Return to Afterthought

The silence was an odd thing to notice. Generally Ayan valued silence greatly, and even more so the empty nothing that came with it.

He'd just expected that when his world fell apart, there'd be more noise.

Most of Marcus's men fell to some unseen assailant, bodies jerking and dancing to the disembodied strings of an invisible puppeteer. Ayan didn't know whether they were dead, but their pain and fear still reverberated through his head every time he let go of Marcus's hand.

"This way." Marcus dragged him down a dark corridor. The power was already out in the building, and the emergency lighting drenched everything in a muted blood-red glow. "Try to keep up, Ayan."

Ayan stumbled, wishing for nothing more than to be able to yank his hand from Marcus's. The repercussions wouldn't be pleasant. Holding on was the lesser evil by far, clinging was easier than fighting.

"I told you, didn't I?" he said. "I told you something was wrong."

"So you did." Marcus grit his teeth, black braid swinging and flicking like a scorpion's tail, lashing out at Ayan. "So you did..."

It was only his worry that had led Marcus to put in place a makeshift defense just before the ambush began, but Ayan didn’t remind him of that. Much as Marcus claimed to value Ayan's powers, when those powers warned him of his own failures and lax security, it wasn't quite so endearing.

Marcus opened a door that led to a narrow staircase, and pushed Ayan up ahead of him.

"But, Marcus--"

"Last I heard, Paths can't fly," Marcus said, setting off up the steps toward the rooftop, passing him without a glance. "It'll be safe enough up here. I've got the chopper on its way."

Ayan didn't question how or when Marcus made those arrangements. After all, Marcus Rose didn't need cell phones or radios.

Still the uneasiness that had followed him all day like an oppressive storm just off radar continued to trail their escape. He had little doubt that Marcus would escape--Marcus always did--but how he'd achieve it in the face of such an overwhelming threat was another matter altogether.

He tripped on the steps, hand wrenching free from Marcus's grasp to brace himself. Marcus didn't stop to wait, and Ayan had to hurry to his feet to catch up, keep up.

Always keeping up with someone, always watching someone's retreating back. Marcus promised him when he brought Ayan here that those days were finally over; if he fell behind now, he'd be throwing it all away.

"Marcus--"

"Get a move on," Marcus snapped, not looking back. "I won't be trapped like some rat by these fools."

The fire escape door at the top of the stairs opened out onto the rooftop. A cold wind bustled up from the streets below on a current of wailing sirens and the gasoline stench of traffic. A sky, black tinged with orange, hung so low above them he could almost reach up and touch it.

There were stars somewhere beyond the murk, he knew, even though he couldn't see it. He had to believe they were still there.

As they approached the edge of the building, a deep rumbled hum reverberated from somewhere beneath their feet. Moments later, a helicopter crested the rooftop, hovering like a metallic dragonfly in the air before dipping slightly, making its way to the centre of the roof where it could land.

Ayan breathed a little easier. He'd never doubted Marcus, but ... well, even his lover could make mistakes.

Lover. Years after Marcus took him in, many months after their affair began, and he still had no better word to describe a man he certainly didn't love, but depended on the way he depended on air, on water, on day following night. He doubted Marcus loved him in return, but he took care of him, and that was all Ayan wanted of him.

With Marcus, he didn't have to think, didn't have to feel. He could just be, and be safe.

Even now, when the rest of his valued entourage fell to their pursuers, Marcus made sure he took Ayan with him when he escaped.

Fleeing at midnight from the top of a high-rise in a blacked-out helicopter; it wasn't exactly how Ayan envisioned his life would go, but since the day he'd realized he was different, he'd known nothing would be ordinary again. It didn't mean he couldn't yearn for it. It was still there, somewhere, he thought. Like those stars.

He followed Marcus toward the chopper, one hand up to keep the wind out of his eyes. Past the rushing of wind and motors, he could hear the crackle of the pilot speaking on the radio, heard the resonant hum of the rotor blades as they sliced the sky.

Marcus climbed into the helicopter's cabin, and Ayan had one hand on the edge of the open door, one foot on the skids when Marcus turned to him.

"Wait."

"What?" Ayan felt the words snatched from his lips, more by bewildered surprise than the wind. "What's wrong?"

Marcus tilted his head, inhumanly calm, watching him thoughtfully.

"You are aware of your function, yes?"

"Is this the time for a pop quiz?" He frowned. Marcus silenced him with a glance. "Yes, I'm aware, but--"

"Good."

