Page 11 of Storm Echo

He held up a hand when Ivan would’ve spoken. “You don’t have to be warm and fluffy to bond with people—you just have to be there, loyal and present. It helps if you’re ready to do things that give them joy, but I don’t have to tell you that. It wasn’t Grandmother who got me that introduction to the best tailor in Moscow.”

“Family is different.” He’d grown up with Arwen, had known that he’d appreciate the introduction to the master craftsman. “I don’t know anything about her. I don’t know how to make her happy.”

Arwen’s smile deepened. “That’s the best start. The fact that you want to make her happy. Now just listen to her, and you’ll learn what delights her, what brings her joy.”

Ivan thought of how she’d laughed and colored a little as she’d told him she liked “silly, pretty things,” considered his mental file of her colorful earrings and dresses, the way she’d had little threads of sparkle in her hair today.

He nodded slowly. Maybe he could do this, could actually have a chance at normality in a way he’d never before believed. Because he had a gift for noticing things. Most Mercants did; a side effect of growing up in a family of spies. “Thanks, Arwen.”

Arwen’s smile held none of the snooty elegance he could do so well; it was innocent in a way Ivan had never been. At least not as far as he recalled. Perhaps he’d been the same as Arwen as a very young infant, but it was unlikely. He’d already had the crystalline flower in his mind, had already walked its noxious petals.

“I’m so delighted for you.” Rising, Arwen walked over but stopped before making physical contact; he knew Ivan was even less comfortable with that than most Psy. “You deserve happiness.”

Ivan stared at his cousin with the glass of nutrients partway to his mouth. It was uncanny, how Arwen could say things out of the blue that cut right to the heart. Not until that moment had Ivan so clearly understood that he’d always believed hedidn’tdeserve any kind of a good life. Not given the ugliness of what lived in his mind.

But he’d reached thirty-two years of age without hurting anyone, and his shields were airtight. The faceted crystal spider was contained. Silence had fallen. He’d never felt any compulsion to take the drug that had stolen his mother. And … Lei existed.

There was no reason for him to walk away. Not yet. Not when there remained a chance that she might not reject him once he showed her the spider that slept inside him.

SHE brought one of her colorful little cat planters to the picnic. The blue and pink striped creature, formed as if it was about to pounce, fit easily on the palm of Ivan’s hand. There was a tiny chip on one paw that spoke of its unknown history, and the hole in the cat’s back was so small that he asked Lei what plant could possibly thrive within.

Laughter in her expression, she held up her hands, palms up. “I don’t know. It’ll be fun to find out. Tell me what you decide.”

“What?”

She ducked her head a fraction, her unbound hair sliding over the shoulder of the vibrant red-violet dress that she’d paired with a denim jacket. “I brought it for you.” A quick look up. “It’s silly, isn’t it? I’ll take it back. Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

He kept it out of her reach. “No. You said I could have it.”

Dropping her half-raised hand, she looked at him with eyes that were big and oddly soft. Vulnerable, he realized. As vulnerable as Arwen’s. And he knew she truly was afraid he wouldn’t want the gift.

Parting those soft lips, she said, “You like it?”

He brought it back down, looked at it again. “Yes.” It was a thing he’d never thought to have in his life, but he would now protect it with everything he had. Because she’d given it to him. “Thank you.”

Her smile was dawn breaking across the sky; it made his heart twist in ways he didn’t understand. He didn’t smile back. He didn’t know how to smile in truth, had only ever put it on as a mask and he couldn’t wear a mask with her—but she didn’t seem to mind.

“I packed a whole bunch of things for our picnic, not just the tart.” Her joy was a welcoming fire flickering against him, warming places that had been cold for an eternity.

When she handed him small bites to try, he did so without argument. The flavors were explosions of sensation on his tongue, an overload of input. He must’ve betrayed some response because she laughed—the kind of laugh that said this was a shared amusement. He knew that even though he had never laughed.

“Try this instead,” she said, offering him another tidbit.

He took it, but waited. “You, too.” Ivan didn’t know about relationships like this, but he knew he wanted to take care of her, keep that happiness on her face.

When her smile dimpled the roundness of her cheeks, he realized this wasn’t so difficult after all. Arwen was right; he could figure it out if he only listened. So he did exactly that, content—more than content—to stay quiet as she spoke about what she’d got up to with her friend, how she’d made the tart, and myriad other topics. Her mind was a quicksilver place, bright and enthusiastic.

But she wouldn’t allow him to listen alone. No, she asked him questions, wanted to know about him as much as he wanted to know about her. He answered with honesty; he would not lie to her, would not steal her by hiding the scars on his mind and psyche.

“I’m part of an unusual PsyNet family,” he said. “My cousin turned up yesterday to check that I wasn’t dead, after I fell out of contact for a week. I guess you could call us a pack.”

Laughter, but hidden within the sparkle was a thread far darker and less joyful. “That’s exactly how a pack should be—a strong, cohesive, loving unit.”

“Is your pack not that way?”

“No. I’m visiting with my friend partially because I needed space to come to a decision.” She swallowed. “I’m thinking about leaving the pack.”

Pack was the core of changeling life. Even Psy knew that. For Lei to be considering a permanent break, particularly given the lack of stability in her past, things had to have gone terribly wrong. “Have you decided?”

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