Watcher's Web (27 page)

Daya reached
out a trembling hand. “Come.”

*     *     *

Jessica
ran.

Jumped over
the bodies. Splashed through puddles. Threw herself at him. Buried
her face in his sodden chest. Cried out in deep gasps, “Are they
dead? Are they dead?”

He flinched
and pushed her off him. “Whoa, not so fast. You’re all wet. Calm
down. I’ll get you somewhere dry.”

Jessica asked
again, “Are they dead?”

“I don’t think
so.”

His voice was
as warm as she remembered. Yes, it was him. Eyes as dark as hers,
his face equally high-cheekboned and pale-skinned. He was even
taller than her.

“Here, take
this.” He draped his hat over her head, arranging the rain shield
that hung off the rim over her shoulders. His touch burned through
her tunic. Then something registered in her foggy mind. “You
. . . you speak English.”

A melancholy
smile crossed his lips, full and dark like hers. Her heart jumped.
“Come. Let’s get out before the entire Mirani army turns up.”

“Where
to?”

“I know a safe
place where we can hide until dark.”

For a while,
they walked with large strides. The rain hissed, water clattered
from gutters, whirlpools rushed down street drains. Many times,
Jessica glanced up at him. There seemed no need for words. In her
mind, images whirled of a riverbank, trees with drooping branches
which trailed in the water, the sound of children’s laughter and
her own face, bright with a smile.

There was a
boy with black curly hair in a circle of other kids. He was taller
than the others, but thin and gaunt in a way the others weren’t.
The skin on the back of his hands shone and stretched from sunburn,
and on his nose and cheeks blisters wept yellow ooze.

The same boy
sat at a table and a man shouted at him. A woman wept.

The boy ran
through dusty streets.

Whoa not
so fast. What is all this?

Questions made
up of common words lagged eons behind what she saw. They were
memories, of his life, and hers.

Through the
haze in her brain, a fundamental question came to her. “Who are
you, precisely?” How young, innocent and childish her voice
sounded; how strange the sound of English in her ears. How utterly
absurd the words.

She recognised
his scent; she had known him all her life.

“That is a
question not easily answered.” Just the faintest trace of an accent
marked his upper-class British speech.

She smiled at
him, meeting those dark eyes. “Your full name would help a great
deal.”

“What is a
name but a place marker in society? Does your name reflect who you
are?”

She opened her
mouth to say that was a silly question but then realised how his
remark had hit at the core of her problem. Out of all the
personalities in the universe, she couldn’t possibly be Jessica
Moore.

She laughed
and hated how she sounded like a giggly girl. Blood rose to her
face; her cheeks must be glowing. “You’re weird.”

Another one of
those mischievous smiles that made her heart jump. “You’re not the
first one to say that. Anyway my name, as such things are
considered important, is Daya Ezmi.”

How much he
was like her: his broad shoulders, his pale skin, high cheekbones,
long arms and long-fingered hands. Loose curls framed his face and
tickled the collar of his tunic. His hair looked softer than hers.
She wanted to bury her fingers in it, smell it. Images flooded her
mind. Herself as a little girl learning to ride a bike, herself on
horseback galloping through the sandy river bed. She whispered,
“You were there?”

His eyes grew
sad. “All the time and not often enough.”

“
But
. . . but why?” She didn’t know what to feel about that.
He’d
stalked
her,
or kept her safe?

“I was going
to tell you, and I was waiting to meet you.”

She stared at
him, as her mind went through events of the past. Leaving the
showground to go back to school. Climbing into the plane. Her phone
beeped with a message. “You mean that message was you?”

“Exactly. It
was time that you were told the truth.”

She gasped.
“Are you my family?”

“I told your
carers that I’m an uncle of yours—”

“But you’re
not.”

“No.”

“But we’re
both survivors from an ancient race which once lived on Asto.”

If possible,
his eyes widened even further.

“Is it
true?”

“Yes, it is
true. We are Aghyrians, more human than anyone in the universe. We
are the root of all humans and human intelligence.”