Marcus drew him close, and for a fearful moment he thought Marcus might actually kiss him. Even ignoring the situation, the danger, he didn't want such a clear sense of Marcus's thoughts. There was a calculating darkness in Marcus's eyes that Ayan didn't want in his head.

But Marcus just gazed to him, black stare boring into Ayan's until he could almost feel the cold vines of it probing his soul with dispassionate fingers.

Then Marcus let him go.

Ayan stumbled back, the rooftop tilting like an ocean swell beneath his feet, his body unable to support itself. He dropped to his knees as the helicopter took off, rotors whipping up a wind that sent his hair tangling around his face, gladly blocking off his view.

Somewhere--out loud, in his head, Ayan couldn't tell--he thought he heard Marcus's voice.

"I'll find you."

The sentiment should have been a comfort, but to Ayan the words sounded like a threat, as a consequence of some slight he hadn't even realized he'd committed yet.

Pushing his hair back from his face as the wind eased, he was still staring at the flickering lights of the departing helicopter when the door onto the rooftop opened behind him. He could feel at least a half dozen pursuers, maybe more. At the best of times his powers weren't too accurate in a crowd, and these were certainly not the best of times.

However many of them were there, they filed out onto the rooftop in silence, just the occasional scuff of a shoe against the ground, or the rustle of clothes announcing their presence.

He must look like a forlorn child to these people, a foolish dog still staring at the front door expecting its errant master to come home soon.

Marcus wasn't coming back. The man who promised Ayan that he would never be alone again had left him here.

Summoning what tattered pieces of his dignity he could find, he turned to face his pursuers.

"Slowly," A clipped voice said behind him. "If you so much as breathe wrong, I shoot."

Ayan did as he was told, keeping his hands held out slightly at his sides as he stood. Instinct, he supposed; there was no other particular reason he wanted to stay alive, except that Marcus would kill him himself if Ayan chose an easy out.

Instinct also had him sending out questing feelers of power as he turned around, trying to figure out his captor while he had the chance. There was no point; he couldn't feel a thing. As much emotion emanated from the nondescript young man as did from the gleaming black handgun he held aimed at Ayan's chest.

"Where is he?"

Emotion or not, Ayan knew the man meant Marcus. Everyone meant Marcus.

Yet if he admitted he didn't know, he wouldn't only be selling out on Marcus, he'd be selling out on his own desperate foolishness. How could he, of all people, be seen to be as much of an idiot as everyone else, as much in the dark?

He said nothing, bracing himself for the impact of the shot.

The man shrugged. "Fine. Then you'll come with us until you're feeling more talkative."

One nod brought several of the other men to surround Ayan like a dark-suited fence, until the oppressiveness of it made him dizzy. Closing his eyes against a wave of nausea, he tried to focus on anything else that might distract him.

"The building is secure, sir." One of the suited goons reported. "We're calling ahead, is everything we need at the facility?"

"Call Vance," he heard the man say, and for the first time he felt a flicker of something coming from the guarded psyche; admiration, affection, and not a little annoyance. Whoever Vance was--Ayan drew out the name in his head, harsh and sibilant--he was someone who could create ripples of emotion in an otherwise empty pond. "He can deal with this. Let him do some work for a change."

There weren’t many jobs where the employees could carry out business in dark corners of smoky clubs and still call it legitimate work. No one besides bartenders. And him.

The second hand on the platinum Rolex ticked down the last breaths of the minute, bright little flickers of movement on the periphery of his vision in the dim light. Vance took a long slow drag on his fifth cigarette of the evening, gaze trained on the door. Right on cue, a man walked in, making his way through the clustered groups toward the bar.

There was nothing remarkable about Bobby Walker. Generically handsome but nothing that stood out, nothing anyone here would remember, even if Vance allowed them to. Sometimes he did, just to see if he’d be caught. He was never sure whether he was relieved or disappointed when no one did.

He watched as Bobby gave his order to the bartender, who looked Vance’s way when the order ended with “...Oh, and send the guy at that table another of whatever he’s drinking.”

Free drinks were just a simple perk. He’d known the value of simple perks long before the reality of his situation became apparent.

When he’d been a kid, Vance Gregory had made his dad leave the keys in an idling car, just by thinking how cool it’d be if the old guy just plain forgot about it, just went into the house and shut the door. To this day it brought a smile to his face, picturing his dad’s face as he tried explaining to the cops that he had no idea how his ten year old son could have found the keys, let alone driven the car three blocks before it skewed off the road into someone’s front yard.

