Paris, France.

  Fox del Sol followed his mark into a cafe at a respectful distance, timing it so they wouldn't be in line right behind each other. Getting a top-secret, off-the-books assignment from Saturn herself was something that Saturn agents dreamed about during their training. A fantasy that would never actually happen. But here he was.

  It also had to be said that while most Saturn agents would leap at the chance to fulfill this fantasy, Fox was not one of those people. When Mackenzie Davis asked you personally to do something, you did it—but it was going to be hard.

  The thing was, Fox did not enjoy a challenge. He’d excelled at Saturn work from a young age. A natural, they’d said, which was lucky, since Fox preferred not to try very hard at anything. There were better things to do with his time—like nothing. Nothing was pretty great. Trusting that not trying was going to cut it was something he could not do with an assignment given directly by Saturn. He was going to have to give it everything he had, and that was going to be exhausting and not at all enjoyable.

  Plus, the assignment was vague as hell, so not only did he have to gather information, he also had to figure out what information needed gathering. He needed a drink, and not the kind of drink he could order in this cute little coffee shop.

  Austin Greene was busy ordering ahead of him. That’s all he had to go on. Saturn needed information about him, except the only intel she had was his name and location. The rest was on Fox.

  Austin was a short man; an American with a hint of a babyface camouflaged by stubble. Fox was working on getting his hands on his documents, but they seemed hard to locate, likely at least in part due to the fact that Austin was transgender. Fox would never have clocked it, but his bio-manipulation knack caught onto something in his endocrine system that, with a little exploration, explained at least some of the barriers he’d hit in searching for those documents. But even with that complicating factor, it was proving tricker than it should have been for a simple enough task.

  Austin got his coffee and went to sit down at a little table in the center of the cafe. Thank fuck. That meant Fox could take a load off and stop following him around the city for a change. The guy was a Private Investigator, and while Fox wasn’t especially worried about being made, he did not love that his target was predisposed to being highly observant of his surroundings.

  He ordered an espresso and pastry. All in all, the food and wine in Paris partly made up for the whole situation.

  Fox settled into a table along the wall in view of Austin and leaned back to stretch out his legs with a long sigh. He got out his laptop and opened a “best travel spots” site with large blocks of text for appearances. The espresso was good but still a little strange to his palette. It was going to take him some time to get used to regular coffee again, after living on the Turkish-style coffee in Bulgaria for so long. He rubbed his face.

  Austin appeared to be simply hanging out, enjoying his coffee, and looking at something on his phone. It quickly became apparent to Fox that Austin was waiting for someone, in the way he always took note of every person coming through the door. He was shrewd about it, so likely not waiting on a friend. Probably trying to catch some husband out on his affair.

  Fox hadn’t had this much up-close time yet, so he studied him, careful to be casual about it. The quality of his clothes made him assume that Austin was making ends meet, but only just. This wasn’t some elite P.I. working for France’s upper echelons. He was getting by. The strange lack of documents and strata of work suggested he was here illegally. Running from something? His vigilance seemed all business, and Fox didn’t feel any sort of fear from him, so that didn’t quite fit. Fox had been following him around for a couple of days and he seemed like just some guy. Fox really needed to bug his apartment and get a better idea of what he was dealing with.

  It was subtle, very subtle, but Fox saw Austin begin to track the two newest people to come into the cafe. Two young men in casual clothes, one American and one local. The American had a swagger and the other didn’t; he was tense, which was not the same as nervous. Neither of them attempted to take stock of their surroundings, so they were confident in their safety here.

  Fox watched Austin watch them and got a little lost in thought, working over and over what he could possibly be looking for. He thought back to the conversation with Saturn. He’d been given a phone number by a new, young handler in Bulgaria and when he’d called it, it had gone to Mackenzie Davis. Not her reception desk, not her personal assistant, directly to Saturn. “I need you to do something for me and for me only,” she’d said. Saturn had a voice that stuck in your head. She was a legend. There was no other answer he could’ve—

  Fuck. The two people Austin was watching chose to sit at the table right next to Fox. Austin would be focusing in on their direction, and he didn’t like his odds that he wouldn’t notice him being a little too curious about the guy. Fox wasn’t above flirting or fucking him, but it was early in the assignment for something that might not even need to be done.

  “You need to let it go, man,” The American was saying.

  “How am I supposed to let it go?” the other argued, putting his coffee down, un-sipped. “She’s sleeping across the hall from me. In my mother’s apartment.”

