Sanctuary. ?ilina, Slovakia.

  Reeve lingered in the kitchen after the others had left, staring at a glass of tap water and pretending he could somehow make out their next move in the distorted mirror of its surface. Most of them had gone upstairs, though Hannah was reading a paperback on the couch, giving Reeve meaningful glances more often than really reading. He willfully refused to hear her thoughts.

  Misha came out of the back hallway with his gear tucked under one arm.

  “Hey,” Reeve called before he could change his mind, “give me a sec to get changed and I’ll go with you.”

  Misha stood up from stooping over the pile of straps and knives he’d loudly dropped on the coffee table. His brow furrowed. “Nyet.”

  Reeve took a gulp of water. “You shouldn’t be going out alone.”

  “It’s better than going with your distracted, mopey ass to keep alive. That’s alone but worse.”

  Reeve dumped the water in the sink with a splash and set the glass down a little too hard. “Come on,” he said, turning back around. “I need to get out of here.”

  Misha groaned dramatically and yanked on a buckle, setting it tight. “Are you going to want to talk about it?”

  Reeve gave a quick involuntary glance to the side. Hannah had made her silent exit at some point but was nearby listening. He looked at Misha with his eyebrows raised. “Not a chance.”

  “Fine. Hurry up,” he relented pointing to the stairs.

  Reeve jogged to his room, studiously keeping his eyes straight ahead and not looking into the other rooms in the hall. He threw on some clothes that were sufficiently ruined, grabbed some weapons and a coat, and managed to make it back downstairs as Misha was heading out the door.

  Without being asked, Reeve headed to the small shed in the back of their narrow, overgrown yard and grabbed a red jerry can of fuel. They walked in silence for a long time while Reeve focused on taking in the din of the neighborhood and sorting through it for anything relevant to them. It took more concentration than it used to, to be sure he wouldn’t be detected.

  After a point, though, that became easy and his mind wandered. He needed more distraction. He allowed himself a moment to acknowledge the pathetic state he was in when hunting for monsters was not enough to quiet his inner demons.

  “So,” he began.

  “I thought we had an agreement?” Misha interrupted sourly.

  Reeve rolled his eyes. “I was going to ask how you got into all this.”

  Misha shrugged, though it was hard to tell in his bulky coat. “Had to survive out here somehow.”

  Reeve nodded. “Adam always said not to be afraid of the Church.”

  Misha’s pace slowed a fraction. “I’m surprised you remember that. Or that I exist at all.”

  “I really thought you were still with the company, same as me. They never let me back into the Academy. They would have had to explain why I came back and you didn’t, I guess.”

  Misha laughed humorlessly.

  “What?”

  “The idea that Sol would ever feel obligated to explain itself to anyone—let alone to children.”

  Reeve didn’t answer and carefully shifted the gas can from one hand to the other, shaking out his numb fingers.

  “But really,” Misha continued. “I figured Neptune would have snuffed everything about him out of your mind.”

  “They tried,” Reeve admitted. “But Adam had been teaching me how to resist Reintegration. How to keep things back.”

  Misha did falter then, slowing more and turning to look at him.

  Reeve tilted his head down at an angle to avoid his eyes. “They took a lot. There’s a lot I don’t remember.” His chest hitched. He hadn’t planned on trading one emotional subject for another. Reeve cleared his throat. “Should we slow down here?”

  “Too local. A little farther and we hit tourist bars.” He picked up his pace again. “How much do you remember?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head as though it could knock something loose. “Enough, but some of what I do remember, I don’t trust. I reach for a memory and hit a landmine in my head where they’ve messed with my brain and must have altered the memory instead of redacting it. Some that make Adam look abusive or toxic. At least, that’s what I think it is because it doesn’t jive with other memories. After a while I can’t tell which is real.”

  Misha was quiet, thinking. “I don’t think he was abusive, but you could make an argument that if you’re preemptively training your student to withstand the worst non-lethal punishment Sol has to offer, you should reexamine your fucking teaching style.”