At least these days, he didn’t have to give the cars back. And no one ever looked at him the way those cops had looked at his dad--like he was out of his damned mind.

Vance Gregory wasn’t out of his mind, he was just in other people’s.

He wouldn’t have to toy with Bobby's mind much longer though, fortunately. When the bartender brought over the drink, Vance feigned surprise at the kind gesture, raising the glass slightly in Bobby's direction in mock thanks.

Stubbing out the cigarette, he refrained from tapping a sixth out of the packet. Something new and far more interesting was fluttering against the edges of his thoughts, and he didn’t want to draw undue attention to himself yet, not when things were only getting started.

He didn't have to wait long.

The man that walked into the club would have turned heads where ever he went, with his pale skin, sharp features, and the long black hair that fell in a thick rope of a braid down his back.

Marcus Rose.

Nothing ordinary about this one, and no one would have paid attention to the three goons that subtly trailed him into the room. Vance smiled as the black haired man scanned the room, gaze landing on the same target at the bar. Robert J. Walker. Small time dealer specializing in the kind of mind altering substances that allowed Marcus Rose and his kind greater access to the human user's mind. Word on the street was that good ol' Bobby had turned informant, and was endangering all of Marcus's operations.

He hadn't of course, but the rumor had certainly forced Marcus out into the open.

Only the swirling ice cubes in his scotch were privy to Vance’s smile. He didn’t need to look up, he could watch proceedings through Bobby's eyes now that there was something worthy of seeing.

Tendrils of his consciousness seeping through Bobby's like a vine, he turned Bobby to face Marcus, made him smile, made him raise his glass in a parody that probably only amused Vance.

They were his thoughts, but Bobby's voice, his lips that moved to speak. “Did you want something?”

"No," Marcus smiled, showing teeth, the expression too angular and gaunt to be handsome. "I think I've found what I wanted."

Back at the office at the OPS headquarters, he had a file several inches thick on Marcus Rose, but it still didn’t quite prepare him for the near electric charge of being this close. He wasn’t even deliberately touching Marcus’s mind but he could still feel it, like static. Powerful, but then he knew that already. He wouldn’t be here wasting his time for anything less.

“Well... " His thoughts spilled from Bobby's lips again. "I guess that depends on what you were looking for in the first place, doesn’t it?”

Something swarmed at Bobby's mind, and Vance retreated a little, just enough to allow Marcus's influence to touch his own.

Come outside with me.

The touch felt cold, unnatural even for Vance's experience. For a moment he worried that Marcus knew he was there when that dark gaze swept the bar again. Just checking for witnesses, no doubt, but it paid to be careful.

He let Bobby's face fall into a suitably slack expression as he nodded, and Marcus's smile quirked as Vance encouraged his new toy off the stool, following Marcus toward the back of the club.

So good. Mr. Rose wasn’t going to disappoint. He wasn’t as good as Vance, obviously, no one was, but he was the best opponent he’d had in a very long while.

He’d need to be more careful than usual, but when the rewards were this enticing that wasn’t exactly a chore.

Sinking back slightly into his chair, Vance slipped off his wire-rimmed glasses, polishing them on his tie. He looked okay as far as he could tell, from the occasional glances he allowed Bobby to take in his direction. He’d bought this suit last week and it already looked as though he’d been sleeping in it ever since. His dark gold hair looked as though it had needed a cut about six weeks ago, but had given up the ghost when none was forthcoming and contented itself with brushing his collar and falling into his eyes. It was too dark to actually see his eyes, but the glasses caught the light a little too much for his liking, so they had to go. It was better than a mirror, seeing someone else’s three-dimensional view of himself, and it paid to check now and then. If he became engrossed in his task, sometimes it showed, and someone like Marcus Rose would surely notice.

There was nothing to notice. Just an average guy enjoying a drink all on his lonesome.

Putting a little more of a spin on his hold of Bobby's thoughts, enough to throw Marcus off if he decided to probe a little deeper, he tried to keep the amusement out of the feigned shock.

“What’s going on? Where are we going?”

Marcus didn't answer. Outside the club, any pretence at seduction was gone, replaced by a pensive irritation.

