Кей Хупер - Blood Ties

“I don’t know.”

“Can you speculate? Guess again?”

Diana shook her head, trying to throw off the last tendrils of that weird fuzziness in her mind. “I can’t even imagine what it might be.”

“Sure you can,” DeMarco said.

She stared at him, frowning. “Oh? And how is that?”

He didn’t appear to be the least bit bothered by her stiff tone. “First, stop assuming it was a spirit. Just because we haven’t encountered another medium who can walk in the gray time doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist. In fact, it’s almost certain one does, since psychic abilities aren’t unique. Certain aspects, sure; I have a double shield and, so far as we know, that’s unique. But most psychics have a shield of some kind, and without knowing every single one of them I could hardly be sure there isn’t another double shield out there.”

“He has a point,” Quentin noted thoughtfully.

DeMarco nodded and said to Diana, “You can walk in the gray time, and you’re exceptionally strong there because of most of a lifetime’s experience. But on two separate occasions, Hollis has been able to function there as well.”

“If you can call it functioning,” Hollis muttered.

“I can,” DeMarco told her, then added before she could comment, “She may not be able to open the door to the gray time, but only one previous visit enabled her to form a connection to that place, to be drawn back into it when Diana opened the door. Which could mean it’s a lot more accessible to mediums than we’ve assumed and that others have been drawn there as well. And that, somewhere, another medium exists who was drawn to cross through that doorway rather than just open it for spirits. Curiosity alone would surely drive at least some to wonder what it would be like. And it’s a small step from wondering to attempting.”

Hollis said, “It would better explain the deception. I mean, if the guides have never attempted to deceive you, why start now? But if it’s another psychic trying to do that…”

DeMarco finished: “…what better way to attempt a deception than to show you a face you trust?”

“It makes sense,” Diana allowed. “At least as much as any other possibility does.”

Quentin said, “It also opens up the probability that this particular enemy knows you well enough to know who you trust. Or has been watching long enough to … draw certain conclusions.”

Diana wasn’t sure which possibility made her more uneasy. But both of them did. She was about to comment on that when the sudden ringing of a cell phone made all of them—except DeMarco—jump. He reached back to pick up Diana’s cell phone from the dresser, looked rather automatically at the caller I.D., and then tossed the phone to land within Diana’s reach.

“Elliot Brisco. Your father, I gather.”

Diana reached her free hand to pick up the phone—and turned it off midway through its ring tone. “Yeah. He’s been out on the West Coast—and never considers time differences when he’s calling me. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“Could be an emergency,” Hollis suggested.

“Trust me, it isn’t. Just him ready to argue one more time that joining the FBI was the worst idea of my life.” She drew a breath and let it out slowly, then ruthlessly got them back on topic. “Okay, so let’s assume for the moment another medium was there in the gray time. And either knows me well enough to be sure of who I trust or else has been able to read me. I don’t have much of a shield, right?”

It was DeMarco who answered. “Not much of one, no. But you don’t broadcast like Hollis does, so it would probably take a fairly strong telepath to read you.” Before Hollis could make an indignant comment, which she seemed about to do, he added, “But there’s nothing to say another medium with a lesser telepathic sense might not be able to read you far more clearly in the gray time than on this side of the door. Or even another medium who isn’t telepathic at all. A lot of the rules we’ve come to accept in this world, this reality, may not be true in that one. In fact, the chances are pretty good that there are a lot of differences over there.”

Diana wished she could dispute that, but the more she thought about the possibility, the colder she felt. “So another medium could be reading me in the gray time. And maybe… influencing me?”

DeMarco was utterly matter-of-fact. “Maybe. We’re generally more vulnerable in an unconscious state—which is what your dreams and trances amount to.”

“You’re strong in the gray time,” Quentin reminded her.

“Am I? What if I only think I am? There’s… something I’ve never been able to explain about the gray time. It hasn’t happened often, but throughout my life I’ve awakened from trips there to find my physical self somewhere other than bed. Somewhere dangerous.”

Quentin nodded, clearly remembering. “Up to your waist in a lake. Driving your father’s sports car at high speed when you were too young to drive at all.”

“Yeah. And there were other things, awakenings I haven’t told you about. Finding myself in other dangerous places or just baffling ones. Sometimes miles and miles from home. With no memory or understanding about what I was doing there. Or what I was meant to do. At the time I thought those things were more symptoms I was losing my mind—or had already lost it. Once all the meds were gone and I could think clearly, once I knew I was a medium and understood what that meant, I guess I thought I’d been trying to help a guide get a message to someone but that my body and spirit were still so out of sync, things got confused and I tried to act before knowing what it was I was supposed to be doing, before I was even awake.”

“That sounds possible,” Quentin said. “Maybe even likely.”

“I guess. Looking back now… I don’t know what to think.”

In his usual neutral, pleasant tone, DeMarco said, “But it’s equally possible that someone could have been trying to influence you. Make you behave in ways you wouldn’t have consciously done.”

“Even when I was a child?”

“Maybe especially then. When it was still new to you, still something you were trying to learn to control.”

The possibility that someone could have been following her around in the gray time all these years, without her knowledge or even awareness, made Diana feel cold to the bone. It felt like a violation, a rape of her mind, of herself. She forced herself to speak calmly. “I suppose it’s possible. But—”

Still in that impassive tone, DeMarco said, “Psychic abilities often run in families.”

Understanding, Diana said, “My mother was psychic, I believe. Probably my sister, Missy, as well. But they’ve both been dead for years.”

“Is it possible your father—”

Diana laughed, hearing how brittle it sounded. “No. My father isn’t psychic. At all. My father doesn’t believe in psychics. He was convinced my mother was mentally ill. He chose to believe I was mentally ill rather than accept the possibility I might be a medium. How’s that for not believing in psychic abilities?”

DeMarco’s expression didn’t change, but his voice softened somewhat when he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to open up old wounds.”

“Oh, no need to be sorry. You didn’t reopen anything. He more or less said that about a week ago. So, still a fresh wound, I’m afraid.”

Quentin said, “Diana, I told you it takes some people a lot longer to come to terms with this. My father still refuses to accept I’m a seer, and he’s known it for years.”

“Yeah, well, your father didn’t threaten to have you committed when you first told him, right?”

Hollis said, “Your father seriously did?”