  “That’s fair,” Reeve smiled, though his mind turned to Alex and the mess he’d gotten the others into. Again.

  “The strangest thing is when Alex Reads a memory from me and it’s something I don’t remember and it’s not like there’s this puzzle piece to fit into the gaps I know I have. It’s more like I’ve found a piece that I had no idea was missing and I’ve forgotten I was doing a puzzle in the first place.”

  Misha shook his head. “Should have fought your way out like I did. And they should have never given you a psychometrist. That was stupid of them.”

  “I had already done enough to earn my Icarus number before that.”

  “The whole thing is fucked. Especially the LA Academy.”

  Reeve shrugged. “They could have erased all of us along with Adam. They trained me well and trusted me with a team.”

  Misha rolled his eyes. “Parents don’t get a pat on the back for not murdering the children they created.”

  Reeve had been expecting a ‘Look how well that went’ from him and smiled that Misha had chosen for once not to drag him. Reeve did not return the favor. “They do when you’re one of them.”

  Misha laughed, freer this time. “I’m glad you’re finally sinking to my level.”

  Reeve smiled wryly. “When in Rome.”

  Misha turned left without warning down an alleyway and stopped about a third of the way in, leaning against a brick wall. Reeve set the gas can down with a sigh and leaned opposite him. There was a small pile of cigarette butts at Misha’s feet and he wondered if they were Misha’s or another Child’s from standing here on watch for long hours. More likely, that was just what the ground in an alley looked like, and he only noticed it because of Misha’s boots.

  Misha snapped his fingers within inches of Reeve’s face bringing him back into the moment. “See?” Misha said, dropping his arms to his sides, “this is why I wanted to leave you at home.”

  “I’m fine. I’m listening for thoughts of distress,” he lied.

  Misha gave one silent laugh and lit a cigarette. Reeve made good on his word and listened to locals coming home from work, dead tired and full of nameless longing. The sparse clusters of young tourists, overwhelmed and reckless.

  “So,” Misha started glumly, “You don’t know what happened to Darwin?”

  Reeve swallowed a smile at Misha beginning a conversation, let alone a sentimental one about the kids they grew up with. “I wasn’t allowed any contact. I know they put him through Reintegration too. I could see them bring him past the little window in my door a few times while I was in Neptune containment, but he wasn’t there as long as I was. I doubt they went as hard on him.”

  Misha scowled. “Yes, well, he was soft. They probably didn’t need to.”

  Reeve rolled his shoulder, stretching his neck. He was too tense for what they needed to do if a phage showed up. “I heard Darwin is working in the academy now, but I haven't visited. Don't have it in me."

  He scoffed at that but didn't comment. Misha crossed his arms, settling in for a long wait, his cigarette hanging at a precarious angle from his lips.

  Reeve took a breath against the silence. “I know telepaths scored at two-point-seven and over aren’t allowed to teach in Academies anymore.”

  Misha frowned and furrowed his brow. “That’s out of three, yeah?” Reeve nodded, surprised, and Misha continued, “It’s been a long time since I had to deal with that decimal point Sol bullshit and two-point-whatever doesn't sound very impressive.” Misha stretched an arm. “We don’t grade each other out here.” His smirk faded. “What was Adam?”

  “Two-point-eight.”

  Misha blew out a long breath. “Very reactionary to ban them in the Academy, but maybe not so stupid. That is too much. What are you?”

  Reeve blinked. “My telepathy score?”

  “Da.”

  He made it sound like a simple question but it was oddly personal and Reeve shifted his eyes to the ground. It felt like some combination of his IQ score and detailed images of the inside of his body.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Two-point-five.” He tried to answer matter of factly.

  “Not bad.”

  “No, it’s not,” Reeve replied, sounding more defensive than he’d wanted to. He resisted adding that those tests were done without enhancements like caffeine.

  Misha smirked but left it alone. Reeve was taking care of his own embarrassment just fine on his own.

  A thought hit him and Reeve cocked his head at Misha, narrowing his eyes. “Did you ever mimic Adam?”

  “Yes. I was not supposed to, but…” He shrugged.