Vance let a tendril of his own slip forth, feeling the annoyance, the frustration. Walker. Time wasting. Foolish. Something was bothering Marcus that was greater than their mutual friend.

The goons drew in around Bobby. Vance allowed him to splutter and back fearfully against a wall.

"Wait, what are--"

Through Bobby's eyes, he caught sight of a black car, devoid of any insignia or identifying mark. Then there was just blackness and static as one of the goons threw a punch, and Bobby's head ricocheted between the beefy fist and the wall like a Ping-Pong ball.

Well damn.

Vance chuckled to himself, shaking his head. He wasn't in any danger from Bobby's current predicament--if he awoke and Vance had withdrawn from his thoughts, he wouldn’t remember a thing, and no doubt his babbling would be taken for deceit. No, the real issue was where he’d been taken, more importantly how far they were going.

He wouldn't let his quarry escape that easily. He hadn’t felt this kind of adrenaline rush in forever, and he didn’t have anywhere near enough information to lose his hold on his little puppet quite yet. And seeing as he couldn’t really trace the thoughts of an unconscious man, he’d have to follow the trail of that crackling static...

He sighed good-naturedly, finishing off his drink, and pocketing his cigarette and the lighter, pulling out his car keys instead.

You’re really going to make me chase you, aren’t you Mr. Rose...

The evening was cool and pleasant outside, and Vance could think of a million better things to do. Most of those ended with his boss killing him for walking out on a job, so he reluctantly let them slide. The static from Bobby's scrambled mind lingered like a stale smell, moving and drifting, and he forced himself to focus on its meandering path as he got into his car.

Subterfuge, discretion and blending in, the cornerstones of successful stealth. None of which really applied to the low-slung dark blue Jaguar that passed for Vance’s company car. Well ... the company paid for it, they just weren’t aware of the fact. Its engines rumbled like its namesake’s purr, as it prowled through the streets at a careful distance.

It wasn’t as though he was following a car, he probably wouldn’t have been able to describe the vehicle if prompted. No, he was following a mental scent, the vibration of a thought-pattern.

He could even afford to let them out of his sight now and then, stay a few streets apart. He could feel the path the car was taking, his target was leaving him a trail of bread crumbs with every thought.

He turned onto a dark, empty street in time to see the black car slink through the rusted gates of an old warehouse. He slowed, but didn’t stop as he passed the gates. It was too dangerous to stop here; as abandoned as it looked, there was probably surveillance coming out the wazoo. As long as he was within this kind of distance, he could still do his job. Probably. And if not, well ... mind control didn’t work so well on security cameras, but it did on those operating them.

He eventually parked a street away, sitting in the dark, closing his eyes and trying to pick up the bread crumbs again.

With Bobby still out cold, there was no way to physically watch proceedings. He could have latched onto one of the other minds he felt nearby, intangible as fog, impossible to define in the haze. Still, he preferred to have an idea about what--or who--he was jumping into before he actually did. He reached into his pocket, retrieving the cigarette and lighter. The orange flame illuminated his face for a moment, before settling back into darkness, nothing but the glowing ember of the cigarette brightening with every slow drag.

Touching Bobby's thoughts was painful, but it couldn’t be avoided. The sooner Vance could wake him up, the sooner the pain would ease. Massaging his temples, migraine-like flickers of light and shadow dancing across his closed eyelids, he tried to will Bobby to wake the fuck up already.

Each time it felt like he was about to succeed, each time Bobby almost stirred to life, he crashed up against a metaphoric wall, and it dawned on him that it wasn’t just a smack to the head keeping Bobby under.

Well fine. If Mr. Rose was into playing dirty, Vance knew those games really well. Tucking into a corner of Bobby's mind, he waited.

When Bobby's vision cleared, the fuzzy black haze became an up close and personal view of Marcus's face hovering above him. Just an experimental tug confirmed that Bobby's body was bound to a table or a beam. The same goons loomed on the periphery.

Marcus smiled down at him, slow and seductive.

"How nice of you to join us again."

In his car, Vance chuckled softly to himself, blowing out a thin narrow ribbon of smoke. Nice view. It didn’t feel as though Bobby could manage a different one if he tried--and he was, the sense of struggle was cloying--but if he had to stare at something, well ... there were worse things.

He could have stilled Bobby's irritating sense of panic with as little effort as it took to breathe in a slow drag on the cigarette. But watching this unfold for a moment was much more interesting. He smiled, curling back into the shadows of Bobby's mind as the words tumbled out, bewildered and anxious.