  Fox sighed. He wasn’t going to get anything else here. He was debating going back to his apartment, but something tickled at the back of his brain. The local was facing him. There was something familiar about him. No.

  Fox pulled up Entropy Games’ corporate site and scrolled through their executive leadership page, but no matches. He must be losing his mind.

  “Do you seriously think you have another option besides just living with it? Have you ever won an argument with your dad?”

  The man huffed. “I know.”

  Fox took a bite of his pastry to mask his sudden nerves. He tasted none of it. A pity, as he knew it was probably very good. Tilting his laptop toward the wall, Fox did an image search for “Marcus Adler” and “son.” Immediately, a photo came up from some press event with Marcus Adler and the man sitting in front of him. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  Sure, okay it was Paris. Entropy’s headquarters were in the city. He was bound to come across someone. But not the fucking only child of Entropy’s second hand. He doubted this would be an opportunity that Sol would have again anytime soon—a bio-manip within handshake range of Wyatt Adler, but also there was next to no information on his level of involvement besides accident of birth—and an assassination wasn’t his assignment.

  Right? Fox didn’t know what his assignment really was. It probably wasn’t this. Was it?

  And why, for the love of fuck, was his target investigating Marcus Adler’s son? It sounded like a pretty reliable way to get murdered. Who was this guy? One possibility he couldn’t rule out was that “Austin” was another Saturn agent. It would explain the shaky documents. (Their papers were always supposed to be iron-clad, but it wasn’t always the case. Maybe out of LA, but during his years in Manchester, he’d had to roll with some substandard stuff.) He didn’t really buy that though. He could be civilian intelligence looking into the strangeness that was Entropy games. (Anyone would have to admit they owned a significantly excessive amount of property for a board game company.) But again, nothing about Austin, besides who he was watching, suggested any of this.

  What the fuck was going on?

  Maybe he was hired to investigate the American and not Marcus Adler’s son? What fucking luck that would be. Yikes.

  “She’s not that bad.”

  “Jack—” He cocked his head with a glower. Wyatt had a softer sounding voice than he’d have guessed.

  “Or if she is that bad, your dad will get bored of her or she’ll piss him off and then she’s not your problem anymore.”

  “Let’s talk about anything else.”

  Fox had to get out of there before Austin realized he wasn’t the only interested party here. This was all running too hot and he had even less of an idea of what his assignment was than when he’d walked into the cafe.

  Bug the apartment. Keep tabs on him for a while longer and see if this was a fluke. Talk to Saturn. Then make a call.

  He packed up and booked it. This was going to be harder than he’d anticipated, and even he could admit that he’d gone a little on the dramatic side when estimating how damn hard this was going to be. For tonight, he’d give Austin a little space while he worked all this through in his head. With wine. And plenty of it.

  ---

  Sanctuary. ?ód?, Poland.

  Reeve leaned over the sink and splashed cold water onto his face. He couldn’t sleep any longer. It didn’t matter. The sun was setting and the Sanctuary would be waking up soon. They’d driven through the night with Alyosha pouring over maps, leading them through small back roads to avoid major border crossings. They got to the Sanctuary in ?ód? that Thomas had given them an address for by dawn.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  He looked at himself in the mirror, ran a hand over his face, down his jaw, and scratched at his chin. After spending a week living in a farmhouse with no electricity or running water, Gareth and Alyosha both looked halfway to mountain men with short beards. Reeve not so much.

  His hair had grown out long enough since Beatty that he could almost tie it back, but his face was patchy with peach fuzz and small sections of sparse darker hairs. Gareth was happy to give him shit about it every chance he got. Still, he barely recognized himself—which was probably good, considering they were in hiding. His preferred clothes were torn or stained with someone or something’s blood by now. All his button-downs made sense when his telepathy was his go-to but with that out of the picture and having to get significantly more physical, it was more practical to wear his few tee shirts, anyway. He didn’t think he could stand to keep the scruff, though.

  Reeve heard movement and went downstairs to investigate. The Sanctuary was a tall, three story building that had previously been a hotel. It was a little full, so the three of them had wordlessly crowded together into one bedroom that shared a bathroom in the hall.

  In the kitchen, he found a woman at the table cutting slices off an apple with a paring knife. Her skin was a shade darker than Gareth's. She was in her late forties and her short, natural hair had streaks of silvery white. She looked at him appraisingly.

  “English?” she asked.

  “Yes, please,” he replied, more than a little relieved. “Reeve.”