  “What was it like?” It was a dangerous balancing act, pushing your telepathy to its natural limit. Too far and it could unravel you.

  Misha laughed. “I don’t remember. It knocked me out. My mimicry wasn’t as good as it is now and it was like plugging into too much current.” Misha made a zapping sound and winced.

  Reeve thought of the blank spaces in his memory and the ones that felt altered, not quite right, like an almost-perfect dub of a foreign film. Misha remembered it all but Reeve didn’t know how to ask. He was forming a question in his head when a vibrant, bitter color spiked through the tangle of minds around them.

  “We’ve gotta go,” he said abruptly, grabbing the gas can and taking off toward the street. He heard Misha behind him so he didn’t stop or look back until he skidded to a stop in front of a narrow stone house off a side street. Misha pushed past him, opening the door as though he was sure it would be unlocked (it was) and barged in. Reeve followed close behind in a cold sweat.

  The flare of color had gone quiet and there was a body lying in the middle of the floor with a man hunched over it. The sight churned his gut, but he was learning the Church never truly expected to save that life, just the ones of all victims that would come after.

  The dog looked up with a bloody chin and Reeve saw their long coats register on its face. It flung itself at them without hesitation. The room was too small and Reeve struggled over furniture, lopping at its neck but missed and stuck his machete hard into a shoulder. He let it go and was wrestling the second machete from his coat when Misha planted his machete into its throat, though not deep enough to cut through. The thing ripped the machete out and whipped around toward Misha. Reeve was standing too close and the quick movement slammed the hilt of his first knife, still embedded, against the side of Reeve’s head like a spinning baseball bat, knocking him to the ground.

  The dull crack burned like fire and made his ears ring. He looked up, blinking hard, to see the dog pick Misha up and plant him down, a hand spread wide on Misha’s chest, with enough force to put Misha straight through the faded, formica kitchen table.

  A low sound came out of Misha but Reeve couldn’t see him between the debris and the dizzying rock of shadows cast by the hanging ceiling lamp that was swinging like a pendulum. Reeve pushed himself to his knees, then onto his feet while the floor pitched, trying to send him onto his back. He leaned forward as far as he could, swung his arms behind his head, and buried his second knife inches deep in the dog’s lower back as it hunched over Misha. It arched, mouth stretched wide without a sound.

  Abandoning Misha, it turned, lunging at Reeve who instinctually ducked to set a shoulder into its gut as though to knock it off balance or make it lose its breath. A mistake. His shoulder rammed into the thing like it was a concrete wall. The impact shuddering through his bones set off sharp zings of nerve pain down the outside of his arm. He had one arm thrown around the creature and it felt wrong. Its flesh was hard, like touching a moving marble statue.

  Not a time to worry about dignity, Reeve dropped like deadweight to the floor to scrabble between its legs. A hand caught one of his ankles and gripped it like a vise, pulling him backward before suddenly going limp. A painfully heavy weight dropped onto Reeve’s legs and he struggled out from under it, kicking frantically. Craning around, he saw Misha standing over the dog, swaying on his feet. The dismembered head was on the floor in front of him.

  As Reeve got his bearings, the head slowly began to slide backwards along the floor, back toward the rest of the body, leaving a streaky black trail. Reeve grabbed it by the hair and ripped it away from the neck. Levering himself up by the edge of the counter, Reeve stood unsteadily, his own head a pounding thing, and yanked open the oven door. He rummaged through his pockets for a lighter but only found matches. He swore and pinned the head against the counter with his elbow while he fumbled to strike a match. Reeve shoved the head into the oven but it drifted back toward him the second he let go of it. Swearing and holding the head as little as possible in front of him, Reeve held the match to it and it erupted like a ball of hydrogen gas. He slammed the door shut, snatching back his scorched hand and sucking in a hissed breath through his teeth.

  The pain in his hand built and built. Oh, I fucked up. Almost devoid of thought, Reeve threw open the tap and stuck his hand under the cold water. If nothing else, it stopped the pain from getting worse. Sound made him turn his head. Beyond the headless body and heap of broken chairs, he could see Misha laying on his back again, looking small even in the small kitchen. His chest was heaving as badly as Reeve’s was.