“What.? I don’t ... where am I? What are you doing?!”

Marcus just tilted his head, hawkish smile never wavering.

"I've heard disturbing things about you, Mr. Walker," he said. "Worrying things that, unless you answer very carefully, will end up with you dead."

A hand came to rest on Bobby's chest, a heavy, threatening caress.

Bobby scrambled to try and answer, digging around his thoughts as though he really should know, but didn’t. “But I haven’t, I...! I didn’t say anything!”

Vance could have put the poor thing out of his misery, but once he linked into the man’s thoughts, other things, like that sensation of weight against Bobby’s chest, would fade to a barely perceptible haze, and he wasn’t quite through enjoying it yet.

Marcus nodded toward one of the goons, whose presence then shifted from Bobby's line of sight. Somehow Vance doubted he'd gone for a coffee and a donut.

"You're going to make me work for it, I see." Marcus smiled, unflinchingly reasonable. "I had hoped you'd make it brief. I have an important engagement shortly."

It was too tempting, as he’d always suspected this game would be. Power creeping in against Bobby’s weakened mind, he asserted control over those panicked thoughts, calming them. The man’s body stilled and relaxed a little as a result.

“I just...” It was a fight to keep the amusement from Bobby’s voice, still a little whiny and thready, as he put the words in the man’s mouth. “I just ... want to know...”

He paused, waiting, watching the tiniest signals that Marcus was actually listening, that he was hoping for some intelligent answer, before letting a smile that really didn’t belong there spread over Bobby’s face.

"Are you blowing me off for a hot date?"

He succeeded in making Marcus's brow rise slightly in surprise, before it settled into a conspiratorial smile, and Vance felt the first attempts of Marcus's power creeping against Bobby's mind.

Powerful Paths normally canceled each other out, like the eternal repelling of identical magnetic poles. They could be aware of each other's presence, they could even share the mental space between if the Linker binding them was strong enough to endure, but they could rarely read each other and they could coexist even less. It would be easier for Vance if he could have read Marcus, but admittedly less fun.

Bobby Walker wasn't strong. Marcus could push Vance out but they couldn’t share the space. He wasn't concerned by Marcus poking around, but drew back a little at the nudges of searching power, flattening his own against the recesses of Bobby’s mind. No point making it easy.

Word was that the drugs Marcus and his underlings were pushing made any human's mind strong enough to complete the chain. A strong Path could do enough damage to a weaker mind. Vance didn't want to know what the fight itself would do to an unwilling Linker.

"That would be telling," Marcus said, smiling slyly. "Though, why would you be concerned with that, hmm? Interested in a hot date of your own?"

Cute. He didn’t even need to be a telepath to read that look, that tone of voice. The laugh that escaped Bobby’s lips was Vance’s, and he made no effort to hide that fact. “Seen worse. I’d do you."

Marcus's gaze sharpened, and if he didn't know already, Vance could tell from that look that Marcus knew Bobby wasn't alone in there anymore. A hand rested on Bobby's thigh, sliding higher.

"You like games, Bobby?"

“You tell me. You seem to know an awful lot already.” Vance let Bobby’s face slide into a grin, showing teeth. He allowed a tiny flicker of power to reach out, licking playfully at Marcus’s thoughts before darting back.

"If I knew an awful lot already, you wouldn't be in this position, now would you?" Marcus cocked his head, hand insinuating snugly between Bobby's legs, squeezing a little too hard to be pleasure, a little too sweetly to be pain.

"Ah, and here I thought the whole table thing was just a kink you had. You’ve shattered my illusions, I hope you’re happy.” Vance chuckled.

"Sorry to disappoint," Marcus said. The goon he'd sent off returned with a tray of items. Without letting go, Marcus spent several moments perusing the contents, and Vance doubted he was picking out a ring. "Kinkiest thing about me is my penchant for blondes."

“Blondes." Vance laughed, recalling Bobby's mid-brown hair. "Interesting. You know they’re more intelligent than their reputation would have you believe.”

Marcus ignored him. He finally chose something from the tray. Vance flinched despite himself at the glint of a blade

"Now would be a good time to talk," Marcus said.

"C'mon, where's the give and take in this conversation? You only ask, ask, ask, you never tell me a thing about yourself.

"Something about me?" Marcus watched him. "People who cross me end up dead. How about that?"

