Unseen

Everyone seemed to relax, including Rostow. “Right,” he said, and pointed to one of his agents. “Langston. Get the lady some coffee or something.”

“Water,” I said. “And a place of privacy, if you have one.”

Water, they could provide me; privacy, it turned out, was a bit more problematic. I finally walked away from the mobile truck, out into the surrounding trees, and sat down with my back to a tall, strong oak with roots that reached deep, both into the ground and into the past. There, I was able to sink into a light, comfortable trance and make co

He was asleep. Dreaming. I could see that in the muted blues and purples of his aetheric colors, and the way his body floated, weightless. The shapes of his dreams were faint whirls of color, slashes of blood red, white, night black. Luis’s dreams were not restful.

Oddly, they were dreams full of fire—almost a physical thing, burning him from the inside out. I could see it in eerie flickers around him. It reminded me of the flickers I’d glimpsed, from time to time, on his tattoos. He was no Fire Warden, and yet there was fire in him all the same.

Ibby had both Fire and Earth powers. I’d always assumed that was a recent addition to the family’s genetic heritage with her, but perhaps, in some small way, Luis had shared it as well.

In the aetheric, I put my hand on him, and breathed peace and light into him through the co

The dreams darkened, and I felt both his aetheric and his physical body thrashing, trying to resist the draw. I slowed it, frustrated and shaking with need, but he could give only so much without distress, and I didn’t want to cause him pain. He’d once described the sensation of sending power to me as bleeding; it was no wonder that the feeling disconcerted him in his already troubled sleep.

Slowly, his power trickled through the co

I took as much as I dared, and then stayed with him, drifting slowly through the aetheric. There was something unguarded about him this way, something pure and poignant. It was hard to turn away, leave him to his dreams and nightmares, but I had nightmares of my own to face.

Alone.

I made my way back to the FBI trailer and found Rostow deep in conversation with a man of average height, with roughly cut sandy hair and thick eyebrows, with skin that had seen too much sun and taken on a leathery, prematurely aged look. He had icy gray eyes, startling in that ta

Rostow nodded. “Cassiel,” he said. “But we’d better get you a name that isn’t quite so memorable.” He tapped one of his computer operators on the shoulder. “Jen, get her a good set of creds, something with a minor record—theft, vandalism, something like that. Something easy to remember.”

Agent Jen nodded, bent to work at her keyboard, and then left the trailer. She returned a few moments later with an envelope, which came with a receipt I was asked to sign. I did so, and found in the envelope an Arizona identification card and bus pass in the name of Laura Rose Larkin. There was also a detailed sheet giving the past of Laura Larkin—parents’ names, addresses, and dates of birth, schools attended, residence history, close associates, and crimes. It seemed very credible. Rostow nodded toward the paper in my hand and said, “Memorize it. You’ve got the night, but you need to be completely up to speed before we drop you and Merle here tomorrow. Oh, and this is Merle, by the way. You’re in good hands. He’s our best.”

Merle didn’t smile. He didn’t seem to be much prone to it. I couldn’t detect much in the way of emotion from him at all; I supposed that if he was, as he seemed, a professional undercover agent, then he’d long ago learned how damaging emotions could be. “Better know that stuff backward and forward,” he said. “Word is, these guys test pretty thoroughly. You make mistakes, they’ll dump you quick.”

“I won’t make mistakes.”

“Well,” Merle said, looking at Rostow, “she’s confident. Give her that.”

“If she screws up, don’t go down with the ship,” his boss replied. “Cut her loose. You don’t know her; you just wound up standing in the same space. You, same thing. You don’t know him. You’ve got zero history.”

“Then we shouldn’t be building one now,” Merle said, and nodded to me. “See ya.” He left, slamming the door behind him, and I raised my eyebrows at Rostow.

“Learn your stuff,” he said. “Don’t expect Merle to cover your ass. You’re there to back him up, not vice versa. Understood? Good. Now go get some sleep. Jen will show you to the racks. We’ll get you up in a few hours and start moving you around. You’re going to get off a bus in Trenton. We’ll give you directions from there. You won’t see Merle again until you’re both met by the recruiters. Got it?”

There was nothing not to get, but I acknowledged with a slight nod. Agent Jen got up from her computer and walked me from the trailer down a path through the woods, which opened into a clearing where a small camouflage tent was pitched. A latrine tent was situated near the tree line.

“Rules,” she said, as she opened the flap of the main structure. “Don’t talk to anybody. Don’t touch anything that isn’t on your bunk. And if you snore, prepare to be smothered in your sleep. We don’t get much downtime. What we get, we value.”

I liked Agent Jen. She was forthright. She handed me a plate of fruit and sliced meats and bread, gave me a bottle of water, needlessly pointed out the latrine, and showed me to a narrow, neatly made bunk with a thin pillow and light blanket. I ate, then spent two hours reading over and over the material that I’d been given. When I was certain that it was as natural to me as any other thing in my u

The next morning was a grim march. I was woken early, when the sky was still black, and hustled into a rusted pickup truck driven by a silent Hispanic man wearing a battered straw hat, who drove me two hours in the darkness to a deserted bus station. “Next bus,” he said, which was two more words than he’d exchanged with me thus far. He handed me some crushed folded bills, soft from use, and a handful of loose change. “Get off in Trenton. Look for a blond kid in a hoodie passed out on a bench and with a skateboard and a backpack. Wake him up. He’ll tell you where to go next.”

That was the extent of our friendship. He drove off almost before the truck door had slammed, leaving me feeling unexpectedly alone and exposed under the glare of a spotlight in front of the closed bus station. I waited, pacing to ward off the cold, until a lone bus arrived in a huff of air brakes. I climbed on board and paid the driver, then huddled—like the others—in a plush but battered seat. No one noticed me; as I looked around, I saw a bus full of people wrapped in their own personal struggles and tragedies, with no interest in mine.