  “Allison. Your god keep you. You must have come in this morning.” She had a long neck and though slim, he could see she was dense with muscle. A pentacle hung on a long cord around her neck.

  He nodded. “Been on the road. I’m trying to find a Child named Misha. Have you seen him?”

  She raised her eyebrows and mimed an explosion with her hands, “Misha?”

  “That Misha,” Reeve laughed.

  “Not in months.”

  He sighed silently. “Thanks.” Alex and Hannah were a veritable force to be reckoned with on their own and despite their barely amicable relationship, he knew Misha would do everything he could to keep them alive—if only to avoid having to tell Reeve he’d failed at something. It was enough for now. He puttered in the cupboards looking for the coffee. “Oh, I need to find a telepath too.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Not really.”

  She sat back in her chair. “Alright, you found one then.”

  He turned, a little surprised, giving up on his search and moved to sit down.

  “You ask a lot of questions and you look like a mess. I think you want that coffee first.“

  “It’s fine. I probably shouldn’t have the caffeine anyway,” he said a little sheepishly. “I need training to use my telepathy without it being so noticeable to the people who sense these sorts of things.”

  “You’re ex-Sol?”

  Reeve cringed. “Is it still that obvious or are you scanning me?”

  “Only an Icarus would be this embarrassed to ask for help with his gift. And we don’t use our gifts against each other.”

  He really didn’t enjoy being transparent. “I’m not sure that’s entirely fair, but it’s certainly fair for me.” He let out a long breath through his nose. “Can you help me?”

  “Sure.” She bobbed her head. “How much time you got?”

  “Almost none.”

  “Okay,” she said, unphased. “Let’s take this to the living room so we’re not interrupted by breakfast.”

  Reeve wandered out into the living room while she threw out her apple core. The sitting room looked like it could have been airy and welcoming at one point, but was crammed in with supplies, several patterned and mismatching couches, crates, and a workbench covered in tools. He found a seat on the couch that looked the least stained. He counted his breaths and tried to ignore the pricking of sweat on his body.

  Alison came in, holding a glass and a bottle of clear spirits.

  “What’s that for?” he asked.

  “You.”

  His heart rate doubled. Reeve sucked on his lips, watching her. “No.”

  She shrugged and sat, setting the plastic bottle on the black chest being used as a makeshift coffee table. “You want to learn how not to attract attention?”

  He leaned forward. “What is this supposed to do, other than incapacitate me?”

  She quirked her mouth and poured him a glass. “You can’t silence your telepathy because you can’t hear the sound it’s making. If you’d been born with a ringing in your ears, there are certain sounds you’d never notice. This,” she gave the bottle a slosh, “basically paralyzes it. You need to remember what silence feels like before you can emulate it.”

  “Sedatives are not silent,” he retorted, his face pinched and stomach tight. “It’s loud. Being on downers is as loud as it gets. It makes me an open receiving channel, unable to block or filter anything out. All one jumbled mash.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I know. But there’s a threshold you cross if you stay there long enough. It changes.”

  “You did this?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, but I was younger than you and less set in it than you are, so don’t you ask me how long it takes, because I can’t tell you.”

  Raised in the Academy, Reeve began using his telepathy as a small child, guessing images on cards that the teacher hid from view. It was a game then. He didn’t believe there was some mystical sensation to be had without his telepathy besides doubt and, frankly, powerlessness. Maybe it was different for natural born telepaths, who come into their knack spontaneously or in small pieces over the years. Reeve was quite literally bred for this. It was more than background noise—it was the air, the fabric of his mind.

  Then again, what choice did he have? They had to find Misha and the others, and they’d be stuck trekking through Europe, asking for him from Sanctuary to Sanctuary, hoping to get lucky, unless he could get his telepathy back to comb large areas quickly and effectively.

  “I’ll just keep adding more to your glass until you start.” She moved to pick up the bottle again, but Reeve set his hand over the glass.

  “I’m not sure how well you think I’ll function or be useful to the Sanctuary.”

  “I think you’ll be incapacitated and a pain in the ass, but you’re a danger to everyone you’re around until you fix this, right?” She nodded to the glass and thinly smiled. “I’ll pour right over your boney fingers.”

  He laughed humorlessly and picked up the glass. She opened her eyes wide expectantly. Reeve knew he’d gone through some uncomfortable and even painful training building his telepathy at the Academy and he tried to reframe this as an extension of that. Problem was, most of that training sat behind a fog that only got thicker the more he thought about drinking. He swallowed.