“Oh.” The syllable was deadpan at seeing the light glint off the scalpel. “Don’t hurt me. Oh no. Please don’t hurt me.” The raised brow was another expression that didn’t quite belong on Bobby’s face. “Did that work?”

Marcus paused with the sharp steel of the blade at the hollow of Bobby's throat. Vance could just about feel the cold metal kissing skin.

"Hmm..." Marcus glanced at him, smiling knowingly. "I wonder how much I can do to him before I get to you?"

"What makes you think ol' Bobby wouldn't be smart enough to do this on his own? Or maybe I'm just crazy. It happens."

Marcus's smile widened. "Not since the last time I had him checked out. Always pays to ensure your test subjects are in good health."

Well shit, that was unexpected. Pietro hadn't warned him about that. If Bobby was a user, then this was an entirely different situation.

"I'm a reasonable man," Marcus said. "Tell me what I need to know and we can end this. You wouldn't let someone as insignificant as Bobby Walker take the credit for your efforts, would you? And if you're close enough to do this, then you're well aware of what'd happen to you if," the blade pressed a little deeper, "my hand slipped."

Oh, yeah. He knew exactly what could happen, if his consciousness was deeply entwined with Bobby's when the end came.

"I’m really going to stay here and let you do that." The suggestion was made to flesh, and Bobby stretched lazily against the bonds again. “But you got me there. I’m far too proud of my work to allow this poor loser to take credit. Of course, you’re not going to kill Bobby before you find out what I really want.” In the darkness of the car, Vance smiled as he turned Bobby’s gaze back to Marcus. “Wasn’t that the plan when you went all commando on this poor guy’s ass in the first place? Find out what his agenda might be.”

Marcus stilled, and Vance felt the faint stirrings of anger. He moved too fast for Vance's mind to catch, grabbing a handful of Bobby's hair and yanking his head back. The blade sliced a shallow cut against skin.

"There are many ways of doing that," Marcus said, before running a slow lick along Bobby's jaw.

Vance didn’t feel any pain himself--or the pleasure, unfortunately--but the increase in the power nudging against his own was just as uncomfortable as any physical damage. If he drew back any further, he’d lose his hold altogether, and he didn’t see poor Bobby doing himself any favors if he came back into his body now.

It was just as risky fragmenting his hold, scattering the thoughts, embedding deeper in his unwilling host’s mind to better shield his presence.

“I knew you were the kinky type.”

Marcus didn't seem amused. The knife pressed a little deeper, and he leaned closer, lips nuzzling the skin beneath Bobby's ear, words a vibrating rumble.

"You wish."

“I do, you know.” Vance chuckled, aware of Bobby’s body beginning to twitch as an instinctive reaction to that touch. He didn’t have the hold he wanted, but that didn’t matter. He had something far better, he had Marcus Rose’s attention. He could pull back now, drive home and go to bed and Marcus would still be consumed by the need to know who he was, what he wanted. That would be the safe option. “I understand kinky people much better than normal people.”

"Is that your thing?" Marcus asked. "It certainly was never Bobby's."

"Might have been a side effect of whatever you were pumping into him." Vance paused, questioning that turn of phrase now, considering the position Bobby was in. Maybe Bobby and Marcus were a lot closer than they'd realized.

Curiouser and curiouser...

Vance was always the one doing the chasing. There was quite a thrill in being chased, especially by a prey that seemed as though he could keep up.

“Me? I’m the clean-living vanilla missionary position type...” In the car, the flare of the lighter as it ignited another cigarette illuminated a wicked grin. Shame Vance couldn’t transfer it to Bobby now, but the poor guy didn’t feel as though he was doing so good. “I’m positively angelic.”

Marcus chuckled, teeth latching onto Bobby's lower lip and biting down hard.

"I'm sure you are," Marcus said, evidently unconcerned and Vance didn't like the possible reasons why.

Bobby's voice was getting thready. Granted it was hard to sound smart when your throat was being carved out, but still, it was disappointing. “Give it up, Marcus. You’ll have to try harder than this to find me.”

Marcus drew back, digging the blade deeper. It was hard to gauge without the accompanying pain, but Vance felt the body he occupied beginning to give way, and painless or not it wasn't a good plan to be in Bobby's mind when it shut down.

But Marcus still hovered over him calmly, sharp hooks of his psyche latching into the feeble mind that stood between them. His voice was soft as he shook his head.

"No, I won't."

