Ghostwalker 08 - Street Game

talking. They turned their heads as Mack and Jaimie entered the third floor together. Paul lost color and he glanced as if for assurance at Javier, who just shrugged. Silence fell on the softly speaking group. Gideon lay asleep in Kane’s bed and Mack crossed to him first, bending low to smooth back the few stray strands of hair as a father might a child. Gideon was actually asleep and looked peaceful, the lines of strain etched deep in his face somewhat eased.
    Jaimie smiled at Mack, her smile a little sad, and slowly released his hand, the pads of her fingers sliding over the skin of his. He could feel that touch burning right through his body and tingling in the crown of his cock, but then it burned deeper, wrapping around and squeezing his heart. He watched her go into the bedroom area before he reluctantly turned to the others.
    Mack walked up behind Paul, and smacked him hard on the back of the head.
    “That’s for being an idiot.” He cuffed him a second time and went on through to the kitchen. “You and your old man both are idiots. Consider that taking a hit for the old man.”
    He poured himself a cup of coffee, added cream just to keep from looking at the kid. Silence stretched, a razor-sharp edge along the nerves. He sipped at the hot brew and turned slowly, fixing a cutting stare on the boy. Paul looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes.

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    Mack seated himself across from the kid, in the chair Ethan had vacated. “You look like hell. I’ve never seen a psychic surgeon at work. Does it take a lot out of you?”
    Paul shrugged. “Depends on how bad the injury. Gideon’s been using himself up.
    His energy is a little different and I suspect what boosts others doesn’t always help him. The weave of energy.” He frowned, trying to puzzle out how best to explain it.
    “Energy is usually in waves, surrounding every person and object. Some is very low-level, other times it’s a surge of power. All psychics feed on that energy.
    Sometimes it’s good, and sometimes not so good.”
    “In the way violent energy harms Jaimie,” Mack said.
    “Exactly. She’s more sensitive than the rest of you. I can see it in her color patterns.”
    “What color patterns?” Mack asked.
    Paul waved away the question. “I just see differently. It began at a very early age.”
    “Is that when your father decided to change your last name? Did he recognize what you were and tried to protect you that many years ago?”
    Paul swallowed and looked away, shaking his head.
    “What father wouldn’t?” Mack said, as if the boy had answered him. “Tell me about Gideon. I’ve been worried about him. We’ve all been. What’s wrong with him?”
    Paul looked relieved to talk about someone other than himself. “I’ll try to explain it to you, but I have to sort of give you a starting point. It’s more than color I see, it’s all about the patterns. When violent energy rushes toward Jaimie, it invades and damages the actual patterns. Everyone with psychic energy has very distinct threads.
    Some merge together. Your energy and Jaimie’s merge, intertwine, and build a stronger base. I’ve not seen other couples, but I suspect that might happen with committed pairs. I have to study it a bit more.”
    There was eagerness in Paul’s voice, an enthusiasm Mack had never heard before.
    Jaimie got that same exact tone when she was on to something in her work.
    “I joined the GhostWalker program with the hope that I could learn more about what I could do and why I saw people the way I do, but”—Paul shrugged—“it seemed best not to admit to anyone that I was that different.”
    “So you played down your skills.”
    Paul nodded.
    “What you really mean is, the old man found out his good friend Whitney was doing a lot more to the psychics than anyone had agreed upon and some of them were dying.”

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    Paul’s nod was barely perceptible. “Some were in bad shape. And he was taking apart anyone different. I looked at his color pattern and I knew . . .” He shook his head.
    “Knew what?” Mack asked softly.
    “That he was damaged beyond repair. He’s psychic and his pattern was all over the place. I could see it in his brain, the madness. He believes in what he’s doing. I knew if he found out what I could do—what I could see—he’d take my brain apart to figure out how it worked. I was the one who exposed what he was doing to . . .” He broke off and looked around the room. “To Sergeant