Page 5 of Storm Echo

The hours crawled past, and though he had plenty to keep him busy on the PsyNet, he ignored the vast psychic space in favor of watching the forest shift and stir. Waiting for her.

But she didn’t come back that day.

Or the day after.

He had no reason to return for a third day, especially when Jorge warned him that his absenteeism put him in danger of being kicked off the course. Ivan had never not completed what he’d begun. That was who he was: tenacious and relentless to the point of obsession.

Except now he had a different focus.

He went to the clearing … and there she was, stepping out of the forest in an ankle-length dress the color of autumn leaves and sunsets, her hair in a long braid, and a familiar basket on her arm. Small metal leaves hung from her ears, delicate as her skin.

“Oh.” She halted, her eyes widening as she caught sight of him seated by the mushrooms. “Did you hurt yourself again?”

He shook his head. “I came to see you.”

A blink, a hint of color on her cheeks, her feet shifting.

“Let me check your leg,” she said at last, and strode over.

He didn’t resist when she pushed up the leg of his black combat pants with a gentle touch. A frown on her forehead and her braid falling over one shoulder, she examined the healing wound with care.

This close, he could see that her scar was ragged. Most likely not done by a knife. A claw? A piece of broken glass? If it was the result of violence, if another had hurt her with malice, he’d end them. A woman who went around tending to wounded strangers would’ve never done anything to deserve such violence.

Ivan was dead certain on that point.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he told her as he fought not to touch the softness of her hair, the urge an unfamiliar one. “It’s started to itch.” Anyone who’d ever had a cut heal over knew that to be a good sign.

“Excellent.” After rolling down the leg of his pants, she tilted her head in a way that felt oddly familiar but that he couldn’t pin down. “You really came to see me?” A softness to her voice.

“Yes.” Why would she be so startled at the idea? She was the most fascinating person he’d ever met, her skill evident and her presence unforgettable.

“Oh.” She smoothed her hands over her thighs. “The thing is, you’re ridiculously pretty. Doesn’t this bother you?” Gaze intent on his, she touched her fingers to her scar.

“I realize I have an aesthetically pleasing appearance.” It was simply another tool he used when necessary—add a layer of beauty and people would ignore the most obvious danger, refuse to see the monster stalking them. “The only thing that bothers me about your scar is that someone might’ve given it to you. Who was it?”

She stared at him, blinked. “Car crash,” she said slowly, watching him as you might a feral animal. “When I was a child. No one you need to kill.”

He gave a curt nod. “As for the other—you’re beautiful. That’s undeniable fact. Dark eyes, lush lips, flawless skin, thick and soft hair. You also have the correct facial proportions.”

Her lips twitched before she threw back her head and laughed, the sound full and warm, and her eyes not quite human when she looked at him—but it was only a slight shift, not a full one.

Compelled by the faint edge of gold shot with light, he said, “What kind of changeling are you?”

Mischief in her smile. “Figure it out,” she said, this wild creature who’d emerged out of the forest and enraptured him without warning. “Want to walk with me after I gather the mushrooms?”

When he nodded, she shifted position to pick a few mushrooms from nearby. “Do you like these?”

“I’ve never eaten any.” Consuming food for taste, for enjoyment, was still a new concept to Psy who’d grown up under the Silence Protocol.

“Nutrient drinks and bars are a far more efficient source of nutrition than discrete food items, though certain such items were part of the accepted Silence diet.” Items that had always been bland, or had been made that way for the Psy. Because any sensation was a risk to a protocol designed to eliminate all emotion from their race.

“Food isn’t just about nutrition!” It was a gasp. “Food is about joy, about family, about delighting the taste buds.” Sitting up from her bent-over position, she said, “I’ll make you a caramelized mushroom tart. Bet you like it. What’s your name, mystery man who thinks I have the correct facial proportions for beauty?” Laughter in her voice again.

“Ivan.”

“Ivan,” she said with a smile. “I like your accent. Can’t quite place it. It feels like it could be from so many places.”

“I’ve worked off the rough edges in my accent over the years.” It was far easier for a spy to blend in if they didn’t stand out in ways specific and memorable. “I live in Moscow right now,” he found himself telling her, though he wasn’t a man who shared personal information with anyone.

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