Before Vance could pull back, the barrier between them fell away, and he got a glimpse of exactly what Marcus's drugs did to a Linker. Bobby's mind wasn't even that anymore, but a room, a tangible space that was being drawn to Marcus's specifications even as Vance watched. There was something intolerably dangerous and ridiculously protective about the sensation, all at once. Nothing outside could get in, nothing could escape. A flare of something like temptation bloomed in the back of his thoughts. It was easy to see why people wanted what Marcus had to offer if it felt this way.

It was also why Vance had to stop him.

He'd never been the humans' biggest advocate, but they didn't deserve to become disposable little chat-rooms for powerful Paths.

That room--an old-fashioned study--was as vivid a construction as anything Vance could have created himself. He was impressed, he was a little envious and a lot curious. He’d met plenty of people in his line of work who played games, but they were all party tricks, never anything close to his league. Never anything like this. As much as he was being lured, he had plenty Marcus wanted to know too, neither would let their guard down enough for this to be truly dangerous.

Just as the blade twisted, he managed to wrench his thoughts back from Bobby, but not before he felt the brush of Marcus's mind against his own, cold and jagged as broken glass.

"Next time," Marcus's mind spoke directly to his. "You'd better have the courage to face me yourself."

Next time...

Vance was breathless, and barely noticed. He considered stubbing out the cigarette, but deciding that would be a waste, he rolled down the window instead, breathing in the crisp night air and letting it cool away any lingering remembrance of Marcus's psyche. It took a couple of attempts to get the car started, and even longer to twist and turn through dark side streets until he felt he was far enough away from the warehouse to lower his defenses.

In the passenger seat next to him, his cell phone shrieked.

Vance didn’t do multitasking well. He figured he did everything else perfectly, so he supposed something had to give, but taking this call--especially seeing who was on the line--made him groan out loud.

He flicked the phone open, jabbing at the buttons, growling. “Godsfuckingdammit, what?!”

“Where are you?”

“Maui.”

“I hear it’s nice this time of year." On the other end of the line, Pietro Gratteri sighed, a short exhale of breath that encapsulated all the innumerable ways Vance disappointed him. "What happened?"

"Walker's dead."

Pietro said nothing, and in lieu of the distraction, Vance saw Bobby's face again, smiling at him in the bar.

When Pietro set up the Organization for Path Security--OPS--Vance knew he did what he did to keep humans safe from the likes of Marcus Rose. From the likes of them, too. Risks were part of the job, but it didn't mean Pietro would be happy.

When was he happy where Vance was concerned?

"Marcus needs to be stopped," Vance said eventually, wishing it held more conviction. Wishing he hadn't felt the temptations of what Marcus had to offer.

"That was the point of this evening, wasn't it?" Pietro asked, though there wasn't as much accusation in the jibe as there could have been. The evening had been a failure, and failing didn't sit well with Pietro.

"Yeah well. I'm not gonna be able to finish this alone."

Silence, then a mild tone saying, "Are you asking for help, Vance?"

That'd make Pietro happy, no doubt. Vance took another drag, annoyed. "I'm asking for an accomplice."

Pietro was patient while he recounted the details. There was a first time for everything. It just went to show, he supposed, how desperately Pietro's people wanted to get rid of Marcus.

"So you want another pawn, after killing off the last one?" Pietro said eventually. "What makes you think it'll work out any better this time?"

"I told you, that wasn't my fault. And not a pawn." Vance corrected. "It'll work because I want Ayan."

Oh, how he wanted Ayan. Seven ways from Sunday, if Vance had his way. But that was besides the point.

"No."

"Pietro--"

"No. You know better than anyone what we went through to capture him. I refuse to hand him back over to Rose just on your whims."

"It's the only way. He's..." Vance caught himself before admitting Marcus was too strong for him. "We can't do this the easy way."

Pietro remained silent. Vance could picture him sitting at his enormous desk, looking like a scruffy school kid in the headmaster's office. He'd be rubbing his forehead beneath an unruly fall of chestnut hair, blue eyes scrunched in a frown.

No, Vance didn't need to be psychic to know his ex's mannerisms. Especially when Pietro was pissed off at him.

"We'll discuss it," Pietro said. "Right now, get back here. I want a full report on my desk in three hours."

The phone clicked off. Vance looked at the LCD clock in the car and groaned. Pietro'd never forgiven him, he decided. Pietro reserved all those cruel and unusual punishments just for him even now.