Miriya

Chapter 8

Consciousness welcomed her with a breeze about her face. Her eyes still closed and her hand unsteady, Miriya swiped away the sensation.

Large, warm hands captured hers, the touch gentle. "Come on now. Wake up, honey."

She forced her eyes open but closed them when the world, streaked in psychedelic hues, swirled around her. Her skull throbbed as if someone had taken a crowbar to it. Gingerly, she touched her head. It was not in pieces, thank God. The brokenness was only on the inside.

Being a telepath had its drawbacks, and most of them became evident only after losing a fight to another telepath.

She cracked open an eyelid and winced. Charles's face wavered into focus. "What can I get you?" he asked. "Water? Food?"

"A new head."

"If you can make a joke about it, you're probably going to be all right." Charles grinned, supporting her as she pushed to a sitting position. Slow and careful movements helped minimize the sensation of her brain jostling in her skull and the nausea that accompanied it. Several deep breaths anchored her further, and within a few minutes, she felt steady enough to stand.

He hovered next to her, his supporting arm no more than inches away. She wobbled forward. "I think I'm okay."

"You need to take it easy for a bit."

"How long was I out?"

Charles glanced at his watch. "About ninety minutes."

"What?" Her jaw dropped. "The council—"

"I don't know if the enforcers are here, but if there's fighting, I haven't heard any of it yet."

"Nothing happened?"

Charles shook his head.

Miriya's shoulders slumped. She had expected something...anything...to happen. Had she only imagined her psychic conversation with Madame Devereaux?

Possibly. She bit back a hiss of frustration. How could she separate the real from the imagined through that haze of psychic agony? "We've got to get out of here."

"I've tried every door and window."

"But you've unlocked this door."

Charles shrugged. "From the inside, sure, but I can't get through the deadbolt on the other side. The door's solid oak."

"That's it? Just a deadbolt?" Miriya inhaled and pushed her mind out. Pain clawed at the edges of her consciousness, but Charles's arm around her shoulder steadied her. Her telepathic power moved invisibly through physical space, sifting through minds and brushing against psychic shields until it found an unshielded mind.

According to Jake, subtlety was the key in initiating contact with a non-psychic. People were more likely to trust gut instinct than a voice in their head. Guide them, one step at a time.

Miriya shaped an image of the grand foyer, and moved through it, past the milling guests and toward the staircase that wound up to the southern tower. The footsteps hesitated at the bottom of the staircase, but she lured them up with a hint of mystery and the thrill of the unknown. She coaxed those footsteps past other closed doors on each landing, and knew when the person stopped outside her door. Fingertips traced the outline of the deadbolt.

Charles glanced sharply at the faint sound.

Miriya imagined the bolt drawing back, the motion slow and precise. The visual transferred from her mind to that of the person standing outside the door.

Moments later, the bolt slid back. The door swung open.

A young woman in a burgundy gown stood, slack-jawed, outside the room. She blinked, as if startled to find people behind the locked door. Her gold carnival mask fell from her hand.

Charles released Miriya, stepped forward, and picked up the woman's mask from the floor. He offered it to her before leaning forward to place a lingering kiss upon her cheek. "Thank you for saving us." His whisper was low, intimate.

The charming smile on Charles's face was one of his most potent weapons. Non-mutants, Miriya realized, were not unarmed.

The young woman's mouth moved several times before she found her voice. "Are you—? Are you all right?"

"We are now. Thank you." He glanced over his shoulder. "Miriya?"

Miriya nodded. The heel on her left shoe had snapped and her dress was beyond salvage, but fortunately, Charles was a tall man and his sweater covered the curve of her buttocks. If nothing else, she would certainly stand out in the crowd. "Let's go."

She led the way with Charles and the woman following. The stone steps were rough and cold against the soles of her bare feet, but she went as fast as she dared, despite a still-woozy head. She missed her footing twice, but Charles caught her before she tumbled headlong down the stairs.

"Slow down," he cautioned.

A scream, muted by distance, but shrill with panic, pierced the air.

The young woman yelped. "What was that?"

Miriya glanced at her. "Just get out of the house as quickly as you can. Charles, you too."

He arched his eyebrows. The look he gave Miriya questioned her sanity. "Not without you, babe."

"I came here to rescue you—"

"Right, but I'm particularly attached to that sweater you're wearing, so I hope you don't mind if I hang around to rescue it."

She scowled at him.

Charles shrugged. "I could make the case that it's not your fight either."

He was right. It was not her fight, but she could not stomach the idea of Madame Devereaux dying for her grandson's ambition. The old woman reminded Miriya of her grandmother, a matriarch who possessed old-world manners, stately grace, and undisputed charm.

Plus, Miriya wanted to take out the cost of her ruined dress on Lionel's hide.

She hurried down the staircase. "Let's just get to Madame Devereaux. If we can get her safely out of the house, the reason for the fight goes away."

Charles grimaced. His words slapped her with the force of cold, hard blow. "No, the reason for the fight doesn't go away, not if the enforcer, Jake Hansen, is dead."