  The body spun slowly on its axis like a pinwheel until the stump was facing the stove then slid, grinding a broken metal table leg into the linoleum floor with a sound that made Reeve cringe, before coming to rest by banging the blunted neck against the broiler drawer with one metallic thunk. Then silence.

  Misha’s panting suddenly leaked over into laughter, building to a full belly laugh. Reeve couldn’t help but give a few weak laughs with him, letting his head fall forward and squeezing his eyes shut as pain tears poured out of him. By the time it subsided, Misha was whooping for air.

  “You okay?” Reeve called and took a few steps closer. The moment his hand left the sink, it felt as if he were still holding the burning head and he swallowed a pained grunt before retreating to the relief of the cold water.

  “I am fine,” Misha breathed, still panting. “Help me up.”

  He looked from his burned hand to Misha and then back. A second shot at removing his hand from the water was just as unsuccessful as the first. He huffed. If Misha was asking for help, he was hurt. And it was just pain. It couldn’t kill him. Resolving to push through, Reeve pulled his arm into his chest to go help Misha. He made it halfway there before crying out and swearing every curse word he knew as every nerve in his hand screamed in white-hot agony.

  “What did you do?” Misha asked from the ground.

  “I burned my hand.” It seemed impossible that the sensation of air touching his hand as he moved could hurt that much. Reeve made it to him. Misha’s coat had fallen back and his shirt underneath was plastered to his skin with blood. “Jesus Christ,” Reeve muttered as he leaned down.

  Reeve pulled him up to a sitting position with his good hand. Misha didn’t fight him when he leaned in to examine him closer. Another bad sign. The shirt practically came apart in his hand when he peeled back the wet fabric, exposing the rest of Misha’s side. Whatever part of his torso wasn’t covered in tattoos was covered white scars, a few in the same crescent moon shape as the bleeding wound low on his shoulder. “It bit you?”

  “I am fine,” he repeated, taking the balled up fabric out of Reeve’s hand and holding it to his shoulder with a wince.

  The pain hadn’t stopped its relentless climb and Reeve began to worry he might black out. He rushed back to the sink and he would have married the concept of water in that moment if he could.

  “You though,” Misha called. “You are really, really, very stupid.”

  Reeve grit his teeth. “I know.” With his good hand, he gently dabbed at the knot by his hairline. At least the burn was putting that pain in perspective.

  “No, not because you burned yourself like some brainless child who doesn’t understand that, ‘Fire. Hot.’ Or—not just because of that. Do you know why we always carry the head away from the body?”

  Reeve grunted. It was hard to think.

  Misha raised his voice and didn’t give him time to answer. “Because it’s impossible to move their damn bodies. Now you’ve burned the head here and we have to move this two-ton headless body somewhere else with only two good arms between us.”

  He let out a long sigh. “Well, it’s done now so let’s just hope there’s a backdoor to this place. The oven seal isn’t enough?” He clenched his jaw as he turned off the tap. He couldn’t live at a sink, though the thought was appealing. The skin was tight across his hand and red and white in patches.

  “It will have to be, the shape we’re in. Come on, help me drag this thing.”

  Reeve gave his hand a disparaging look as the pain ramped up again. “Yeah, okay.” This was going to hurt a lot.

  ---

  Sol LAHQ. Saturn Department.

  A scheduling mix-up meant that Grace had to arrive home on a red eye from assignment and jump directly into giving the newest graduates their tour of the office. She was tired and low on patience but was doing her best to hide it. She could have used that to explain how she reacted, but Grace knew it likely wouldn’t have been any different if she’d showed up fully rested.

  She’d done her standard talk and walkthrough and was wrapping up by bringing them to one of the breakrooms where a platter of pastries, fruit, granola bars, and bottled drinks had been set out for them. The energy of the room became more of a casual mingling with the introduction of food. It was a good tool to see who might easily be put off their game among agents and out in the world.