Jessica
trembled on her legs. “Is it true that I was found in some sort of
chamber where I survived for . . . for almost fifty
thousand years and . . .” Her voice grew more
unsteady.

“Yes, that is
also true.”

“And that I
was submerged in some kind of fluid in a basin and that my name was
written on the wall?”

He nodded. Red
patches had risen to his cheeks. His voice sounded hoarse. “May
life guide you in the future, Anmi Kirilen Dinzo.”

Jessica
froze.
What?

“Anmi Kirilen
Dinzo. Your name. I promised I wouldn’t speak it until I could do
so to your face.”

Her lips
moved in a soundless whisper.
Anmi Kirilen Dinzo, my name
. Her name: the word she always wanted,
but never seriously hoped to hear. Tears pricked in her
eyes.

She saw an
entryway carved in stone, the gaping hole of a dark tunnel beyond,
a small light casting long shadows over carved walls. The
silhouette of a skinny boy holding a bundle of cloth in his arms.
She realised the truth. “You found me.”

His grip on
her shoulder tightened. A white-knuckled hand on her upper arm. He
averted his gaze.

The boy held a
baby swaddled in blankets clutched against his chest. He ran down a
tunnel, with the power of millennia peeling away from him. The mad
dash into the burning hot desert heat. His hands on the instrument
panel of a battered aircraft. The sound of a baby crying. His
slender hand, the skin burnt and peeling, pulled back the blanket
to reveal a line of blisters on the baby’s right shin. She bent
down and ran her fingertips over the scar. Burns, the doctor had
told her parents. How right he was.

“You saved
me.”

His voice came
as a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry
about what?
She
didn’t say anything, sensing his inner turmoil.

For a while
they splashed through puddles in the tree-covered alleys. Big
splats of water dripped on the rain hat. High walls towered up on
both sides of the wet gloom.

Finally, he
spoke. “I’m sorry. I should have come earlier. I should have told
you all this myself. I shouldn’t have left you alone for that long,
but you were happy with the people who looked after you and it
wasn’t until these strange things started happening.” Meaning:
Stephen Fitzgerald. “But when I found you . . . I was too
young to look after a baby, and I didn’t know what to do. You
see—you are an original survivor, but I was born as a freak child
to my parents. They never wanted me. No one ever wanted me. People
were scared of me. Others like me had all been admitted to
institutions. I was scared they were going to do the same thing to
me. I didn’t want that to happen to you.”

Jessica turned
to him, held up her hand to touch his cheek, but didn’t. “Stop,
stop. Slow down. You’re making no sense at all.”

Despair and
anguish radiated from his eyes. “You don’t want it to make sense. I
could have prevented this whole mess.”

He stopped in
the shadow of the wall and pushed open a timber door on the side.
They emerged into another, narrower alley hemmed in by high walls
with more doors. Behind the walls loomed large houses, some
part-shaded by trees.

Here, the
water ran ankle-deep and the ground underneath was soft and
slippery. Daya stopped in front of the door at the end. He faced
her, his black eyes intense. “But I did it for one thing: you would
not become another Ivedra. I would not have you locked up and
investigated until you died in a prison.”

He pushed this
door open. On the other side was a small courtyard dominated by an
enormous tree. Gnarled roots had burst through the pavers, which
lay haphazardly around its base as if they had been lifted by an
explosion. Daya shut and barred the door.

She whispered,
“Ivedra was the woman who was found three hundred years ago, wasn’t
she? One of our kind.”

“She was. The
Coldi at Asto locked her up when her strangeness became too
obvious. You’ll have noticed that your inner energy builds up more
quickly when it’s hot. Imagine what she went through, living on
Asto.”

Jessica
shivered.

“Ivedra had a
daughter in prison. Stories go that she survived and that I and
people like me are her descendants.”

She stopped
him under the tree and faced him. The hat hung askew on her head.
She flung it off, over a low branch where it dripped water into a
puddle. She reached for his hair, but he pushed back her hands.
“Hey, what are you doing?”

“I want to
smell it.”

