Fatal Strike by Shannon McKenna Page B

shove a needle into your throat. Please, relax.”
    She stared at the plate, at him. He smiled.
    It was his smile that did it. It sparked flesh-creeping dread, just like the sting of the psi-max needle, and she caught her breath as the pit yawned suddenly, the double vision. This world and the swirling visions, somehow coexisting. Then the sickening dip in blood pressure, the deep, hard suck . . . a vortex, dragging her.
    She fought it, jaw locked. Resisted that sucking pull . . . rooted to the ground . . . fighting with everything she had.
    She wasn’t strong enough. It launched her into the dream world.
    Foggy, overgrown forest. Park benches were choked with vines, shrubs, weeds. A dry fountain was visible in the distance, beside it the lifelike bronze statue that she’d seen many times before, eternally poised in the act of snapping a picture with a cell phone. Eerie in the drifting fog.
    She spun at the silent summons that prickled at her nape. Her little friend, the ghostly blond boy, dressed in ragged, filthy child’s pajamas. He seemed younger than the other times she’d seen him.
    “Hello,” she said. “Could you help me find the Citadel?”
    The little boy shook his head violently. His eyes were wide with fear, fixed on something behind her. He backed away, turned and sprinted into the mist. She opened her mouth to call after him, but the cry never left her throat as the thought-probe stabbed, tearing her mind apart.
    The shock jolted her violently back to the bright, airy room, and waking consciousness. Her thudding heart slowed. The darkness before her eyes cleared. She panted. Sagging in the chair. God. She’d gone off on a trip. Right in front of this creepy guy, and they hadn’t even injected her. Not for ten hours, and the effect had never lasted that long before.
    “. . . amazing!” Greaves was saying, jubilantly. “Finally, we might have a viable formula! Your psi took off spontaneously. Excellent. What did you see? You came back before I established contact.” Greaves knelt by her chair, tipped a cup into her mouth. She sputtered, choked.
    He jerked back. Not fast enough. His shirt was splattered with coffee. “Do it again,” he said. “I want another look.”
    “I can’t,” she said, shakily. “I can’t control it.”
    He stared into her eyes. “You will learn,” he said softly. “You will train with me. Rigorously. This is so exciting, Lara. To actually glimpse the future. I’ll come along with you, on your next trip.”
    “You?” Her stomach was in free-fall, but his words weren’t a surprise, not after that agonizing mind-stab. Worse than Anabel’s. “You . . . you’re—”
    “A telepath? Among other things. I can’t wait to put you through your paces. You’ve been giving Anabel trouble with that shield of yours, but I’m a different proposition. We’ll see if you can get behind your shield with me in the saddle.”
    His tone made the words seem horribly lascivious. “I thought . . .” She cleared her throat. “I don’t block anyone on purpose. I—”
    “It doesn’t matter. You don’t block me. I have many gifts, Lara.” His eyes slid down her body, assessing. “As do you. I look forward to discovering them. In fact, after your next dose, I think I will take you back home with me.”
    A steel band seemed to squeeze her throat. “Home?”
    “We’ll have privacy,” he said. “If you are with me, there’s no need for locks and bolts or restraints. I will keep you absolutely secure.”
    As he spoke, she felt her wrists and ankles squeezed, as if hot, greedy hands clutched her there. Her guts lurched.
    “I’m sorry for how painful these past months have been,” he said. “I look forward to making it up to you. And I’m curious about your shield.”
    She flinched. God forbid he get anywhere near the Citadel. He’d find some way to twist it, pollute it. “I don’t know where I go when they drug me,” she said. “It’s a nightmare, and I just endure