  One young woman (a phaser) was asking her what her favorite language to speak was as an omnilingist (Spanish, her first language) when they were interrupted by another question raised loudly from near the food tables.

  It was one of the rowdier, loud ones. He was a teleporter, and that sometimes came with impulse control issues.

  “How do you do it everyday?” he asked with a sly smile.

  She allowed him the desired response out of curiosity. “Do what?”

  He glanced at his friends with a grin. “Work right across from Louis Solomon.” He gave a low whistle. “That’s gotta be distracting for you, right?”

  Grace smiled sweetly, first to the woman she had been speaking with and then to the boy. Yes, Louis was hot. This kid was late to the joke. There were two ways to handle that sort of thing. The proper, professional way and the only way Grace knew how.

  “I’m sorry, are you under the impression that I don’t hit that whenever I’m in the mood?” She looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to answer.

  His expression looked panicked, reaching to recover. She had a feeling he’d end up assigned to a lower office outside of HQ if they couldn’t get his reaction time up. His friends around him looked at the ground, all but physically stepping away from him.

  “I…” he stammered.

  “Shouldn’t have said that?” she offered. “Probably, but here we are.” She leaned conspiratorially toward the young agents closer to her, but didn’t bother lowering her voice. “It’s true though, about Louis. If I don’t fuck him every now and then, he gets too distracted.”

  All their eyes went wide looking behind her and she half hoped Louis had wandered in, but when she turned it was Mackenzie standing in the doorway.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” Grace smirked.

  Mackenzie flashed a thin smile as everyone in the room stood up straighter. “I’m afraid I have to steal Ms. Diaz from you, but I wanted to welcome you all to the proud Saturn legacy. You are the elite. Live and breathe it.” It could have been heartening or a threat—depending on who was hearing it.

  There was a chorus of “Yes, ma’am” and “Thank you, ma’am.” Mackenzie nodded and headed back down the hall. Grace smiled one more time at them and followed her.

  “Sorry about that, ma’am,” Grace grinned once they were out of earshot of the room.

  Mackenzie waved one hand. “You think I was unaware of how you and Louis blow off steam?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.”

  “Besides, that sort of thing is also a time-honored part of the Saturn legacy, after all,” she muttered. Mackenzie led them into Grace’s office and shut the door. “How was DC??”

  Grace rubbed her eyes, thinking of the schmoozing, the mediocre food, and swarms painfully perky, well-dressed drug reps. “It was ten hours ago.”

  Mackenzie waited.

  Grace sighed. “It was fine. Standard pharmaceutical conference stuff. I’ve got the name of a researcher and his partner who are spitballing some genetic theories, not ready to present, that are either getting too close to or are informed by studying knacked DNA.”

  Mackenzie sighed. “There’s always one every year or so.”

  “Do you want me to assign it out?”

  She shook her head. “Below our paygrade. Send the report to Mercury so they can give it to a moon.”

  “Will do.”

  It had the sound of the end of the conversation but Mackenzie didn’t turn to go. Instead she stood there, studying Grace’s face. It would always make her sweat.

  “You haven’t asked me what I’ve been doing.”

  Grace did her best not to balk. “No, ma’am.”

  “You asked Louis?” she retorted with a quirk of her lips.

  She dipped her head. “Of course I did, ma’am.”

  “You’re a treasure,” she cracked in a tone that warmed Grace’s heart anyway before heading to the door.

  “Mackenzie,” she called after her. She didn’t often use her name while they were in the office and she wasn’t sure why she had just then. Mackenzie stopped and regarded her. Grace wanted to say something but she didn’t know what. She wanted to ask her what she had been doing or maybe tell her that she wouldn’t ever ask. In the end, she swallowed and said, “Nothing.”

  She gave Grace a knowing look. “Clear your calendar for the next week. I’m going to need you in the former Soviet Union.”

  Grace blinked. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Off the books,” she added, voice devoid of emotion.

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “All the books.”

  She meant Louis.

  Grace nodded to show she understood. “Yes, ma’am.”

  ***