The Departed

there were problems,many, many problems, and she couldn’t ignore anything connected to this kid, she knew.
    She also knew she needed to be here and Dez didn’t ignore her instincts. Now that she was here, she was damn glad she was, even if she was pissed off, even more so, at this boy for pulling her away. She stared at him, all but daring him not to accept her handshake.
    Not that he would—he wasn’t the type. The cocky smile on her face was all that was needed to goad him into it. She’d pegged him with just a look, no psychic insight needed. Pampered little brat, had everything in his life handed to him, except for the things he’d needed, things like discipline, things like guidance, maybe even love. But she couldn’t find much pity for him, not when his evil was already a stain on her soul—and she hadn’t even touched him… yet .
    Then he reached out and put his hand in hers. She could have crowed in victory, except she wanted to puke. She’d been prepared—hell, even if something about him hadn’t already put her back up, she would have been prepared just by the way he’d been watching Tiffany.
    Like a snake ready to strike. Only colder. A snake killed in self-defense or out of a need to survive.
    This boy wasn’t reptile cold. He was…evil. She could feel it now, with her hand in his. Evil, and angry. Images assaulted her. No true thoughts, thank God, but the images were almost as bad. She saw Ivy. She saw Tristan—oh, shit, this boy had watched him die.
    She saw Beau. She saw nameless faces rolling through her mind, accompanied by the imprint of his anger, the echo of his rage, and it left her foundering. The icy, poisoned rush of his anger flooded her mind and his evil was choking her. Bile rose in her throat, burning to be free. Her ears buzzed and her eyes blurred.
    There was one more image…she saw him writing…Her knees buckled and she swayed. Black dots crowded in on her vision as some of his thoughts started to filter through— No, no, I can’t handle that, she thought, all but ready to scream it.
    She thought she might have screamed it, thought she might fall into a whimpering, wailing puddle on the floor.
    Then a hand touched her. A warm whisper chased along her skin. She steadied. Not completely. Just enough. Taylor was there. She hadn’t screamed, she realized. And she hadn’t fallen.
    How long—?
    Not long. Brendan was still standing there, staring at her, but he had a weird, dazed look on his face and his eyes were a bit glazed. Like he’d picked up something from her, the same way she’d picked up that vile, insidious evil from him. His hand tightened on hers and then, abruptly, he yanked it away.
    Dez resisted the urge to wipe her own hand on her jeans. It wouldn’t do any good. She’d still feel unclean, still feel so very dirty and fouled and destroyed. Instead, she just stared at him, trying to make sense of the images, particularly the last one. It was important. What had he been thinking…?
    He backed away, his face pale. He looked shaken, she thought.
    Journal—it was a journal —
    He crashed into one of the aides coming out of the room at his back. As both of them hit the floor, Dez lunged forward. Instinct drove her. The journal. “Are you okay?” she asked, not worrying if she didn’t sound convincing, not worrying if she didn’t look convincing. She knelt by his side with one thought in mind—for the first time ever , she wanted to connect with a living, breathing person.
    She closed her hand around his arm and stared at him. He jerked back, his breathing erratic. “Hey, let go.”
    Dez just tightened her grip, staring at him. Her heart raced and her vision constricted, narrowing down until all she could see was him, all she could think was him , and that cloying, nasty evil. The journal, she thought, reaching out and trying to establish a link. You’ve got one, right?
    She smacked into his shields—the living had stronger, more resistant shields than the departed and since she’d always been more drawn to the dead, they’d never worked on refining her abilities with the living. But she didn’t let that deter her. Even when she saw him flinching, even when she knew she was hurting him, she pressed on.
    A hand caught her arm. Taylor—
    She shrugged him off. Not now …
    More images, a rush of them, like a movie reel in fast-forward. She felt his panic, felt his confusion. The boy knew something was wrong, knew something was off. Too