Mind of My Mind (29 page)

He frowned.

"You knew." Her tone became accusing. "I haven't told you a single thing that you

haven't been aware of for at least as long as I have."

He moved uncomfortably. "Sometimes I wonder if you aren't a little telepathic

yourself."

"I don't have to be. I know you. And I knew you'd reach a point when no matter how

fascinated you were with what Mary was doing, no matter how much you loved the girl,

she'd have to go. I just wish you'd made up your mind sooner."

"Back when she brought her first latents through, I decided to give her two years. I'd

like to give her a good many more if she'll cooperate."

"She won't. How willing would you be to give up all that power?"

"I'm not asking her to give up anything but this recruitment drive of hers. She's got a

good many of my best latents now. I don't dare let her go on as she has been."

"You want the section to grow now by births only?"

"By births, and through the five hundred or so children they've collected. Children

who'll eventually go through transition. Have you seen the private school they've taken

over for the children?"

"No. I keep away from the section as much as I can. I assume Mary knows how I feel

about her already. I don't want to keep reminding her until she decides to change my

mind for me."

Doro started to say something, then stopped.

"What is it?" asked Emma.

For a moment, she thought he wasn't going to answer. Then, "I mentioned you to her

once. I said I didn't want you bothered by any of her people. She gave me a strange look

and said she'd already taken care of that. She said, 'Don't worry about her. Bitchy old

woman that she is, she's wearing my brand. If anybody even tries to read her, the first

thing they'll see is that she's my private property.' "

"Her what!"

"She means you're under her protection, Em. It might not sound like much, but, with

it, none of the others are going to touch you. And, apparently, she isn't interested in

controlling you herself."

Emma shuddered. "How generous of her! She must feel awfully secure in her power.

You trained her too well. She's too much like you."

"Yes," said Doro. "I know."

She looked at him sharply. "Did I hear pride in your voice?"

Doro smiled faintly. "She's shown me a lot, Em. She's shown me something I've been

trying to find out for most of my life."

"All I can see that she's shown you is what you'd be like as a young woman. I recall

warning you about underestimating young women."

"Not what I'd be like as a woman. I already know that. I've been a woman I-don'tknow-how-many times. No. What I'd be like as a complete entity. What I'd be like if I

hadn't died that first time—died before I was fully formed."

"Before you were . . ." Emma frowned. "I don't understand. How do you know you

weren't fully formed when you died?"

"I know. I've seen enough almost-Doros, enough near successes to know. I should be

telepathic, like Mary. If I were, I would have created a pattern and fed off live hosts

instead of killing. As it is, the only time I can feel mind-to-mind contact with another

person is when I kill. She and I kill in very much the same way."

"That's it?" said Emma. "That's all you've been reaching for, for so long—someone

who kills in the same way you do?"

"All?" There was bitterness in his voice. "Does it seem such a small thing, Em, for me

to want to know what I am—what I should have been?"

"Not a small thing, no. Not a wise thing, either. Your curiosity—and your loneliness,

I think—have driven you to make a mistake."

"Perhaps. I've made mistakes before."

"And survived them. I hope you survive this one. I can see now why you kept your

purpose secret for so long."

"Yes."

"Does Mary know?"

"Yes. I never told her, but she knows. She saw it herself after a while."

"No wonder you love her. No wonder she's still alive. She's you—the closest thing

you've ever had to a true daughter."

"I never told her any of that, either."

"She knows. You can depend on it." She paused for a moment. "Doro, is there any

way she could . . . I mean, if she's complete and you're not, she might be able to . . ."

"To take me?"

Emma nodded.

"No. If she could, she would never have lived past the morning of her transition. She

tried to read me then. If she hadn't, I would have ordered her to try as soon as I saw her. I

wanted to look at her in the only way that would tell me whether she could possibly

become a danger to me. I looked, and what I saw told me she couldn't. She's like a scaled-

down model of me. I could have taken her then, and I can now."

"It's been a long time since you've seen someone you thought could be dangerous. I

hope your judgment is still as good as you think it is."

"It is. In my life, I've met only five people I considered potentially dangerous."

"And they all died young."

Doro shrugged.

"I assume you're not forgetting that Mary can increase her strength by robbing her

people."

"No. It doesn't make any difference. I watched her very carefully back when she took

Rachel and Jess. I could have taken her then. In fact, the extra strength she had acquired

made her seem a more attractive victim. Strength alone isn't enough to beat me. And she

has a weakness I don't have. She doesn't move. She has just that one body, and when it

dies, she dies." He thought about that and shook his head sadly. "And she will almost

certainly die."

"When?"

"When she—If she disobeys me. I'm going to tell her my decision when I go there

today. No more latents. She'll decide what she wants to do after that."

SETH

Seth Dana came out the back door of Larkin House thinking about the assignment

Mary had just given him. The same old thing. Recruit more seconds—more people to

help latents through transition. Patternists liked the way their numbers were increasing.

Expansion was exciting. It was their own kind growing up, coming of age at last. But

seconding was hard work. You were mother, father, friend, and, if your charge needed it,

lover to an erratic, frightened, dependent person. People volunteered to be seconds when

they were shamed into it. They accepted it as their duty, but they evaded that duty as long

as they could. It was Seth's job to prompt them and then present them with sullen,

frightened charges.

He was a kind of matchmaker, sensing easily and accurately which seconds would be

compatible with which latents. His worst mistake had been his first, his decision to

second Clay. Mary had stopped him then. She had not had to stop him again. He had no

more close relatives to warp his judgment.

He got into his car, preoccupied, deciding which Patternists to draft this time. He

started the car automatically, then froze, his hand poised halfway to the emergency brake.

Someone had shoved the cold steel barrel of a gun against the base of his skull.

Startled from his thoughts, Seth knew a moment of fear.

"Turn off the ignition, Dana?" said a man's voice.

Reacting finally, Seth read the man. Then he turned off the ignition. With equal ease,

he turned off the gunman. He gave the man a mental command, then reached back and

took the gun from his suddenly limp hand. He shut the gun in the glove compartment and

looked around at the intruder. The man was a mute and a stranger, but Seth had seen him

before, in the thoughts of a woman Seth had seconded. A woman named Barbara Landry,

who had once been this man's wife.

"Palmer Landry," said Seth quietly. "You've gone to a lot of trouble for nothing."

The man stared at Seth, then at his own, empty hand. "Why did I give you . . .? How

could you make me . . .? What's going on here?"

Seth shrugged. "Nothing now."

"How do you know who I am? Why did I hand you . . .?"

"You're a man who deserted his wife nearly a year ago," said Seth. "Then suddenly

decided he wanted her back. The gun wasn't necessary."

"Where is she? Where's Barbara?"

"Probably at her house." Seth had personally brought Barbara Landry from New York

two months before. A month and a half later, she had come through transition. Almost

immediately, she had discovered that Bartholomew House—and Caleb Bartholomew—

suited her perfectly. Seth hadn't bothered to erase her from the memories of the people

she knew in New York. None of them had been friends. None of them had really cared

what happened to her. But, apparently, she had told a couple of them where she was

going, and with whom. And when Landry came back looking for her, he had found the

information waiting. Seth had been careless. And Palmer Landry had been lucky. No one

had noticed him watching Larkin House, and the person he had asked to point out Seth

Dana had been an unsuspecting mute.

"You mean to tell me you've gotten rid of Barbara already?" Landry demanded.

"I never had her," said Seth. "Never wanted her, for that matter, nor she me. I just

helped her when she happened to need help."

"Sure. You're Santa Claus. Just tell me where she's living."