  It burned with a chemical taste reserved for extremely cheap vodka that made him think the Sanctuary only kept this around to sanitize wounds. He coughed despite himself and set the glass down. He pointed to the stairs.

  “I should let my friends know what’s happening before I get wrecked.”

  “In a minute.” Allison refilled his glass.

  Reeve stood and shook his head. “No. I don’t think you get how much of a lightweight I am.”

  She stood, bringing the glass with her. “I don’t want you uncomfortable. I want you incapacitated. Bring the bottle. You’re going to want to be alone while you do this. I’ll send your friends back up with water and food later.”

  Reeve sighed with closed eyes, then took the glass from her and raised it in a toast. “May your gods keep me,” he said and downed the glass. He coughed again, though less this time.

  Allison patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll be alright.” Her voice was softer. “Just hang on through it.”

  He didn’t have a response.

  Reeve headed upstairs, bottle in hand. The feeling of the plastic neck of the bottle inside the grip of his fingers held more than liquor or vodka or tangible memories. He knocked on their bedroom door and entered without waiting. Shvedov and Gareth were getting dressed. He held up the bottle to them with a look of dismay.

  “Whoa,” was all Gareth could say, buttoning his jeans. “What the fuck?”

  “Apparently this is step one to making my telepathy usable again.”

  Shvedov gave him a look of pity.

  Gareth finished dressing without saying anything and his jaw was tight. He knew him well enough to know it was a silence of sympathy and, in its own way, respect. It had taken them too long to read each other like this.

  Reeve stepped out of the way. “You should head downstairs and grab food. The telepath said she’d explain it to you. I just want to lie down.”

  They left. Gareth squeezed his shoulder on his way out. Reeve curled up on his side, on the bed closest to the door. A foreboding heat was sinking into his bones, warming his fingertips and cheeks. It didn’t take long for the constant roil of thoughts that surrounded everyone to start knocking holes through his boundaries, like an angry river butting up against a crumbling dam.

  He closed his eyes tight and focused on taking slow breaths, but it grew from a trickle to a flood far faster than he’d expected. Sedated telepathy was less like the open radio station he’d described it as, and more like a gun turned inward. He flexed his wrists, remembering the Neptune shackles from when they’d drugged him. That was a different kind of haze, more targeted to keep him from affecting them. Reeve couldn’t remember the last time he’d been purposefully, profoundly drunk. It would have been before they’d taken in Alex.

  The pressure built as it flooded into his head. With a friction like sandpaper, the shove of too much information pressed downward behind his eyes and tumbled down his throat in a violent crash of color.

  Fumbling and clumsy, he tried to piece out individual thoughts, the mundane, the private, the ugly, to translate them, to find some clarity or anchor in the flow.

  Where is he?

  I really need to fix that.

  What is going on in there?

  I’m starving. I can’t remember what we’re having tonight.

  What the hell are we going to do about this?

  God, I can’t stand her anymore. Why am I still here?

  I need this.

  They were meaningless and originless. Anonymous as raindrops. He thought back to training Alex to control his knack. The days and nights when it overwhelmed him and he’d hang on to Reeve or Gareth or Hannah, his palm pushed flat against their skin for more contact, to focus on one familiar memory to ground himself. That wasn't working for Reeve as his grip gradually withered. Anyway, thoughts of Alex made his stomach twist and he couldn’t bear to follow it. The undertow pulled at him.

  back there going to make it as long as the electric live like that I’m not I love you what is it now isn’t too high going to kill him how can he milk bread eggs beef is he fucking move already what would I do if just need to sleep that mole is disgusting one day

  And then the rush was too fast for him to understand. He was the only person in existence who spoke this language of liquid color and swirling form, but he couldn’t translate it anymore. It became a lost, churning thing with no name. He gripped the raised edge of the mattress and clenched his muscles and he choked on the inner worlds of everyone within a two block radius.

  It wasn’t often that Reeve remembered that he’d had a very strange childhood compared to non-knacked children. It came back to him now. In InfoWE, the shortened and friendlier sounding version of the Information Withholding and Extraction class, they taught students to withstand pain. And to inflict it. And to be witness to it.

  On the Sanctuary cot, Reeve was repeatedly clearing his throat and gulping as his diaphragm spasmed in a strange miscommunication of the drowning sensations in his mind. It felt like being waterboarded by his own telepathy. He reached for that memory of those classes, pushing past the missing edges he so often avoided, and settled in with the lesson learned that he only had to withstand this for one second and then make the decision to withstand it for another.

  ***