He raised his
hands like a shield before him, backing into the trunk of the tree.
“I’m not sure if that is such a good idea—”

She searched
for his thoughts, but a wall had gone up around him—to protect
himself from her, she realised. “Don’t worry. I’m controlling it
now. No more sparks or anything.” She laughed, meeting intense dark
eyes, the irises so black that the edges of the pupils showed up
only as a ghost of a ring.

“I still don’t
think . . .”

“Please, I
need to do this.”

He closed his
eyes, blew out a forceful breath through his nose and leant back
against the tree, his chest heaving.

“I won’t harm
you.”

Slowly, he
undid the fastening of his collar and pulled aside the fabric. His
hands trembled; a vein throbbed in his neck.

Jessica leant
closer. She breathed humidity. Then the smell hit her
. . . fresh rain in a forest, running hand in hand with a
lover, rolling in the grass. Blood throbbed in her cheeks. The glow
spread down her chest.

She leant
closer still, breathing on his pale skin. His curls tickled over
her cheek.

His voice
rumbled close to her. “Are you convinced we’re of the same
people?”

She nodded,
unwilling to withdraw. The glow now crept over her shoulders, down
her arms. “Can I feel your back?” Her voice sounded hoarse.

“Oh no.” He
slid a step sideways, holding up his hands again.

“Please. I
need to know if you have . . . those muscles over your
back.”

His dark eyes
met hers, and seemed almost desperate, bewildered. She still
received no images from his mind.

Finally, he
nodded. “Make it quick, then.” He looped his arms over his
head.

She reached
behind him and ran her hands flat over his back, feeling the
depression created by the V-shaped muscles. Saw herself standing
before the mirror as twelve-year old girl, saw herself swimming
through the eyes of someone else.

He whispered,
“Wait,” and took off his tunic. His skin, pale but firm, almost
glowed in the dim light. Soft under her hands, the muscle tensed
and relaxed, and tensed again. Just like hers. He stood perfectly
still, his eyes closed, his chest heaving with deep breaths.
Breathing her scent, like she breathed his. He let out his breath
in a long hiss, lowered his arms and ran his hands over her back.
His touch sent shivers through her.

Her tunic was
wet and dirty and clung to her shoulders when she tried to take it
off. She wrestled it up as far as her chest before she realised
what she was doing . . . outside . . . in the
pouring rain.

Daya gave a
sheepish grin. “You better keep that on. They’re not keen on public
nudity in this town.” But his hands slid over the naked skin on her
back.

She whispered,
“It’s dirty.” Before turning away. The blood pounded in her ears.
Rain ran down her forehead into her eyes. She rested her head on
his shoulder.

He mumbled,
“We better go inside.”

She nodded.
“Yeah.”

He didn’t move
except his hand, which drew small circles over her side in a
mesmerising rhythm. His cheeks had gone red.

Jessica turned
her head towards his neck so his curls tickled in her face and her
breaths were laced with his scent. The most beautiful thing she had
smelled in her life. The only thing she ever wanted to smell for
the rest of her life, most precious, most special, most—

He traced his
nose from the top of her head. Moist and warm, his tongue licked
raindrops from her forehead, her brow, her nose. She turned her
face up. He didn’t waste the opportunity. His wet and cool lips
tasted like rain. His tongue pushed inside her mouth. A soft groan
rumbled in his chest.

Her body acted
as of its own accord. She replied to his kiss with all the vigour
she could muster. Arched her back so she pressed against him,
raking her fingers through his hair, feeling his readiness through
the thin fabric of his trousers.

His
mind-voice spoke inside her,
Do you want to go inside?

Jessica didn’t
protest.

Chapter
23

J
ESSICA OPENED
one eye.

A soft noise
had startled her, as if someone was in her room.

The first
thing she saw was a very tall ceiling that was definitely not the
one in her guesthouse room. There was a window in the room—very
dirty. She lay on a bare mattress on a dusty and cracked mosaic
floor. There were other mattresses around the perimeter of the
room, where Pengali slept, rendered in shades of grey in the
semidarkness.