, but she could not respond. The world behind her eyes flashed blinding white before plunging into darkness.